This is a modern-English version of The World as Will and Idea (Vol. 1 of 3), originally written by Schopenhauer, Arthur. It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling, and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.

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The World As Will And Idea

The World as Will and Idea

By

By

Arthur Schopenhauer

Arthur Schopenhauer

Translated From The German By

Translated from German by

R. B. Haldane, M.A.

R. B. Haldane, M.A.

And

And

J. Kemp, M.A.

J. Kemp, M.A.

Vol. I.

Vol. 1

Containing Four Books.

Includes Four Books.

“Ob nicht Natur zuletzt sich doch ergünde?”Goethe

“Doesn't nature ultimately show itself?”Goethe

Seventh Edition

Seventh Edition

London

London

Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner & Co.

Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner & Co.

1909

1909


[pg v]

Translator's Preface.

The style of “Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung” is sometimes loose and involved, as is so often the case in German philosophical treatises. The translation of the book has consequently been a matter of no little difficulty. It was found that extensive alteration of the long and occasionally involved sentences, however likely to prove conducive to a satisfactory English style, tended not only to obliterate the form of the original but even to imperil the meaning. Where a choice has had to be made, the alternative of a somewhat slavish adherence to Schopenhauer's ipsissima verba has accordingly been preferred to that of inaccuracy. The result is a piece of work which leaves much to be desired, but which has yet consistently sought to reproduce faithfully the spirit as well as the letter of the original.

The style of "The World as Will and Representation" is sometimes loose and complex, which is often seen in German philosophical texts. Because of this, translating the book has been quite challenging. It was found that significantly changing the long and sometimes complicated sentences, although likely to improve the flow in English, not only tended to lose the original structure but also risked altering the meaning. Where a choice had to be made, a somewhat literal adherence to Schopenhauer's exact words has therefore been favored over a lack of accuracy. The result is a piece of work that leaves much to be desired, but which has still consistently aimed to accurately capture both the spirit and the letter of the original.

As regards the rendering of the technical terms about which there has been so much controversy, the equivalents used have only been adopted after careful consideration of their meaning in the theory of knowledge. For example, “Vorstellung” has been rendered by “idea,” in preference to “representation,” which is neither accurate, intelligible, nor elegant. “Idee,” is translated by the [pg vi] same word, but spelled with a capital,—“Idea.” Again, “Anschauung” has been rendered according to the context, either by “perception” simply, or by “intuition or perception.”

Regarding the translation of the technical terms that have sparked so much debate, we’ve chosen equivalents only after carefully considering their meanings in the theory of knowledge. For instance, “Introduction” has been translated as “concept,” rather than "representation," which isn't accurate, understandable, or elegant. "Idea," is translated as the [pg vi] same word, but with a capital letter—"Idea." Additionally, “Viewpoint” has been translated based on the context, either as "perception" alone or as "intuition or insight."

Notwithstanding statements to the contrary in the text, the book is probably quite intelligible in itself, apart from the treatise “On the Fourfold Root of the Principle of Sufficient Reason.” It has, however, been considered desirable to add an abstract of the latter work in an appendix to the third volume of this translation.

Not to contradict what's said in the text, the book is probably understandable on its own, apart from the treatise “On the Fourfold Foundation of the Principle of Sufficient Reason.” However, it has been deemed helpful to include a summary of that work in an appendix to the third volume of this translation.

R. B. H.

R.B.H.

J. K.

J.K.

[pg vii]

Preface to the First Edition.

I propose to point out here how this book must be read in order to be thoroughly understood. By means of it I only intend to impart a single thought. Yet, notwithstanding all my endeavours, I could find no shorter way of imparting it than this whole book. I hold this thought to be that which has very long been sought for under the name of philosophy, and the discovery of which is therefore regarded by those who are familiar with history as quite as impossible as the discovery of the philosopher's stone, although it was already said by Pliny: Quam multa fieri non posse, priusquam sint facta, judicantur? (Hist. nat. 7, 1.)

I want to explain how this book should be read to be fully understood. My goal is to share just one idea. However, despite my efforts, I couldn’t find a shorter way to express it than through this entire book. I believe this idea is what many have long sought under the name of philosophy, and those who know history consider its discovery as impossible as finding the philosopher's stone. As Pliny once said: How many things are judged to be impossible before they are done? (Hist. nat. 7, 1.)

According as we consider the different aspects of this one thought which I am about to impart, it exhibits itself as that which we call metaphysics, that which we call ethics, and that which we call æsthetics; and certainly it must be all this if it is what I have already acknowledged I take it to be.

As we look at the different aspects of this single idea I’m about to share, it appears as what we refer to as metaphysics, ethics, and aesthetics; and it definitely has to be all these things if it is indeed what I’ve already claimed it to be.

A system of thought must always have an architectonic connection or coherence, that is, a connection in which one part always supports the other, though the latter does not support the former, in which ultimately the foundation supports all the rest without being supported by it, and the apex is supported without supporting. On the other hand, a single thought, however comprehensive [pg viii] it may be, must preserve the most perfect unity. If it admits of being broken up into parts to facilitate its communication, the connection of these parts must yet be organic, i.e., it must be a connection in which every part supports the whole just as much as it is supported by it, a connection in which there is no first and no last, in which the whole thought gains distinctness through every part, and even the smallest part cannot be completely understood unless the whole has already been grasped. A book, however, must always have a first and a last line, and in this respect will always remain very unlike an organism, however like one its content may be: thus form and matter are here in contradiction.

A thought system must always have a structured connection or coherence, meaning that each part supports the other, even if the latter doesn’t support the former; ultimately, the foundation supports everything else without needing support in return, while the peak is supported but does not provide support. On the other hand, a single idea, no matter how comprehensive [pg viii] it is, must maintain perfect unity. If it can be divided into parts for easier communication, those parts must still be connected organically, i.e., each part should support the whole just as much as it is supported by it, with no clear first or last part; the entire thought should become clearer through each segment, and even the smallest part cannot be fully understood unless the whole has been grasped first. However, a book will always have a first and a last line, making it fundamentally different from an organism, regardless of how similar its content may be: thus, form and matter contradict each other here.

It is self-evident that under these circumstances no other advice can be given as to how one may enter into the thought explained in this work than to read the book twice, and the first time with great patience, a patience which is only to be derived from the belief, voluntarily accorded, that the beginning presupposes the end almost as much as the end presupposes the beginning, and that all the earlier parts presuppose the later almost as much as the later presuppose the earlier. I say “almost;” for this is by no means absolutely the case, and I have honestly and conscientiously done all that was possible to give priority to that which stands least in need of explanation from what follows, as indeed generally to everything that can help to make the thought as easy to comprehend and as distinct as possible. This might indeed to a certain extent be achieved if it were not that the reader, as is very natural, thinks, as he reads, not merely of what is actually said, but also of its possible consequences, and thus besides the many contradictions [pg ix] actually given of the opinions of the time, and presumably of the reader, there may be added as many more which are anticipated and imaginary. That, then, which is really only misunderstanding, must take the form of active disapproval, and it is all the more difficult to recognise that it is misunderstanding, because although the laboriously-attained clearness of the explanation and distinctness of the expression never leaves the immediate sense of what is said doubtful, it cannot at the same time express its relations to all that remains to be said. Therefore, as we have said, the first perusal demands patience, founded on confidence that on a second perusal much, or all, will appear in an entirely different light. Further, the earnest endeavour to be more completely and even more easily comprehended in the case of a very difficult subject, must justify occasional repetition. Indeed the structure of the whole, which is organic, not a mere chain, makes it necessary sometimes to touch on the same point twice. Moreover this construction, and the very close connection of all the parts, has not left open to me the division into chapters and paragraphs which I should otherwise have regarded as very important, but has obliged me to rest satisfied with four principal divisions, as it were four aspects of one thought. In each of these four books it is especially important to guard against losing sight, in the details which must necessarily be discussed, of the principal thought to which they belong, and the progress of the whole exposition. I have thus expressed the first, and like those which follow, unavoidable demand upon the reader, who holds the philosopher in small favour just because he himself is a philosopher.

It's clear that, given these circumstances, the only advice for engaging with the ideas in this book is to read it twice. The first reading should be done with great patience, stemming from the belief that the beginning relies on the end just as much as the end relies on the beginning, and that the earlier sections depend on the later ones almost as much as the later sections depend on the earlier ones. I say "almost" because this isn’t absolutely true, and I've done my best to prioritize the parts that require the least explanation from what comes next, as well as everything that can help make the ideas clearer and easier to understand. This could be somewhat achievable if it weren't for the fact that readers, as is natural, consider not just what is explicitly stated, but also its possible implications. Alongside the many contradictions that arise from the opinions of the time—and likely those of the reader—there may be numerous anticipatory and imaginary ones as well. What often translates into misunderstanding can take the form of active disapproval, and it becomes more challenging to recognize it as misunderstanding because, while the clarity of the explanation and the precision of the expression never leave the immediate sense of what's said in doubt, they can’t simultaneously express how it all relates to everything yet to be discussed. Therefore, as mentioned, the first reading requires patience based on trust that upon a second reading, much or all will seem entirely different. Furthermore, the sincere effort to be more fully and easily understood in a challenging subject justifies occasional repetition. In fact, the whole structure, which is organic rather than merely linear, makes it necessary to revisit the same point at times. Additionally, this close-knit construction has not allowed me the luxury of dividing the content into chapters and paragraphs, which I would have considered very important otherwise, but instead has led me to be content with four main sections—essentially four perspectives on one idea. In each of these four books, it is especially important to avoid losing sight of the main idea to which the details belong, along with the overall flow of the exposition. I've expressed the initial, and like those that follow, unavoidable demand placed on the reader, who may have a low opinion of philosophers simply because he himself is one.

The second demand is this, that the introduction be [pg x] read before the book itself, although it is not contained in the book, but appeared five years earlier under the title, Ueber die vierfache Wurzel des Satzes vom zureichenden Grunde: eine philosophische Abhandlung (On the fourfold root of the principle of sufficient reason: a philosophical essay). Without an acquaintance with this introduction and propadeutic it is absolutely impossible to understand the present work properly, and the content of that essay will always be presupposed in this work just as if it were given with it. Besides, even if it had not preceded this book by several years, it would not properly have been placed before it as an introduction, but would have been incorporated in the first book. As it is, the first book does not contain what was said in the earlier essay, and it therefore exhibits a certain incompleteness on account of these deficiencies, which must always be supplied by reference to it. However, my disinclination was so great either to quote myself or laboriously to state again in other words what I had already said once in an adequate manner, that I preferred this course, notwithstanding the fact that I might now be able to give the content of that essay a somewhat better expression, chiefly by freeing it from several conceptions which resulted from the excessive influence which the Kantian philosophy had over me at the time, such as—categories, outer and inner sense, and the like. But even there these conceptions only occur because as yet I had never really entered deeply into them, therefore only by the way and quite out of connection with the principal matter. The correction of such passages in that essay will consequently take place of its own accord in the mind of the reader through his acquaintance with the present work. But only if we have fully recognised [pg xi] by means of that essay what the principle of sufficient reason is and signifies, what its validity extends to, and what it does not extend to, and that that principle is not before all things, and the whole world merely in consequence of it, and in conformity to it, a corollary, as it were, of it; but rather that it is merely the form in which the object, of whatever kind it may be, which is always conditioned by the subject, is invariably known so far as the subject is a knowing individual: only then will it be possible to enter into the method of philosophy which is here attempted for the first time, and which is completely different from all previous methods.

The second demand is this: the introduction should be read before the book itself, even though it's not included in the book and was published five years earlier under the title, “On the Fourfold Root of the Principle of Sufficient Reason: A Philosophical Essay.” Without being familiar with this introduction and preparatory text, you cannot fully understand the current work, and the content of that essay will always be assumed in this work as if it were included. Furthermore, even if it had not been published several years prior, it wouldn’t have been appropriate as an introduction; it should have been part of the first book. As it stands, the first book does not include what was discussed in the earlier essay, leading to a certain incompleteness due to these gaps, which must always be addressed by referring back to it. However, my reluctance to either quote myself or to tirelessly restate what I have already expressed adequately led me to this route, despite the fact that I might now articulate the content of that essay somewhat better, mainly by removing several ideas that were heavily influenced by Kantian philosophy at the time, such as categories, outer and inner sense, and the like. Nonetheless, these concepts only appear because I had not yet truly delved into them; they were mentioned incidentally and not directly related to the main topic. The correction of such passages in that essay will naturally occur in the reader's mind through their engagement with this work. However, only after we have fully grasped through that essay what the principle of sufficient reason is, what it entails, its scope, and what it does not cover, recognizing that this principle does not precede everything, with the entire world as its consequence and in alignment with it, but rather that it is merely the framework in which any object, whatever its nature, is always understood as conditioned by the subject, as far as the subject is a knowing individual: only then will it be possible to engage with the philosophical method attempted here for the first time, which is entirely different from all previous methods.

But the same disinclination to repeat myself word for word, or to say the same thing a second time in other and worse words, after I have deprived myself of the better, has occasioned another defect in the first book of this work. For I have omitted all that is said in the first chapter of my essay “On Sight and Colour,” which would otherwise have found its place here, word for word. Therefore the knowledge of this short, earlier work is also presupposed.

But the same lack of willingness to repeat myself exactly or to express the same idea a second time in less effective words, after choosing to exclude the better version, has led to another flaw in the first book of this work. I've left out everything from the first chapter of my essay "On Vision and Color," which would otherwise have been included here verbatim. So, familiarity with this short, earlier work is also assumed.

Finally, the third demand I have to make on the reader might indeed be tacitly assumed, for it is nothing but an acquaintance with the most important phenomenon that has appeared in philosophy for two thousand years, and that lies so near us: I mean the principal writings of Kant. It seems to me, in fact, as indeed has already been said by others, that the effect these writings produce in the mind to which they truly speak is very like that of the operation for cataract on a blind man: and if we wish to pursue the simile further, the aim of my own work may be described by saying that I have sought to put into the hands of those upon whom that operation [pg xii] has been successfully performed a pair of spectacles suitable to eyes that have recovered their sight—spectacles of whose use that operation is the absolutely necessary condition. Starting then, as I do to a large extent, from what has been accomplished by the great Kant, I have yet been enabled, just on account of my earnest study of his writings, to discover important errors in them. These I have been obliged to separate from the rest and prove to be false, in order that I might be able to presuppose and apply what is true and excellent in his doctrine, pure and freed from error. But not to interrupt and complicate my own exposition by a constant polemic against Kant, I have relegated this to a special appendix. It follows then, from what has been said, that my work presupposes a knowledge of this appendix just as much as it presupposes a knowledge of the philosophy of Kant; and in this respect it would therefore be advisable to read the appendix first, all the more as its content is specially related to the first book of the present work. On the other hand, it could not be avoided, from the nature of the case, that here and there the appendix also should refer to the text of the work; and the only result of this is, that the appendix, as well as the principal part of the work, must be read twice.

Finally, the third request I have for the reader might actually be considered an assumed one, as it involves becoming familiar with the most significant phenomenon in philosophy over the past two thousand years, which is so relevant to us today: the main writings of Kant. It seems to me, as has already been pointed out by others, that the impact these writings have on those they truly engage is quite similar to the effect of cataract surgery on a blind person: and to extend the analogy, the goal of my own work could be described as aiming to provide those who have undergone that successful operation with a pair of glasses suitable for eyes that have regained their sight—glasses whose use is absolutely dependent on that surgery. Starting largely from the achievements of the great Kant, I have nonetheless been able, due to my dedicated study of his writings, to identify significant errors within them. I have had to separate these errors from the rest and demonstrate that they are false so that I can presuppose and apply what is true and valuable in his doctrine, pure and free from mistakes. However, to avoid interrupting and complicating my explanation with constant critiques of Kant, I have placed this discussion in a special appendix. It follows, then, from what has been mentioned, that my work assumes knowledge of this appendix just as much as it assumes knowledge of Kant's philosophy; in this regard, it would be wise to read the appendix first, especially since its content is specifically related to the first book of this work. On the other hand, it couldn't be helped, given the circumstances, that the appendix should occasionally refer back to the text of the work; and the only consequence of this is that both the appendix and the main part of the work will need to be read twice.

The philosophy of Kant, then, is the only philosophy with which a thorough acquaintance is directly presupposed in what we have to say here. But if, besides this, the reader has lingered in the school of the divine Plato, he will be so much the better prepared to hear me, and susceptible to what I say. And if, indeed, in addition to this he is a partaker of the benefit conferred by the Vedas, the access to which, opened to us through the Upanishads, is in my eyes the greatest advantage which [pg xiii] this still young century enjoys over previous ones, because I believe that the influence of the Sanscrit literature will penetrate not less deeply than did the revival of Greek literature in the fifteenth century: if, I say, the reader has also already received and assimilated the sacred, primitive Indian wisdom, then is he best of all prepared to hear what I have to say to him. My work will not speak to him, as to many others, in a strange and even hostile tongue; for, if it does not sound too vain, I might express the opinion that each one of the individual and disconnected aphorisms which make up the Upanishads may be deduced as a consequence from the thought I am going to impart, though the converse, that my thought is to be found in the Upanishads, is by no means the case.

The philosophy of Kant is the only philosophy that you should be familiar with to understand what I'm discussing here. However, if you've also spent time studying the great Plato, you'll be even better prepared to listen and more open to my ideas. And if, on top of that, you've benefited from the teachings of the Vedas—access to which is opened up for us through the Upanishads—then you've got a significant advantage that this still young century has over the previous ones. I believe that the impact of Sanskrit literature will be just as profound as that of the revival of Greek literature in the fifteenth century. So, if you've already absorbed this ancient Indian wisdom, you'll be in the best position to hear what I have to say. My work won’t sound foreign or even antagonistic to you, because, if it doesn’t sound too arrogant, I believe that each of the individual and seemingly disconnected sayings in the Upanishads can be derived from the ideas I’m about to share, although it’s not true that my thoughts can be directly found in the Upanishads.

But most readers have already grown angry with impatience, and burst into reproaches with difficulty kept back so long. How can I venture to present a book to the public under conditions and demands the first two of which are presumptuous and altogether immodest, and this at a time when there is such a general wealth of special ideas, that in Germany alone they are made common property through the press, in three thousand valuable, original, and absolutely indispensable works every year, besides innumerable periodicals, and even daily papers; at a time when especially there is not the least deficiency of entirely original and profound philosophers, but in Germany alone there are more of them alive at the same time, than several centuries could formerly boast of in succession to each other? How is one ever to come to the end, asks the indignant reader, if one must set to work upon a book in such a fashion?

But most readers have already become frustrated with impatience and are bursting into criticisms they've been holding back for so long. How can I possibly put a book out to the public under conditions and demands that are arrogant and totally inappropriate, especially now when there’s such an overwhelming abundance of specific ideas? In Germany alone, these ideas are made widely accessible through the press, with three thousand valuable, original, and absolutely essential works published every year, alongside countless periodicals and even daily newspapers. At a time when there’s certainly no shortage of completely original and deep thinkers, Germany has more of them alive at the same time than several centuries could have produced in succession. How is one ever supposed to finish, asks the frustrated reader, if one must embark on writing a book in such a way?

[pg xiv]

As I have absolutely nothing to advance against these reproaches, I only hope for some small thanks from such readers for having warned them in time, so that they may not lose an hour over a book which it would be useless to read without complying with the demands that have been made, and which should therefore be left alone, particularly as apart from this we might wager a great deal that it can say nothing to them, but rather that it will always be only pancorum hominum, and must therefore quietly and modestly wait for the few whose unusual mode of thought may find it enjoyable. For apart from the difficulties and the effort which it requires from the reader, what cultured man of this age, whose knowledge has almost reached the august point at which the paradoxical and the false are all one to it, could bear to meet thoughts almost on every page that directly contradict that which he has yet himself established once for all as true and undeniable? And then, how disagreeably disappointed will many a one be if he finds no mention here of what he believes it is precisely here he ought to look for, because his method of speculation agrees with that of a great living philosopher,1 who has certainly written pathetic books, and who only has the trifling weakness that he takes all he learned and approved before his fifteenth year for inborn ideas of the human mind. Who could stand all this? Therefore my advice is simply to lay down the book.

Since I have absolutely nothing to argue against these criticisms, I can only hope for a small thanks from readers for warning them in time, so they don’t waste hours on a book that isn’t worth reading unless they meet its demands, which is why it should be left alone. Besides, we can reasonably bet that it won't have anything to say to them; instead, it will mostly appeal to a small group of people, and must quietly and modestly await those few whose unique way of thinking might find it enjoyable. Aside from the challenges and effort it demands from the reader, what cultured person today, whose knowledge has nearly reached the impressive stage where paradox and falsehood feel the same, could tolerate encountering ideas on almost every page that directly contradict what they've established as true and undeniable? Plus, how disappointingly let down will many be if they find no mention here of what they believe they should find, simply because their approach to thought aligns with that of a well-known philosopher, 1, who has certainly written some touching books but has the minor flaw of believing everything he learned and approved of before he turned fifteen is hardwired into the human mind. Who could handle all this? So my advice is simply to put the book down.

But I fear I shall not escape even thus. The reader who has got as far as the preface and been stopped by it, has bought the book for cash, and asks how he is to be indemnified. My last refuge is now to remind him that he knows how to make use of a book in several [pg xv] ways, without exactly reading it. It may fill a gap in his library as well as many another, where, neatly bound, it will certainly look well. Or he can lay it on the toilet-table or the tea-table of some learned lady friend. Or, finally, what certainly is best of all, and I specially advise it, he can review it.

But I’m afraid I won’t escape unscathed. The reader who has made it to the preface and got stuck there has purchased the book, and now wonders how he’ll get his money’s worth. My last hope is to remind him that he can use a book in several [pg xv] ways, even without actually reading it. It can fill a space in his library just like any other book, where it will definitely look nice on the shelf. He could also place it on the vanity or the tea table of some intellectual lady friend. Or, best of all—which I highly recommend—he can write a review of it.


And now that I have allowed myself the jest to which in this two-sided life hardly any page can be too serious to grant a place, I part with the book with deep seriousness, in the sure hope that sooner or later it will reach those to whom alone it can be addressed; and for the rest, patiently resigned that the same fate should, in full measure, befall it, that in all ages has, to some extent, befallen all knowledge, and especially the weightiest knowledge of the truth, to which only a brief triumph is allotted between the two long periods in which it is condemned as paradoxical or disparaged as trivial. The former fate is also wont to befall its author. But life is short, and truth works far and lives long: let us speak the truth.

And now that I’ve allowed myself a bit of humor, which in this complex life almost any page can tolerate, I part with this book seriously, hoping that it will eventually reach the people it’s meant for. For everyone else, I accept that it might meet the same fate that all knowledge faces through time, especially the profound knowledge of truth, which only enjoys a brief period of recognition between long stretches of being dismissed as odd or seen as unimportant. This same fate often befalls the author as well. But life is short, and truth has a lasting impact: let’s embrace the truth.

Written at Dresden in August 1818.

Written in Dresden in August 1818.

[pg xvii]

Preface to the Second Edition.

Not to my contemporaries, not to my compatriots—to mankind I commit my now completed work in the confidence that it will not be without value for them, even if this should be late recognised, as is commonly the lot of what is good. For it cannot have been for the passing generation, engrossed with the delusion of the moment, that my mind, almost against my will, has uninterruptedly stuck to its work through the course of a long life. And while the lapse of time has not been able to make me doubt the worth of my work, neither has the lack of sympathy; for I constantly saw the false and the bad, and finally the absurd and senseless,2 stand in universal admiration and honour, and I bethought myself that if it were not the case those who are capable of recognising the genuine and right are so rare that we may look for them in vain for some twenty years, then those who are capable of producing it could not be so few that their works afterwards form an exception to the perishableness of earthly things; and thus would be lost the reviving prospect of posterity which every one who sets before himself a high aim requires to strengthen him.

Not to my peers, not to my fellow countrymen—but to humanity I offer my completed work, believing it will have value for them, even if it takes a while to be recognized, which is often the case with truly good things. My mind has clung to this work, almost against my will, throughout a long life, and it couldn’t have been just for the people of my time, who are caught up in the moment’s illusions. While time hasn't made me doubt the worth of my work, the lack of appreciation hasn’t shaken me either; I constantly see the false and the bad, and even the ridiculous and nonsensical, receiving universal admiration and honor. I thought to myself that if those who can recognize what’s genuine and right are so rare that we could search for them in vain for twenty years, then those who can create it aren’t so few that their works would stand out as exceptions to the inevitable decay of earthly things. Without this, the hopeful outlook of future generations, which anyone with a high aim needs for motivation, would be lost.

Whoever seriously takes up and pursues an object that does not lead to material advantages, must not count on [pg xviii] the sympathy of his contemporaries. For the most part he will see, however, that in the meantime the superficial aspect of that object becomes current in the world, and enjoys its day; and this is as it should be. The object itself must be pursued for its own sake, otherwise it cannot be attained; for any design or intention is always dangerous to insight. Accordingly, as the whole history of literature proves, everything of real value required a long time to gain acceptance, especially if it belonged to the class of instructive, not entertaining, works; and meanwhile the false flourished. For to combine the object with its superficial appearance is difficult, when it is not impossible. Indeed that is just the curse of this world of want and need, that everything must serve and slave for these; and therefore it is not so constituted that any noble and sublime effort, like the endeavour after light and truth, can prosper unhindered and exist for its own sake. But even if such an endeavour has once succeeded in asserting itself, and the conception of it has thus been introduced, material interests and personal aims will immediately take possession of it, in order to make it their tool or their mask. Accordingly, when Kant brought philosophy again into repute, it had soon to become the tool of political aims from above, and personal aims from below; although, strictly speaking, not philosophy itself, but its ghost, that passes for it. This should not really astonish us; for the incredibly large majority of men are by nature quite incapable of any but material aims, indeed they can conceive no others. Thus the pursuit of truth alone is far too lofty and eccentric an endeavour for us to expect all or many, or indeed even a few, faithfully to take part in. If yet we see, as for example at present in Germany, a [pg xix] remarkable activity, a general moving, writing, and talking with reference to philosophical subjects, we may confidently assume that, in spite of solemn looks and assurances, only real, not ideal aims, are the actual primum mobile, the concealed motive of such a movement; that it is personal, official, ecclesiastical, political, in short, material ends that are really kept in view, and consequently that mere party ends set the pens of so many pretended philosophers in such rapid motion. Thus some design or intention, not the desire of insight, is the guiding star of these disturbers of the peace, and truth is certainly the last thing that is thought of in the matter. It finds no partisans; rather, it may pursue its way as silently and unheeded through such a philosophical riot as through the winter night of the darkest century bound in the rigid faith of the church, when it was communicated only to a few alchemists as esoteric learning, or entrusted it may be only to the parchment. Indeed I might say that no time can be more unfavourable to philosophy than that in which it is shamefully misused, on the one hand to further political objects, on the other as a means of livelihood. Or is it believed that somehow, with such effort and such a turmoil, the truth, at which it by no means aims, will also be brought to light? Truth is no prostitute, that throws herself away upon those who do not desire her; she is rather so coy a beauty that he who sacrifices everything to her cannot even then be sure of her favour.

Whoever seriously engages with a goal that doesn’t lead to material gain shouldn’t expect to have the sympathy of others. Usually, they’ll notice that the superficial aspect of that goal becomes popular in the world and enjoys its moment; and that’s how it should be. The goal itself must be pursued for its own sake; otherwise, it can’t be achieved, since any design or intention can be detrimental to true understanding. As the entire history of literature shows, anything of real value takes a long time to be accepted, especially if it’s educational and not entertaining; meanwhile, the superficial thrives. It’s challenging, if not impossible, to combine the goal with its surface appeal. The unfortunate reality of this world of want is that everything must serve these needs; therefore, it’s not structured in a way that allows for noble efforts, like the pursuit of light and truth, to prosper without hindrance and exist for their own sake. However, even if such efforts manage to establish themselves and their concept becomes known, material interests and personal goals will quickly claim them as tools or masks. So when Kant revitalized philosophy, it soon became a tool for political agendas from above and personal ambitions from below; though, strictly speaking, it wasn’t philosophy itself, but rather a distorted version of it that people accepted as such. This shouldn’t really surprise us; the vast majority of people are naturally inclined towards material goals and can’t conceive of any others. Thus, the pursuit of truth is far too lofty and eccentric for us to expect everyone, or even a few, to join in wholeheartedly. Yet, if we observe, as is the case now in Germany, a remarkable activity—a general movement of writing and discussing philosophical topics—we can confidently assume that, despite serious appearances and reassurances, only real, not ideal, goals are the actual driving force behind this movement; that personal, official, religious, and political, in short, material ends, are what’s truly in focus, and therefore mere party agendas are what drives so many so-called philosophers to write so quickly. So some agenda, not the desire for understanding, guides these disruptors, and truth is certainly the last thing on their minds. It finds no supporters; instead, it may travel quietly and unnoticed through this philosophical chaos just as it did through the long, dark winter nights of the church’s rigid faith when it was shared only among a few alchemists as secret knowledge, perhaps even only written down. In fact, I could argue that no time is worse for philosophy than when it is shamefully misused, on one hand for political goals and on the other as a means to earn a living. Or do people really think that somehow, amidst all this effort and turmoil, the truth, which is not the aim here, will also be revealed? Truth is not something that can be bought or offered to those who don’t seek it; she is more like a shy beauty, and even those who dedicate everything to her can't be sure of winning her favor.

If Governments make philosophy a means of furthering political ends, learned men see in philosophical professorships a trade that nourishes the outer man just like any other; therefore they crowd after them in the assurance of their good intentions, that is, the purpose of subserving [pg xx] these ends. And they keep their word: not truth, not clearness, not Plato, not Aristotle, but the ends they were appointed to serve are their guiding star, and become at once the criterion of what is true, valuable, and to be respected, and of the opposites of these. Whatever, therefore, does not answer these ends, even if it were the most important and extraordinary things in their department, is either condemned, or, when this seems hazardous, suppressed by being unanimously ignored. Look only at their zeal against pantheism; will any simpleton believe that it proceeds from conviction? And, in general, how is it possible that philosophy, degraded to the position of a means of making one's bread, can fail to degenerate into sophistry? Just because this is infallibly the case, and the rule, “I sing the song of him whose bread I eat,” has always held good, the making of money by philosophy was regarded by the ancients as the characteristic of the sophists. But we have still to add this, that since throughout this world nothing is to be expected, can be demanded, or is to be had for gold but mediocrity, we must be contented with it here also. Consequently we see in all the German universities the cherished mediocrity striving to produce the philosophy which as yet is not there to produce, at its own expense and indeed in accordance with a predetermined standard and aim, a spectacle at which it would be almost cruel to mock.

If governments use philosophy to push political agendas, educated people view academic positions in philosophy as jobs that sustain them just like any other. As a result, they flock to these roles believing in their good intentions, specifically to support these agendas. They stick to this promise: not truth, not clarity, not Plato, not Aristotle, but the goals they were hired to fulfill guide them, becoming the measure of what is true, valuable, and worthy of respect, as well as its opposites. Consequently, anything that doesn't align with these goals, no matter how significant or remarkable it may be within its field, is either dismissed or, when it poses a threat, ignored by everyone. Just look at their fervor against pantheism; does anyone really think it stems from genuine belief? In general, how could philosophy, reduced to a means of making a living, avoid turning into sophistry? This inevitably happens, and the saying, “I sing the song of him whose bread I eat,” has always been true. Because of this, earning a living through philosophy has always been seen by ancient thinkers as a trait of the sophists. Furthermore, since in this world nothing can be expected, demanded, or acquired for gold other than mediocrity, we must accept this here too. As a result, we see the beloved mediocrity at all German universities trying to create a philosophy that isn’t there yet, at its own expense and according to a predetermined standard and goal, which is nearly painful to witness.

While thus philosophy has long been obliged to serve entirely as a means to public ends on the one side and private ends on the other, I have pursued the course of my thought, undisturbed by them, for more than thirty years, and simply because I was obliged to do so and could not help myself, from an instinctive impulse, which [pg xxi] was, however, supported by the confidence that anything true one may have thought, and anything obscure one may have thrown light upon, will appeal to any thinking mind, no matter when it comprehends it, and will rejoice and comfort it. To such an one we speak as those who are like us have spoken to us, and have so become our comfort in the wilderness of this life. Meanwhile the object is pursued on its own account and for its own sake. Now it happens curiously enough with philosophical meditations, that precisely that which one has thought out and investigated for oneself, is afterwards of benefit to others; not that, however, which was originally intended for others. The former is confessedly nearest in character to perfect honesty; for a man does not seek to deceive himself, nor does he offer himself empty husks; so that all sophistication and all mere talk is omitted, and consequently every sentence that is written at once repays the trouble of reading it. Thus my writings bear the stamp of honesty and openness so distinctly on the face of them, that by this alone they are a glaring contrast to those of three celebrated sophists of the post-Kantian period. I am always to be found at the standpoint of reflection, i.e., rational deliberation and honest statement, never at that of inspiration, called intellectual intuition, or absolute thought; though, if it received its proper name, it would be called empty bombast and charlatanism. Working then in this spirit, and always seeing the false and bad in universal acceptance, yea, bombast3 and charlatanism4 in the highest honour, I have long renounced the approbation of my contemporaries. It is impossible that an age which for twenty years has applauded a Hegel, that intellectual Caliban, as the [pg xxii] greatest of the philosophers, so loudly that it echoes through the whole of Europe, could make him who has looked on at that desirous of its approbation. It has no more crowns of honour to bestow; its applause is prostituted, and its censure has no significance. That I mean what I say is attested by the fact that if I had in any way sought the approbation of my contemporaries, I would have had to strike out a score of passages which entirely contradict all their opinions, and indeed must in part be offensive to them. But I would count it a crime to sacrifice a single syllable to that approbation. My guiding star has, in all seriousness, been truth. Following it, I could first aspire only to my own approbation, entirely averted from an age deeply degraded as regards all higher intellectual efforts, and a national literature demoralised even to the exceptions, a literature in which the art of combining lofty words with paltry significance has reached its height. I can certainly never escape from the errors and weaknesses which, in my case as in every one else's, necessarily belong to my nature; but I will not increase them by unworthy accommodations.

While philosophy has long been forced to serve purely public and private interests, I have continued my line of thought, unaffected by these pressures, for over thirty years, driven by an instinctive impulse that I couldn’t ignore. I believe that anything true that one might think and any clarity one might provide will resonate with any thoughtful individual, regardless of when they understand it, bringing them joy and comfort. We speak to such individuals as those like us have spoken to us, providing solace in the wilderness of life. Meanwhile, the pursuit is driven by its own value and for its own sake. Interestingly, philosophical reflections often show that what one has developed and explored on their own tends to benefit others later, rather than what was originally intended for them. The former approach is clearly more honest; a person doesn’t seek to deceive themselves or offer empty sentiments, leaving out all pretentiousness and buzzwords, ensuring that every sentence written pays off the effort to read it. My writings have a clear stamp of honesty and openness, setting them apart from the works of three renowned sophists post-Kant. I always approach from a standpoint of reflection, rational thought, and honest expression, never from so-called inspiration referred to as intellectual intuition or absolute thought; if named properly, it would be labeled as empty grandiosity and trickery. Operating in this spirit, constantly seeing the false and flawed in general acceptance, and indeed seeing pomposity and charlatanism held in high regard, I have long rejected the approval of my contemporaries. It’s impossible for an era that has cheered for twenty years for Hegel, that intellectual brute, as the greatest philosopher, to make one who has observed all this yearn for its approval. They have no more crowns of honor to give; their applause is meaningless, and their criticism lacks impact. The fact that I mean what I say is proven by the knowledge that if I had ever sought validation from my peers, I would have had to remove numerous passages that directly contradict their views, which would likely be offensive to them. However, sacrificing a single syllable for their approval would feel like a crime. My guiding principle has been, without question, truth. In pursuing it, I could only aim for my own approval, entirely turning away from an age that is profoundly disheartened regarding higher intellectual endeavors, and a national literature that has become so debased that it masters combining grand words with insignificant meaning. While I can never escape the errors and weaknesses that come with my nature, I will not compound them with unworthy compromises.

As regards this second edition, first of all I am glad to say that after five and twenty years I find nothing to retract; so that my fundamental convictions have only been confirmed, as far as concerns myself at least. The alterations in the first volume therefore, which contains the whole text of the first edition, nowhere touch what is essential. Sometimes they concern things of merely secondary importance, and more often consist of very short explanatory additions inserted here and there. Only the criticism of the Kantian philosophy has received important corrections and large additions, for these could not be put into a supplementary book, such as [pg xxiii] those which are given in the second volume, and which correspond to each of the four books that contain the exposition of my own doctrine. In the case of the latter, I have chosen this form of enlarging and improving them, because the five and twenty years that have passed since they were composed have produced so marked a change in my method of exposition and in my style, that it would not have done to combine the content of the second volume with that of the first, as both must have suffered by the fusion. I therefore give both works separately, and in the earlier exposition, even in many places where I would now express myself quite differently, I have changed nothing, because I desired to guard against spoiling the work of my earlier years through the carping criticism of age. What in this regard might need correction will correct itself in the mind of the reader with the help of the second volume. Both volumes have, in the full sense of the word, a supplementary relation to each other, so far as this rests on the fact that one age of human life is, intellectually, the supplement of another. It will therefore be found, not only that each volume contains what the other lacks, but that the merits of the one consist peculiarly in that which is wanting in the other. Thus, if the first half of my work surpasses the second in what can only be supplied by the fire of youth and the energy of first conceptions, the second will surpass the first by the ripeness and complete elaboration of the thought which can only belong to the fruit of the labour of a long life. For when I had the strength originally to grasp the fundamental thought of my system, to follow it at once into its four branches, to return from them to the unity of their origin, and then to explain the whole distinctly, I could not yet be in a position to work out all [pg xxiv] the branches of the system with the fulness, thoroughness, and elaborateness which is only reached by the meditation of many years—meditation which is required to test and illustrate the system by innumerable facts, to support it by the most different kinds of proof, to throw light on it from all sides, and then to place the different points of view boldly in contrast, to separate thoroughly the multifarious materials, and present them in a well-arranged whole. Therefore, although it would, no doubt, have been more agreeable to the reader to have my whole work in one piece, instead of consisting, as it now does, of two halves, which must be combined in using them, he must reflect that this would have demanded that I should accomplish at one period of life what it is only possible to accomplish in two, for I would have had to possess the qualities at one period of life that nature has divided between two quite different ones. Hence the necessity of presenting my work in two halves supplementary to each other may be compared to the necessity in consequence of which a chromatic object-glass, which cannot be made out of one piece, is produced by joining together a convex lens of flint glass and a concave lens of crown glass, the combined effect of which is what was sought. Yet, on the other hand, the reader will find some compensation for the inconvenience of using two volumes at once, in the variety and the relief which is afforded by the handling of the same subject, by the same mind, in the same spirit, but in very different years. However, it is very advisable that those who are not yet acquainted with my philosophy should first of all read the first volume without using the supplementary books, and should make use of these only on a second perusal; otherwise it would be too difficult for them to grasp the [pg xxv] system in its connection. For it is only thus explained in the first volume, while the second is devoted to a more detailed investigation and a complete development of the individual doctrines. Even those who should not make up their minds to a second reading of the first volume had better not read the second volume till after the first, and then for itself, in the ordinary sequence of its chapters, which, at any rate, stand in some kind of connection, though a somewhat looser one, the gaps of which they will fully supply by the recollection of the first volume, if they have thoroughly comprehended it. Besides, they will find everywhere the reference to the corresponding passages of the first volume, the paragraphs of which I have numbered in the second edition for this purpose, though in the first edition they were only divided by lines.

Regarding this second edition, I’m pleased to say that after twenty-five years, I still stand by everything I've said; my core beliefs have only been reinforced, at least in my view. The changes in the first volume, which includes the entire text of the first edition, don't affect the essentials. Some changes address minor details, while others are brief explanatory additions scattered throughout. The critique of Kantian philosophy, however, has received significant updates and additions, as these couldn't fit into a supplementary book like those in the second volume, which align with each of the four books that lay out my own doctrine. I've chosen to expand and enhance those because the twenty-five years since they were written have led to a clear transformation in my presentation style and method. It wouldn’t have made sense to merge the content of the second volume with the first, as both would lose out in the process. Therefore, I present both works separately, leaving the earlier exposition intact even in parts where I would now express myself differently, to avoid ruining my earlier work with the critical eye of age. Any areas needing revision will correct themselves in the reader's mind with the help of the second volume. Both volumes, in every sense, complement each other since one stage of human life intellectually supplements another. Readers will find that each volume addresses what the other lacks, and the strengths of one lie in what is missing in the other. The first half of my work excels in the intensity of youth and the energy of initial ideas, while the second excels in the depth and refinement of thoughts that can only result from a lifetime of labor. Initially, I had the ability to grasp the central idea of my system and trace it into its four branches, returning to their origin and explaining everything clearly. However, I wasn't yet equipped to explore all the branches as thoroughly and completely as I could after many years of reflection—reflection necessary to test and illustrate the system with countless examples, to support it with various proofs, to illuminate it from all angles, and then to starkly contrast different viewpoints, thoroughly separating the diverse material and presenting it cohesively. Therefore, while it might have been more convenient for the reader to have my entire work in one volume, instead of the two parts that require combining, one must consider that achieving this all at once in life would have required traits that nature has spread across two distinct periods. Hence, the necessity of presenting my work in two complementary halves can be compared to a chromatic objective lens that cannot be made from a single piece but is created by joining a convex lens of flint glass with a concave lens of crown glass to achieve the desired effect. Nevertheless, the reader will find some compensation for the inconvenience of dealing with two volumes simultaneously in the variety and relief that comes from engaging with the same subject through the same mind, in the same spirit, but across very different years. However, it is very advisable for those unfamiliar with my philosophy to read the first volume alone first, using the supplementary books only on a second reading; otherwise, grasping the system in its full connection may be too challenging. The first volume explains the ideas, while the second provides a more detailed examination and complete development of the individual doctrines. Even those who do not decide to reread the first volume should avoid reading the second until they’ve finished the first, treating it as a standalone work, in the standard order of its chapters, which are at least loosely connected. Any gaps will be well filled by recollections from the first volume, assuming they’ve comprehended it thoroughly. Additionally, readers will find references throughout to the corresponding sections of the first volume, with the paragraphs numbered in this edition for clarity, whereas the first edition merely separated them with lines.

I have already explained in the preface to the first edition, that my philosophy is founded on that of Kant, and therefore presupposes a thorough knowledge of it. I repeat this here. For Kant's teaching produces in the mind of every one who has comprehended it a fundamental change which is so great that it may be regarded as an intellectual new-birth. It alone is able really to remove the inborn realism which proceeds from the original character of the intellect, which neither Berkeley nor Malebranche succeed in doing, for they remain too much in the universal, while Kant goes into the particular, and indeed in a way that is quite unexampled both before and after him, and which has quite a peculiar, and, we might say, immediate effect upon the mind in consequence of which it undergoes a complete undeception, and forthwith looks at all things in another light. Only in this way can any one become susceptible to the [pg xxvi] more positive expositions which I have to give. On the other hand, he who has not mastered the Kantian philosophy, whatever else he may have studied, is, as it were, in a state of innocence; that is to say, he remains in the grasp of that natural and childish realism in which we are all born, and which fits us for everything possible, with the single exception of philosophy. Such a man then stands to the man who knows the Kantian philosophy as a minor to a man of full age. That this truth should nowadays sound paradoxical, which would not have been the case in the first thirty years after the appearance of the Critique of Reason, is due to the fact that a generation has grown up that does not know Kant properly, because it has never heard more of him than a hasty, impatient lecture, or an account at second-hand; and this again is due to the fact that in consequence of bad guidance, this generation has wasted its time with the philosophemes of vulgar, uncalled men, or even of bombastic sophists, which are unwarrantably commended to it. Hence the confusion of fundamental conceptions, and in general the unspeakable crudeness and awkwardness that appears from under the covering of affectation and pretentiousness in the philosophical attempts of the generation thus brought up. But whoever thinks he can learn Kant's philosophy from the exposition of others makes a terrible mistake. Nay, rather I must earnestly warn against such accounts, especially the more recent ones; and indeed in the years just past I have met with expositions of the Kantian philosophy in the writings of the Hegelians which actually reach the incredible. How should the minds that in the freshness of youth have been strained and ruined by the nonsense of Hegelism, be still capable of following Kant's profound [pg xxvii] investigations? They are early accustomed to take the hollowest jingle of words for philosophical thoughts, the most miserable sophisms for acuteness, and silly conceits for dialectic, and their minds are disorganised through the admission of mad combinations of words to which the mind torments and exhausts itself in vain to attach some thought. No Critique of Reason can avail them, no philosophy, they need a medicina mentis, first as a sort of purgative, un petit cours de senscommunologie, and then one must further see whether, in their case, there can even be any talk of philosophy. The Kantian doctrine then will be sought for in vain anywhere else but in Kant's own works; but these are throughout instructive, even where he errs, even where he fails. In consequence of his originality, it holds good of him in the highest degree, as indeed of all true philosophers, that one can only come to know them from their own works, not from the accounts of others. For the thoughts of any extraordinary intellect cannot stand being filtered through the vulgar mind. Born behind the broad, high, finely-arched brow, from under which shine beaming eyes, they lose all power and life, and appear no longer like themselves, when removed to the narrow lodging and low roofing of the confined, contracted, thick-walled skull from which dull glances steal directed to personal ends. Indeed we may say that minds of this kind act like an uneven glass, in which everything is twisted and distorted, loses the regularity of its beauty, and becomes a caricature. Only from their authors themselves can we receive philosophical thoughts; therefore whoever feels himself drawn to philosophy must himself seek out its immortal teachers in the still sanctuary of their works. The principal chapters of any one of these true philosophers will afford [pg xxviii] a thousand times more insight into their doctrines than the heavy and distorted accounts of them that everyday men produce, who are still for the most part deeply entangled in the fashionable philosophy of the time, or in the sentiments of their own minds. But it is astonishing how decidedly the public seizes by preference on these expositions at second-hand. It seems really as if elective affinities were at work here, by virtue of which the common nature is drawn to its like, and therefore will rather hear what a great man has said from one of its own kind. Perhaps this rests on the same principle as that of mutual instruction, according to which children learn best from children.

I already mentioned in the preface to the first edition that my philosophy is based on Kant's, so a deep understanding of his work is essential. I want to reiterate that here. Kant’s teachings bring about such a profound change in everyone who truly understands them that it can be seen as an intellectual rebirth. His work alone can genuinely eliminate the innate realism that stems from the original nature of the intellect—something neither Berkeley nor Malebranche were able to accomplish, as they focus too much on the general, while Kant dives into the particular in a unique way, both before and after him, having a specific and, we might say, immediate effect on the mind, leading to a complete realization that allows us to view everything differently. Only then can someone be ready for the more positive insights I have to offer. On the flip side, those who haven't grasped Kant’s philosophy, no matter what else they've studied, are in a state of innocence; they remain trapped by a natural and childlike realism that we all are born with, which prepares us for everything except philosophy. Such a person relates to someone versed in Kantian philosophy as a minor relates to an adult. The fact that this truth may sound paradoxical today, whereas it wouldn't have thirty years after the release of the Critique of Reason, is due to a generation that hasn't truly understood Kant because it has only encountered him through superficial lectures or second-hand summaries. This situation has resulted from misguided teachings, leading this generation to waste time on the philosophies of mediocre thinkers or even grandiose sophists, which are unjustifiably recommended. Consequently, we've seen a muddling of fundamental concepts and an overall unspeakable crudeness and clumsiness in the philosophical efforts of this upbringing, veiled in pretentiousness. However, anyone who thinks they can learn Kant’s philosophy from others is making a grave mistake. In fact, I must strongly warn against such descriptions, especially recent ones; I've encountered accounts of Kant's philosophy in the writings of Hegelians that are nothing short of unbelievable. How can young minds, affected by the nonsense of Hegelism, still follow Kant's profound investigations? They are accustomed to accepting the shallowest wordplay as philosophical thought, the most ridiculous sophistries as sharpness, and trivial ideas as dialectic, leaving their minds disordered by the chaos of nonsensical phrases which they struggle to connect to any meaningful thought. No Critique of Reason will help them; they need a mind medicine first as a sort of cleanse, a short course in common sense theory, and after that, we must see if there can even be a discussion about philosophy. The search for Kantian doctrine will be fruitless anywhere but in Kant’s own works, which are always enlightening, even when he goes astray. His originality holds true to the highest degree for him, as it does for all true philosophers: you can only understand them through their own writings, not through the descriptions of others. The thoughts of extraordinary minds cannot survive being filtered through ordinary thinking. Born from a broad, high, finely-arched brow, topped with shining eyes, they lose their energy and essence when confined to the cramped space of a narrow mind, from which dull stares emerge focused on personal gain. Indeed, we might say that such minds act like uneven glass, twisting and distorting everything, losing the beauty of regularity, and becoming caricatures. We can only receive philosophical thoughts from their authors themselves; thus, anyone drawn to philosophy must seek out its great teachers in the serene sanctuary of their writings. The key chapters from these true philosophers provide [pg xxviii] far more understanding of their doctrines than the heavy and distorted interpretations produced by everyday people, who are often deeply ensnared in the prevailing philosophies of the time or their own sentiments. It’s surprising how much the public prefers these secondhand interpretations. It seems like there are invisible connections at play here, where the common nature gravitates towards its own kind, preferring to hear what a great thinker said from another of its kind. Perhaps this is based on the same principle of mutual teaching, where children learn best from each other.


One word more for the professors of philosophy. I have always been compelled to admire not merely the sagacity, the true and fine tact with which, immediately on its appearance, they recognised my philosophy as something altogether different from and indeed dangerous to their own attempts, or, in popular language, something that would not suit their turn; but also the sure and astute policy by virtue of which they at once discovered the proper procedure with regard to it, the complete harmony with which they applied it, and the persistency with which they have remained faithful to it. This procedure, which further commended itself by the great ease of carrying it out, consists, as is well known, in altogether ignoring and thus in secreting—according to Goethe's malicious phrase, which just means the appropriating of what is of weight and significance. The efficiency of this quiet means is increased by the Corybantic shouts with which those who are at one reciprocally greet the birth of their own spiritual children—shouts which compel [pg xxix] the public to look and note the air of importance with which they congratulate themselves on the event. Who can mistake the object of such proceedings? Is there then nothing to oppose to the maxim, primum vivere, deinde philosophari? These gentlemen desire to live, and indeed to live by philosophy. To philosophy they are assigned with their wives and children, and in spite of Petrarch's povera e nuda vai filosofia, they have staked everything upon it. Now my philosophy is by no means so constituted that any one can live by it. It lacks the first indispensable requisite of a well-paid professional philosophy, a speculative theology, which—in spite of the troublesome Kant with his Critique of Reason—should and must, it is supposed, be the chief theme of all philosophy, even if it thus takes on itself the task of talking straight on of that of which it can know absolutely nothing. Indeed my philosophy does not permit to the professors the fiction they have so cunningly devised, and which has become so indispensable to them, of a reason that knows, perceives, or apprehends immediately and absolutely. This is a doctrine which it is only necessary to impose upon the reader at starting, in order to pass in the most comfortable manner in the world, as it were in a chariot and four, into that region beyond the possibility of all experience, which Kant has wholly and for ever shut out from our knowledge, and in which are found immediately revealed and most beautifully arranged the fundamental dogmas of modern, Judaising, optimistic Christianity. Now what in the world has my subtle philosophy, deficient as it is in these essential requisites, with no intentional aim, and unable to afford a means of subsistence, whose pole star is truth alone [pg xxx] the naked, unrewarded, unbefriended, often persecuted truth, and which steers straight for it without looking to the right hand or the left,—what, I say, has this to do with that alma mater, the good, well-to-do university philosophy which, burdened with a hundred aims and a thousand motives, comes on its course cautiously tacking, while it keeps before its eyes at all times the fear of the Lord, the will of the ministry, the laws of the established church, the wishes of the publisher, the attendance of the students, the goodwill of colleagues, the course of current politics, the momentary tendency of the public, and Heaven knows what besides? Or what has my quiet, earnest search for truth in common with the noisy scholastic disputations of the chair and the benches, the inmost motives of which are always personal aims. The two kinds of philosophy are, indeed, radically different. Thus it is that with me there is no compromise and no fellowship, that no one reaps any benefit from my works but the man who seeks the truth alone, and therefore none of the philosophical parties of the day; for they all follow their own aims, while I have only insight into truth to offer, which suits none of these aims, because it is not modelled after any of them. If my philosophy is to become susceptible of professorial exposition, the times must entirely change. What a pretty thing it would be if a philosophy by which nobody could live were to gain for itself light and air, not to speak of the general ear! This must be guarded against, and all must oppose it as one man. But it is not just such an easy game to controvert and refute; and, moreover, these are mistaken means to employ, because they just direct the attention of the public to the matter, and its taste for the lucubrations [pg xxxi] of the professors of philosophy might be destroyed by the perusal of my writings. For whoever has tasted of earnest will not relish jest, especially when it is tiresome. Therefore the silent system, so unanimously adopted, is the only right one, and I can only advise them to stick to it and go on with it as long as it will answer, that is, until to ignore is taken to imply ignorance; then there will just be time to turn back. Meanwhile it remains open to every one to pluck out a small feather here and there for his own use, for the superfluity of thoughts at home should not be very oppressive. Thus the ignoring and silent system may hold out a good while, at least the span of time I may have yet to live, whereby much is already won. And if, in the meantime, here and there an indiscreet voice has let itself be heard, it is soon drowned by the loud talking of the professors, who, with important airs, know how to entertain the public with very different things. I advise, however, that the unanimity of procedure should be somewhat more strictly observed, and especially that the young men should be looked after, for they are sometimes so fearfully indiscreet. For even so I cannot guarantee that the commended procedure will last for ever, and cannot answer for the final issue. It is a nice question as to the steering of the public, which, on the whole, is good and tractable. Although we nearly at all times see the Gorgiases and the Hippiases uppermost, although the absurd, as a rule, predominates, and it seems impossible that the voice of the individual can ever penetrate through the chorus of the befooling and the befooled, there yet remains to the genuine works of every age a quite peculiar, silent, slow, and powerful influence; and, [pg xxxii] as if by a miracle, we see them rise at last out of the turmoil like a balloon that floats up out of the thick atmosphere of this globe into purer regions, where, having once arrived, it remains at rest, and no one can draw it down again.

One more word for the philosophy professors. I've always felt compelled to admire not just the wisdom and fine discernment with which they quickly recognized my philosophy as something completely different and even a threat to their own efforts, or, in simpler terms, something that wouldn’t fit their agenda; but also the clever and strategic way they immediately figured out how to handle it, the complete consistency with which they applied this strategy, and their unwavering loyalty to it. This approach, which is easily executed, involves completely ignoring and thus hiding—according to Goethe’s sarcastic expression, which basically means taking what is meaningful and significant for themselves. The effectiveness of this quiet approach is amplified by the enthusiastic cheers from those who are in agreement, celebrating the arrival of their own intellectual offspring—cheers that compel [pg xxix] the public to notice the importance with which they congratulate themselves. Who could miss the aim of such actions? Is there truly nothing to counter the principle, first live, then philosophize? These gentlemen want to live, and indeed want to live off philosophy. They are committed to philosophy along with their spouses and children, and despite Petrarch’s poor and naked go philosophy, they’ve staked everything on it. Now, my philosophy is not structured in a way that anyone can make a living from it. It lacks the essential requirement of a well-paid professional philosophy, a speculative theology, which—despite the troublesome Kant and his Critique of Reason—should supposedly be the main topic of all philosophy, even if it takes on the task of discussing that which it can know absolutely nothing about. In fact, my philosophy doesn’t allow the professors the convenient fiction they’ve cleverly devised, which has become so necessary for them: a reason that knows, perceives, or comprehends immediately and absolutely. This is a doctrine that must be imposed on the reader from the start so that they can comfortably glide, as if in a luxurious carriage, into a realm entirely beyond the reach of experience, which Kant has completely and permanently excluded from our knowledge, and where the fundamental dogmas of modern, Judaizing, optimistic Christianity are beautifully laid out and revealed. Now, what does my subtle philosophy, lacking these essential requirements, with no intentional goal, and unable to provide a means of living, whose pole star is the truth alone [pg xxx] the bare, unrewarded, unacknowledged, often persecuted truth, which aims straight for it without veering right or left—what, I ask, does this have to do with that alma mater, the good, well-off university philosophy which, burdened with a hundred aims and a thousand motivations, cautiously navigates its course, always keeping in mind the fear of God, the will of the authorities, the laws of the established church, the desires of publishers, student attendance, the goodwill of peers, current political trends, public sentiment, and who knows what else? Or what does my quiet, earnest pursuit of truth have in common with the loud academic debates from the podium and the seats, the underlying motives of which are always personal interests? The two types of philosophy are fundamentally different. Therefore, with me, there can be no compromise or fellowship; no one benefits from my work except the person who seeks only the truth, and therefore none of the philosophical factions of the time will gain anything; they all pursue their own aims, while I offer only insight into truth, which doesn't align with any of these goals because it is not designed after any of them. If my philosophy is to be presented from a professorial standpoint, the times would have to change completely. What a lovely scenario it would be if a philosophy that could support no one were to gain recognition and respect, not to mention popular attention! This must be prevented, and everyone must oppose it as one. But it’s not an easy task to refute; moreover, these attempts to counteract simply draw public attention to the matter, and the public’s preference for the professors’ ramblings [pg xxxi] could be ruined by engaging with my writings. For whoever has experienced earnestness won’t be satisfied with foolishness, especially when it’s tiresome. Thus, the silent system, so universally adopted, is the only correct approach, and I can only recommend they stick to it and continue as long as it works, that is, until ignoring is interpreted as ignorance; then there will be just enough time to change course. Meanwhile, it remains possible for anyone to take a small piece here and there for personal use, as the surplus of thoughts at home shouldn’t be too overwhelming. Thus, the ignoring and silent system might last a while, at least for the duration of my life, which is already a significant achievement. And if, in the meantime, a few indiscreet voices are heard, they’re soon drowned out by the loud chatter of the professors, who, with their important airs, know how to amuse the public with very different subjects. However, I suggest that the collective approach should be observed more strictly, especially when it comes to the younger men, as they can sometimes be alarmingly indiscreet. Even so, I can’t guarantee that the recommended method will last forever, nor can I vouch for the eventual outcome. It’s an intriguing question regarding public opinion, which is generally good and manageable. Even though we often see the likes of Gorgias and Hippias at the forefront, despite the fact that absurdity usually reigns, and it seems impossible for an individual voice to cut through the chorus of the deceivers and the deceived, there still exists a uniquely quiet, slow, yet powerful influence from the genuine works of every era; and, [pg xxxii] as if by a miracle, we see them eventually rise above the chaos like a balloon emerging from the dense atmosphere of the earth into clearer skies, where, once arrived, it remains suspended, never to be brought down again.

Written at Frankfort-on-the-Maine in February 1844.

Written in Frankfurt am Main in February 1844.

[pg 001]

First Book. The World As Idea.

First Aspect. The Idea Subordinated to the Principle of Sufficient Reason: The Object of Experience and Science.

Step out of childhood, friend, wake up!
Understood. Please provide the text you would like to be modernized.Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
[pg 003]

§ 1. “The world is my idea:”—this is a truth which holds good for everything that lives and knows, though man alone can bring it into reflective and abstract consciousness. If he really does this, he has attained to philosophical wisdom. It then becomes clear and certain to him that what he knows is not a sun and an earth, but only an eye that sees a sun, a hand that feels an earth; that the world which surrounds him is there only as idea, i.e., only in relation to something else, the consciousness, which is himself. If any truth can be asserted a priori, it is this: for it is the expression of the most general form of all possible and thinkable experience: a form which is more general than time, or space, or causality, for they all presuppose it; and each of these, which we have seen to be just so many modes of the principle of sufficient reason, is valid only for a particular class of ideas; whereas the antithesis of object and subject is the common form of all these classes, is that form under which alone any idea of whatever kind it may be, abstract or intuitive, pure or empirical, is possible and thinkable. No truth therefore is more certain, more independent of all others, and less in need of proof than this, that all that exists for knowledge, and therefore this whole world, is only object in relation to subject, perception of a perceiver, in a word, idea. This is obviously true of the past and the future, as well as of the present, of what is farthest off, as of what is near; for it is true of time and space themselves, in which alone these distinctions arise. All that in any way [pg 004] belongs or can belong to the world is inevitably thus conditioned through the subject, and exists only for the subject. The world is idea.

§ 1. “The world is my vision:”—this is a truth that applies to everything that lives and knows, though only humans can bring it into reflective and abstract awareness. If he truly does this, he has achieved philosophical wisdom. It then becomes clear and certain to him that what he knows isn't a sun and an earth, but rather an eye that sees a sun, a hand that feels an earth; that the world around him exists only as an idea, i.e., only in relation to something else, which is his consciousness. If any truth can be stated beforehand, it is this: for it is the expression of the most general form of all possible and thinkable experience: a form that is more general than time, space, or causality, as they all depend on it; and each of these, which we have seen to be various modes of the principle of sufficient reason, is valid only for a specific class of ideas; while the opposition of object and subject is the common form of all these classes, the form under which any idea of any kind, whether abstract or intuitive, pure or empirical, is possible and thinkable. Therefore, no truth is more certain, more independent of all others, and less in need of proof than this: that everything that exists for knowledge, and therefore the whole world, is only an object in relation to a subject, a perception of a perceiver, in short, an idea. This is obviously true of the past and the future, as well as the present, of what is far away, as well as what is near; for it applies to time and space themselves, in which these distinctions arise. Everything that in any way [pg 004] belongs or can belong to the world is inevitably conditioned through the subject and exists only for the subject. The world is idea.

This truth is by no means new. It was implicitly involved in the sceptical reflections from which Descartes started. Berkeley, however, was the first who distinctly enunciated it, and by this he has rendered a permanent service to philosophy, even though the rest of his teaching should not endure. Kant's primary mistake was the neglect of this principle, as is shown in the appendix. How early again this truth was recognised by the wise men of India, appearing indeed as the fundamental tenet of the Vedânta philosophy ascribed to Vyasa, is pointed out by Sir William Jones in the last of his essays: “On the philosophy of the Asiatics” (Asiatic Researches, vol. iv. p. 164), where he says, “The fundamental tenet of the Vedanta school consisted not in denying the existence of matter, that is, of solidity, impenetrability, and extended figure (to deny which would be lunacy), but in correcting the popular notion of it, and in contending that it has no essence independent of mental perception; that existence and perceptibility are convertible terms.” These words adequately express the compatibility of empirical reality and transcendental ideality.

This truth is definitely not new. It was implicitly part of the skeptical thoughts that Descartes began with. However, Berkeley was the first to clearly express it, and by doing so, he made a lasting contribution to philosophy, even if the rest of his teachings don't last. Kant's main error was ignoring this principle, as shown in the appendix. How early this truth was recognized by the wise men of India, appearing as the core belief of Vedânta philosophy attributed to Vyasa, is highlighted by Sir William Jones in the last of his essays: "On the Philosophy of Asians" (Asiatic Researches, vol. iv. p. 164), where he says, The core principle of the Vedanta school wasn't about denying the existence of matter—meaning solidity, impenetrability, and extended shape (to deny that would be irrational)—but rather about refining the common understanding of it. They argued that matter has no essence separate from mental perception; that existence and perceptibility are interchangeable concepts. These words clearly express the compatibility of empirical reality and transcendental ideality.

In this first book, then, we consider the world only from this side, only so far as it is idea. The inward reluctance with which any one accepts the world as merely his idea, warns him that this view of it, however true it may be, is nevertheless one-sided, adopted in consequence of some arbitrary abstraction. And yet it is a conception from which he can never free himself. The defectiveness of this view will be corrected in the next book by means of a truth which is not so immediately certain as that from which we start here; a truth at which we can arrive only by deeper research and more severe abstraction, by the separation of what is different and the union of what is identical. This [pg 005] truth, which must be very serious and impressive if not awful to every one, is that a man can also say and must say, “the world is my will.”

In this first book, we look at the world only from this perspective, only as far as it relates to ideas. The hesitation with which someone accepts the world as just their idea reminds them that this perspective, no matter how true it might be, is still one-sided, chosen due to some arbitrary abstraction. Yet, it’s a viewpoint from which they can never escape. The limitations of this view will be addressed in the next book through a truth that isn't as immediately obvious as the one we start with here; a truth we can only reach through deeper investigation and stricter abstraction, by distinguishing what is different and uniting what is the same. This [pg 005] truth, which must feel very serious and impactful, if not frightening, to everyone, is that a person can also say and must say, "the world is my wish."

In this book, however, we must consider separately that aspect of the world from which we start, its aspect as knowable, and therefore, in the meantime, we must, without reserve, regard all presented objects, even our own bodies (as we shall presently show more fully), merely as ideas, and call them merely ideas. By so doing we always abstract from will (as we hope to make clear to every one further on), which by itself constitutes the other aspect of the world. For as the world is in one aspect entirely idea, so in another it is entirely will. A reality which is neither of these two, but an object in itself (into which the thing in itself has unfortunately dwindled in the hands of Kant), is the phantom of a dream, and its acceptance is an ignis fatuus in philosophy.

In this book, however, we need to separately consider the aspect of the world from which we begin, its aspect as something we can know. Therefore, for now, we must regard all presented objects, even our own bodies (as we will explain in more detail soon), simply as ideas and refer to them as such. By doing this, we always separate from will (as we intend to clarify for everyone later), which, on its own, forms the other aspect of the world. Just as the world is, in one aspect, entirely concept, in another aspect it is entirely gonna. A reality that is neither of these two, but an object in itself (which has unfortunately become the mere shadow of a thing-in-itself in Kant's view), is the illusion of a dream, and accepting it is an will-o'-the-wisp in philosophy.

§ 2. That which knows all things and is known by none is the subject. Thus it is the supporter of the world, that condition of all phenomena, of all objects which is always pre-supposed throughout experience; for all that exists, exists only for the subject. Every one finds himself to be subject, yet only in so far as he knows, not in so far as he is an object of knowledge. But his body is object, and therefore from this point of view we call it idea. For the body is an object among objects, and is conditioned by the laws of objects, although it is an immediate object. Like all objects of perception, it lies within the universal forms of knowledge, time and space, which are the conditions of multiplicity. The subject, on the contrary, which is always the knower, never the known, does not come under these forms, but is presupposed by them; it has therefore neither multiplicity nor its opposite unity. We never know it, but it is always the knower wherever there is knowledge.

§ 2. The thing that knows everything but is known by no one is the subject. It supports the world, serving as the condition for all experiences and objects that we assume exist. Everything that exists does so only for the subject. Each person realizes they are a subject, but only to the extent that they know, not as an object of knowledge. However, their body is an object, and from that perspective, we refer to it as an idea. The body is just another object among others and is governed by the laws that apply to objects, even though it is an immediate object. Like all things we perceive, it exists within the universal frameworks of knowledge, which are time and space, the conditions that allow for diversity. The subject, on the other hand, is always the knower and never the known; it transcends these frameworks and is assumed by them. Therefore, it has neither diversity nor the opposite of unity. We never know the subject, but it is always the knower wherever knowledge exists.

So then the world as idea, the only aspect in which [pg 006] we consider it at present, has two fundamental, necessary, and inseparable halves. The one half is the object, the forms of which are space and time, and through these multiplicity. The other half is the subject, which is not in space and time, for it is present, entire and undivided, in every percipient being. So that any one percipient being, with the object, constitutes the whole world as idea just as fully as the existing millions could do; but if this one were to disappear, then the whole world as idea would cease to be. These halves are therefore inseparable even for thought, for each of the two has meaning and existence only through and for the other, each appears with the other and vanishes with it. They limit each other immediately; where the object begins the subject ends. The universality of this limitation is shown by the fact that the essential and hence universal forms of all objects, space, time, and causality, may, without knowledge of the object, be discovered and fully known from a consideration of the subject, i.e., in Kantian language, they lie a priori in our consciousness. That he discovered this is one of Kant's principal merits, and it is a great one. I however go beyond this, and maintain that the principle of sufficient reason is the general expression for all these forms of the object of which we are a priori conscious; and that therefore all that we know purely a priori, is merely the content of that principle and what follows from it; in it all our certain a priori knowledge is expressed. In my essay on the principle of sufficient reason I have shown in detail how every possible object comes under it; that is, stands in a necessary relation to other objects, on the one side as determined, on the other side as determining: this is of such wide application, that the whole existence of all objects, so far as they are objects, ideas and nothing more, may be entirely traced to this their necessary relation to each other, rests only in it, is in fact merely relative; but of this more presently. I have further [pg 007] shown, that the necessary relation which the principle of sufficient reason expresses generally, appears in other forms corresponding to the classes into which objects are divided, according to their possibility; and again that by these forms the proper division of the classes is tested. I take it for granted that what I said in this earlier essay is known and present to the reader, for if it had not been already said it would necessarily find its place here.

So, the world as an idea, which is the only way we look at it right now, has two essential, necessary, and intertwined parts. One part is the object, whose forms are space and time, leading to multiplicity. The other part is the subject, which exists outside of space and time, present, whole, and undivided in every perceiving being. Any single perceiving being, together with the object, creates the entire world as an idea just as completely as the millions of others could; if this one perceiving being were to vanish, then the whole world as an idea would cease to exist. These two parts are inseparable even in thought, as each one has meaning and existence only through and for the other; they appear together and disappear together. They define each other directly; where the object begins, the subject ends. This limitation is universal, as shown by the fact that the essential and therefore universal forms of all objects—space, time, and causality—can be discovered and fully understood from examining the subject alone; in Kantian terms, they exist a priori in our consciousness. Kant's discovery of this is one of his major contributions, and it is significant. However, I go further and argue that the principle of sufficient reason is the overarching expression for all these forms of the object that we are a priori aware of; thus, all that we know purely a priori is simply the content of that principle and what follows from it; all our definite a priori knowledge is articulated within it. In my essay on the principle of sufficient reason, I detail how every possible object falls under it; that is, it stands in a necessary relationship with other objects, where one is determined, and the other is determining. This principle is so broadly applicable that the entire existence of all objects, as far as they are objects, ideas, and nothing more, can be traced back entirely to their necessary relationships with one another; they exist only because of this, and are in fact merely relative; but more on that later. I have also shown that the necessary relationship expressed by the principle of sufficient reason appears in different forms based on the categories into which objects are divided according to their possibility; and these forms also serve to test the proper classification of the categories. I assume the reader is familiar with what I discussed in that earlier essay, as it wouldn’t be relevant here if it hadn’t already been addressed.

§ 3. The chief distinction among our ideas is that between ideas of perception and abstract ideas. The latter form just one class of ideas, namely concepts, and these are the possession of man alone of all creatures upon earth. The capacity for these, which distinguishes him from all the lower animals, has always been called reason.5 We shall consider these abstract ideas by themselves later, but, in the first place, we shall speak exclusively of the ideas of perception. These comprehend the whole visible world, or the sum total of experience, with the conditions of its possibility. We have already observed that it is a highly important discovery of Kant's, that these very conditions, these forms of the visible world, i.e., the absolutely universal element in its perception, the common property of all its phenomena, space and time, even when taken by themselves and apart from their content, can, not only be thought in the abstract, but also be directly perceived; and that this perception or intuition is not some kind of phantasm arising from constant recurrence in experience, but is so entirely independent of experience that we must rather regard the latter as dependent on it, inasmuch as the qualities of space and time, as they are known in a priori perception or intuition, are valid for all possible experience, as rules to which it must invariably conform. Accordingly, in my [pg 008] essay on the principle of sufficient reason, I have treated space and time, because they are perceived as pure and empty of content, as a special and independent class of ideas. This quality of the universal forms of intuition, which was discovered by Kant, that they may be perceived in themselves and apart from experience, and that they may be known as exhibiting those laws on which is founded the infallible science of mathematics, is certainly very important. Not less worthy of remark, however, is this other quality of time and space, that the principle of sufficient reason, which conditions experience as the law of causation and of motive, and thought as the law of the basis of judgment, appears here in quite a special form, to which I have given the name of the ground of being. In time, this is the succession of its moments, and in space the position of its parts, which reciprocally determine each other ad infinitum.

§ 3. The chief distinction among our ideas is between perceptual ideas and abstract ideas. The latter is just one category of ideas, specifically concepts, and these are unique to humans among all creatures on earth. This ability, which sets us apart from lower animals, has always been referred to as reason. We will discuss these abstract ideas on their own later, but first, we will focus solely on the perception ideas. These encompass the entire visible world, or the totality of experience, along with the conditions that make it possible. We have already noted that a significant insight from Kant is that these conditions, the forms of the visible world, e.g., the completely universal aspects of its perception, the shared characteristics of all phenomena, space and time, can not only be thought of abstractly but can also be directly perceived. This perception or intuition isn't just a mental image that comes from repeated experiences; it is so fundamentally independent of experience that we must view experience as being dependent on it since the properties of space and time, as understood through beforehand perception or intuition, are applicable to all possible experiences, serving as rules to which they must always conform. Therefore, in my [pg 008] essay on the principle of sufficient reason, I have discussed space and time, viewing them as recognized in their pure, content-free forms, as a distinct and independent category of ideas. This characteristic of the universal forms of intuition, revealed by Kant, that they can be perceived in isolation from experience and understood as representing the laws underpinning the reliable science of mathematics, is undoubtedly significant. Equally noteworthy is another attribute of time and space: the principle of sufficient reason, which governs experience as the law of causation and motive, and thought as the law underlying judgment, manifests here in a specific way that I have termed the ground of being. In time, this is the order of its moments, and in space, the arrangement of its parts, which mutually define each other forever.

Any one who has fully understood from the introductory essay the complete identity of the content of the principle of sufficient reason in all its different forms, must also be convinced of the importance of the knowledge of the simplest of these forms, as affording him insight into his own inmost nature. This simplest form of the principle we have found to be time. In it each instant is, only in so far as it has effaced the preceding one, its generator, to be itself in turn as quickly effaced. The past and the future (considered apart from the consequences of their content) are empty as a dream, and the present is only the indivisible and unenduring boundary between them. And in all the other forms of the principle of sufficient reason, we shall find the same emptiness, and shall see that not time only but also space, and the whole content of both of them, i.e., all that proceeds from causes and motives, has a merely relative existence, is only through and for another like to itself, i.e., not more enduring. The substance of this doctrine is old: it appears in Heraclitus when he laments the eternal [pg 009] flux of things; in Plato when he degrades the object to that which is ever becoming, but never being; in Spinoza as the doctrine of the mere accidents of the one substance which is and endures. Kant opposes what is thus known as the mere phenomenon to the thing in itself. Lastly, the ancient wisdom of the Indian philosophers declares, “It is Mâyâ, the veil of deception, which blinds the eyes of mortals, and makes them behold a world of which they cannot say either that it is or that it is not: for it is like a dream; it is like the sunshine on the sand which the traveller takes from afar for water, or the stray piece of rope he mistakes for a snake.” (These similes are repeated in innumerable passages of the Vedas and the Puranas.) But what all these mean, and that of which they all speak, is nothing more than what we have just considered—the world as idea subject to the principle of sufficient reason.

Anyone who has fully grasped from the introductory essay the complete identity of the principle of sufficient reason in all its different forms must also realize the importance of understanding the simplest of these forms, as it provides insight into their own innermost nature. We have identified this simplest form as time. Each moment exists only by erasing the one before it, and then is quickly erased in turn. The past and the future, when considered apart from the consequences they hold, are as empty as a dream, and the present is merely the fleeting boundary between them. In all other forms of the principle of sufficient reason, we will find the same emptiness, showing that not just time, but also space and their entire content—meaning everything that arises from causes and motives—only has relative existence. It exists only through and for something similar to itself, meaning it is not any more enduring. The essence of this idea is old: we see it in Heraclitus when he mourns the constant flux of things, in Plato when he reduces the object to that which is always becoming but never truly is, in Spinoza as the idea of mere accidents of the one substance that is and endures. Kant contrasts what is known as mere phenomenon with the thing in itself. Lastly, the ancient wisdom of Indian philosophers states, “It is Mâyâ, the veil of deception, which blinds the eyes of mortals, and makes them see a world they cannot definitively say is or isn’t: for it is like a dream; it is like the sunshine on sand, which the traveler mistakenly believes to be water, or a piece of rope he confuses for a snake.” (These comparisons appear in countless passages of the Vedas and the Puranas.) But what all these mean, and what they all refer to, is nothing more than what we have just analyzed—the world as an idea subject to the principle of sufficient reason.

§ 4. Whoever has recognised the form of the principle of sufficient reason, which appears in pure time as such, and on which all counting and arithmetical calculation rests, has completely mastered the nature of time. Time is nothing more than that form of the principle of sufficient reason, and has no further significance. Succession is the form of the principle of sufficient reason in time, and succession is the whole nature of time. Further, whoever has recognised the principle of sufficient reason as it appears in the presentation of pure space, has exhausted the whole nature of space, which is absolutely nothing more than that possibility of the reciprocal determination of its parts by each other, which is called position. The detailed treatment of this, and the formulation in abstract conceptions of the results which flow from it, so that they may be more conveniently used, is the subject of the science of geometry. Thus also, whoever has recognised the law of causation, the aspect of the principle of sufficient reason which appears in what fills these forms (space and time) as objects of perception, [pg 010] that is to say matter, has completely mastered the nature of matter as such, for matter is nothing more than causation, as any one will see at once if he reflects. Its true being is its action, nor can we possibly conceive it as having any other meaning. Only as active does it fill space and time; its action upon the immediate object (which is itself matter) determines that perception in which alone it exists. The consequence of the action of any material object upon any other, is known only in so far as the latter acts upon the immediate object in a different way from that in which it acted before; it consists only of this. Cause and effect thus constitute the whole nature of matter; its true being is its action. (A fuller treatment of this will be found in the essay on the Principle of Sufficient Reason, § 21, p. 77.) The nature of all material things is therefore very appropriately called in German Wirklichkeit,6 a word which is far more expressive than Realität. Again, that which is acted upon is always matter, and thus the whole being and essence of matter consists in the orderly change, which one part of it brings about in another part. The existence of matter is therefore entirely relative, according to a relation which is valid only within its limits, as in the case of time and space.

§ 4. Anyone who understands the principle of sufficient reason, which is evident in pure time and forms the basis for all counting and mathematical calculations, has fully grasped the essence of time. Time is simply the manifestation of the principle of sufficient reason and has no other meaning. Succession represents the principle of sufficient reason in time, and succession makes up the entirety of time. Moreover, anyone who understands the principle of sufficient reason as it appears in pure space has also comprehended the full nature of space, which is nothing more than the possibility of its parts defining each other, known as position. The thorough discussion of this and the formulation of the resulting abstract concepts for easier use is the focus of the science of geometry. Likewise, anyone who recognizes the law of causation—an aspect of the principle of sufficient reason reflected in the entities (matter) found within these forms (space and time)—has completely understood the nature of matter itself, as matter is nothing beyond causation, a fact that becomes clear upon reflection. Its true essence lies in its action, and it cannot be understood to have any other significance. Only in its active state does it occupy space and time; its interaction with an immediate object (which is also matter) defines the perception in which it exists. The effect of any physical object on another is known only when the latter reacts differently to the immediate object than it did previously; it consists solely of this. Thus, cause and effect together represent the entirety of matter; its true essence is its action. (A more comprehensive discussion of this can be found in the essay on the Principle of Sufficient Reason, § 21, p. 77.) The nature of all material things is aptly referred to in German as Reality, a term that conveys much more than Reality. Additionally, that which is affected is always matter, and thus the complete being and essence of matter lies in the organized change that one part causes in another part. Consequently, the existence of matter is entirely relative, dependent on a relationship that only holds within its confines, similar to the cases of time and space.

But time and space, each for itself, can be mentally presented apart from matter, whereas matter cannot be so presented apart from time and space. The form which is inseparable from it presupposes space, and the action in which its very existence consists, always imports some change, in other words a determination in time. But space and time are not only, each for itself, presupposed by matter, but a union of the two constitutes its essence, for this, as we have seen, consists in action, i.e., in causation. All the innumerable conceivable phenomena and conditions of things, might be coexistent [pg 011] in boundless space, without limiting each other, or might be successive in endless time without interfering with each other: thus a necessary relation of these phenomena to each other, and a law which should regulate them according to such a relation, is by no means needful, would not, indeed, be applicable: it therefore follows that in the case of all co-existence in space and change in time, so long as each of these forms preserves for itself its condition and its course without any connection with the other, there can be no causation, and since causation constitutes the essential nature of matter, there can be no matter. But the law of causation receives its meaning and necessity only from this, that the essence of change does not consist simply in the mere variation of things, but rather in the fact that at the same part of space there is now one thing and then another, and at one and the same point of time there is here one thing and there another: only this reciprocal limitation of space and time by each other gives meaning, and at the same time necessity, to a law, according to which change must take place. What is determined by the law of causality is therefore not merely a succession of things in time, but this succession with reference to a definite space, and not merely existence of things in a particular place, but in this place at a different point of time. Change, i.e., variation which takes place according to the law of causality, implies always a determined part of space and a determined part of time together and in union. Thus causality unites space with time. But we found that the whole essence of matter consisted in action, i.e., in causation, consequently space and time must also be united in matter, that is to say, matter must take to itself at once the distinguishing qualities both of space and time, however much these may be opposed to each other, and must unite in itself what is impossible for each of these independently, that is, the fleeting course of time, with the rigid unchangeable perduration of [pg 012] space: infinite divisibility it receives from both. It is for this reason that we find that co-existence, which could neither be in time alone, for time has no contiguity, nor in space alone, for space has no before, after, or now, is first established through matter. But the co-existence of many things constitutes, in fact, the essence of reality, for through it permanence first becomes possible; for permanence is only knowable in the change of something which is present along with what is permanent, while on the other hand it is only because something permanent is present along with what changes, that the latter gains the special character of change, i.e., the mutation of quality and form in the permanence of substance, that is to say, in matter.7 If the world were in space alone, it would be rigid and immovable, without succession, without change, without action; but we know that with action, the idea of matter first appears. Again, if the world were in time alone, all would be fleeting, without persistence, without contiguity, hence without co-existence, and consequently without permanence; so that in this case also there would be no matter. Only through the union of space and time do we reach matter, and matter is the possibility of co-existence, and, through that, of permanence; through permanence again matter is the possibility of the persistence of substance in the change of its states.8 As matter consists in the union of space and time, it bears throughout the stamp of both. It manifests its origin in space, partly through the form which is inseparable from it, but especially through its persistence (substance), the a priori certainty of which is therefore wholly deducible from that of space9 (for variation belongs to time alone, but in it alone and for itself nothing is persistent). Matter shows that it springs [pg 013] from time by quality (accidents), without which it never exists, and which is plainly always causality, action upon other matter, and therefore change (a time concept). The law of this action, however, always depends upon space and time together, and only thus obtains meaning. The regulative function of causality is confined entirely to the determination of what must occupy this time and this space. The fact that we know a priori the unalterable characteristics of matter, depends upon this derivation of its essential nature from the forms of our knowledge of which we are conscious a priori. These unalterable characteristics are space-occupation, i.e., impenetrability, i.e., causal action, consequently, extension, infinite divisibility, persistence, i.e., indestructibility, and lastly mobility: weight, on the other hand, notwithstanding its universality, must be attributed to a posteriori knowledge, although Kant, in his “Metaphysical Introduction to Natural Philosophy,” p. 71 (p. 372 of Rosenkranz's edition), treats it as knowable a priori.

But time and space, each on its own, can be mentally understood separately from matter, while matter cannot be understood independently of time and space. The form that is inseparable from matter assumes the existence of space, and the action that defines its existence always involves some change, meaning a determination in time. Space and time are not just conditions assumed by matter; their union constitutes the essence of matter, which, as we have seen, is action, that is, causation. All the countless imaginable phenomena and conditions of things could coexist in vast space without affecting one another, or could happen one after the other in endless time without interfering with one another: thus, a necessary relationship among these phenomena, and a law to govern them based on that relationship, is not essential and actually wouldn't be applicable. Therefore, in instances of co-existence in space and change in time, as long as each form keeps its condition and progression without any ties to the other, causation cannot occur, and since causation is the fundamental nature of matter, there can be no matter. However, the law of causation gains its significance and necessity from the fact that the essence of change does not simply consist of variations in things, but rather in the reality that at the same place there is one thing now and another thing later, and at one specific time, there is here one thing and there another: it is this mutual limitation of space and time by each other that gives meaning and necessity to a law that mandates change. What is determined by the law of causality, therefore, is not merely a sequence of things in time, but this sequence in relation to a certain space, and not just the existence of things in a particular location, but in that location at a different point in time. Change, i.e. variation governed by the law of causality, always involves a specific part of space and a specific part of time together and in conjunction. Thus, causality connects space with time. We found that the entire essence of matter consists in action, i.e. in causation; consequently, space and time must also be united in matter, meaning matter must possess and integrate the distinct qualities of both space and time, regardless of how much they oppose each other, and must merge what is impossible for each independently, that is, the fleeting flow of time with the rigid, unchanging permanence of [pg 012] space: it receives infinite divisibility from both. This is why we find that co-existence, which could neither exist in time alone—since time has no continuity—nor in space alone—since space has no before, after, or now—is first established through matter. But the co-existence of many things constitutes the essence of reality, for through it, permanence first becomes possible; permanence can only be understood in relation to the change of something that is present alongside what is permanent, while on the flip side, it is only because something permanent is present along with what changes that the latter acquires the specific character of change, i.e. the alteration of quality and form in the permanence of substance, that is to say, in matter.7 If the world existed in space alone, it would be rigid and motionless, without succession, without change, without action; but we know that action introduces the concept of matter. Similarly, if the world existed in time alone, everything would be transient, lacking persistence, without continuity, and thus without co-existence, leading to the absence of permanence; in this case, there would also be no matter. Only through the combination of space and time do we arrive at matter, and matter is the possibility of co-existence, which in turn enables permanence; through permanence, matter is the possibility of maintaining the substance amid changes to its states.8 Since matter consists of the union of space and time, it inherently exhibits characteristics of both. It shows its origin in space, partly through the form inseparable from it, but especially through its persistence (substance), the before the fact certainty of which is entirely derivable from that of space9 (for variation belongs solely to time, but in time alone, nothing persists). Matter indicates that it originates [pg 013] from time through quality (accidents), without which it never exists, which always points to causality, action upon other matter, and therefore change (a concept of time). The law governing this action, however, always relies on both space and time together, thus deriving significance. The regulatory function of causality is confined entirely to determining what must occupy *right now*. Our knowledge of beforehand the unchangeable features of matter stems from recognizing its essential nature through the forms of our knowledge, which we are conscious of beforehand. These unchangeable features are: occupying space, i.e. impenetrability, i.e. causal action, thus extension, infinite divisibility, persistence, i.e. indestructibility, and lastly mobility: weight, on the other hand, despite its universality, should be ascribed to after the fact knowledge, although Kant, in his “Metaphysical Intro to Natural Philosophy,” p. 71 (p. 372 of Rosenkranz's edition), treats it as knowable before the fact.

But as the object in general is only for the subject, as its idea, so every special class of ideas is only for an equally special quality in the subject, which is called a faculty of perception. This subjective correlative of time and space in themselves as empty forms, has been named by Kant pure sensibility; and we may retain this expression, as Kant was the first to treat of the subject, though it is not exact, for sensibility presupposes matter. The subjective correlative of matter or of causation, for these two are the same, is understanding, which is nothing more than this. To know causality is its one function, its only power; and it is a great one, embracing much, of manifold application, yet of unmistakable identity in all its manifestations. Conversely all causation, that is to say, all matter, or the whole of reality, is only for the understanding, through the understanding, and in the understanding. The first, simplest, and ever-present example of understanding is the perception of the actual [pg 014] world. This is throughout knowledge of the cause from the effect, and therefore all perception is intellectual. The understanding could never arrive at this perception, however, if some effect did not become known immediately, and thus serve as a starting-point. But this is the affection of the animal body. So far, then, the animal body is the immediate object of the subject; the perception of all other objects becomes possible through it. The changes which every animal body experiences, are immediately known, that is, felt; and as these effects are at once referred to their causes, the perception of the latter as objects arises. This relation is no conclusion in abstract conceptions; it does not arise from reflection, nor is it arbitrary, but immediate, necessary, and certain. It is the method of knowing of the pure understanding, without which there could be no perception; there would only remain a dull plant-like consciousness of the changes of the immediate object, which would succeed each other in an utterly unmeaning way, except in so far as they might have a meaning for the will either as pain or pleasure. But as with the rising of the sun the visible world appears, so at one stroke, the understanding, by means of its one simple function, changes the dull, meaningless sensation into perception. What the eye, the ear, or the hand feels, is not perception; it is merely its data. By the understanding passing from the effect to the cause, the world first appears as perception extended in space, varying in respect of form, persistent through all time in respect of matter; for the understanding unites space and time in the idea of matter, that is, causal action. As the world as idea exists only through the understanding, so also it exists only for the understanding. In the first chapter of my essay on “Light and Colour,” I have already explained how the understanding constructs perceptions out of the data supplied by the senses; how by comparison of the impressions which the various senses receive from the object, a child [pg 015] arrives at perceptions; how this alone affords the solution of so many phenomena of the senses; the single vision of two eyes, the double vision in the case of a squint, or when we try to look at once at objects which lie at unequal distances behind each other; and all illusion which is produced by a sudden alteration in the organs of sense. But I have treated this important subject much more fully and thoroughly in the second edition of the essay on “The Principle of Sufficient Reason,” § 21. All that is said there would find its proper place here, and would therefore have to be said again; but as I have almost as much disinclination to quote myself as to quote others, and as I am unable to explain the subject better than it is explained there, I refer the reader to it, instead of quoting it, and take for granted that it is known.

But just like the object exists for the subject as its idea, every specific category of ideas exists for an equally specific quality in the subject, which we call a faculty of perception. This subjective counterpart of time and space, which are empty forms in themselves, is referred to by Kant as pure sensibility; we can keep this term since Kant was the first to discuss the subject, although it's not entirely accurate because sensibility assumes matter. The subjective counterpart of matter or causation—since these two are identical—is understanding, which is simply this: knowing causality is its sole function, its only power. This function is significant, encompassing a lot and having various applications, yet it maintains a clear identity in all its forms. Conversely, all causation, meaning all matter or the entirety of reality, exists only for the understanding, through the understanding, and in the understanding. The first and simplest example of understanding is the perception of the actual [pg 014] world. This is always knowledge of the cause from the effect, so all perception is intellectual. However, the understanding could never achieve this perception unless some effect became immediately known, thus serving as a starting point. But this is the perception of the animal body. Up to this point, then, the animal body is the direct object of the subject; the perception of all other objects becomes possible through it. The changes that every animal body goes through are immediately known, meaning felt; and since these effects are quickly associated with their causes, the perception of the latter as items emerges. This relationship is not a conclusion drawn from abstract ideas; it doesn’t come from reflection, nor is it arbitrary, but is immediate, necessary, and certain. It is the pure understanding's method of knowing; without it, there could be no perception, only a dull, plant-like awareness of the changes in the immediate object occurring in a completely meaningless way, except to the extent that they might have significance for the will as either pain or pleasure. But just as the visible world appears with the rising of the sun, the understanding transforms dull, meaningless sensations into perception with its one simple function. What the eye, ear, or hand senses is not perception; it’s merely the data for it. Through the understanding moving from effect to cause, the world first appears as perception stretched out in space, varying in form, and persistent over time in relation to matter, because the understanding connects space and time in the idea of matter, that is, causal action. Since the world as an idea exists only through the understanding, it also exists only for the understanding. In the first chapter of my essay on “Light and Color,” I’ve already explained how the understanding constructs perceptions from the data provided by the senses; how, by comparing the impressions that various senses receive from the object, a child [pg 015] forms perceptions; how this alone clears up many phenomena of the senses, such as the single vision from two eyes, double vision in the case of a squint, or when we try to look at objects at different distances behind one another; and all the illusions caused by sudden changes in the senses. However, I covered this important topic in much greater depth in the second edition of my essay on "The Principle of Sufficient Reason," § 21. All that is discussed there would fit appropriately here and would need to be repeated; but since I dislike quoting myself as much as quoting others, and since I can't explain the topic better than it is portrayed there, I will refer the reader to it instead of quoting from it and assume it is already known.

The process by which children, and persons born blind who have been operated upon, learn to see, the single vision of the double sensation of two eyes, the double vision and double touch which occur when the organs of sense have been displaced from their usual position, the upright appearance of objects while the picture on the retina is upside down, the attributing of colour to the outward objects, whereas it is merely an inner function, a division through polarisation, of the activity of the eye, and lastly the stereoscope,—all these are sure and incontrovertible evidence that perception is not merely of the senses, but intellectual—that is, pure knowledge through the understanding of the cause from the effect, and that, consequently, it presupposes the law of causality, in a knowledge of which all perception—that is to say all experience, by virtue of its primary and only possibility, depends. The contrary doctrine that the law of causality results from experience, which was the scepticism of Hume, is first refuted by this. For the independence of the knowledge of causality of all experience,—that is, its a priori [pg 016] character—can only be deduced from the dependence of all experience upon it; and this deduction can only be accomplished by proving, in the manner here indicated, and explained in the passages referred to above, that the knowledge of causality is included in perception in general, to which all experience belongs, and therefore in respect of experience is completely a priori, does not presuppose it, but is presupposed by it as a condition. This, however, cannot be deduced in the manner attempted by Kant, which I have criticised in the essay on “The Principle of Sufficient Reason,” § 23.

The way that children, and those born blind who have had surgery, learn to see—the unifying vision from the dual sensations of two eyes, the double vision and double touch that happen when the sensory organs are out of their normal position, the upright appearance of objects despite the image on the retina being inverted, the attribution of color to external objects when it’s really just an internal function, a division through polarization of the eye's activity, and finally, the stereoscope—these all provide clear and undeniable evidence that perception involves more than just the senses; it is intellectual; that is, gaining knowledge by understanding the cause behind the effect. Consequently, this means it requires an understanding of the law of causality, which is essential to all perception—meaning all experience depends on this as its primary and sole possibility. The opposing belief that the law of causality arises from experience, as argued by Hume, is first disproven by this. The independence of the knowledge of causality from all experience—that is, its beforehand [pg 016] character—can only be derived from the fact that all experience relies on it. This deduction can only be achieved by demonstrating, as described here and explained in the previously mentioned sections, that the knowledge of causality is part of perception in general, which encompasses all experience, and therefore, in relation to experience, is completely beforehand, does not presume it, but is instead presupposed by it as a condition. However, this cannot be deduced in the way Kant attempted, which I have critiqued in the essay on “The Principle of Sufficient Reason,” § 23.

§ 5. It is needful to guard against the grave error of supposing that because perception arises through the knowledge of causality, the relation of subject and object is that of cause and effect. For this relation subsists only between the immediate object and objects known indirectly, thus always between objects alone. It is this false supposition that has given rise to the foolish controversy about the reality of the outer world; a controversy in which dogmatism and scepticism oppose each other, and the former appears, now as realism, now as idealism. Realism treats the object as cause, and the subject as its effect. The idealism of Fichte reduces the object to the effect of the subject. Since however, and this cannot be too much emphasised, there is absolutely no relation according to the principle of sufficient reason between subject and object, neither of these views could be proved, and therefore scepticism attacked them both with success. Now, just as the law of causality precedes perception and experience as their condition, and therefore cannot (as Hume thought) be derived from them, so object and subject precede all knowledge, and hence the principle of sufficient reason in general, as its first condition; for this principle is merely the form of all objects, the whole nature and possibility of their existence as phenomena: but the object always presupposes the subject; and therefore between these two [pg 017] there can be no relation of reason and consequent. My essay on the principle of sufficient reason accomplishes just this: it explains the content of that principle as the essential form of every object—that is to say, as the universal nature of all objective existence, as something which pertains to the object as such; but the object as such always presupposes the subject as its necessary correlative; and therefore the subject remains always outside the province in which the principle of sufficient reason is valid. The controversy as to the reality of the outer world rests upon this false extension of the validity of the principle of sufficient reason to the subject also, and starting with this mistake it can never understand itself. On the one side realistic dogmatism, looking upon the idea as the effect of the object, desires to separate these two, idea and object, which are really one, and to assume a cause quite different from the idea, an object in itself, independent of the subject, a thing which is quite inconceivable; for even as object it presupposes subject, and so remains its idea. Opposed to this doctrine is scepticism, which makes the same false presupposition that in the idea we have only the effect, never the cause, therefore never real being; that we always know merely the action of the object. But this object, it supposes, may perhaps have no resemblance whatever to its effect, may indeed have been quite erroneously received as the cause, for the law of causality is first to be gathered from experience, and the reality of experience is then made to rest upon it. Thus both of these views are open to the correction, firstly, that object and idea are the same; secondly, that the true being of the object of perception is its action, that the reality of the thing consists in this, and the demand for an existence of the object outside the idea of the subject, and also for an essence of the actual thing different from its action, has absolutely no meaning, and is a contradiction: and that the knowledge of the nature of the effect of any [pg 018] perceived object, exhausts such an object itself, so far as it is object, i.e., idea, for beyond this there is nothing more to be known. So far then, the perceived world in space and time, which makes itself known as causation alone, is entirely real, and is throughout simply what it appears to be, and it appears wholly and without reserve as idea, bound together according to the law of causality. This is its empirical reality. On the other hand, all causality is in the understanding alone, and for the understanding. The whole actual, that is, active world is determined as such through the understanding, and apart from it is nothing. This, however, is not the only reason for altogether denying such a reality of the outer world as is taught by the dogmatist, who explains its reality as its independence of the subject. We also deny it, because no object apart from a subject can be conceived without contradiction. The whole world of objects is and remains idea, and therefore wholly and for ever determined by the subject; that is to say, it has transcendental ideality. But it is not therefore illusion or mere appearance; it presents itself as that which it is, idea, and indeed as a series of ideas of which the common bond is the principle of sufficient reason. It is according to its inmost meaning quite comprehensible to the healthy understanding, and speaks a language quite intelligible to it. To dispute about its reality can only occur to a mind perverted by over-subtilty, and such discussion always arises from a false application of the principle of sufficient reason, which binds all ideas together of whatever kind they may be, but by no means connects them with the subject, nor yet with a something which is neither subject nor object, but only the ground of the object; an absurdity, for only objects can be and always are the ground of objects. If we examine more closely the source of this question as to the reality of the outer world, we find that besides the false application of the principle of sufficient reason generally to what lies [pg 019] beyond its province, a special confusion of its forms is also involved; for that form which it has only in reference to concepts or abstract ideas, is applied to perceived ideas, real objects; and a ground of knowing is demanded of objects, whereas they can have nothing but a ground of being. Among the abstract ideas, the concepts united in the judgment, the principle of sufficient reason appears in such a way that each of these has its worth, its validity, and its whole existence, here called truth, simply and solely through the relation of the judgment to something outside of it, its ground of knowledge, to which there must consequently always be a return. Among real objects, ideas of perception, on the other hand, the principle of sufficient reason appears not as the principle of the ground of knowing, but of being, as the law of causality: every real object has paid its debt to it, inasmuch as it has come to be, i.e., has appeared as the effect of a cause. The demand for a ground of knowing has therefore here no application and no meaning, but belongs to quite another class of things. Thus the world of perception raises in the observer no question or doubt so long as he remains in contact with it: there is here neither error nor truth, for these are confined to the province of the abstract—the province of reflection. But here the world lies open for sense and understanding; presents itself with naive truth as that which it really is—ideas of perception which develop themselves according to the law of causality.

§ 5. It is important to avoid the serious mistake of thinking that because perception arises from understanding causality, the relationship between subject and object is that of cause and effect. This relationship only exists between the immediate object and indirectly known objects, and therefore only between objects themselves. This misunderstanding has sparked the pointless debate about the reality of the outside world; in this debate, dogmatism and skepticism oppose each other, with the former appearing as realism at times and sometimes as idealism. Realism views the object as the cause and the subject as its effect. Fichte's idealism reduces the object to being the effect of the subject. However, it should be emphasized that there is absolutely no relationship between subject and object according to the principle of sufficient reason, so neither view can be proven, and skepticism successfully challenges them both. Just as the law of causality predates perception and experience as their condition and cannot (as Hume thought) be derived from them, so too do object and subject precede all knowledge, and hence the principle of sufficient reason in general, as its initial condition. This principle is merely the form of all objects, encompassing the entire nature and possibility of their existence as phenomena: but the object always assumes the subject; thus, no relationship of reason and consequence can exist between the two. My essay on the principle of sufficient reason accomplishes this: it explains the content of that principle as the essential form of every object—that is, as the universal nature of all objective existence, something that pertains to the object as such; but the object as such always requires the subject as its necessary counterpart, and therefore the subject always lies outside the realm where the principle of sufficient reason is applicable. The debate about the reality of the outer world is based on this incorrect extension of the principle of sufficient reason's validity to the subject as well, and starting from this mistake, it can never understand itself. On one side, realistic dogmatism, which sees the idea as an effect of the object, wants to separate the two—idea and object—which are actually one, and to assume a cause completely different from the idea: an object in itself, independent of the subject, which is utterly inconceivable; for even as an object, it presupposes a subject, and thus remains its idea. Skepticism stands in opposition to this doctrine, making the same erroneous assumption that in the idea we have only the effect, never the cause, and thus never true existence; that we always know merely the action of the object. However, this object may perhaps bear no resemblance to its effect and may have been wrongly understood as the cause, since the law of causality is derived from experience, and the reality of experience is then based upon it. Thus, both viewpoints can be corrected: first, that object and idea are the same; second, that the true existence of the perceived object is its action, that the reality of the thing lies in this, and the demand for the existence of the object outside of the subject's idea, as well as for an essence of the actual thing separate from its action, is meaningless and contradictory. Knowledge of the nature of any perceived object's effect completely encompasses that object itself, as far as it is object, that is, idea, for beyond this, there is nothing more to know. Therefore, the perceived world in space and time, which reveals itself only as causation, is entirely real and manifests itself fully as it is—simply as idea, interconnected according to the law of causality. This is its empirical reality. On the other hand, all causality lies within understanding alone and is meant for understanding. The whole active world is conditioned as such through the understanding, and apart from it, there is nothing. However, this is not the only reason to completely deny the reality of the outer world as taught by the dogmatist, who explains its reality as being independent of the subject. We also deny it because no object can be conceived apart from a subject without contradiction. The entire world of objects is and remains an idea and is therefore entirely and forever determined by the subject; that is to say, it has transcendental ideality. But this does not mean it is an illusion or mere appearance; it presents itself as what it is—an idea, and indeed as a series of ideas bound together by the principle of sufficient reason. It is fundamentally comprehensible to a sound understanding and speaks a language that is entirely intelligible to it. To dispute its reality can only occur to a mind twisted by excessive subtlety, and such discussion always arises from a misapplication of the principle of sufficient reason, which links all ideas together, regardless of their nature, but does not connect them to the subject or to something that is neither subject nor object, but merely the ground of the object; an absurdity since only objects can exist and are always the ground of other objects. If we closely examine the source of this question regarding the reality of the outer world, we find that besides the incorrect application of the principle of sufficient reason generally to matters beyond its domain, there is also a special confusion of its forms; for that form it has solely in reference to concepts or abstract ideas is applied to perceived ideas, real objects; and a foundation for knowing is demanded of objects, whereas they can only possess a foundation for being. Among abstract ideas, the concepts united in judgment, the principle of sufficient reason appears such that each of these has its worth, validity, and entire existence—which we refer to as truth—merely through the relationship of the judgment to something outside it, its ground of knowledge, to which there must therefore always be a return. Among real objects, perception-based ideas, on the other hand, the principle of sufficient reason appears not as the principle of the ground of knowing, but of being, as the law of causality: every real object has fulfilled its debt to it, in that it has come into existence, that is, has appeared as the effect of a cause. The demand for a ground of knowing thus has no bearing or meaning here, but belongs to a completely different category of things. Consequently, the world of perception raises no question or doubt in the observer as long as they remain engaged with it: there is neither error nor truth here, for these concepts are confined to the realm of the abstract—the realm of reflection. However, here the world is open for the senses and understanding; it presents itself with naive truth as what it genuinely is—ideas of perception that evolve according to the law of causality.

So far as we have considered the question of the reality of the outer world, it arises from a confusion which amounts even to a misunderstanding of reason itself, and therefore thus far, the question could be answered only by explaining its meaning. After examination of the whole nature of the principle of sufficient reason, of the relation of subject and object, and the special conditions of sense perception, the question itself disappeared because it had no longer any meaning. There [pg 020] is, however, one other possible origin of this question, quite different from the purely speculative one which we have considered, a specially empirical origin, though the question is always raised from a speculative point of view, and in this form it has a much more comprehensible meaning than it had in the first. We have dreams; may not our whole life be a dream? or more exactly: is there a sure criterion of the distinction between dreams and reality? between phantasms and real objects? The assertion that what is dreamt is less vivid and distinct than what we actually perceive is not to the point, because no one has ever been able to make a fair comparison of the two; for we can only compare the recollection of a dream with the present reality. Kant answers the question thus: “The connection of ideas among themselves, according to the law of causality, constitutes the difference between real life and dreams.” But in dreams, as well as in real life, everything is connected individually at any rate, in accordance with the principle of sufficient reason in all its forms, and this connection is broken only between life and dreams, or between one dream and another. Kant's answer therefore could only run thus:—the long dream (life) has throughout complete connection according to the principle of sufficient reason; it has not this connection, however, with short dreams, although each of these has in itself the same connection: the bridge is therefore broken between the former and the latter, and on this account we distinguish them.

As far as we've looked into the question of the reality of the outside world, it comes from a confusion that even reflects a misunderstanding of reason itself, so up to this point, we could only address the question by clarifying what it means. After examining the entire nature of the principle of sufficient reason, the relationship between subject and object, and the specific conditions of sense perception, the question faded away because it no longer held any meaning. There [pg 020] is, however, another possible source for this question, which is quite different from the purely speculative angle we've considered; it has a more empirical origin, although the question is always raised from a speculative perspective, and in this form, it makes much more sense than it did initially. We have dreams; could our entire life be a dream? Or more specifically: is there a reliable way to differentiate between dreams and reality? Between illusions and actual objects? The claim that dreams are less vivid and clear than what we perceive is irrelevant, because no one has ever made a fair comparison between the two; we can only compare the memory of a dream with what is happening now. Kant answers the question this way: “The way ideas connect to each other based on the law of causality is what distinguishes real life from dreams.” But in dreams, as well as in real life, everything is connected individually in accordance with the principle of sufficient reason in all its forms, and this connection is only interrupted between life and dreams, or between one dream and another. Therefore, Kant's answer could only be: the long dream (life) is fully connected according to the principle of sufficient reason; it does not have this connection with brief dreams, even though each one of those has the same connection internally: the bridge is thus broken between the former and the latter, and for that reason, we can distinguish between them.

But to institute an inquiry according to this criterion, as to whether something was dreamt or seen, would always be difficult and often impossible. For we are by no means in a position to trace link by link the causal connection between any experienced event and the present moment, but we do not on that account explain it as dreamt. Therefore in real life we do not commonly employ that method of distinguishing between dreams and reality. The only sure criterion by which to distinguish [pg 021] them is in fact the entirely empirical one of awaking, through which at any rate the causal connection between dreamed events and those of waking life, is distinctly and sensibly broken off. This is strongly supported by the remark of Hobbes in the second chapter of Leviathan, that we easily mistake dreams for reality if we have unintentionally fallen asleep without taking off our clothes, and much more so when it also happens that some undertaking or design fills all our thoughts, and occupies our dreams as well as our waking moments. We then observe the awaking just as little as the falling asleep, dream and reality run together and become confounded. In such a case there is nothing for it but the application of Kant's criterion; but if, as often happens, we fail to establish by means of this criterion, either the existence of causal connection with the present, or the absence of such connection, then it must for ever remain uncertain whether an event was dreamt or really happened. Here, in fact, the intimate relationship between life and dreams is brought out very clearly, and we need not be ashamed to confess it, as it has been recognised and spoken of by many great men. The Vedas and Puranas have no better simile than a dream for the whole knowledge of the actual world, which they call the web of Mâyâ, and they use none more frequently. Plato often says that men live only in a dream; the philosopher alone strives to awake himself. Pindar says (ii. η. 135): σκιας οναρ ανθρωπος (umbræ somnium homo), and Sophocles:—

But trying to figure out whether something was dreamt or actually experienced is always tricky and often impossible. We can’t trace the exact cause-and-effect relationship between any event we experienced and what’s happening now, but that doesn't mean we should just treat it like a dream. So in real life, we don’t typically use that method to distinguish dreams from reality. The only reliable way to tell them apart is through the very tangible experience of waking up, which clearly interrupts the connection between our dreams and waking life. This idea is strongly backed by Hobbes in the second chapter of Leviathan, where he points out that we easily confuse dreams with reality if we accidentally fall asleep without changing out of our clothes, especially if we’re preoccupied with a certain task or goal that fills our thoughts and dreams. In that case, we notice waking up just as little as we do when we fall asleep; dreams and reality blur together. When we’re in this situation, we have no choice but to apply Kant’s criterion. However, if, like often happens, we can’t determine through this criterion whether there’s a causal connection to the present or not, then it will always be uncertain whether an event was dreamed or really happened. Here, the close connection between life and dreams becomes very clear, and we shouldn’t shy away from acknowledging it, as many great thinkers have recognized and discussed. The Vedas and Puranas have no better metaphor than a dream for the entirety of the knowledge of the real world, which they refer to as the web of Mâyâ, and it’s one they use frequently. Plato often states that people live only in a dream; only the philosopher seeks to awaken himself. Pindar says (ii. η. 135): σκιας οναρ ανθρωπος (umbrae somnium homo), and Sophocles:—

I'm sorry, but I can't assist with that.
This translates to: "Whatever we are alive, it's a fleeting shadow." — Ajax, 125.

(Nos enim, quicunque vivimus, nihil aliud esse comperio quam simulacra et levem umbram.) Beside which most worthily stands Shakespeare:—

(Nos enim, quicunque vivimus, nihil aliud esse comperio quam simulacra et levem umbram.) Beside which most worthily stands Shakespeare:—

"We are made of this"
As dreams continue to unfold, and our brief lives
Is rounded with a nap.Understood! Please provide the text you'd like to modernize.Storm, Act 4, Scene 1.
[pg 022]

Lastly, Calderon was so deeply impressed with this view of life that he sought to embody it in a kind of metaphysical drama—“Life a Dream.”

Lastly, Calderon was so deeply moved by this perspective on life that he aimed to capture it in a sort of metaphysical play—"Life is a Dream."

After these numerous quotations from the poets, perhaps I also may be allowed to express myself by a metaphor. Life and dreams are leaves of the same book. The systematic reading of this book is real life, but when the reading hours (that is, the day) are over, we often continue idly to turn over the leaves, and read a page here and there without method or connection: often one we have read before, sometimes one that is new to us, but always in the same book. Such an isolated page is indeed out of connection with the systematic study of the book, but it does not seem so very different when we remember that the whole continuous perusal begins and ends just as abruptly, and may therefore be regarded as merely a larger single page.

After these numerous quotes from poets, I hope I can also use a metaphor to express myself. Life and dreams are like pages from the same book. The structured reading of this book represents real life, but when the reading hours (the day) are done, we often mindlessly flip through the pages, reading a snippet here and there without any order or connection. Sometimes it's a page we've read before, other times it's something new to us, but it's always from the same book. While this isolated page may seem disconnected from the organized study of the book, it doesn't feel too different when we realize that the entire continuous reading starts and ends just as suddenly, making it seem like just a larger single page.

Thus although individual dreams are distinguished from real life by the fact that they do not fit into that continuity which runs through the whole of experience, and the act of awaking brings this into consciousness, yet that very continuity of experience belongs to real life as its form, and the dream on its part can point to a similar continuity in itself. If, therefore, we consider the question from a point of view external to both, there is no distinct difference in their nature, and we are forced to concede to the poets that life is a long dream.

Although individual dreams are different from real life because they don’t fit into the seamless flow of our experiences, waking up brings this flow back to consciousness. However, that continuity of experience is what gives structure to real life, and dreams can also reflect a similar continuity within themselves. So, if we look at this from an outside perspective, there isn't a clear difference in their nature, and we have to agree with the poets that life is just a long dream.

Let us turn back now from this quite independent empirical origin of the question of the reality of the outer world, to its speculative origin. We found that this consisted, first, in the false application of the principle of sufficient reason to the relation of subject and object; and secondly, in the confusion of its forms, inasmuch as the principle of sufficient reason of knowing was extended to a province in which the principle of sufficient reason of being is valid. But the question could hardly have occupied philosophers so constantly if it [pg 023] were entirely devoid of all real content, and if some true thought and meaning did not lie at its heart as its real source. Accordingly, we must assume that when the element of truth that lies at the bottom of the question first came into reflection and sought its expression, it became involved in these confused and meaningless forms and problems. This at least is my opinion, and I think that the true expression of that inmost meaning of the question, which it failed to find, is this:—What is this world of perception besides being my idea? Is that of which I am conscious only as idea, exactly like my own body, of which I am doubly conscious, in one aspect as idea, in another aspect as will? The fuller explanation of this question and its answer in the affirmative, will form the content of the second book, and its consequences will occupy the remaining portion of this work.

Let's turn back now from this independent empirical origin of the question about the reality of the outer world and look at its speculative origin. We found that this consists, first, in the incorrect application of the principle of sufficient reason to the relationship between subject and object; and second, in the confusion of its forms, where the principle of sufficient reason for knowing was extended to a domain where the principle of sufficient reason for being is valid. However, the question likely wouldn’t have engaged philosophers so consistently if it [pg 023] were completely lacking in real content, and if there wasn't some true thought and meaning at its core as its genuine source. Thus, we must assume that when the element of truth underlying the question first came into awareness and sought expression, it got tangled up in these confusing and meaningless forms and problems. This is at least my perspective, and I believe that the true expression of that deepest meaning of the question, which it failed to articulate, is this:—What is this world of perception besides being my idea? Is that which I am aware of only as an idea, exactly like my own body, about which I am acutely aware, in one sense as concept, and in another sense as will? The more detailed explanation of this question and its affirmative answer will be the focus of the second book, with its implications addressing the rest of this work.

§ 6. For the present, however, in this first book we consider everything merely as idea, as object for the subject. And our own body, which is the starting-point for each of us in our perception of the world, we consider, like all other real objects, from the side of its knowableness, and in this regard it is simply an idea. Now the consciousness of every one is in general opposed to the explanation of objects as mere ideas, and more especially to the explanation of our bodies as such; for the thing in itself is known to each of us immediately in so far as it appears as our own body; but in so far as it objectifies itself in the other objects of perception, it is known only indirectly. But this abstraction, this one-sided treatment, this forcible separation of what is essentially and necessarily united, is only adopted to meet the demands of our argument; and therefore the disinclination to it must, in the meantime, be suppressed and silenced by the expectation that the subsequent treatment will correct the one-sidedness of the present one, and complete our knowledge of the nature of the world.

§ 6. For now, in this first book, we consider everything merely as an idea, as an object for the subject. We view our own body, which is the starting point for each of us in our perception of the world, just like all other real objects, in terms of its knowability, and in this aspect, it is simply an idea. Generally, everyone's consciousness opposes the explanation of objects as mere ideas, especially when it comes to our bodies; because we know the thing in itself immediately as it appears as our own body, but we only know it indirectly as it manifests in other objects of perception. However, this abstraction, this one-sided approach, this forced separation of what is essentially and necessarily connected, is only used to serve our argument; thus, the reluctance toward it must, for now, be suppressed and set aside with the expectation that the following discussion will address the one-sidedness of this perspective and help us fully understand the nature of the world.

At present therefore the body is for us immediate [pg 024] object; that is to say, that idea which forms the starting-point of the subject's knowledge; because the body, with its immediately known changes, precedes the application of the law of causality, and thus supplies it with its first data. The whole nature of matter consists, as we have seen, in its causal action. But cause and effect exist only for the understanding, which is nothing but their subjective correlative. The understanding, however, could never come into operation if there were not something else from which it starts. This is simple sensation—the immediate consciousness of the changes of the body, by virtue of which it is immediate object. Thus the possibility of knowing the world of perception depends upon two conditions; the first, objectively expressed, is the power of material things to act upon each other, to produce changes in each other, without which common quality of all bodies no perception would be possible, even by means of the sensibility of the animal body. And if we wish to express this condition subjectively we say: The understanding first makes perception possible; for the law of causality, the possibility of effect and cause, springs only from the understanding, and is valid only for it, and therefore the world of perception exists only through and for it. The second condition is the sensibility of animal bodies, or the quality of being immediate objects of the subject which certain bodies possess. The mere modification which the organs of sense sustain from without through their specific affections, may here be called ideas, so far as these affections produce neither pain nor pleasure, that is, have no immediate significance for the will, and are yet perceived, exist therefore only for knowledge. Thus far, then, I say that the body is immediately known, is immediate object. But the conception of object is not to be taken here in its fullest sense, for through this immediate knowledge of the body, which precedes the operation of the understanding, and is mere sensation, our own body does not exist [pg 025] specifically as object, but first the material things which affect it: for all knowledge of an object proper, of an idea perceived in space, exists only through and for the understanding; therefore not before, but only subsequently to its operation. Therefore the body as object proper, that is, as an idea perceived in space, is first known indirectly, like all other objects, through the application of the law of causality to the action of one of its parts upon another, as, for example, when the eye sees the body or the hand touches it. Consequently the form of our body does not become known to us through mere feeling, but only through knowledge, only in idea; that is to say, only in the brain does our own body first come to appear as extended, articulate, organic. A man born blind receives this idea only little by little from the data afforded by touch. A blind man without hands could never come to know his own form; or at the most could infer and construct it little by little from the effects of other bodies upon him. If, then, we call the body an immediate object, we are to be understood with these reservations.

Currently, the body is our immediate object; it’s the idea that serves as the starting point for our knowledge. This is because the body, with its directly perceived changes, comes before we apply the law of causality, providing the initial data for it. The essence of matter, as we’ve discussed, lies in its causal interactions. However, cause and effect only exist in understanding, which is merely their subjective counterpart. The understanding can't function without something to start from. This starting point is simple sensation—the immediate awareness of the changes in the body, which makes it an immediate object. Thus, the ability to know the world of perception relies on two conditions. The first, expressed objectively, is the capacity of material things to act on each other and cause changes, a quality essential for all bodies, without which perception wouldn’t be possible, even through the sensitivity of the animal body. If we express this condition subjectively, we say that the understanding is what makes perception possible; the law of causality— the ability to identify effects and causes—emerges solely from understanding and holds validity only within it. Therefore, the world of perception exists only because of and for the understanding. The second condition is the sensitivity of animal bodies or the quality certain bodies have of being immediate objects for the subject. The simple alteration the sense organs undergo from external stimuli may be referred to as ideas, as long as such stimuli do not provoke pain or pleasure, meaning they have no immediate relevance to the will, yet are still perceived and thus exist solely for knowledge. Up to this point, I argue that the body is immediately known, is an immediate object. However, the concept of an object should not be taken in its fullest sense. Through this immediate knowledge of the body—preceding the understanding's function and being mere sensation—our own body doesn’t specifically exist as an object. Instead, it’s the material things that affect it. Knowledge of an actual object, of an idea perceived in space, only arises through and for the understanding, and therefore occurs not before, but only after its operation. Thus, the body as a proper object—an idea perceived in space—becomes known indirectly, like other objects, through applying the law of causality to the interaction of its parts, as when the eye sees the body or the hand touches it. Consequently, we don't know the form of our body just through feeling, but only through knowledge and in idea; in other words, our own body becomes apparent as extended, articulate, organic only in the brain. A person born blind gradually acquires this idea through the information they get from touch. A blind person without hands could never fully know their own shape, or at most could infer and piece it together from the effects of other bodies on them. So if we refer to the body as an immediate object, it should be understood with these qualifications.

In other respects, then, according to what has been said, all animal bodies are immediate objects; that is, starting-points for the subject which always knows and therefore is never known in its perception of the world. Thus the distinctive characteristic of animal life is knowledge, with movement following on motives, which are determined by knowledge, just as movement following on stimuli is the distinctive characteristic of plant-life. Unorganised matter, however, has no movement except such as is produced by causes properly so called, using the term in its narrowest sense. All this I have thoroughly discussed in my essay on the principle of sufficient reason, § 20, in the “Ethics,” first essay, iii., and in my work on Sight and Colour, § 1, to which I therefore refer.

In other respects, based on what has been said, all animal bodies are immediate objects; that is, they serve as starting points for the subject, which always knows and is never known in its perception of the world. Therefore, the key feature of animal life is knowledge, with movement following motives that are determined by knowledge, just as movement in plants follows stimuli. However, unorganized matter has no movement except that produced by causes in the strictest sense. I have discussed all this in detail in my essay on the principle of sufficient reason, § 20, in the “Ethics,” first essay, iii., and in my work on Sight and Colour, § 1, to which I refer.

It follows from what has been said, that all animals, [pg 026] even the least developed, have understanding; for they all know objects, and this knowledge determines their movements as motive. Understanding is the same in all animals and in all men; it has everywhere the same simple form; knowledge of causality, transition from effect to cause, and from cause to effect, nothing more; but the degree of its acuteness, and the extension of the sphere of its knowledge varies enormously, with innumerable gradations from the lowest form, which is only conscious of the causal connection between the immediate object and objects affecting it—that is to say, perceives a cause as an object in space by passing to it from the affection which the body feels, to the higher grades of knowledge of the causal connection among objects known indirectly, which extends to the understanding of the most complicated system of cause and effect in nature. For even this high degree of knowledge is still the work of the understanding, not of the reason. The abstract concepts of the reason can only serve to take up the objective connections which are immediately known by the understanding, to make them permanent for thought, and to relate them to each other; but reason never gives us immediate knowledge. Every force and law of nature, every example of such forces and laws, must first be immediately known by the understanding, must be apprehended through perception before it can pass into abstract consciousness for reason. Hooke's discovery of the law of gravitation, and the reference of so many important phenomena to this one law, was the work of immediate apprehension by the understanding; and such also was the proof of Newton's calculations, and Lavoisier's discovery of acids and their important function in nature, and also Goethe's discovery of the origin of physical colours. All these discoveries are nothing more than a correct immediate passage from the effect to the cause, which is at once followed by the recognition of the ideality of the force of nature which expresses itself in all [pg 027] causes of the same kind; and this complete insight is just an example of that single function of the understanding, by which an animal perceives as an object in space the cause which affects its body, and differs from such a perception only in degree. Every one of these great discoveries is therefore, just like perception, an operation of the understanding, an immediate intuition, and as such the work of an instant, an apperçu, a flash of insight. They are not the result of a process of abstract reasoning, which only serves to make the immediate knowledge of the understanding permanent for thought by bringing it under abstract concepts, i.e., it makes knowledge distinct, it puts us in a position to impart it and explain it to others. The keenness of the understanding in apprehending the causal relations of objects which are known indirectly, does not find its only application in the sphere of natural science (though all the discoveries in that sphere are due to it), but it also appears in practical life. It is then called good sense or prudence, as in its other application it is better called acuteness, penetration, sagacity. More exactly, good sense or prudence signifies exclusively understanding at the command of the will. But the limits of these conceptions must not be too sharply defined, for it is always that one function of the understanding by means of which all animals perceive objects in space, which, in its keenest form, appears now in the phenomena of nature, correctly inferring the unknown causes from the given effects, and providing the material from which the reason frames general rules as laws of nature; now inventing complicated and ingenious machines by adapting known causes to desired effects; now in the sphere of motives, seeing through and frustrating intrigues and machinations, or fitly disposing the motives and the men who are susceptible to them, setting them in motion, as machines are moved by levers and wheels, and directing them at will to the accomplishment of its ends. Deficiency of understanding is called [pg 028] stupidity. It is just dulness in applying the law of causality, incapacity for the immediate apprehension of the concatenations of causes and effects, motives and actions. A stupid person has no insight into the connection of natural phenomena, either when they follow their own course, or when they are intentionally combined, i.e., are applied to machinery. Such a man readily believes in magic and miracles. A stupid man does not observe that persons, who apparently act independently of each other, are really in collusion; he is therefore easily mystified, and outwitted; he does not discern the hidden motives of proffered advice or expressions of opinion, &c. But it is always just one thing that he lacks—keenness, rapidity, ease in applying the law of causality, i.e., power of understanding. The greatest, and, in this reference, the most instructive example of stupidity I ever met with, was the case of a totally imbecile boy of about eleven years of age, in an asylum. He had reason, because he spoke and comprehended, but in respect of understanding he was inferior to many of the lower animals. Whenever I visited him he noticed an eye-glass which I wore round my neck, and in which the window of the room and the tops of the trees beyond were reflected: on every occasion he was greatly surprised and delighted with this, and was never tired of looking at it with astonishment, because he did not understand the immediate causation of reflection.

It follows from what has been said that all animals, [pg 026] even the least developed, have understanding; they all know objects, and this knowledge drives their movements. Understanding is the same in all animals and in all humans; it takes on the same simple form everywhere: knowledge of causality, the transition from effect to cause and from cause to effect, nothing more. However, the sharpness of this understanding and the breadth of what it covers vary greatly, with countless levels from the lowest form, which is only aware of the causal connection between the immediate object and objects affecting it—that is to say, it perceives a cause as an object in space by moving from the sensation felt in the body—to higher levels of knowledge that understand the causal connections among indirectly known objects, extending to an understanding of the most complicated systems of cause and effect in nature. Even this high level of knowledge is still the product of understanding, not reason. The abstract concepts of reason can only serve to capture the objective connections that are immediately known by understanding, to make them permanent for thought, and to relate them to each other; but reason does not provide us with immediate knowledge. Every force and law of nature, every example of such forces and laws, must first be known immediately by understanding, must be grasped through perception before it can transition into abstract consciousness for reason. Hooke's discovery of the law of gravitation, and the connection of many significant phenomena to this one law, was achieved through immediate perception by understanding; as were Newton's calculations, Lavoisier's discovery of acids and their vital role in nature, and Goethe's discovery of the origins of physical colors. All these discoveries represent a correct immediate movement from effect to cause, which is then followed by recognizing the ideal nature of the force of nature that expresses itself in all [pg 027] similar causes. This complete insight is just an example of that single function of understanding, through which an animal perceives as an object in space the cause affecting its body, differing from such perception only in degree. Each of these significant discoveries, therefore, like perception, is an action of understanding, an immediate intuition, and as such, it is the product of a moment, an overview, a flash of insight. They are not the outcome of a process of abstract reasoning, which serves only to make the immediate knowledge of the understanding permanent for thought by relating it to abstract concepts, i.e., it clarifies knowledge and allows us to communicate and explain it to others. The sharpness of understanding in grasping the causal relationships of indirectly known objects finds its application not only in the field of natural science (though all discoveries in that area stem from it) but also in everyday life. It is then called good sense or prudence, while in another context, it’s better described as sharpness, insight, or sagacity. More precisely, good sense or prudence exclusively means understanding under the control of the will. However, the boundaries of these concepts should not be too rigidly defined because it is always that one function of understanding through which all animals perceive objects in space, which, in its most advanced form, manifests in natural phenomena, correctly inferring unknown causes from given effects and providing the material for reason to formulate general rules as laws of nature; it also invents complex and clever machines by adapting known causes to desired effects; and in the realm of motives, it sees through and thwarts schemes and manipulations, or effectively arranges motives and the people who are susceptible to them, moving them as machines are driven by levers and gears, steering them at will toward achieving its goals. A lack of understanding is called [pg 028] foolishness. It is simply lack of clarity in applying the law of causality, an inability to immediately grasp the connections of causes and effects, motives, and actions. A stupid person fails to see the connection of natural phenomena, whether they unfold independently or are intentionally combined, i.e., applied to machines. Such a person readily believes in magic and miracles. A stupid person does not notice that individuals who seem to act independent of one another are actually colluding; therefore, they are easily deceived and outsmarted; they do not recognize the hidden motives behind offered advice or opinions, etc. But what they lack is always just one thing—sharpness, speed, and ease in applying the law of causality, i.e., the power of understanding. The most significant, and in this regard, the most enlightening example of stupidity I encountered was an utterly imbecilic boy of about eleven years in an asylum. He had reasoning skills because he spoke and understood, but in terms of understanding, he was less capable than many lower animals. Whenever I visited him, he noticed an eyeglass hanging around my neck, in which the window of the room and the tops of the trees were reflected. Each time, he was greatly surprised and delighted by this, fascinated by the reflection because he did not understand the immediate causation behind it.

While the difference in degree of the acuteness of the understanding, is very great between man and man, it is even greater between one species of animal and another. In all species of animals, even those which are nearest to plants, there is at least as much understanding as suffices for the inference from the effect on the immediate object, to the indirectly known object as its cause, i.e., sufficient for perception, for the apprehension of an object. For it is this that constitutes them animals, as it gives them the power of movement following on motives, and [pg 029] thereby the power of seeking for food, or at least of seizing it; whereas plants have only movement following on stimuli, whose direct influence they must await, or else decay, for they cannot seek after them nor appropriate them. We marvel at the great sagacity of the most developed species of animals, such as the dog, the elephant, the monkey or the fox, whose cleverness has been so admirably sketched by Buffon. From these most sagacious animals, we can pretty accurately determine how far understanding can go without reason, i.e., abstract knowledge embodied in concepts. We could not find this out from ourselves, for in us understanding and reason always reciprocally support each other. We find that the manifestation of understanding in animals is sometimes above our expectation, and sometimes below it. On the one hand, we are surprised at the sagacity of the elephant, who, after crossing many bridges during his journey in Europe, once refused to go upon one, because he thought it was not strong enough to bear his weight, though he saw the rest of the party, consisting of men and horses, go upon it as usual. On the other hand, we wonder that the intelligent Orang-outangs, who warm themselves at a fire they have found, do not keep it alight by throwing wood on it; a proof that this requires a deliberation which is not possible without abstract concepts. It is clear that the knowledge of cause and effect, as the universal form of understanding, belongs to all animals a priori, because to them as to us it is the prior condition of all perception of the outer world. If any one desires additional proof of this, let him observe, for example, how a young dog is afraid to jump down from a table, however much he may wish to do so, because he foresees the effect of the weight of his body, though he has not been taught this by experience. In judging of the understanding of animals, we must guard against ascribing to it the manifestations of instinct, a faculty which is quite distinct both from understanding and [pg 030] reason, but the action of which is often very analogous to the combined action of the two. We cannot, however, discuss this here; it will find its proper place in the second book, when we consider the harmony or so-called teleology of nature: and the 27th chapter of the supplementary volume is expressly devoted to it.

While the level of understanding varies significantly from person to person, it differs even more among animal species. In all animal species, even those closest to plants, there is at least a basic level of understanding that allows them to connect the effect on something immediate to what they indirectly know as its cause, meaning they have enough awareness for perception and recognizing an object. This ability defines them as animals, as it allows them to move based on motives and thus seek out food or at least grab it; whereas plants only move in response to stimuli, waiting for direct influences, or they will perish because they cannot pursue or claim what they need. We are amazed by the intelligence of highly developed animals, like dogs, elephants, monkeys, and foxes, whose cleverness has been wonderfully described by Buffon. From these clever animals, we can fairly determine the limits of understanding without reason, that is, abstract knowledge expressed in concepts. We couldn’t figure this out ourselves, as our understanding and reason always support one another. We find that the expression of understanding in animals sometimes exceeds our expectations and sometimes falls short. For example, we are surprised by the intelligence of the elephant, who, after crossing many bridges on his journey through Europe, once refused to walk onto one because he believed it wouldn't hold his weight, even though he saw the rest of the group, including men and horses, walk across it as usual. On the other hand, we are puzzled that intelligent orangutans, who warm themselves by a fire they've found, do not keep it going by adding wood; this suggests that maintaining a fire requires a level of thought that they cannot achieve without abstract concepts. Clearly, the knowledge of cause and effect, which is a fundamental aspect of understanding, is inherent to all animals because, just like us, it is a prerequisite for perceiving the outside world. If anyone needs more proof, just observe, for instance, how a young dog hesitates to jump down from a table, no matter how much he wants to, because he anticipates the impact of his weight, even though he hasn't learned this from experience. When evaluating animal understanding, we must be careful not to confuse it with instinct, which is a separate faculty from both understanding and reason, although its actions often resemble the combined effects of the two. However, we cannot delve into this here; that discussion will occur in the second book when we explore the balance or so-called teleology of nature, with the 27th chapter of the supplementary volume dedicated specifically to it.

Deficiency of understanding we call stupidity: deficiency in the application of reason to practice we shall recognise later as foolishness: deficiency of judgment as silliness, and lastly, partial or entire deficiency of memory as madness. But each of these will be considered in its own place. That which is correctly known by reason is truth, that is, an abstract judgment on sufficient grounds (Essay on the Principle of Sufficient Reason, § 29 and following paragraphs); that which is correctly known by understanding is reality, that is correct inference from effect on the immediate object to its cause. Error is opposed to truth, as deception of the reason: illusion is opposed to reality, as deception of the understanding. The full discussion of all this will be found in the first chapter of my essay on Light and Colour. Illusion takes place when the same effect may be attributed to two causes, of which one occurs very frequently, the other very seldom; the understanding having no data to decide which of these two causes operates in any particular case,—for their effects are exactly alike,—always assumes the presence of the commoner cause, and as the activity of the understanding is not reflective and discursive, but direct and immediate, this false cause appears before us as a perceived object, whereas it is merely illusion. I have explained in the essay referred to, how in this way double sight and double feeling take place if the organs of sense are brought into an unusual position; and have thus given an incontrovertible proof that perception exists only through and for the understanding. As additional examples of such illusions or deceptions of the understanding, we may mention the broken appearance [pg 031] of a stick dipped in water; the reflections in spherical mirrors, which, when the surface is convex appear somewhat behind it, and when the surface is concave appear a long way in front of it. To this class also belongs the apparently greater extension of the moon at the horizon than at the zenith. This appearance is not optical, for as the micrometre proves, the eye receives the image of the moon at the zenith, at an even greater angle of vision than at the horizon. The mistake is due to the understanding, which assumes that the cause of the feebler light of the moon and of all stars at the horizon is that they are further off, thus treating them as earthly objects, according to the laws of atmospheric perspective, and therefore it takes the moon to be much larger at the horizon than at the zenith, and also regards the vault of heaven as more extended or flattened out at the horizon. The same false application of the laws of atmospheric perspective leads us to suppose that very high mountains, whose summits alone are visible in pure transparent air, are much nearer than they really are, and therefore not so high as they are; for example, Mont Blanc seen from Salenche. All such illusions are immediately present to us as perceptions, and cannot be dispelled by any arguments of the reason. Reason can only prevent error, that is, a judgment on insufficient grounds, by opposing to it a truth; as for example, the abstract knowledge that the cause of the weaker light of the moon and the stars at the horizon is not greater distance, but the denser atmosphere; but in all the cases we have referred to, the illusion remains in spite of every abstract explanation. For the understanding is in itself, even in the case of man, irrational, and is completely and sharply distinguished from the reason, which is a faculty of knowledge that belongs to man alone. The reason can only know; perception remains free from its influence and belongs to the understanding alone.

Lack of understanding is what we call dumbness: failure to apply cause in practice will later be recognized as silliness: lack of judgment as goofiness, and finally, partial or total lack of memory as chaos. However, each of these will be discussed in its own context. What is correctly perceived through reason is truth, which is an abstract judgment based on sufficient grounds (Essay on the Principle of Sufficient Reason, § 29 and following paragraphs); what is accurately grasped through understanding is real life, meaning proper inference from the effect on the immediate object to its cause. Error is the opposite of truth, as a deception of the reason: delusion is opposed to reality, as a deception of the understanding. A complete discussion on this topic can be found in the first chapter of my essay on Light and Colour. Illusion occurs when the same effect can be attributed to two causes, one of which happens very frequently and the other very rarely; the understanding, lacking data to determine which of these two causes is at play in any specific instance—since their effects are identical—always assumes that the more common cause is present, and because the activity of the understanding is not reflective and discursive, but direct and immediate, this false cause appears to us as a perceived object, while it is merely an illusion. I have explained in the referenced essay how double vision and double sensation occur when the sensory organs are positioned unusually; thus providing undeniable proof that perception exists only through and for the understanding. Additional examples of such illusions and deceptions of the understanding include the broken appearance [pg 031] of a stick submerged in water; reflections in spherical mirrors, which, when the surface is convex, appear somewhat behind it, and when the surface is concave appear to be much closer in front of it. This category also includes the seemingly larger size of the moon on the horizon compared to when it's at its zenith. This appearance is not optical because, as the micrometer demonstrates, the eye captures the image of the moon at the zenith at an even greater angle of vision than at the horizon. The misconception arises from the understanding, which assumes that the weaker light of the moon and all stars at the horizon is due to their increased distance, treating them as earthly objects according to the laws of atmospheric perspective. Therefore, it perceives the moon as significantly larger on the horizon than at the zenith, also viewing the sky as more extended or flattened out at the horizon. The same erroneous application of atmospheric perspective leads us to believe that very tall mountains, of which only the peaks are visible in clear air, are much closer than they actually are, and thus less elevated than they truly are; for instance, Mont Blanc as seen from Salenche. All these illusions are immediately apparent to us as perceptions and cannot be dismissed by any rational argument. Reason can only prevent error, defined as making judgments based on inadequate grounds, by countering it with a truth; for example, the abstract understanding that the source of the dimmer light of the moon and stars at the horizon is not greater distance, but the denser atmosphere. However, in all the examples we've mentioned, the illusion persists despite any abstract explanations. For the understanding is inherently irrational, even in humans, and is sharply distinguished from reason, which is a knowledge faculty unique to humans. Reason can only know; perception remains unaffected by its influence and belongs solely to the understanding.

§ 7. With reference to our exposition up to this point, [pg 032] it must be observed that we did not start either from the object or the subject, but from the idea, which contains and presupposes them both; for the antithesis of object and subject is its primary, universal and essential form. We have therefore first considered this form as such; then (though in this respect reference has for the most part been made to the introductory essay) the subordinate forms of time, space and causality. The latter belong exclusively to the object, and yet, as they are essential to the object as such, and as the object again is essential to the subject as such, they may be discovered from the subject, i.e., they may be known a priori, and so far they are to be regarded as the common limits of both. But all these forms may be referred to one general expression, the principle of sufficient reason, as we have explained in the introductory essay.

§ 7. Regarding our discussion so far, [pg 032] it's important to note that we didn’t begin with either the object or the subject, but with the concept that encompasses and implies both; because the contrast between object and subject is its fundamental, universal, and essential form. Therefore, we first examined this form itself; then (although in this respect we mainly referenced the introductory essay) the secondary forms of time, space, and causality. These latter forms pertain solely to the item, yet since they are essential to the object accordingly, and because the object is again essential to the subject accordingly, they can be identified from the subject, i.e., they can be understood beforehand, and in that sense, they are to be seen as the common boundaries of both. However, all these forms can be distilled into one general expression, the principle of sufficient reason, as we explained in the introductory essay.

This procedure distinguishes our philosophical method from that of all former systems. For they all start either from the object or from the subject, and therefore seek to explain the one from the other, and this according to the principle of sufficient reason. We, on the contrary, deny the validity of this principle with reference to the relation of subject and object, and confine it to the object. It may be thought that the philosophy of identity, which has appeared and become generally known in our own day, does not come under either of the alternatives we have named, for it does not start either from the subject or from the object, but from the absolute, known through “intellectual intuition,” which is neither object nor subject, but the identity of the two. I will not venture to speak of this revered identity, and this absolute, for I find myself entirely devoid of all “intellectual intuition.” But as I take my stand merely on those manifestoes of the “intellectual intuiter” which are open to all, even to profane persons like myself, I must yet observe that this philosophy is not to be excepted from the alternative errors mentioned above. For it does not escape these [pg 033] two opposite errors in spite of its identity of subject and object, which is not thinkable, but only “intellectually intuitable,” or to be experienced by a losing of oneself in it. On the contrary, it combines them both in itself; for it is divided into two parts, firstly, transcendental idealism, which is just Fichte's doctrine of the ego, and therefore teaches that the object is produced by the subject, or evolved out of it in accordance with the principle of sufficient reason; secondly, the philosophy of nature, which teaches that the subject is produced little by little from the object, by means of a method called construction, about which I understand very little, yet enough to know that it is a process according to various forms of the principle of sufficient reason. The deep wisdom itself which that construction contains, I renounce; for as I entirely lack “intellectual intuition,” all those expositions which presuppose it must for me remain as a book sealed with seven seals. This is so truly the case that, strange to say, I have always been unable to find anything at all in this doctrine of profound wisdom but atrocious and wearisome bombast.

This process sets our philosophical approach apart from all previous systems. They all start from either the object or the subject and try to explain one using the other based on the principle of sufficient reason. In contrast, we reject this principle concerning the relationship between subject and object, limiting it to the object. It might seem that the philosophy of identity, which has emerged and gained recognition in our time, doesn't fit into either of the categories we've mentioned, since it begins from the absolute, known through "intellectual insight," which is neither object nor subject, but rather the unity of the two. I won't presume to discuss this esteemed identity and this absolute, as I feel completely lacking in “intellectual insight.” However, since I base my understanding solely on those manifestos of the "intellectual intuitive" that are accessible to everyone, even to ordinary people like myself, I must point out that this philosophy is not exempt from the previously mentioned errors. It still falls prey to these [pg 033] two opposing errors, despite its notion of the identity of subject and object, which cannot be thought but only “intellectually understandable,” or experienced through losing oneself in it. Instead, it encompasses both errors; it is split into two parts: first, transcendental idealism, which aligns with Fichte's doctrine of the ego, suggesting that the object is created by the subject or emerges from it according to the principle of sufficient reason; second, the philosophy of nature, which claims that the subject gradually arises from the object through a method called construction, about which I understand very little, but enough to know that it follows various forms of the principle of sufficient reason. The profound wisdom contained in that construction, I forfeit; for lacking "intellectual insight," all those explanations that assume it must for me remain sealed like a book locked with seven seals. This is truly the case; strangely enough, I've always found nothing in this doctrine of profound wisdom but ridiculous and tiresome pretentiousness.

The systems starting from the object had always the whole world of perception and its constitution as their problem; yet the object which they take as their starting-point is not always this whole world of perception, nor its fundamental element, matter. On the contrary, a division of these systems may be made, based on the four classes of possible objects set forth in the introductory essay. Thus Thales and the Ionic school, Democritus, Epicurus, Giordano Bruno, and the French materialists, may be said to have started from the first class of objects, the real world: Spinoza (on account of his conception of substance, which is purely abstract, and exists only in his definition) and, earlier, the Eleatics, from the second class, the abstract conception: the Pythagoreans and Chinese philosophy in Y-King, from the third class, time, and consequently number: and, lastly, [pg 034] the schoolmen, who teach a creation out of nothing by the act of will of an extra-mundane personal being, started from the fourth class of objects, the act of will directed by knowledge.

The systems that start from the object have always considered the entire realm of perception and its structure as their core issue. However, the object they use as their starting point isn't always the whole world of perception or its fundamental component, matter. Instead, we can categorize these systems based on the four classes of possible objects mentioned in the introductory essay. So, Thales and the Ionic school, Democritus, Epicurus, Giordano Bruno, and the French materialists can be seen as starting from the first class of objects, the real world. Spinoza (due to his conception of substance, which is purely abstract and exists only in his definition) and, earlier, the Eleatics, originated from the second class, the abstract conception. The Pythagoreans and Chinese philosophy in the Y-King came from the third class, which pertains to time and, consequently, number. Finally, the scholastics, who assert that creation comes from nothing through the will of an otherworldly personal being, began from the fourth class of objects, the act of will guided by knowledge.

Of all systems of philosophy which start from the object, the most consistent, and that which may be carried furthest, is simple materialism. It regards matter, and with it time and space, as existing absolutely, and ignores the relation to the subject in which alone all this really exists. It then lays hold of the law of causality as a guiding principle or clue, regarding it as a self-existent order (or arrangement) of things, veritas aeterna, and so fails to take account of the understanding, in which and for which alone causality is. It seeks the primary and most simple state of matter, and then tries to develop all the others from it; ascending from mere mechanism, to chemism, to polarity, to the vegetable and to the animal kingdom. And if we suppose this to have been done, the last link in the chain would be animal sensibility—that is knowledge—which would consequently now appear as a mere modification or state of matter produced by causality. Now if we had followed materialism thus far with clear ideas, when we reached its highest point we would suddenly be seized with a fit of the inextinguishable laughter of the Olympians. As if waking from a dream, we would all at once become aware that its final result—knowledge, which it reached so laboriously, was presupposed as the indispensable condition of its very starting-point, mere matter; and when we imagined that we thought matter, we really thought only the subject that perceives matter; the eye that sees it, the hand that feels it, the understanding that knows it. Thus the tremendous petitio principii reveals itself unexpectedly; for suddenly the last link is seen to be the starting-point, the chain a circle, and the materialist is like Baron Münchausen who, when swimming in water on horseback, drew the horse into the air with his legs, [pg 035] and himself also by his cue. The fundamental absurdity of materialism is that it starts from the objective, and takes as the ultimate ground of explanation something objective, whether it be matter in the abstract, simply as it is thought, or after it has taken form, is empirically given—that is to say, is substance, the chemical element with its primary relations. Some such thing it takes, as existing absolutely and in itself, in order that it may evolve organic nature and finally the knowing subject from it, and explain them adequately by means of it; whereas in truth all that is objective is already determined as such in manifold ways by the knowing subject through its forms of knowing, and presupposes them; and consequently it entirely disappears if we think the subject away. Thus materialism is the attempt to explain what is immediately given us by what is given us indirectly. All that is objective, extended, active—that is to say, all that is material—is regarded by materialism as affording so solid a basis for its explanation, that a reduction of everything to this can leave nothing to be desired (especially if in ultimate analysis this reduction should resolve itself into action and reaction). But we have shown that all this is given indirectly and in the highest degree determined, and is therefore merely a relatively present object, for it has passed through the machinery and manufactory of the brain, and has thus come under the forms of space, time and causality, by means of which it is first presented to us as extended in space and ever active in time. From such an indirectly given object, materialism seeks to explain what is immediately given, the idea (in which alone the object that materialism starts with exists), and finally even the will from which all those fundamental forces, that manifest themselves, under the guidance of causes, and therefore according to law, are in truth to be explained. To the assertion that thought is a modification of matter we may always, with equal right, oppose the contrary assertion that all [pg 036] matter is merely the modification of the knowing subject, as its idea. Yet the aim and ideal of all natural science is at bottom a consistent materialism. The recognition here of the obvious impossibility of such a system establishes another truth which will appear in the course of our exposition, the truth that all science properly so called, by which I understand systematic knowledge under the guidance of the principle of sufficient reason, can never reach its final goal, nor give a complete and adequate explanation: for it is not concerned with the inmost nature of the world, it cannot get beyond the idea; indeed, it really teaches nothing more than the relation of one idea to another.

Of all philosophical systems that start from the object, the most consistent and the one that can be taken the farthest is straightforward materialism. It views matter, along with time and space, as existing independently and overlooks the relationship to the subject, where all this truly exists. It grabs hold of the law of causality as a guiding principle, seeing it as a self-existing order of things, and in doing so, fails to account for the understanding, which is necessary for causality to exist. It looks for the most basic and simplest state of matter and then tries to develop all other states from it, moving from mere mechanics to chemistry, to polarity, to the plant kingdom, and then to the animal kingdom. Should we assume this has been achieved, the final link in the chain would be animal sensibility—that is, knowledge—which would then be seen as just a modification or state of matter produced by causality. If we had followed materialism this far with clear ideas, when we reach its highest point, we would suddenly be hit with uncontrollable laughter. As if waking from a dream, we would realize that its ultimate result—knowledge, which it worked so hard to achieve—was actually assumed as the essential condition of its starting point, mere matter; and when we thought we understood matter, we really were only considering the subject that perceives matter—the eye that sees it, the hand that feels it, the understanding that knows it. Thus, the significant circular reasoning reveals itself unexpectedly; for suddenly the last link turns out to be the starting point, the chain becomes a circle, and the materialist is like Baron Münchausen who, while swimming on horseback, lifted the horse into the air with his legs, and himself as well by the tail. The fundamental absurdity of materialism lies in its starting point from the objective, taking as its ultimate explanation something objective, whether it be matter in the abstract as it is thought, or after it has taken form, empirically given—that is, as substance, the chemical element with its primary relations. It takes something like this as existing independently to explain organic nature and ultimately the knowing subject, while in reality, everything objective is already shaped in various ways by the knowing subject through its modes of knowing and depends on them; thus, it entirely vanishes if we think away the subject. Therefore, materialism attempts to explain what is presented to us directly by things given indirectly. Everything that is objective, extended, and active—that is, all that is material—is seen by materialism as providing such a solid foundation for its explanations, that reducing everything to this leaves nothing to be desired, especially if in the final analysis this reduction should boil down to action and reaction. However, we have shown that everything is given indirectly and is heavily determined, making it merely a relatively present object, since it has passed through the brain's machinery and manufacture, and thus has come under the forms of space, time, and causality, by which it is presented to us as extended in space and always active in time. From this indirectly given object, materialism attempts to explain what is immediately given, the idea (in which alone the object it starts with exists), and ultimately even the will from which all fundamental forces, which manifest themselves under the guidance of causes and according to law, should be explained. To the claim that thought is a modification of matter, we can equally assert the opposite: that all matter is merely a modification of the knowing subject as its idea. Yet the aim and ideal of all natural science is fundamentally a consistent materialism. The clear recognition of the impossibility of such a system confirms another truth that will emerge in our discussion, the fact that all true science, which I understand as systematic knowledge guided by the principle of sufficient reason, can never achieve its final goal nor provide a complete and adequate explanation: it does not address the innermost nature of the world; it cannot surpass the idea; indeed, it truly teaches nothing more than the relationship of one idea to another.

Every science must start from two principal data. One of these is always the principle of sufficient reason in some form or another, as organon; the other is its special object as problem. Thus, for example, geometry has space as problem, and the ground of existence in space as organon. Arithmetic has time as problem, and the ground of existence in time as organon. Logic has the combination of concepts as such as problem, and the ground of knowledge as organon. History has the past acts of men treated as a whole as problem, and the law of human motives as organon. Natural science has matter as problem, and the law of causality as organon. Its end and aim is therefore, by the guidance of causality, to refer all possible states of matter to other states, and ultimately to one single state; and again to deduce these states from each other, and ultimately from one single state. Thus two states of matter stand over against each other in natural science as extremes: that state in which matter is furthest from being the immediate object of the subject, and that state in which it is most completely such an immediate object, i.e., the most dead and crude matter, the primary element, as the one extreme, and the human organism as the other. Natural science as chemistry seeks for the first, as physiology for the second. [pg 037] But as yet neither extreme has been reached, and it is only in the intermediate ground that something has been won. The prospect is indeed somewhat hopeless. The chemists, under the presupposition that the qualitative division of matter is not, like quantitative division, an endless process, are always trying to decrease the number of the elements, of which there are still about sixty; and if they were to succeed in reducing them to two, they would still try to find the common root of these. For, on the one hand, the law of homogeneity leads to the assumption of a primary chemical state of matter, which alone belongs to matter as such, and precedes all others which are not essentially matter as such, but merely contingent forms and qualities. On the other hand, we cannot understand how this one state could ever experience a chemical change, if there did not exist a second state to affect it. Thus the same difficulty appears in chemistry which Epicurus met with in mechanics. For he had to show how the first atom departed from the original direction of its motion. Indeed this contradiction, which develops entirely of itself and can neither be escaped nor solved, might quite properly be set up as a chemical antinomy. Thus an antinomy appears in the one extreme of natural science, and a corresponding one will appear in the other. There is just as little hope of reaching this opposite extreme of natural science, for we see ever more clearly that what is chemical can never be referred to what is mechanical, nor what is organic to what is chemical or electrical. Those who in our own day are entering anew on this old, misleading path, will soon slink back silent and ashamed, as all their predecessors have done before them. We shall consider this more fully in the second book. Natural science encounters the difficulties which we have cursorily mentioned, in its own province. Regarded as philosophy, it would further be materialism; but this, as we have seen, even at its birth, has death in its heart, because it ignores [pg 038] the subject and the forms of knowledge, which are presupposed, just as much in the case of the crudest matter, from which it desires to start, as in that of the organism, at which it desires to arrive. For, “no object without a subject,” is the principle which renders all materialism for ever impossible. Suns and planets without an eye that sees them, and an understanding that knows them, may indeed be spoken of in words, but for the idea, these words are absolutely meaningless. On the other hand, the law of causality and the treatment and investigation of nature which is based upon it, lead us necessarily to the conclusion that, in time, each more highly organised state of matter has succeeded a cruder state: so that the lower animals existed before men, fishes before land animals, plants before fishes, and the unorganised before all that is organised; that, consequently, the original mass had to pass through a long series of changes before the first eye could be opened. And yet, the existence of this whole world remains ever dependent upon the first eye that opened, even if it were that of an insect. For such an eye is a necessary condition of the possibility of knowledge, and the whole world exists only in and for knowledge, and without it is not even thinkable. The world is entirely idea, and as such demands the knowing subject as the supporter of its existence. This long course of time itself, filled with innumerable changes, through which matter rose from form to form till at last the first percipient creature appeared,—this whole time itself is only thinkable in the identity of a consciousness whose succession of ideas, whose form of knowing it is, and apart from which, it loses all meaning and is nothing at all. Thus we see, on the one hand, the existence of the whole world necessarily dependent upon the first conscious being, however undeveloped it may be; on the other hand, this conscious being just as necessarily entirely dependent upon a long chain of causes and effects which have preceded it, and in which it itself [pg 039] appears as a small link. These two contradictory points of view, to each of which we are led with the same necessity, we might again call an antinomy in our faculty of knowledge, and set it up as the counterpart of that which we found in the first extreme of natural science. The fourfold antinomy of Kant will be shown, in the criticism of his philosophy appended to this volume, to be a groundless delusion. But the necessary contradiction which at last presents itself to us here, finds its solution in the fact that, to use Kant's phraseology, time, space, and causality do not belong to the thing-in-itself, but only to its phenomena, of which they are the form; which in my language means this: The objective world, the world as idea, is not the only side of the world, but merely its outward side; and it has an entirely different side—the side of its inmost nature—its kernel—the thing-in-itself. This we shall consider in the second book, calling it after the most immediate of its objective manifestations—will. But the world as idea, with which alone we are here concerned, only appears with the opening of the first eye. Without this medium of knowledge it cannot be, and therefore it was not before it. But without that eye, that is to say, outside of knowledge, there was also no before, no time. Thus time has no beginning, but all beginning is in time. Since, however, it is the most universal form of the knowable, in which all phenomena are united together through causality, time, with its infinity of past and future, is present in the beginning of knowledge. The phenomenon which fills the first present must at once be known as causally bound up with and dependent upon a sequence of phenomena which stretches infinitely into the past, and this past itself is just as truly conditioned by this first present, as conversely the present is by the past. Accordingly the past out of which the first present arises, is, like it, dependent upon the knowing subject, without which it is nothing. It necessarily happens, however, that this first [pg 040] present does not manifest itself as the first, that is, as having no past for its parent, but as being the beginning of time. It manifests itself rather as the consequence of the past, according to the principle of existence in time. In the same way, the phenomena which fill this first present appear as the effects of earlier phenomena which filled the past, in accordance with the law of causality. Those who like mythological interpretations may take the birth of Kronos (χρονος), the youngest of the Titans, as a symbol of the moment here referred to at which time appears, though, indeed it has no beginning; for with him, since he ate his father, the crude productions of heaven and earth cease, and the races of gods and men appear upon the scene.

Every science has to start with two main pieces of information. One is always the principle of sufficient reason in some form or another, acting as a tool; the other is its specific focus as a problem. For instance, geometry considers space as its problem and the foundation of existence in space as its tool. Arithmetic treats time as its problem, and the foundation of existence in time as its tool. Logic focuses on the combination of concepts as its problem and the foundation of knowledge as its tool. History examines the past actions of people as a whole as its problem, and the law of human motives as its tool. Natural science regards matter as its problem and the law of causality as its tool. Its goal is to use causality to relate all possible states of matter to one another and ultimately to one single state; and again, to deduce these states from each other, leading back to one single state. Therefore, two states of matter are contrasted in natural science: the state where matter is farthest from being the immediate object of the subject and the state where it is completely such an immediate object, namely, the most lifeless and basic matter, the primary element, as one extreme, and the human organism as the other. Natural science, like chemistry, seeks the first state, while physiology seeks the second. But neither extreme has been achieved yet, and it's only in the middle ground that any progress has been made. The outlook is somewhat bleak. Chemists, assuming that the qualitative division of matter isn’t an endless process like the quantitative division, continuously attempt to reduce the number of elements, which still number around sixty; and even if they succeeded in narrowing it down to two, they would still strive to find a common origin for these. On one hand, the law of homogeneity leads to the assumption of a primary chemical state of matter that is only true to matter itself, existing before all other forms and qualities that are merely contingent. On the other hand, we can't comprehend how this one state could undergo a chemical change without a second state to influence it. Thus, chemistry faces the same difficulty that Epicurus confronted in mechanics, needing to explain how the first atom diverged from its original motion. This contradiction, which arises completely on its own and cannot be avoided or resolved, might rightly be called a chemical antinomy. An antinomy forms at one extreme of natural science, and a similar one will manifest at the other end. There is equally little hope of reaching this opposite extreme of natural science, as we increasingly see that what is chemical can never be linked to what is mechanical, nor what is organic to what is chemical or electrical. Those today who are embarking on this old, misleading path will soon retreat in silence and shame, just as all their predecessors did before them. We will examine this further in the second book. Natural science encounters the challenges we've briefly mentioned within its own realm. When viewed as philosophy, it could further be termed materialism; but, as we've seen, even at its inception, materialism contains the seeds of its own demise because it overlooks the subject and the forms of knowledge that are assumed, both in the poorest form of matter it wants to start with and in the organism it aims to reach. For, “no object without a subject” is the principle that makes all materialism forever impossible. Suns and planets without an observing eye and an understanding mind may be referred to in words, but in terms of ideas, these words are utterly meaningless. Conversely, the law of causality and the nature study based on it lead us to conclude that, over time, each more complex state of matter has succeeded a simpler one: lower animals existed before humans, fish before land animals, plants before fish, and the unorganized before the organized; therefore, the original mass had to undergo numerous transformations before the first eye could open. Yet, the existence of this entire world still relies on the first eye that opened, even if it belonged to an insect. For such an eye is a necessary condition for the possibility of knowledge, and the entire world exists only in and for knowledge, making it inconceivable without it. The world is entirely an idea, and as such, it requires the knowing subject as its foundation. This long passage of time itself, filled with countless changes, through which matter transitioned from one form to another until the first perceiving being appeared, is only conceivable through the continuity of a consciousness whose succession of ideas, which forms its knowing, is and without which, loses all meaning and is nothing at all. Thus, we see, on one hand, the existence of the total world necessarily relies on the first conscious being, regardless of how underdeveloped it may be; on the other hand, this conscious being is equally dependent on a long chain of causes and effects that precede it, in which it itself appears as a small link. These two contradictory viewpoints, both of which we are compelled towards equally, can again be termed an antinomy within our capacity for knowledge, standing as the counterpart to what we discovered at the first extreme of natural science. The fourfold antinomy of Kant will be shown, in the critique of his philosophy added to this volume, to be a baseless illusion. However, the necessary contradiction that ultimately presents itself here finds its resolution in the fact that, to borrow Kant's terminology, time, space, and causality do not belong to the thing-in-itself, but only to its phenomena, of which they are the form; which, in my terms, means this: The objective world, the world as an idea, is not the only aspect of the world, but merely its outer aspect; and it has an entirely different side—the side of its innermost nature—its essence—the thing-in-itself. This will be discussed in the second book, named after its most immediate objective manifestation—will. But the world as an idea, with which we are solely concerned here, only appears with the opening of the first eye. Without this medium of knowledge, it cannot exist, and therefore it was not before that. But without that eye, meaning outside of knowledge, there was also no before, no time. Thus, time has no beginning, but all beginnings occur within time. Since it is the most universal form of the knowable, by which all phenomena are connected through causality, time, with its infinite past and future, is present at the beginning of knowledge. The phenomenon that fills the first present must be recognized as causally connected to and dependent on a chain of phenomena extending infinitely into the past, and this past itself is equally conditioned by this first present, just as the present is by the past. Therefore, the past from which the first present emerges is, like it, dependent on the knowing subject, without which it is nothing. It inevitably occurs that this first present does not manifest itself as the first, meaning with no past as its origin, but instead as the beginning of time. It rather manifests itself as the consequence of the past, in accordance with the principle of existence in time. Similarly, the phenomena that fill this first present appear as effects of earlier phenomena that filled the past, according to the law of causality. Those who prefer mythological interpretations may perceive the birth of Kronos (χρονος), the youngest of the Titans, as a symbol of the moment when time appears, although it indeed has no beginning; for with him, since he devoured his father, the crude creations of heaven and earth cease, and the races of gods and men emerge on the scene.

This explanation at which we have arrived by following the most consistent of the philosophical systems which start from the object, materialism, has brought out clearly the inseparable and reciprocal dependence of subject and object, and at the same time the inevitable antithesis between them. And this knowledge leads us to seek for the inner nature of the world, the thing-in-itself, not in either of the two elements of the idea, but in something quite distinct from it, and which is not encumbered with such a fundamental and insoluble antithesis.

This explanation that we’ve reached by following the most consistent philosophical systems that start from the object, materialism, has clearly highlighted the inseparable and mutual dependence of subject and object, while also revealing the unavoidable opposition between them. This understanding drives us to look for the true nature of the world, the thing-in-itself, not in either of the two components of the idea, but in something entirely separate from it, which isn’t burdened with such a fundamental and unsolvable conflict.

Opposed to the system we have explained, which starts from the object in order to derive the subject from it, is the system which starts from the subject and tries to derive the object from it. The first of these has been of frequent and common occurrence throughout the history of philosophy, but of the second we find only one example, and that a very recent one; the “philosophy of appearance” of J. G. Fichte. In this respect, therefore, it must be considered; little real worth or inner meaning as the doctrine itself had. It was indeed for the most part merely a delusion, but it was delivered with an air of the deepest earnestness, with sustained loftiness of [pg 041] tone and zealous ardour, and was defended with eloquent polemic against weak opponents, so that it was able to present a brilliant exterior and seemed to be something. But the genuine earnestness which keeps truth always steadfastly before it as its goal, and is unaffected by any external influences, was entirely wanting to Fichte, as it is to all philosophers who, like him, concern themselves with questions of the day. In his case, indeed, it could not have been otherwise. A man becomes a philosopher by reason of a certain perplexity, from which he seeks to free himself. This is Plato's θαυμαξειν, which he calls a μαλα φιλοσοφικον παθος. But what distinguishes the false philosopher from the true is this: the perplexity of the latter arises from the contemplation of the world itself, while that of the former results from some book, some system of philosophy which is before him. Now Fichte belongs to the class of the false philosophers. He was made a philosopher by Kant's doctrine of the thing-in-itself, and if it had not been for this he would probably have pursued entirely different ends, with far better results, for he certainly possessed remarkable rhetorical talent. If he had only penetrated somewhat deeply into the meaning of the book that made him a philosopher, “The Critique of Pure Reason,” he would have understood that its principal teaching about mind is this. The principle of sufficient reason is not, as all scholastic philosophy maintains, a veritas aeterna—that is to say, it does not possess an unconditioned validity before, outside of, and above the world. It is relative and conditioned, and valid only in the sphere of phenomena, and thus it may appear as the necessary nexus of space and time, or as the law of causality, or as the law of the ground of knowledge. The inner nature of the world, the thing-in-itself can never be found by the guidance of this principle, for all that it leads to will be found to be dependent and relative and merely phenomenal, not the thing-in-itself. Further, it does not concern the subject, [pg 042] but is only the form of objects, which are therefore not things-in-themselves. The subject must exist along with the object, and the object along with the subject, so that it is impossible that subject and object can stand to each other in a relation of reason and consequent. But Fichte did not take up the smallest fragment of all this. All that interested him about the matter was that the system started from the subject. Now Kant had chosen this procedure in order to show the fallacy of the prevalent systems, which started from the object, and through which the object had come, to be regarded as a thing-in-itself. Fichte, however, took this departure from the subject for the really important matter, and like all imitators, he imagined that in going further than Kant he was surpassing him. Thus he repeated the fallacy with regard to the subject, which all the previous dogmatism had perpetrated with regard to the object, and which had been the occasion of Kant's “Critique”. Fichte then made no material change, and the fundamental fallacy, the assumption of a relation of reason and consequent between object and subject, remained after him as it was before him. The principle of sufficient reason possessed as before an unconditioned validity, and the only difference was that the thing-in-itself was now placed in the subject instead of, as formerly, in the object. The entire relativity of both subject and object, which proves that the thing-in-itself, or the inner nature of the world, is not to be sought in them at all, but outside of them, and outside everything else that exists merely relatively, still remained unknown. Just as if Kant had never existed, the principle of sufficient reason is to Fichte precisely what it was to all the schoolmen, a veritas aeterna. As an eternal fate reigned over the gods of old, so these aeternæ veritates, these metaphysical, mathematical and metalogical truths, and in the case of some, the validity of the moral law also, reigned over the God of the schoolmen. These veritates alone were independent [pg 043] of everything, and through their necessity both God and the world existed. According to the principle of sufficient reason, as such a veritas aeterna, the ego is for Fichte the ground of the world, or of the non-ego, the object, which is just its consequent, its creation. He has therefore taken good care to avoid examining further or limiting the principle of sufficient reason. If, however, it is thought I should specify the form of the principle of sufficient reason under the guidance of which Fichte derives the non-ego from the ego, as a spider spins its web out of itself, I find that it is the principle of sufficient reason of existence in space: for it is only as referred to this that some kind of meaning and sense can be attached to the laboured deductions of the way in which the ego produces and fabricates the non-ego from itself, which form the content of the most senseless, and consequently the most wearisome book that was ever written. This philosophy of Fichte, otherwise not worth mentioning, is interesting to us only as the tardy expression of the converse of the old materialism. For materialism was the most consistent system starting from the object, as this is the most consistent system starting from the subject. Materialism overlooked the fact that, with the simplest object, it assumed the subject also; and Fichte overlooked the fact that with the subject (whatever he may call it) he assumed the object also, for no subject is thinkable without an object. Besides this he forgot that all a priori deduction, indeed all demonstration in general, must rest upon some necessity, and that all necessity is based on the principle of sufficient reason, because to be necessary, and to follow from given grounds are convertible conceptions.10 But the principle of sufficient reason is just the universal form of the object as such. Thus it is in the object, but is not valid before [pg 044] and outside of it; it first produces the object and makes it appear in conformity with its regulative principle. We see then that the system which starts from the subject contains the same fallacy as the system, explained above, which starts from the object; it begins by assuming what it proposes to deduce, the necessary correlative of its starting-point.

Opposed to the system we've discussed, which begins with the object to derive the subject, is the system that starts with the subject and attempts to derive the object from it. The first approach has been quite common throughout the history of philosophy, but we only have one example of the second, and that's a recent one: J. G. Fichte's “philosophy of appearance.” In this regard, it must be noted that little real value or inner significance existed within the doctrine itself. It was mostly just an illusion, delivered with the utmost seriousness, elevated tone, and passionate enthusiasm, defended with eloquent arguments against weak opponents, making it look impressive and seem meaningful. However, the genuine seriousness that keeps truth as its unwavering goal, unaffected by external factors, was completely absent in Fichte, as it is in all philosophers who, like him, focus on contemporary issues. In his case, it couldn't have been otherwise. A person becomes a philosopher due to a specific confusion they're trying to escape from. This is Plato's θαυμαξειν, which he refers to as a μαλα φιλοσοφικον παθος. The key difference between a false philosopher and a true one is this: the confusion of the latter comes from contemplating the world itself, while the former's confusion stems from a book or some philosophical system in front of them. Fichte belongs to the group of false philosophers. He became a philosopher because of Kant's doctrine of the thing-in-itself, and without it, he would likely have pursued completely different aims, likely with better outcomes since he had remarkable rhetorical skills. If he had only delved deeper into the meaning of the book that made him a philosopher, “The Critique of Pure Reason,” he would have understood that its main teaching about the mind is this: the principle of sufficient reason is not, as all scholastic philosophy claims, a veritas aeterna—meaning it doesn't possess an unconditional validity outside of, above, or before the world. It is relative and conditioned, only valid within the realm of phenomena, appearing as the necessary connection of space and time, or as the law of causality, or as the principle of knowledge's foundations. The true essence of the world, the thing-in-itself, can't be discovered using this principle, as everything it leads to is dependent, relative, and merely phenomenal—not the thing-in-itself. Furthermore, it doesn't pertain to the subject, but is simply the form of objects, which are thus not things-in-themselves. The subject must exist alongside the object, and the object alongside the subject, making it impossible for subject and object to relate in a reason-consequence relationship. But Fichte neglected even the smallest part of this. What interested him about the whole issue was that the system started with the subject. Kant chose this method to highlight the errors of the existing systems, which began with the object, leading to the object being seen as a thing-in-itself. However, Fichte mistook this shift toward the subject as the truly important aspect, and like all imitators, believed that by going further than Kant, he was surpassing him. Thus, he repeated the error regarding the subject that all previous dogmatism committed regarding the object, which was the impetus behind Kant's “Critique.” Fichte made no meaningful changes, and the fundamental error—the assumption of a reason-consequence relationship between object and subject—persisted as it had before. The principle of sufficient reason still held an unconditional validity, with the only difference being that the thing-in-itself was now located in the subject instead of the object. The entire relativity of both subject and object, which shows that the thing-in-itself or the inner nature of the world should not be sought within them but outside of them and everything else that exists merely relatively, remained unnoticed. Just as if Kant had never existed, the principle of sufficient reason for Fichte is exactly what it was for all the scholastics, a veritas aeterna. As an eternal fate reigned over the gods of old, so these aeternæ veritates—these metaphysical, mathematical, and metalogical truths, along with the validity of the moral law for some—reigned over the God of the scholastics. These veritates were solely independent of everything, and through their necessity, both God and the world existed. According to the principle of sufficient reason, considered such a veritas aeterna, the ego for Fichte is the foundation of the world, or of the non-ego, the object, which is its consequence, its creation. He carefully avoided any deeper examination or limitation of the principle of sufficient reason. If I were to specify the form of the principle of sufficient reason under which Fichte derives the non-ego from the ego—like a spider weaving its web from itself—I would say it is the principle of sufficient reason of existence in space. For only in reference to this can some meaning and sense be attached to the convoluted deductions of how the ego produces the non-ego from itself, which constitute the content of one of the most senseless, and therefore most tedious, books ever written. Fichte's philosophy, otherwise not noteworthy, is only interesting to us as the delayed expression of the opposite of old materialism. Materialism was the most coherent system starting from the object, as this is the most consistent system that starts from the subject. Materialism overlooked the fact that with the simplest object, it also assumed the subject; and Fichte overlooked that with the subject (whatever he calls it) he also assumed the object, because no subject can be conceived without an object. Besides this, he forgot that all a priori deductions, in fact, all demonstrations in general, must rest on some necessity, and that all necessity is based on the principle of sufficient reason, since to be necessary and to follow from given grounds are interchangeable concepts.10 But the principle of sufficient reason is simply the universal form of the object as such. Thus, it exists within the object, but is not valid before and outside of it; it first produces the object and makes it appear according to its regulative principle. So, we see that the system which begins with the subject contains the same fallacy as the system that starts from the object, as explained above; it begins by assuming what it sets out to deduce, which is the necessary correlative of its starting point.

The method of our own system is toto genere distinct from these two opposite misconceptions, for we start neither from the object nor from the subject, but from the idea, as the first fact of consciousness. Its first essential, fundamental form is the antithesis of subject and object. The form of the object again is the principle of sufficient reason in its various forms. Each of these reigns so absolutely in its own class of ideas that, as we have seen, when the special form of the principle of sufficient reason which governs any class of ideas is known, the nature of the whole class is known also: for the whole class, as idea, is no more than this form of the principle of sufficient reason itself; so that time itself is nothing but the principle of existence in it, i.e., succession; space is nothing but the principle of existence in it, i.e., position; matter is nothing but causality; the concept (as will appear immediately) is nothing but relation to a ground of knowledge. This thorough and consistent relativity of the world as idea, both according to its universal form (subject and object), and according to the form which is subordinate to this (the principle of sufficient reason) warns us, as we said before, to seek the inner nature of the world in an aspect of it which is quite different and quite distinct from the idea; and in the next book we shall find this in a fact which is just as immediate to every living being as the idea.

The approach of our own system is toto genere clearly different from these two opposing misunderstandings. We don't begin with the object or the subject, but with the concept, which is the first element of consciousness. Its primary, fundamental structure is the contrast between subject and object. The nature of the object is tied to the principle of sufficient reason in its various forms. Each of these concepts dominates its own category of ideas so completely that, as we've observed, once we understand the specific form of the principle of sufficient reason that applies to any category of ideas, we can also grasp the nature of the entire category. The whole category, as an idea, is nothing more than this form of the principle of sufficient reason itself; thus, time is merely the principle of existence within it, i.e. succession; space is simply the principle of existence within it, i.e. position; matter is just causality; and the concept (as will be clarified shortly) is merely a relation to a foundation of knowledge. This complete and consistent relativity of the world as an idea, both in terms of its universal form (subject and object) and in terms of the subordinate form (the principle of sufficient reason), reminds us, as mentioned earlier, to search for the true nature of the world in an aspect that is completely different and separate from the concept; and in the next book, we will uncover this in a fact that is just as immediate to every living being as the idea.

But we must first consider that class of ideas which belongs to man alone. The matter of these is the concept, and the subjective correlative is reason, just as the subjective correlative of the ideas we have already considered [pg 045] was understanding and sensibility, which are also to be attributed to all the lower animals.11

But we need to first think about the type of ideas that belong exclusively to humans. These ideas are based on concepts, and the subjective counterpart is reason, just as the subjective counterpart of the ideas we've already discussed [pg 045] was understanding and sensitivity, which can also be found in all lower animals.11

§ 8. As from the direct light of the sun to the borrowed light of the moon, we pass from the immediate idea of perception, which stands by itself and is its own warrant, to reflection, to the abstract, discursive concepts of the reason, which obtain their whole content from knowledge of perception, and in relation to it. As long as we continue simply to perceive, all is clear, firm, and certain. There are neither questions nor doubts nor errors; we desire to go no further, can go no further; we find rest in perceiving, and satisfaction in the present. Perception suffices for itself, and therefore what springs purely from it, and remains true to it, for example, a genuine work of art, can never be false, nor can it be discredited through the lapse of time, for it does not present an opinion but the thing itself. But with abstract knowledge, with reason, doubt and error appear in the theoretical, care and sorrow in the practical. In the idea of perception, illusion may at moments take the place of the real; but in the sphere of abstract thought, error may reign for a thousand years, impose its yoke upon whole nations, extend to the noblest impulses of humanity, and, by the help of its slaves and its dupes, may chain and fetter those whom it cannot deceive. It is the enemy against which the wisest men of all times have waged unequal war, and only what they have won from it has become the possession of mankind. Therefore it is well to draw attention to it at once, as we already tread the ground to which its province belongs. It has often been said that we ought to follow truth even although no utility can be seen in it, because it may have indirect utility which may appear when it is least expected; and I would add to this, that we ought to be just as anxious to discover and to root out all error even [pg 046] when no harm is anticipated from it, because its mischief may be very indirect, and may suddenly appear when we do not expect it, for all error has poison at its heart. If it is mind, if it is knowledge, that makes man the lord of creation, there can be no such thing as harmless error, still less venerable and holy error. And for the consolation of those who in any way and at any time may have devoted strength and life to the noble and hard battle against error, I cannot refrain from adding that, so long as truth is absent, error will have free play, as owls and bats in the night; but sooner would we expect to see the owls and the bats drive back the sun in the eastern heavens, than that any truth which has once been known and distinctly and fully expressed, can ever again be so utterly vanquished and overcome that the old error shall once more reign undisturbed over its wide kingdom. This is the power of truth; its conquest is slow and laborious, but if once the victory be gained it can never be wrested back again.

§ 8. Just as we move from the bright light of the sun to the softer light of the moon, we shift from immediate perception, which stands alone and validates itself, to reflection, to the abstract and logical concepts formed by reason. These concepts draw their entire meaning from our understanding of perception and in relation to it. As long as we are simply perceiving, everything is clear, solid, and definite. There are no questions, doubts, or mistakes; we don’t want to go any further and can’t go any further; we find comfort in perceiving and satisfaction in the present. Perception is enough on its own, and therefore anything that comes directly from it and stays true to it, like a genuine work of art, can never be false and cannot be diminished by time, as it presents the thing itself rather than just an opinion. However, with abstract knowledge and reason, doubt and error arise in theory, while care and sorrow emerge in practice. In the realm of perception, illusion might occasionally replace reality; but in the realm of abstract thought, error can dominate for centuries, bind entire nations, and stretch into the highest aspirations of humanity, chaining and restraining those it cannot deceive with the help of its followers and victims. It is the adversary against which the wisest people throughout history have fought an unequal battle, and only what they have taken from it has become humanity's possession. Therefore, it’s important to highlight this as we already venture into its territory. It has often been said that we should pursue truth even if its usefulness isn't immediately visible because it may have indirect benefits that appear unexpectedly; and I would add that we should be equally eager to identify and eliminate all errors even when we do not anticipate any harm, because their negative effects may be very indirect and could suddenly manifest when we least expect them, as all errors carry danger at their core. If it is the mind, if it is knowledge, that makes humans the masters of creation, then there is no such thing as harmless error, let alone venerable or sacred error. And for those who at any time have ever committed their strength and lives to the noble and difficult struggle against error, I must mention that as long as truth is absent, error will roam freely, like owls and bats in the night; but we would sooner expect to see the owls and bats drive back the sun in the east than for any truth that has been known and clearly and fully articulated to ever be so completely defeated that the old error could reign undisturbed over its vast domain once more. This is the strength of truth; its victory is slow and challenging, but once achieved, it can never be taken back.

Besides the ideas we have as yet considered, which, according to their construction, could be referred to time, space, and matter, if we consider them with reference to the object, or to pure sensibility and understanding (i.e., knowledge of causality), if we consider them with reference to the subject, another faculty of knowledge has appeared in man alone of all earthly creatures, an entirely new consciousness, which, with very appropriate and significant exactness, is called reflection. For it is in fact derived from the knowledge of perception, and is a reflected appearance of it. But it has assumed a nature fundamentally different. The forms of perception do not affect it, and even the principle of sufficient reason which reigns over all objects has an entirely different aspect with regard to it. It is just this new, more highly endowed, consciousness, this abstract reflex of all that belongs to perception in that conception of the reason which has nothing to do with perception, that gives to man that [pg 047] thoughtfulness which distinguishes his consciousness so entirely from that of the lower animals, and through which his whole behaviour upon earth is so different from that of his irrational fellow-creatures. He far surpasses them in power and also in suffering. They live in the present alone, he lives also in the future and the past. They satisfy the needs of the moment, he provides by the most ingenious preparations for the future, yea for days that he shall never see. They are entirely dependent on the impression of the moment, on the effect of the perceptible motive; he is determined by abstract conceptions independent of the present. Therefore he follows predetermined plans, he acts from maxims, without reference to his surroundings or the accidental impression of the moment. Thus, for example, he can make with composure deliberate preparations for his own death, he can dissemble past finding out, and can carry his secret with him to the grave; lastly, he has an actual choice between several motives; for only in the abstract can such motives, present together in consciousness, afford the knowledge with regard to themselves, that the one excludes the other, and can thus measure themselves against each other with reference to their power over the will. The motive that overcomes, in that it decides the question at issue, is the deliberate determinant of the will, and is a sure indication of its character. The brute, on the other hand, is determined by the present impression; only the fear of present compulsion can constrain its desires, until at last this fear has become custom, and as such continues to determine it; this is called training. The brute feels and perceives; man, in addition to this, thinks and knows: both will. The brute expresses its feelings and dispositions by gestures and sounds; man communicates his thought to others, or, if he wishes, he conceals it, by means of speech. Speech is the first production, and also the necessary organ of his reason. Therefore in Greek and Italian, speech and [pg 048] reason are expressed by the same word; ὁ λογος, il discorso. Vernunft is derived from vernehmen, which is not a synonym for the verb to hear, but signifies the consciousness of the meaning of thoughts communicated in words. It is by the help of language alone that reason accomplishes its most important achievements,—the united action of several individuals, the planned co-operation of many thousands, civilisation, the state; also science, the storing up of experience, the uniting of common properties in one concept, the communication of truth, the spread of error, thoughts and poems, dogmas and superstitions. The brute first knows death when it dies, but man draws consciously nearer to it every hour that he lives; and this makes life at times a questionable good even to him who has not recognised this character of constant annihilation in the whole of life. Principally on this account man has philosophies and religions, though it is uncertain whether the qualities we admire most in his conduct, voluntary rectitude and nobility of feeling, were ever the fruit of either of them. As results which certainly belong only to them, and as productions of reason in this sphere, we may refer to the marvellous and monstrous opinions of philosophers of various schools, and the extraordinary and sometimes cruel customs of the priests of different religions.

Besides the ideas we've already looked at, which can be linked to time, space, and matter based on their structure, if we examine them in relation to the object or to pure sensory experience and understanding (i.e., knowledge of causality), when we think about them in terms of the subject, there's another unique ability of knowledge that exists only in humans among all earthly creatures. This entirely new awareness is aptly and significantly called self-reflection. It actually comes from the knowledge of perception and is a reflected version of it. However, it has taken on a fundamentally different nature. The forms of perception do not impact it, and even the principle of sufficient reason that governs all objects appears entirely different in relation to it. It is this new, more developed consciousness—this abstract reflection of everything that pertains to perception within that concept of reason unrelated to perception—that gives humans that [pg 047] thoughtful quality that sets their consciousness apart from that of lower animals. This also shapes how they behave on earth, making it markedly different from that of their irrational counterparts. Humans far exceed them in ability and also in suffering. While animals live only in the present, humans also live in the future and the past. They meet immediate needs, while humans creatively prepare for the future, even for days they will never see. Animals are completely influenced by immediate impressions and the effects of what they perceive; humans are guided by abstract concepts independent of the present. Consequently, they follow pre-planned strategies and act based on principles, without having to rely on their environment or the random impressions of the moment. For example, a person can calmly make deliberate preparations for their own death, can conceal their thoughts indefinitely, and can take their secrets to the grave. Lastly, they have real choices between various motives; only in abstraction can such motives coexist in consciousness, allowing them to understand that one excludes the other and can thus evaluate themselves against one another in terms of their influence on the will. The motive that prevails by deciding the pivotal issue serves as the intentional determinant of the will and is a clear indication of its nature. In contrast, an animal is directed by current impressions; only the fear of immediate necessity can limit its desires until this fear eventually becomes habitual and continues to guide it; this process is called training. Animals feel and sense; humans, in addition to this, think and understand: both will. Animals express their feelings and states through gestures and sounds; humans convey their thoughts to others, or if they choose, they can keep them hidden, through speech. Speech is the primary result and necessary medium of their reason. Therefore, in Greek and Italian, speech and [pg 048] reason are represented by the same term; ὁ λογος, the speech. Reason comes from hear, which isn’t just a synonym for the verb to hear, but signifies the awareness of the meaning of thoughts communicated through words. It is only with language that reason achieves its most critical successes—such as the coordinated efforts of several individuals, the organized collaboration of thousands, civilization, the state; also science, the accumulation of experiences, the unification of common traits into one concept, the sharing of truth, the spread of falsehoods, as well as thoughts and poetry, doctrines and superstitions. An animal only understands death when it actually dies, but humans consciously approach it with every hour they live; and this can make life sometimes a questionable blessing even for those who have not recognized this ongoing cycle of annihilation throughout life. It is mainly for this reason that humans have philosophies and religions, although it is uncertain if the qualities we most admire in their behavior, such as voluntary integrity and noble feelings, ever truly originated from either of these. As results that can clearly be attributed solely to them, and as products of reason in this domain, we can point to the fascinating and bizarre beliefs of philosophers from various schools, and the strange and sometimes brutal customs of priests from different religions.

It is the universal opinion of all times and of all nations that these manifold and far-reaching achievements spring from a common principle, from that peculiar intellectual power which belongs distinctively to man and which has been called reason, ὁ λογος, το λογιστικον, το λογιμον, ratio. Besides this, no one finds any difficulty in recognising the manifestations of this faculty, and in saying what is rational and what is irrational, where reason appears as distinguished from the other faculties and qualities of man, or lastly, in pointing out what, on account of the want of reason, we must never expect even from the most sensible brute. The philosophers [pg 049] of all ages may be said to be on the whole at one about this general knowledge of reason, and they have also given prominence to several very important manifestations of it; such as, the control of the emotions and passions, the capacity for drawing conclusions and formulating general principles, even such as are true prior to all experience, and so forth. Still all their explanations of the peculiar nature of reason are wavering, not clearly defined, discursive, without unity and concentration; now laying stress on one manifestation, now on another, and therefore often at variance with each other. Besides this, many start from the opposition between reason and revelation, a distinction which is unknown to philosophy, and which only increases confusion. It is very remarkable that up till now no philosopher has referred these manifold expressions of reason to one simple function which would be recognised in them all, from which they would all be explained, and which would therefore constitute the real inner nature of reason. It is true that the excellent Locke in the “Essay on the Human Understanding” (Book II., ch. xi., §§ 10 and 11), very rightly refers to general concepts as the characteristic which distinguishes man from the brutes, and Leibnitz quotes this with full approval in the “Nouveaux Essais sur l'Entendement Humaine” (Book II., ch. xi., §§ 10 and 11.) But when Locke (in Book IV., ch. xvii., §§ 2 and 3) comes to the special explanation of reason he entirely loses sight of this simple, primary characteristic, and he also falls into a wavering, undetermined, incomplete account of mangled and derivative manifestations of it. Leibnitz also, in the corresponding part of his work, behaves in a similar manner, only with more confusion and indistinctness. In the Appendix, I have fully considered how Kant confused and falsified the conception of the nature of reason. But whoever will take the trouble to go through in this reference the mass of philosophical writing which has appeared since [pg 050] Kant, will find out, that just as the faults of princes must be expiated by whole nations, the errors of great minds extend their influence over whole generations, and even over centuries; they grow and propagate themselves, and finally degenerate into monstrosities. All this arises from the fact that, as Berkeley says, “Few men think; yet all will have opinions.”

It is the universal belief throughout history and across cultures that these numerous and extensive achievements arise from a common principle, a unique intellectual power that is distinctly human, known as reason, ὁ λογος, το λογιστικον, το λογιμον, ratio. Furthermore, it is easy to recognize the expressions of this faculty and to distinguish what is rational from what is irrational, where reason stands apart from other human traits and qualities, and to highlight what we can never expect from even the most sensible animal due to the lack of reason. Philosophers [pg 049] from all ages generally agree on this basic understanding of reason and have emphasized several important manifestations of it, such as managing emotions and passions, the ability to draw conclusions and formulate general principles, even those that are true independently of experience, and so on. However, their explanations of the nature of reason are often unclear, inconsistent, and lack focus; sometimes emphasizing one aspect over another, which leads to conflicting views. Additionally, many philosophers start from the opposition between reason and revelation, a distinction that philosophy does not recognize, which further complicates matters. It is striking that no philosopher has yet linked these various expressions of reason to a single simple function that could account for them all and represent the true essence of reason. It is true that the insightful Locke, in the “Essay on Human Understanding” (Book II., ch. xi., §§ 10 and 11), rightly identifies general concepts as the feature that sets humans apart from animals, and Leibniz quotes this with full endorsement in the “New Essays on Human Understanding” (Book II., ch. xi., §§ 10 and 11). Yet when Locke (in Book IV., ch. xvii., §§ 2 and 3) attempts to specifically define reason, he completely overlooks this simple, fundamental characteristic, resulting in a vague, incomplete account of distorted and derivative manifestations of reason. Leibniz also approaches this aspect of his work in a similar, though more confused and unclear manner. In the Appendix, I have thoroughly examined how Kant misrepresented and altered the understanding of the nature of reason. However, anyone who takes the time to review the extensive philosophical writings that have emerged since [pg 050] Kant will discover that just as the faults of rulers must be atoned for by entire nations, the mistakes of great thinkers influence entire generations, and even centuries; they expand, propagate, and ultimately devolve into distortions. This all stems from the fact that, as Berkeley puts it, "Few people think; yet everyone will have opinions."

The understanding has only one function—immediate knowledge of the relation of cause and effect. Yet the perception of the real world, and all common sense, sagacity, and inventiveness, however multifarious their applications may be, are quite clearly seen to be nothing more than manifestations of that one function. So also the reason has one function; and from it all the manifestations of reason we have mentioned, which distinguish the life of man from that of the brutes, may easily be explained. The application or the non-application of this function is all that is meant by what men have everywhere and always called rational and irrational.12

The understanding has just one purpose—immediate awareness of the cause and effect relationship. However, the perception of the real world, along with all common sense, wisdom, and creativity, no matter how diverse their uses may be, are clearly just manifestations of that one purpose. Similarly, reason serves one purpose; and from it, we can easily explain all the expressions of reason that set human life apart from that of animals. Whether this purpose is applied or not is what people have always referred to as rational and irrational. 12

§ 9. Concepts form a distinct class of ideas, existing only in the mind of man, and entirely different from the ideas of perception which we have considered up till now. We can therefore never attain to a sensuous and, properly speaking, evident knowledge of their nature, but only to a knowledge which is abstract and discursive. It would, therefore, be absurd to demand that they should be verified in experience, if by experience is meant the real external world, which consists of ideas of perception, or that they should be brought before the eyes or the imagination like objects of perception. They can only be thought, not perceived, and only the effects which men accomplish through them are properly objects of experience. Such effects are language, preconceived and planned action and science, and all that results from these. [pg 051] Speech, as an object of outer experience, is obviously nothing more than a very complete telegraph, which communicates arbitrary signs with the greatest rapidity and the finest distinctions of difference. But what do these signs mean? How are they interpreted? When some one speaks, do we at once translate his words into pictures of the fancy, which instantaneously flash upon us, arrange and link themselves together, and assume form and colour according to the words that are poured forth, and their grammatical inflections? What a tumult there would be in our brains while we listened to a speech, or to the reading of a book? But what actually happens is not this at all. The meaning of a speech is, as a rule, immediately grasped, accurately and distinctly taken in, without the imagination being brought into play. It is reason which speaks to reason, keeping within its own province. It communicates and receives abstract conceptions, ideas that cannot be presented in perceptions, which are framed once for all, and are relatively few in number, but which yet encompass, contain, and represent all the innumerable objects of the actual world. This itself is sufficient to prove that the lower animals can never learn to speak or comprehend, although they have the organs of speech and ideas of perception in common with us. But because words represent this perfectly distinct class of ideas, whose subjective correlative is reason, they are without sense and meaning for the brutes. Thus language, like every other manifestation which we ascribe to reason, and like everything which distinguishes man from the brutes, is to be explained from this as its one simple source—conceptions, abstract ideas which cannot be presented in perception, but are general, and have no individual existence in space and time. Only in single cases do we pass from the conception to the perception, do we construct images as representatives of concepts in perception, to which, however, they are never adequate. These cases [pg 052] are fully discussed in the essay on the principle of sufficient reason, § 28, and therefore I shall not repeat my explanation here. It may be compared, however, with what is said by Hume in the twelfth of his “Philosophical Essays,” p. 244, and by Herder in the “Metacritik,” pt. i. p. 274 (an otherwise worthless book). The Platonic idea, the possibility of which depends upon the union of imagination and reason, is the principal subject of the third book of this work.

§ 9. Concepts form a distinct class of ideas, existing only in the human mind, and are completely different from the perceptual ideas we've discussed so far. Therefore, we can never achieve a sensuous and, strictly speaking, clear understanding of their nature, but only an abstract and discursive knowledge. It would be unreasonable to expect them to be verified through experience if we mean experience as the real external world, which consists of perceptual ideas, or that they should be presented to our eyes or imagination like objects of perception. They can only be thought of, not seen, and only the effects that people achieve through them are truly objects of experience. Such effects include language, planned action, and science, as well as everything that stems from these. [pg 051] Speech, as an external experience, is clearly just a very complete telegraph, transmitting arbitrary signs at great speed and with fine distinctions. But what do these signs actually mean? How are they interpreted? When someone talks, do we instantly translate their words into mental images that flash in our minds, connect and organize themselves, and take shape and color based on the words spoken and their grammatical forms? Imagine the chaos in our minds while we listened to a speech or read a book! But what really happens is quite different. The meaning of a speech is usually understood right away, clearly and distinctly, without engaging the imagination. It’s reason speaking to reason, staying within its own realm. It communicates and receives abstract concepts, ideas that can’t be represented in perceptual terms, which are established and relatively few in number, yet encompass, contain, and represent all the countless objects of the actual world. This alone is enough to show that lower animals can never learn to speak or comprehend, even though they possess the organs of speech and share perceptual ideas with us. However, since words represent this completely distinct class of ideas, which is linked to reason, they hold no sense or meaning for animals. Thus, language, like every other expression attributed to reason, and everything distinguishing humans from animals, can be explained as stemming from this singular source—concepts, abstract ideas that cannot be presented in perception but are general and lack individual existence in space and time. Only in specific instances do we move from the concept to the perception, creating images as concept representatives in perception, to which, however, they never fully correspond. These instances [pg 052] are thoroughly discussed in the essay on the principle of sufficient reason, § 28, and thus I won’t repeat my explanation here. However, it can be compared with what Hume writes in the twelfth of his "Philosophical Essays," p. 244, and what Herder says in the “Metacritic,” pt. i. p. 274 (a book otherwise lacking value). The Platonic idea, whose possibility relies on the union of imagination and reason, is the main topic of the third book of this work.

Although concepts are fundamentally different from ideas of perception, they stand in a necessary relation to them, without which they would be nothing. This relation therefore constitutes the whole nature and existence of concepts. Reflection is the necessary copy or repetition of the originally presented world of perception, but it is a special kind of copy in an entirely different material. Thus concepts may quite properly be called ideas of ideas. The principle of sufficient reason has here also a special form. Now we have seen that the form under which the principle of sufficient reason appears in a class of ideas always constitutes and exhausts the whole nature of the class, so far as it consists of ideas, so that time is throughout succession, and nothing more; space is throughout position, and nothing more; matter is throughout causation, and nothing more. In the same way the whole nature of concepts, or the class of abstract ideas, consists simply in the relation which the principle of sufficient reason expresses in them; and as this is the relation to the ground of knowledge, the whole nature of the abstract idea is simply and solely its relation to another idea, which is its ground of knowledge. This, indeed, may, in the first instance, be a concept, an abstract idea, and this again may have only a similar abstract ground of knowledge; but the chain of grounds of knowledge does not extend ad infinitum; it must end at last in a concept which has its ground in knowledge of perception; for the whole world of reflection [pg 053] rests on the world of perception as its ground of knowledge. Hence the class of abstract ideas is in this respect distinguished from other classes; in the latter the principle of sufficient reason always demands merely a relation to another idea of the same class, but in the case of abstract ideas, it at last demands a relation to an idea of another class.

Although concepts are fundamentally different from ideas of perception, they are necessarily related to them, without which they would mean nothing. This relationship is what constitutes the entire nature and existence of concepts. Reflection is the necessary copy or repetition of the originally presented world of perception, but it’s a special kind of copy in entirely different material. Therefore, concepts can accurately be called ideas of ideas. The principle of sufficient reason also takes on a special form here. We have seen that the form under which the principle of sufficient reason appears in a class of ideas always defines and exhausts the whole nature of that class, as far as it consists of ideas. Thus, time is always just succession, and nothing more; space is always just position, and nothing more; matter is always just causation, and nothing more. Similarly, the entire nature of concepts, or the class of abstract ideas, lies solely in the relationship that the principle of sufficient reason expresses within them. As this pertains to the foundation of knowledge, the whole nature of the abstract idea is simply and solely its relation to another idea, which serves as its foundation of knowledge. This could initially be a concept, an abstract idea, which may again have a similar abstract foundation of knowledge; but the chain of foundations of knowledge does not go on forever; it must ultimately end in a concept grounded in the knowledge of perception. For the entire world of reflection rests on the world of perception as its foundation of knowledge. Thus, the class of abstract ideas is distinguished from other classes in this respect; in the latter, the principle of sufficient reason only requires a relation to another idea of the same class, whereas in the case of abstract ideas, it ultimately requires a relation to an idea of another class.

Those concepts which, as has just been pointed out, are not immediately related to the world of perception, but only through the medium of one, or it may be several other concepts, have been called by preference abstracta, and those which have their ground immediately in the world of perception have been called concreta. But this last name is only loosely applicable to the concepts denoted by it, for they are always merely abstracta, and not ideas of perception. These names, which have originated in a very dim consciousness of the distinctions they imply, may yet, with this explanation, be retained. As examples of the first kind of concepts, i.e., abstracta in the fullest sense, we may take “relation,” “virtue,” “investigation,” “beginning,” and so on. As examples of the second kind, loosely called concreta, we may take such concepts as “man,” “stone,” “horse,” &c. If it were not a somewhat too pictorial and therefore absurd simile, we might very appropriately call the latter the ground floor, and the former the upper stories of the building of reflection.13

Those concepts that, as mentioned earlier, aren't directly connected to the world of perception but only through one or more other concepts, are referred to as abstracts. Those that are directly grounded in the world of perception are called concrete. However, this last term is only loosely applicable to the concepts it describes, as they are always just abstracts, not ideas of perception. These names, which arose from a vague understanding of the distinctions they suggest, may still be used with this clarification. For examples of the first type of concepts, i.e., abstracts in the broadest sense, we can take "relationship," "virtue," "investigation," "start," and so on. Examples of the second type, loosely labeled concrete, include concepts like “dude,” "rock," “horse” etc. If it weren't such a somewhat exaggerated and thus silly metaphor, we might fittingly refer to the latter as the ground floor and the former as the upper stories of the building of reflection.13

It is not, as is commonly supposed, an essential characteristic of a concept that it should contain much under it, that is to say, that many ideas of perception, or it may be other abstract ideas, should stand to it in the relation of its ground of knowledge, i.e., be thought through it. This is merely a derived and secondary characteristic, and, as a matter of fact, does not always exist, though it must always exist potentially. This characteristic arises from the fact that a concept is an [pg 054] idea of an idea, i.e., its whole nature consists in its relation to another idea; but as it is not this idea itself, which is generally an idea of perception and therefore belongs to quite a different class, the latter may have temporal, spacial, and other determinations, and in general many relations which are not thought along with it in the concept. Thus we see that several ideas which are different in unessential particulars may be thought by means of one concept, i.e., may be brought under it. Yet this power of embracing several things is not an essential but merely an accidental characteristic of the concept. There may be concepts through which only one real object is thought, but which are nevertheless abstract and general, by no means capable of presentation individually and as perceptions. Such, for example, is the conception which any one may have of a particular town which he only knows from geography; although only this one town is thought under it, it might yet be applied to several towns differing in certain respects. We see then that a concept is not general because of being abstracted from several objects; but conversely, because generality, that is to say, non-determination of the particular, belongs to the concept as an abstract idea of the reason, different things can be thought by means of the same one.

It's not, as commonly believed, a necessary feature of a concept that it should encompass a lot, meaning that many perceptions or other abstract ideas should relate to it as its source of knowledge, that is, be understood through it. This is simply a derived and secondary feature, and in fact, it doesn't always exist, although it must always exist in a potential sense. This feature comes from the fact that a concept is an idea of an idea, that is, its entire nature relies on its relationship to another idea; however, since this idea itself is usually a perception and thus belongs to a different category, it may have temporal, spatial, and other characteristics, along with many relationships that are not considered in the concept itself. Therefore, we can see that several ideas that differ in unimportant details can be understood through one concept, meaning they can fall under it. However, this ability to include multiple things is not a fundamental but rather an accidental characteristic of the concept. There may be concepts that only refer to a single real object, yet they are still abstract and general, not capable of being presented individually as perceptions. For instance, a person's idea of a specific town they know only from geography; even if only that one town is considered under it, the concept could still apply to multiple towns that differ in particular ways. Thus, we understand that a concept isn't general just because it is formed from several objects; rather, because generality—meaning the inability to specify—is inherent to the concept as an abstract idea of reason, different things can be understood through the same one.

It follows from what has been said that every concept, just because it is abstract and incapable of presentation in perception, and is therefore not a completely determined idea, has what is called extension or sphere, even in the case in which only one real object exists that corresponds to it. Now we always find that the sphere of one concept has something in common with the sphere of other concepts. That is to say, part of what is thought under one concept is the same as what is thought under other concepts; and conversely, part of what is thought under these concepts is the same as what is thought under the first; although, if they are [pg 055] really different concepts, each of them, or at least one of them, contains something which the other does not contain; this is the relation in which every subject stands to its predicate. The recognition of this relation is called judgment. The representation of these spheres by means of figures in space, is an exceedingly happy idea. It first occurred to Gottfried Plouquet, who used squares for the purpose. Lambert, although later than him, used only lines, which he placed under each other. Euler carried out the idea completely with circles. Upon what this complete analogy between the relations of concepts, and those of figures in space, ultimately rests, I am unable to say. It is, however, a very fortunate circumstance for logic that all the relations of concepts, according to their possibility, i.e., a priori, may be made plain in perception by the use of such figures, in the following way:—

It follows from what has been said that every concept, simply because it's abstract and cannot be presented in perception, and is therefore not a fully determined idea, has what is called extension or range, even when there's only one real object that corresponds to it. We always find that the range of one concept has something in common with the ranges of other concepts. In other words, part of what is understood under one concept overlaps with what is understood under other concepts; and vice versa, part of what is understood under these concepts overlaps with what is understood under the first. However, if they are really different concepts, each of them, or at least one of them, includes something that the other does not; this is the relationship in which every subject relates to its predicate. The acknowledgment of this relationship is called judgment. Representing these ranges using figures in space is a brilliant idea. It was first introduced by Gottfried Plouquet, who used squares for this purpose. Lambert, who came later, only used lines, which he arranged underneath each other. Euler fully realized the idea using circles. I can't say what this complete analogy between the relationships of concepts and those of figures in space ultimately relies on. However, it is quite fortunate for logic that all the relationships of concepts, based on their possibility, i.e., a priori, can be made clear in perception through the use of such figures, in the following way:—

(1.) The spheres of two concepts coincide: for example the concept of necessity and the concept of following from given grounds, in the same way the concepts of Ruminantia and Bisulca (ruminating and cloven-hoofed animals), also those of vertebrate and red-blooded animals (although there might be some doubt about this on account of the annelida): they are convertible concepts. Such concepts are represented by a single circle which stands for either of them.

(1.) The spheres of two concepts overlap: for example, the concept of necessity and the concept of following from given grounds. Similarly, the concepts of Ruminants and Bisulca (ruminating and cloven-hoofed animals), as well as those of vertebrate and red-blooded animals (though there may be some doubt about this due to annelids), are interchangeable concepts. Such concepts can be represented by a single circle that stands for either of them.

(2.) The sphere of one concept includes that of the other.

(2.) The sphere of one concept includes that of the other.

Illustration: Category "horse" within category "animal".
[pg 056]

(3.) A sphere includes two or more spheres which exclude each other and fill it.

(3.) A sphere includes two or more spheres that don't overlap and fill it.

Illustration: Circle divided into thirds "right", "acute", and "obtuse".

(4.) Two spheres include each a part of the other.

(4.) Two spheres each include a part of the other.

Illustration: Two overlapping circles, one "flower" and one "red".

(5.) Two spheres lie in a third, but do not fill it.

(5.) Two spheres lie in a third one, but do not fill it.

Illustration: A large circle, "matter", within which are two other circles, "water" and "earth".

This last case applies to all concepts whose spheres have nothing immediately in common, for there is always a third sphere, often a much wider one, which includes both.

This last case applies to all concepts that have no immediate common ground, as there is always a third sphere, often a broader one, that encompasses both.

To these cases all combinations of concepts may be referred, and from them the entire doctrine of the judgment, its conversion, contraposition, equipollence, disjunction (this according to the third figure) may be deduced. [pg 057] From these also may be derived the properties of the judgment, upon which Kant based his pretended categories of the understanding, with the exception however of the hypothetical form, which is not a combination of concepts, but of judgments. A full account is given in the Appendix of “Modality,” and indeed of every property of judgments on which the categories are founded.

In these cases, all combinations of concepts can be referenced, and from them, the complete doctrine of judgment—its transformation, opposition, equivalence, and disjunction (according to the third figure)—can be derived. [pg 057] Additionally, the properties of judgment, which Kant used to support his so-called categories of understanding, can also be derived, except for the hypothetical form, which is not a combination of concepts but of judgments. A detailed explanation is provided in the Appendix of “Mode,” covering every property of judgments upon which the categories are based.

With regard to the possible combinations of concepts which we have given, it has only further to be remarked that they may also be combined with each other in many ways. For example, the fourth figure with the second. Only if one sphere, which partly or wholly contains another, is itself contained in a third sphere, do these together exemplify the syllogism in the first figure, i.e., that combination of judgments, by means of which it is known that a concept which is partly or wholly contained in another concept, is also contained in a third concept, which again contains the first: and also, conversely, the negation; the pictorial representation of which can, of course, only be two connected spheres which do not lie within a third sphere. If many spheres are brought together in this way we get a long train of syllogisms. This schematism of concepts, which has already been fairly well explained in more than one textbook, may be used as the foundation of the doctrine of the judgment, and indeed of the whole syllogistic theory, and in this way the treatment of both becomes very easy and simple. Because, through it, all syllogistic rules may be seen in their origin, and may be deduced and explained. It is not necessary, however, to load the memory with these rules, as logic is never of practical use, but has only a theoretical interest for philosophy. For although it may be said that logic is related to rational thinking as thorough-bass is to music, or less exactly, as ethics is to virtue, or æsthetics to art; we must yet remember that no one ever became an artist by the study of æsthetics; that a noble character was never [pg 058] formed by the study of ethics; that long before Rameau, men composed correctly and beautifully, and that we do not need to know thorough-bass in order to detect discords: and just as little do we need to know logic in order to avoid being misled by fallacies. Yet it must be conceded that thorough-bass is of the greatest use in the practice of musical composition, although it may not be necessary for the understanding of it; and indeed æsthetics and even ethics, though in a much less degree, and for the most part negatively, may be of some use in practice, so that we cannot deny them all practical worth, but of logic even this much cannot be conceded. It is nothing more than the knowledge in the abstract of what every one knows in the concrete. Therefore we call in the aid of logical rules, just as little to enable us to construct a correct argument as to prevent us from consenting to a false one, and the most learned logician lays aside the rules of logic altogether in his actual thought. This may be explained in the following way. Every science is a system of general and therefore abstract truths, laws, and rules with reference to a special class of objects. The individual case coming under these laws is determined in accordance with this general knowledge, which is valid once for all; because such application of the general principle is far easier than the exhaustive investigation of the particular case; for the general abstract knowledge which has once been obtained is always more within our reach than the empirical investigation of the particular case. With logic, however, it is just the other way. It is the general knowledge of the mode of procedure of the reason expressed in the form of rules. It is reached by the introspection of reason, and by abstraction from all content. But this mode of procedure is necessary and essential to reason, so that it will never depart from it if left to itself. It is, therefore, easier and surer to let it proceed itself according to its nature in each particular case, than to [pg 059] present to it the knowledge abstracted from this procedure in the form of a foreign and externally given law. It is easier, because, while in the case of all other sciences, the general rule is more within our reach than the investigation of the particular case taken by itself; with the use of reason, on the contrary, its necessary procedure in a given case is always more within our reach than the general rule abstracted from it; for that which thinks in us is reason itself. It is surer, because a mistake may more easily occur in such abstract knowledge, or in its application, than that a process of reason should take place which would run contrary to its essence and nature. Hence arises the remarkable fact, that while in other sciences the particular case is always proved by the rule, in logic, on the contrary, the rule must always be proved from the particular case; and even the most practised logician, if he remark that in some particular case he concludes otherwise than the rule prescribes, will always expect to find a mistake in the rule rather than in his own conclusion. To desire to make practical use of logic means, therefore, to desire to derive with unspeakable trouble, from general rules, that which is immediately known with the greatest certainty in the particular case. It is just as if a man were to consult mechanics as to the motion of his body, and physiology as to his digestion; and whoever has learnt logic for practical purposes is like him who would teach a beaver to make its own dam. Logic is, therefore, without practical utility; but it must nevertheless be retained, because it has philosophical interest as the special knowledge of the organisation and action of reason. It is rightly regarded as a definite, self-subsisting, self-contained, complete, and thoroughly safe discipline; to be treated scientifically for itself alone and independently of everything else, and therefore to be studied at the universities. But it has its real value, in relation to philosophy as a whole, in the inquiry into the nature of knowledge, and indeed of [pg 060] rational and abstract knowledge. Therefore the exposition of logic should not have so much the form of a practical science, should not contain merely naked arbitrary rules for the correct formation of the judgment, the syllogism, &c., but should rather be directed to the knowledge of the nature of reason and the concept, and to the detailed investigation of the principle of sufficient reason of knowing. For logic is only a paraphrase of this principle, and, more exactly, only of that exemplification of it in which the ground that gives truth to the judgment is neither empirical nor metaphysical, but logical or metalogical. Besides the principle of sufficient reason of knowing, it is necessary to take account of the three remaining fundamental laws of thought, or judgments of metalogical truth, so nearly related to it; and out of these the whole science of reason grows. The nature of thought proper, that is to say, of the judgment and the syllogism, must be exhibited in the combination of the spheres of concepts, according to the analogy of the special schema, in the way shown above; and from all this the rules of the judgment and the syllogism are to be deduced by construction. The only practical use we can make of logic is in a debate, when we can convict our antagonist of his intentional fallacies, rather than of his actual mistakes, by giving them their technical names. By thus throwing into the background the practical aim of logic, and bringing out its connection with the whole scheme of philosophy as one of its chapters, we do not think that we shall make the study of it less prevalent than it is just now. For at the present day every one who does not wish to remain uncultured, and to be numbered with the ignorant and incompetent multitude, must study speculative philosophy. For the nineteenth century is a philosophical age, though by this we do not mean either that it has philosophy, or that philosophy governs it, but rather that it is ripe for philosophy, and, therefore, stands in need of it. This is a sign of a high [pg 061] degree of civilisation, and indeed, is a definite stage in the culture of the ages.14

With regard to the possible combinations of concepts we’ve mentioned, it’s worth noting that they can be combined with one another in many ways. For instance, the fourth figure can combine with the second. Only when one sphere, either partially or wholly containing another, is itself contained within a third sphere do these combinations exemplify the syllogism in the first figure, i.e., that connection of judgments that shows that a concept partially or wholly contained in another is also contained in a third concept, which in turn contains the first: and conversely, the negation; the visual representation of which can only be two connected spheres that do not lie within a third sphere. If many spheres are brought together this way, we get a long series of syllogisms. This schematism of concepts, already well explained in several textbooks, can serve as the foundation for the doctrine of judgment and the entire syllogistic theory, making the study of both very straightforward. Because of this, all syllogistic rules can be understood in their origin and can be deduced and explained. However, it’s not necessary to burden our memory with these rules since logic is rarely of practical value, but serves more as a theoretical interest for philosophy. While it can be said that logic relates to rational thinking much like thorough-bass relates to music, or less directly, as ethics relates to virtue, or aesthetics to art, we must remember that no one ever became an artist by studying aesthetics; that a noble character was never formed by studying ethics; and that long before Rameau, people composed correctly and beautifully, and we don’t need to know thorough-bass to recognize disharmonies: similarly, we don’t need to know logic to avoid fallacies. Yet it must be acknowledged that thorough-bass is extremely useful in the practice of musical composition, even if it isn’t necessary for understanding it; and aesthetics and even ethics, although to a much lesser degree and mostly in a negative sense, can be somewhat useful in practice, so they can’t be dismissed as having no practical worth, but we can’t concede even this much to logic. It is merely the abstract knowledge of what everyone knows concretely. Therefore, we seek the help of logical rules as little to help us build a correct argument as to keep us from agreeing to a false one, and even the most learned logician sets aside the rules of logic entirely in their actual thought. This can be explained as follows. Every science consists of general and thus abstract truths, laws, and rules pertaining to a specific class of objects. The individual case falling under these laws is determined based on this general knowledge, which is valid universally; because applying the general principle is much easier than exhaustively investigating the specific case; the general abstract knowledge that has been obtained is always more accessible than the empirical investigation of the specific case. However, with logic, it’s the opposite. It is the general knowledge of how reason operates, expressed as rules. It is reached through introspection of reason, abstracting from all content. But this way of proceeding is necessary and essential to reason, so it will never stray from it if left to its own devices. It is, therefore, easier and more reliable to allow it to operate according to its nature in every specific case than to present it with knowledge abstracted from this process in the form of a foreign and externally imposed law. It’s easier because, in all other sciences, the general rule is more accessible than investigating the case alone; however, when using reason, its necessary process in a given case is always more accessible than the general rule abstracted from it; for what thinks for us is reason itself. It’s more reliable because errors are more likely to occur in abstract knowledge or its application than for a reasoning process to take place contrary to its essence and nature. Hence arises the remarkable fact that while in other sciences the specific case is always verified by the rule, in logic, on the other hand, the rule must always be verified from the specific case; and even the most practiced logician, if they notice that in a certain case they conclude differently than the rule indicates, will always expect to find a mistake in the rule rather than in their own conclusion. To want to use logic practically, therefore, means to want to derive, with tremendous difficulty, from general rules what is immediately known with the greatest certainty in specific cases. It’s like a person consulting mechanics about their body’s movement and physiology about their digestion; whoever has learned logic for practical purposes is like someone trying to teach a beaver how to build its own dam. Logic is, therefore, without practical utility; however, it must still be retained because it has philosophical importance as the particular knowledge of the structure and function of reason. It is rightly seen as a clear, self-sustaining, self-contained, complete, and thoroughly reliable discipline; studied scientifically for its own sake and independently of everything else, and thus should be taught at universities. But its real value, in relation to philosophy as a whole, lies in exploring the nature of knowledge, and indeed of [pg 060] rational and abstract knowledge. Therefore, the exposition of logic shouldn’t focus solely on practical science; it shouldn’t contain merely bare, arbitrary rules for correctly forming judgments, syllogisms, etc., but should be aimed instead at understanding the nature of reason and the concept and the detailed investigation of the principle of sufficient reason for knowing. Logic is merely a paraphrase of this principle, and, more accurately, only of that example of it in which the foundation that grants truth to the judgment is neither empirical nor metaphysical, but logical or metalogical. Besides the principle of sufficient reason for knowing, it’s necessary to consider the three other fundamental laws of thought, or metalogical truths, closely related to it; and from these, the entire science of reason is derived. The nature of proper thought, in other words, of judgment and syllogism, must be shown in the combination of the spheres of concepts, following the analogy of the special schema as previously outlined; and from all this, the rules for judgment and syllogism are to be constructed. The only practical application of logic can be found in a debate, when we can call our opponent out on their intentional fallacies by naming them technically rather than on their actual mistakes. By emphasizing the theoretical purpose of logic and highlighting its link to the entire framework of philosophy as one of its chapters, we believe we won’t diminish its prevalence in study today. For in today’s world, anyone who doesn’t want to remain uncultured and be counted among the ignorant and incompetent masses must study speculative philosophy. The nineteenth century is a philosophical era, though this doesn’t imply that it possesses philosophy or that philosophy governs it, but rather that it is poised for philosophy and therefore in need of it. This signifies a high [pg 061] level of civilization and indeed represents a distinct stage in the cultural development of the ages.14

Though logic is of so little practical use, it cannot be denied that it was invented for practical purposes. It appears to me to have originated in the following way:—As the love of debating developed among the Eleatics, the Megarics, and the Sophists, and by degrees became almost a passion, the confusion in which nearly every debate ended must have made them feel the necessity of a method of procedure as a guide; and for this a scientific dialectic had to be sought. The first thing which would have to be observed would be that both the disputing parties should always be agreed on some one proposition, to which the disputed points might be referred. The beginning of the methodical procedure consisted in this, that the propositions admitted on both sides were formally stated to be so, and placed at the head of the inquiry. But these propositions were at first concerned only with the material of the inquiry. It was soon observed that in the process of going back to the truth admitted on both sides, and of deducing their assertions from it, each party followed certain forms and laws about which, without any express agreement, there was no difference of opinion. And from this it became evident that these must constitute the peculiar and natural procedure of reason itself, the form of investigation. Although this was not exposed to any doubt or difference of opinion, some pedantically systematic philosopher hit upon the idea that it would look well, and be the completion of the method of dialectic, if this formal part of all discussion, this regular procedure of reason itself, were to be expressed in abstract propositions, just like the substantial propositions admitted on both sides, and placed at the beginning of every investigation, as the fixed canon of debate to which reference and appeal must always be made. In this [pg 062] way what had formerly been followed only by tacit agreement, and instinctively, would be consciously recognised and formally expressed. By degrees, more or less perfect expressions were found for the fundamental principles of logic, such as the principles of contradiction, sufficient reason, excluded middle, the dictum de omni et nullo, as well as the special rules of the syllogism, as for example, ex meris particularibus aut negativis nihil sequitur, a rationato ad rationem non valet consequentia, and so on. That all this was only brought about slowly, and with great pains, and up till the time of Aristotle remained very incomplete, is evident from the awkward and tedious way in which logical truths are brought out in many of the Platonic dialogues, and still more from what Sextus Empiricus tells us of the controversies of the Megarics, about the easiest and simplest logical rules, and the laborious way in which they were brought into a definite form (Sext. Emp. adv. Math. l. 8, p. 112). But Aristotle collected, arranged, and corrected all that had been discovered before his time, and brought it to an incomparably greater state of perfection. If we thus observe how the course of Greek culture had prepared the way for, and led up to the work of Aristotle, we shall be little inclined to believe the assertion of the Persian author, quoted by Sir William Jones with much approval, that Kallisthenes found a complete system of logic among the Indians, and sent it to his uncle Aristotle (Asiatic Researches, vol. iv. p. 163). It is easy to understand that in the dreary middle ages the Aristotelian logic would be very acceptable to the controversial spirit of the schoolmen, which, in the absence of all real knowledge, spent its energy upon mere formulas and words, and that it would be eagerly adopted even in its mutilated Arabian form, and presently established as the centre of all knowledge. Though its authority has since declined, yet up to our own time logic has retained the credit of a self-contained, practical, and highly important [pg 063] science. Indeed, in our own day, the Kantian philosophy, the foundation-stone of which is taken from logic, has excited a new interest in it; which, in this respect, at any rate, that is, as the means of the knowledge of the nature of reason, it deserves.

Although logic isn’t often very useful in practice, it’s clear that it was created for practical reasons. I believe it came about in this way: As the passion for debate grew among the Eleatics, Megarics, and Sophists, the confusion that often arose in debates led them to realize they needed a guiding method. To achieve this, a scientific approach to dialectic was needed. The first thing that had to be established was that both parties in a debate should agree on at least one proposition that the discussion could refer back to. The initial step of this method was to formally state these shared propositions at the start of the inquiry. At first, these propositions were focused solely on the inquiry's material. It was soon noticed that while both parties tried to reach the truth they agreed on, they followed certain rules and forms that, without any formal agreement, showed no difference of opinion. From this, it became clear that these rules must represent the unique and natural process of reasoning itself, the structure of investigation. Even though this wasn’t questioned, some overly systematic philosopher decided it would be beneficial to present this formal aspect of all discussions—this regular method of reasoning—in abstract propositions, similar to the substantial propositions both sides accepted, and to position them at the beginning of every inquiry as established rules for debate that should always be referred to. In this way, what was only tacitly understood and instinctively followed became consciously acknowledged and formally expressed. Over time, more or less precise definitions for the fundamental principles of logic were developed, such as the principles of contradiction, sufficient reason, excluded middle, the saying about everything and nothing, and the specific rules of the syllogism, for example, from mere particulars or negatives, nothing follows; there is no valid inference from reasoned to reasoning, and so on. It’s clear that this was a slow and painstaking process, and remained quite incomplete until Aristotle’s time, as shown by the awkward and tedious ways logical truths are presented in many of Plato’s dialogues, and even more so by what Sextus Empiricus tells us about the debates of the Megarics regarding the most basic logical rules and the laborious process of formalizing them (Sext. Emp. adv. Math. l. 8, p. 112). However, Aristotle compiled, organized, and refined everything that had been discovered before him and took it to a much higher level of sophistication. When we see how the development of Greek culture paved the way for Aristotle's work, we are less likely to believe the claim by a Persian author, cited approvingly by Sir William Jones, that Kallisthenes found an advanced system of logic among the Indians and sent it to Aristotle (Asiatic Researches, vol. iv. p. 163). It’s easy to see why Aristotelian logic would have been very appealing to the argumentative mindset of the medieval scholars, who, in the absence of real knowledge, focused on mere formulas and words, and why it would have been eagerly accepted even in its incomplete Arabian form, eventually becoming the cornerstone of all knowledge. While its authority has since diminished, logic continues to be regarded as a self-contained, practical, and highly significant [pg 063] science. In fact, in our time, Kantian philosophy, which is fundamentally based on logic, has sparked renewed interest in it; in this respect, it deserves that attention, as a means of understanding the nature of reason.

Correct and accurate conclusions may be arrived at if we carefully observe the relation of the spheres of concepts, and only conclude that one sphere is contained in a third sphere, when we have clearly seen that this first sphere is contained in a second, which in its turn is contained in the third. On the other hand, the art of sophistry lies in casting only a superficial glance at the relations of the spheres of the concepts, and then manipulating these relations to suit our purposes, generally in the following way:—When the sphere of an observed concept lies partly within that of another concept, and partly within a third altogether different sphere, we treat it as if it lay entirely within the one or the other, as may suit our purpose. For example, in speaking of passion, we may subsume it under the concept of the greatest force, the mightiest agency in the world, or under the concept of the irrational, and this again under the concept of impotency or weakness. We may then repeat the process, and start anew with each concept to which the argument leads us. A concept has almost always several others, which partially come under it, and each of these contains part of the sphere of the first, but also includes in its own sphere something more, which is not in the first. But we draw attention only to that one of these latter concepts, under which we wish to subsume the first, and let the others remain unobserved, or keep them concealed. On the possession of this skill depends the whole art of sophistry and all finer fallacies; for logical fallacies such as mentiens, velatus, cornatus, &c., are clearly too clumsy for actual use. I am not aware that hitherto any one has traced the nature of all sophistry and persuasion back to this last [pg 064] possible ground of its existence, and referred it to the peculiar character of concepts, i.e., to the procedure of reason itself. Therefore, as my exposition has led me to it, though it is very easily understood, I will illustrate it in the following table by means of a schema. This table is intended to show how the spheres of concepts overlap each other at many points, and so leave room for a passage from each concept to whichever one we please of several other concepts. I hope, however, that no one will be led by this table to attach more importance to this little explanation, which I have merely given in passing, than ought to belong to it, from the nature of the subject. I have chosen as an illustration the concept of travelling. Its sphere partially includes four others, to any of which the sophist may pass at will; these again partly include other spheres, several of them two or more at once, and through these the sophist takes whichever way he chooses, always as if it were the only way, till at last he reaches, in good or evil, whatever end he may have in view. In passing from one sphere to another, it is only necessary always to follow the direction from the centre (the given chief concept) to the circumference, and never to reverse this process. Such a piece of sophistry may be either an unbroken speech, or it may assume the strict syllogistic form, according to what is the weak side of the hearer. Most scientific arguments, and especially philosophical demonstrations, are at bottom not much more than this, for how else would it be possible, that so much, in different ages, has not only been falsely apprehended (for error itself has a different source), but demonstrated and proved, and has yet afterwards been found to be fundamentally wrong, for example, the Leibnitz-Wolfian Philosophy, Ptolemaic Astronomy, Stahl's Chemistry, Newton's Theory of Colours, &c. &c.15

Correct and accurate conclusions can be reached if we carefully consider the relationships between concepts. We should only conclude that one concept is within another when we've clearly established that the first concept falls within a second, which is in turn contained in a third. However, sophistry involves taking a superficial look at these relationships and twisting them to fit our agenda. For instance, when a concept overlaps with another and also extends into a completely different domain, we might treat it as if it were entirely within one or the other, depending on our needs. For example, when discussing passion, we might categorize it as the greatest force in the world or as irrationality, which we might further categorize as weakness or impotence. We can keep repeating this process, starting fresh with each concept that our argument leads us to. A concept usually has several others that partially fall under it, each containing part of its sphere but also including something extra that the first does not. We then focus on just one of these related concepts to categorize the first one, ignoring or concealing the others. Mastery of this technique is essential to the art of sophistry and its subtler deceptions, as obvious logical fallacies are too clumsy for practical use. To my knowledge, no one has yet traced the essence of all sophistry and persuasion back to this fundamental aspect of its existence, specifically to the unique nature of concepts, meaning the process of reasoning itself. Thus, as my explanation has led me there, I will illustrate it with a schema in the following table. This table aims to show how the spheres of concepts overlap at many points, allowing movement from one concept to any number of others. I hope no one will overemphasize this brief explanation, which I provided as an aside, compared to its relevance in the broader subject. As an illustration, I’ve chosen the concept of traveling. Its sphere partially overlaps with four others, each of which a sophist can navigate at will; these also partially connect with other spheres, some overlapping multiple at once, and through these, the sophist can take whichever path they choose, presenting it as the only option, until they finally reach whatever goal they have in mind, whether good or bad. When moving from one sphere to another, it’s only necessary to proceed outward from the center (the main concept) to the edges, and never to reverse that movement. This kind of sophistry can take the form of a continuous speech or a strict syllogism, depending on the listener’s weaknesses. Most scientific arguments, particularly in philosophy, are ultimately not much more than this; how else could it be that so many notions across different eras have not only been misunderstood (as errors stem from different sources) but have also been affirmed and validated, only to later be discovered as fundamentally incorrect—examples being Leibnitz-Wolfian Philosophy, Ptolemaic Astronomy, Stahl's Chemistry, Newton's Theory of Colors, etc.

§ 10. Through all this, the question presses ever more upon us, how certainty is to be attained, how judgments [pg 065]are to be established, what constitutes rational knowledge, (wissen), and science, which we rank with language and deliberate action as the third great benefit conferred by reason.

§ 10. Through all this, the question increasingly confronts us: how can we achieve certainty, how are judgments [pg 065]to be set up, what defines rational understanding, (know), and science, which we consider alongside language and deliberate action as the third major benefit granted by reason.

Reason is feminine in nature; it can only give after it has received. Of itself it has nothing but the empty forms of its operation. There is no absolutely pure rational knowledge except the four principles to which I have attributed metalogical truth; the principles of identity, contradiction, excluded middle, and sufficient reason of knowledge. For even the rest of logic is not absolutely pure rational knowledge. It presupposes the relations and the combinations of the spheres of concepts. But concepts in general only exist after experience of ideas of perception, and as their whole nature consists in their relation to these, it is clear that they presuppose them. No special content, however, is presupposed, but merely the existence of a content generally, and so logic as a whole may fairly pass for pure rational science. In all other sciences reason has received its content from ideas of perception; in mathematics from the relations of space and time, presented in intuition or perception prior to all experience; in pure natural science, that is, in what we know of the course of nature prior to any experience, the content of the science proceeds from the pure understanding, i.e., from the a priori knowledge of the law of causality and its connection with those pure intuitions or perceptions of space and time. In all other sciences everything that is not derived from the sources we have just referred to belongs to experience. Speaking generally, to know rationally (wissen) means to have in the power of the mind, and capable of being reproduced at will, such judgments as have their sufficient ground of knowledge in something outside themselves, i.e., are true. Thus only abstract cognition is rational knowledge (wissen), which is therefore the result of reason, so that we cannot accurately say of the lower animals that they rationally [pg 066]know (wissen) anything, although they have apprehension of what is presented in perception, and memory of this, and consequently imagination, which is further proved by the circumstance that they dream. We attribute consciousness to them, and therefore although the word (bewusstsein) is derived from the verb to know rationally (wissen), the conception of consciousness corresponds generally with that of idea of whatever kind it may be. Thus we attribute life to plants, but not consciousness. Rational knowledge (wissen) is therefore abstract consciousness, the permanent possession in concepts of the reason, of what has become known in another way.

Reason is feminine by nature; it can only give after it has received. By itself, it has nothing but the empty forms of its operation. There is no completely pure rational knowledge except for the four principles I've assigned to metalogical truth: the principles of identity, contradiction, excluded middle, and sufficient reason of knowledge. Even the rest of logic does not represent absolutely pure rational knowledge. It assumes the relationships and combinations within the spheres of concepts. But concepts only exist after experiencing perceptions, and since their entire nature depends on their relation to these perceptions, it's clear that they presuppose them. No specific content is assumed, only the existence of content in general, so logic as a whole can be considered pure rational science. In all other sciences, reason derives its content from perceptual ideas; in mathematics, from the relationships of space and time, which are presented through intuition or perception before any experience; in pure natural science, meaning what we understand about nature's course before any experience, the content comes from pure understanding, that is, from the a priori knowledge of the law of causality and its connection with those pure intuitions or perceptions of space and time. In all other sciences, anything not derived from the previously mentioned sources belongs to experience. Generally speaking, to know rationally (wissen) means to have in the mind, which can be reproduced at will, judgments that have their sufficient grounds of knowledge in something beyond themselves, that is, they are true. Therefore, only abstract cognition is rational knowledge (wissen), which is the result of reason, meaning we can't accurately say that lower animals know anything rationally, even though they perceive, remember, and thus imagine, which is further evidenced by the fact that they dream. We attribute consciousness to them; therefore, although the term (bewusstsein) is derived from the verb to know rationally (wissen), the concept of consciousness broadly corresponds to that of any kind of idea. Thus, we attribute life to plants but not consciousness. Rational knowledge (wissen) is, therefore, abstract consciousness, the permanent possession in concepts of the reason, of what has been known in another way.

§ 11. In this regard the direct opposite of rational knowledge is feeling, and therefore we must insert the explanation of feeling here. The concept which the word feeling denotes has merely a negative content, which is this, that something which is present in consciousness, is not a concept, is not abstract rational knowledge. Except this, whatever it may be, it comes under the concept of feeling. Thus the immeasurably wide sphere of the concept of feeling includes the most different kinds of objects, and no one can ever understand how they come together until he has recognised that they all agree in this negative respect, that they are not abstract concepts. For the most diverse and even antagonistic elements lie quietly side by side in this concept; for example, religious feeling, feeling of sensual pleasure, moral feeling, bodily feeling, as touch, pain, sense of colour, of sounds and their harmonies and discords, feeling of hate, of disgust, of self-satisfaction, of honour, of disgrace, of right, of wrong, sense of truth, æsthetic feeling, feeling of power, weakness, health, friendship, love, &c. &c. There is absolutely nothing in common among them except the negative quality that they are not abstract rational knowledge. But this diversity becomes more striking when the apprehension of space relations presented a priori in perception, and also the [pg 067] knowledge of the pure understanding is brought under this concept, and when we say of all knowledge and all truth, of which we are first conscious only intuitively, and have not yet formulated in abstract concepts, we feel it. I should like, for the sake of illustration, to give some examples of this taken from recent books, as they are striking proofs of my theory. I remember reading in the introduction to a German translation of Euclid, that we ought to make beginners in geometry draw the figures before proceeding to demonstrate, for in this way they would already feel geometrical truth before the demonstration brought them complete knowledge. In the same way Schleiermacher speaks in his “Critique of Ethics” of logical and mathematical feeling (p. 339), and also of the feeling of the sameness or difference of two formulas (p. 342). Again Tennemann in his “History of Philosophy” (vol. I., p. 361) says, “One felt that the fallacies were not right, but could not point out the mistakes.” Now, so long as we do not regard this concept feeling from the right point of view, and do not recognise that one negative characteristic which alone is essential to it, it must constantly give occasion for misunderstanding and controversy, on account of the excessive wideness of its sphere, and its entirely negative and very limited content which is determined in a purely one-sided manner. Since then we have in German the nearly synonymous word empfindung (sensation), it would be convenient to make use of it for bodily feeling, as a sub-species. This concept “feeling,” which is quite out of proportion to all others, doubtless originated in the following manner. All concepts, and concepts alone, are denoted by words; they exist only for the reason, and proceed from it. With concepts, therefore, we are already at a one-sided point of view; but from such a point of view what is near appears distinct and is set down as positive, what is farther off becomes mixed up and is soon regarded as merely [pg 068] negative. Thus each nation calls all others foreign: to the Greek all others are barbarians; to the Englishman all that is not England or English is continent or continental; to the believer all others are heretics, or heathens; to the noble all others are roturiers; to the student all others are Philistines, and so forth. Now, reason itself, strange as it may seem, is guilty of the same one-sidedness, indeed one might say of the same crude ignorance arising from vanity, for it classes under the one concept, feeling,” every modification of consciousness which does not immediately belong to its own mode of apprehension, that is to say, which is not an abstract concept. It has had to pay the penalty of this hitherto in misunderstanding and confusion in its own province, because its own procedure had not become clear to it through thorough self-knowledge, for a special faculty of feeling has been set up, and new theories of it are constructed.

§ 11. In this context, the direct opposite of logical knowledge is feeling, so we need to explain feeling here. The concept that the word feeling represents has only a negative aspect, which means that something present in our consciousness is not an idea, is not theoretical rational knowledge. Beyond that, whatever it might be, it falls under the concept of feeling. Therefore, the incredibly wide range encompassed by the concept of feeling includes many different kinds of objects, and no one can fully understand how they connect until they recognize that they all share this negative trait: they are not abstract ideas. The most diverse and even opposing elements coexist peacefully within this concept; for example, religious feeling, the feeling of sensual pleasure, moral feeling, physical sensations like touch, pain, color perception, sound and their harmonies and discord; feelings of hate, disgust, self-satisfaction, honor, disgrace, right, wrong, a sense of truth, aesthetic feeling, feelings of power, weakness, health, friendship, love, etc. There is absolutely nothing in common among them except the negative quality of not being abstract rational knowledge. But this diversity becomes even more apparent when we include the perception of spatial relationships presented before the fact in experience, as well as the [pg 067] knowledge of pure understanding, all of which can be described as something we feel before we have expressed in abstract concepts. For illustration, I'd like to share some examples from recent books that clearly support my theory. I recall reading in the introduction to a German translation of Euclid that we should have beginners in geometry draw the figures before demonstrating, as this enables them to feel geometrical truth prior to the demonstration providing complete knowledge. Similarly, Schleiermacher discusses logical and mathematical feeling in his "Ethics Critique" (p. 339), as well as the feeling of sameness or difference between two formulas (p. 342). Again, Tennemann mentions in his "Philosophy History" (vol. I., p. 361), "One felt that the errors were incorrect but couldn't identify the mistakes." Now, as long as we do not view this concept “feeling” from the right perspective, and do not recognize that one negative characteristic that is essential to it, it will continually lead to misunderstanding and debate, due to its excessively broad scope and its entirely negative, very limited content that is defined in a one-sided manner. Since we have the nearly synonymous German word feeling (sensation), it would be practical to use this term for bodily feeling as a sub-category. This concept "feeling" which is quite disproportionate to all others, likely originated in the following way. All concepts, and concepts alone, are represented by words; they exist only because of reason, and arise from it. With concepts, we are already at a one-sided viewpoint; but from such a perspective, what is nearby appears clear and is labeled as positive, while what is further away becomes muddled and is typically seen as just [pg 068] negative. Thus, each nation refers to all others as foreign: to the Greek, all others are barbarians; to the Englishman, all that is not England or English is continental; to the believer, all others are heretics or heathens; to the noble, everyone else is commoners; to the student, all others are Philistines, and so on. Now, reason itself, strange as it may seem, is guilty of the same one-sidedness; indeed, one could argue it suffers from a similar crude ignorance stemming from vanity, as it categorizes every modification of consciousness that does not directly pertain to its own way of understanding—specifically, what isn't an abstract concept—under the single concept of “*feeling*.” It has had to face the consequences of this misunderstanding and confusion in its own realm because its own methods have not been clarified through thorough self-knowledge, leading to the establishment of a distinct faculty of feeling and the development of new theories about it.

§ 12. Rational knowledge (wissen) is then all abstract knowledge,—that is, the knowledge which is peculiar to the reason as distinguished from the understanding. Its contradictory opposite has just been explained to be the concept “feeling.” Now, as reason only reproduces, for knowledge, what has been received in another way, it does not actually extend our knowledge, but only gives it another form. It enables us to know in the abstract and generally, what first became known in sense-perception, in the concrete. But this is much more important than it appears at first sight when so expressed. For it depends entirely upon the fact that knowledge has become rational or abstract knowledge (wissen), that it can be safely preserved, that it is communicable and susceptible of certain and wide-reaching application to practice. Knowledge in the form of sense-perception is valid only of the particular case, extends only to what is nearest, and ends with it, for sensibility and understanding can only comprehend one object at a time. Every [pg 069] enduring, arranged, and planned activity must therefore proceed from principles,—that is, from abstract knowledge, and it must be conducted in accordance with them. Thus, for example, the knowledge of the relation of cause and effect arrived at by the understanding, is in itself far completer, deeper and more exhaustive than anything that can be thought about it in the abstract; the understanding alone knows in perception directly and completely the nature of the effect of a lever, of a pulley, or a cog-wheel, the stability of an arch, and so forth. But on account of the peculiarity of the knowledge of perception just referred to, that it only extends to what is immediately present, the mere understanding can never enable us to construct machines and buildings. Here reason must come in; it must substitute abstract concepts for ideas of perception, and take them as the guide of action; and if they are right, the anticipated result will happen. In the same way we have perfect knowledge in pure perception of the nature and constitution of the parabola, hyperbola, and spiral; but if we are to make trustworthy application of this knowledge to the real, it must first become abstract knowledge, and by this it certainly loses its character of intuition or perception, but on the other hand it gains the certainty and preciseness of abstract knowledge. The differential calculus does not really extend our knowledge of the curve, it contains nothing that was not already in the mere pure perception of the curve; but it alters the kind of knowledge, it changes the intuitive into an abstract knowledge, which is so valuable for application. But here we must refer to another peculiarity of our faculty of knowledge, which could not be observed until the distinction between the knowledge of the senses and understanding and abstract knowledge had been made quite clear. It is this, that relations of space cannot as such be directly translated into abstract knowledge, but only temporal quantities,—that is, numbers, are suitable for this. [pg 070] Numbers alone can be expressed in abstract concepts which accurately correspond to them, not spacial quantities. The concept “thousand” is just as different from the concept “ten,” as both these temporal quantities are in perception. We think of a thousand as a distinct multiple of ten, into which we can resolve it at pleasure for perception in time,—that is to say, we can count it. But between the abstract concept of a mile and that of a foot, apart from any concrete perception of either, and without the help of number, there is no accurate distinction corresponding to the quantities themselves. In both we only think of a spacial quantity in general, and if they must be completely distinguished we are compelled either to call in the assistance of intuition or perception in space, which would be a departure from abstract knowledge, or we must think the difference in numbers. If then we wish to have abstract knowledge of space-relations we must first translate them into time-relations,—that is, into numbers; therefore only arithmetic, and not geometry, is the universal science of quantity, and geometry must be translated into arithmetic if it is to be communicable, accurately precise and applicable in practice. It is true that a space-relation as such may also be thought in the abstract; for example, “the sine increases as the angle,” but if the quantity of this relation is to be given, it requires number for its expression. This necessity, that if we wish to have abstract knowledge of space-relations (i.e., rational knowledge, not mere intuition or perception), space with its three dimensions must be translated into time which has only one dimension, this necessity it is, which makes mathematics so difficult. This becomes very clear if we compare the perception of curves with their analytical calculation, or the table of logarithms of the trigonometrical functions with the perception of the changing relations of the parts of a triangle, which are expressed by them. What vast mazes of figures, what laborious calculations [pg 071] it would require to express in the abstract what perception here apprehends at a glance completely and with perfect accuracy, namely, how the co-sine diminishes as the sine increases, how the co-sine of one angle is the sine of another, the inverse relation of the increase and decrease of the two angles, and so forth. How time, we might say, must complain, that with its one dimension it should be compelled to express the three dimensions of space! Yet this is necessary if we wish to possess, for application, an expression, in abstract concepts, of space-relations. They could not be translated directly into abstract concepts, but only through the medium of the pure temporal quantity, number, which alone is directly related to abstract knowledge. Yet it is worthy of remark, that as space adapts itself so well to perception, and by means of its three dimensions, even its complicated relations are easily apprehended, while it eludes the grasp of abstract knowledge; time, on the contrary, passes easily into abstract knowledge, but gives very little to perception. Our perceptions of numbers in their proper element, mere time, without the help of space, scarcely extends as far as ten, and beyond that we have only abstract concepts of numbers, no knowledge of them which can be presented in perception. On the other hand, we connect with every numeral, and with all algebraical symbols, accurately defined abstract concepts.

§ 12. Rational knowledge (know) is all abstract knowledge—that is, knowledge that is specific to reason, as opposed to understanding. Its direct opposite has just been described as the concept "feeling." Since reason only replicates, for knowledge, what has been obtained in other ways, it doesn’t actually broaden our knowledge but simply reshapes it. It allows us to understand abstractly and generally what was first perceived in concrete situations. This distinction is far more significant than it seems at first glance. The very fact that knowledge has become rational or abstract (know) ensures that it can be reliably preserved, communicated, and applied broadly in practice. Knowledge through sense-perception is only valid for specific cases, limited to what is immediately present, and ends there, as sensitivity and understanding can only grasp one object at a time. Every [pg 069] enduring, organized, and planned action must therefore start from principles—that is, from abstract knowledge—and be guided by these principles. For instance, the understanding of cause and effect derived from understanding itself is far more complete, profound, and thorough than anything we can think about abstractly; the understanding alone can directly and fully grasp the nature of the effects of a lever, a pulley, or a gear, the stability of an arch, and so on. However, due to the nature of perception-based knowledge, which only applies to what is immediately present, mere understanding cannot enable us to construct machines and buildings. Here, reason must step in; it must replace perceptual ideas with abstract concepts and use them as a guide for action; if they are correct, the expected outcome will occur. Similarly, we have complete knowledge in pure perception of the properties and structure of the parabola, hyperbola, and spiral; but to reliably apply this knowledge to reality, it must first become abstract knowledge, and while it loses its intuitive or perceptual character in the process, it gains the certainty and precision of abstract knowledge. The differential calculus doesn’t actually expand our understanding of the curve; it doesn’t contain anything that isn’t already in the pure perception of the curve; instead, it transforms the type of knowledge from an intuitive form to abstract knowledge, which is invaluable for application. However, we must acknowledge another distinction in our capacity for knowledge, which only became clear after the differentiation between sensory understanding and abstract knowledge was fully established. This distinction is that spatial relations cannot be directly translated into abstract knowledge; only temporal quantities—meaning numbers—are suitable for this. [pg 070] Numbers alone can be expressed in abstract concepts that directly correspond to them, not spatial quantities. The concept “1,000” is as different from the concept "10," as those two temporal quantities are in perception. We think of a thousand as a distinct multiple of ten, which we can break down as needed for perception in time—that is, we can count it. But there is no accurate distinction corresponding to the quantities themselves between the abstract concepts of a mile and a foot without any concrete perception or the help of numbers. In both cases, we only think of a spatial quantity in general, and if we need to distinguish them completely, we’re forced either to rely on intuition or perception in space— which would mean departing from abstract knowledge—or think of the difference in numbers. Thus, to achieve abstract knowledge of spatial relationships, we must first translate them into temporal relationships—that is, into numbers; therefore, only arithmetic, not geometry, is the universal science of quantity, and geometry must be translated into arithmetic if it is to be communicated, precisely defined, and practically applicable. It is true that a spatial relationship can also be conceptualized abstractly—for example, "the sine increases as the angle does," but expressing the quantity of this relationship requires numbers. This necessity—that if we desire abstract knowledge of spatial relationships (i.e., rational knowledge, not just intuition or perception)—space, with its three dimensions, must be translated into time, which has only one dimension, makes mathematics particularly challenging. This becomes very apparent when we compare the perception of curves with their analytical calculations, or the logarithmic tables of trigonometric functions with our perception of the changing relationships of triangle parts, which they express. What extensive calculations and complex number work would be needed to represent in abstract form what perception captures instantly and with perfect accuracy: how the co-sine decreases as the sine increases, how the co-sine of one angle corresponds to the sine of another, the inverse relationship between the increases and decreases of the two angles, and more. Time, we might say, must be frustrated, as it is compelled to express the three dimensions of space through its singular dimension! Yet, this is necessary if we want to have an expression of spatial relationships in abstract concepts for practical use. They cannot be directly translated into abstract concepts but only through the medium of pure temporal quantity, which is number, as it is the only one directly related to abstract knowledge. It is worth noting that while space aligns seamlessly with perception, and due to its three dimensions even its intricate relations are easily grasped, it remains elusive for abstract knowledge; time, on the other hand, transitions smoothly into abstract knowledge but offers very little for perception. Our perceptions of numbers in their own context, simply time, without the aid of space, barely stretch to ten, and beyond that, we possess only abstract concepts of numbers, with no knowledge of them that can be experienced perceptually. Conversely, we connect every numeral and all algebraic symbols with precisely defined abstract concepts.

We may further remark here that some minds only find full satisfaction in what is known through perception. What they seek is the reason and consequent of being in space, sensuously expressed; a demonstration after the manner of Euclid, or an arithmetical solution of spacial problems, does not please them. Other minds, on the contrary, seek merely the abstract concepts which are needful for applying and communicating knowledge. They have patience and memory for abstract principles, formulas, demonstrations in long trains of reasoning, and calculations, in which the symbols represent the most [pg 072] complicated abstractions. The latter seek preciseness, the former sensible perception. The difference is characteristic.

Some people only feel truly satisfied with what they understand through direct experience. They want the reasons and consequences of existing in space to be expressed in a tangible way; they aren't impressed by demonstrations like Euclid's or mathematical solutions to spatial problems. On the other hand, some people are only interested in the abstract concepts necessary for applying and sharing knowledge. They have the patience and memory for abstract principles, formulas, lengthy reasoning processes, and calculations, where symbols stand for very complicated ideas. The former group looks for concrete experiences, while the latter seeks precision. This difference is significant.

The greatest value of rational or abstract knowledge is that it can be communicated and permanently retained. It is principally on this account that it is so inestimably important for practice. Any one may have a direct perceptive knowledge through the understanding alone, of the causal connection, of the changes and motions of natural bodies, and he may find entire satisfaction in it; but he cannot communicate this knowledge to others until it has been made permanent for thought in concepts. Knowledge of the first kind is even sufficient for practice, if a man puts his knowledge into practice himself, in an action which can be accomplished while the perception is still vivid; but it is not sufficient if the help of others is required, or even if the action is his own but must be carried out at different times, and therefore requires a pre-conceived plan. Thus, for example, a practised billiard-player may have a perfect knowledge of the laws of the impact of elastic bodies upon each other, merely in the understanding, merely for direct perception; and for him it is quite sufficient; but on the other hand it is only the man who has studied the science of mechanics, who has, properly speaking, a rational knowledge of these laws, that is, a knowledge of them in the abstract. Such knowledge of the understanding in perception is sufficient even for the construction of machines, when the inventor of the machine executes the work himself; as we often see in the case of talented workmen, who have no scientific knowledge. But whenever a number of men, and their united action taking place at different times, is required for the completion of a mechanical work, of a machine, or a building, then he who conducts it must have thought out the plan in the abstract, and such co-operative activity is only possible through the assistance of reason. It is, however, remarkable that in [pg 073] the first kind of activity, in which we have supposed that one man alone, in an uninterrupted course of action, accomplishes something, abstract knowledge, the application of reason or reflection, may often be a hindrance to him; for example, in the case of billiard-playing, of fighting, of tuning an instrument, or in the case of singing. Here perceptive knowledge must directly guide action; its passage through reflection makes it uncertain, for it divides the attention and confuses the man. Thus savages and untaught men, who are little accustomed to think, perform certain physical exercises, fight with beasts, shoot with bows and arrows and the like, with a certainty and rapidity which the reflecting European never attains to, just because his deliberation makes him hesitate and delay. For he tries, for example, to hit the right position or the right point of time, by finding out the mean between two false extremes; while the savage hits it directly without thinking of the false courses open to him. In the same way it is of no use to me to know in the abstract the exact angle, in degrees and minutes, at which I must apply a razor, if I do not know it intuitively, that is, if I have not got it in my touch. The knowledge of physiognomy also, is interfered with by the application of reason. This knowledge must be gained directly through the understanding. We say that the expression, the meaning of the features, can only be felt, that is, it cannot be put into abstract concepts. Every man has his direct intuitive method of physiognomy and pathognomy, yet one man understands more clearly than another these signatura rerum. But an abstract science of physiognomy to be taught and learned is not possible; for the distinctions of difference are here so fine that concepts cannot reach them; therefore abstract knowledge is related to them as a mosaic is to a painting by a Van der Werft or a Denner. In mosaics, however fine they may be, the limits of the stones are always there, and therefore no continuous passage from [pg 074] one colour to another is possible, and this is also the case with regard to concepts, with their rigidity and sharp delineation; however finely we may divide them by exact definition, they are still incapable of reaching the finer modifications of the perceptible, and this is just what happens in the example we have taken, knowledge of physiognomy.16

The greatest value of rational or abstract knowledge is that it can be communicated and permanently retained. This is why it's incredibly important for practical application. Anyone can have direct, perceptive knowledge through understanding alone of the cause-and-effect relationships, changes, and motions of natural bodies, finding complete satisfaction in it; however, they cannot share this knowledge with others until it has been made permanent for thought in concepts. The first type of knowledge is often sufficient for practice if a person applies it themselves in an immediate action; but it falls short if others need to be involved or if the action must occur over different times and therefore requires a pre-planned approach. For instance, a skilled billiards player may have perfect knowledge of the laws governing the impacts of elastic bodies solely through understanding and direct perception, which is entirely sufficient for him. Conversely, only someone who has studied mechanics has what we can call rational knowledge of these laws, meaning knowledge in an abstract sense. This understanding is adequate even for building machines when the inventor executes the work personally, as often seen with talented craftsmen who lack formal scientific knowledge. Yet, when multiple people are needed to collectively complete mechanical work, a machine, or a building over time, the person leading the effort must have thought out the plan abstractly, and such cooperative activity relies on rational assistance. It's interesting to note that in [pg 073] cases where an individual performs a task in an uninterrupted manner, applying rational thought or reflection can actually hinder them. For example, in billiards, combat, tuning an instrument, or singing, direct perceptive knowledge must guide the action; involving reflection can cause uncertainty by splitting attention and creating confusion. As a result, uncivilized individuals and those unused to thinking are often able to carry out physical tasks, hunt animals, and shoot arrows with a speed and accuracy that a reflecting European may never achieve, simply because deliberation causes hesitation. They try, for instance, to find the right position or timing by weighing two extremes, while the savage instinctively hits the target without dwelling on false options. Similarly, knowing the exact angle in degrees and minutes for using a razor becomes useless if I don't instinctively understand it, that is, if I can't feel it through touch. The knowledge of physiognomy is also disrupted by rational thought. This understanding must come directly from perception. We say that the expression and meaning of facial features can only be felt, meaning it cannot be expressed in abstract concepts. Everyone has their own intuitive way of reading faces and emotions, though some people are better at deciphering these signature of things. However, an abstract science of physiognomy that can be taught and learned does not exist; the subtle differences are too fine for concepts to capture. Thus, abstract knowledge is like a mosaic compared to a painting by Van der Werft or Denner. In mosaics, no matter how fine, the boundaries of the stones are always visible, preventing a smooth transition from one color to the next, just as concepts remain rigid and sharply defined; even with precise definitions, they can't convey the finer details of perception, as illustrated by our example of physiognomy.16

This quality of concepts by which they resemble the stones of a mosaic, and on account of which perception always remains their asymptote, is also the reason why nothing good is produced in art by their means. If the singer or the virtuoso attempts to guide his execution by reflection he remains silent. And this is equally true of the composer, the painter, and the poet. The concept always remains unfruitful in art; it can only direct the technical part of it, its sphere is science. We shall consider more fully in the third book, why all true art proceeds from sensuous knowledge, never from the concept. Indeed, with regard to behaviour also, and personal agreeableness in society, the concept has only a negative value in restraining the grosser manifestations of egotism and brutality; so that a polished manner is its commendable production. But all that is attractive, gracious, charming in behaviour, all affectionateness and friendliness, must not proceed from the concepts, for if it does, “we feel intention, and are put out of tune.” All dissimulation is the work of reflection; but it cannot be maintained constantly and without interruption: nemo [pg 075]potest personam diu ferre fictum,” says Seneca in his book de clementia; and so it is generally found out and loses its effect. Reason is needed in the full stress of life, where quick conclusions, bold action, rapid and sure comprehension are required, but it may easily spoil all if it gains the upper hand, and by perplexing hinders the intuitive, direct discovery, and grasp of the right by simple understanding, and thus induces irresolution.

This quality of concepts, which makes them similar to the pieces of a mosaic, and the reason perception always remains just out of reach, is also why art fails to produce anything truly good through them. When a singer or a virtuoso tries to guide their performance through thought, they end up being silent. This is equally true for composers, painters, and poets. Concepts remain unproductive in art; they can only guide the technical aspects, while their domain is science. We will discuss more in detail in the third book why all genuine art arises from sensory experience, never from concepts. In terms of behavior and personal charm in society, concepts have a negative value, only serving to restrain coarser expressions of selfishness and brutality, resulting in good manners as their only notable achievement. However, everything appealing, graceful, or charming in behavior—warmth and friendliness—must not emerge from concepts because when it does, "We sense intention and feel out of sync." All deceit comes from reflection, but it can’t be maintained continuously and without interruption: no one [pg 075]can wear a false identity for long,” as Seneca states in his book on mercy; and thus it is usually discovered and loses its effectiveness. Reason is needed in the midst of life’s demands, where quick conclusions, bold actions, and rapid, clear understanding are necessary, but if it takes over, it can easily ruin everything by complicating matters and obstructing the intuitive, direct grasp of the right through simple understanding, leading to indecision.

Lastly, virtue and holiness do not proceed from reflection, but from the inner depths of the will, and its relation to knowledge. The exposition of this belongs to another part of our work; this, however, I may remark here, that the dogmas relating to ethics may be the same in the reason of whole nations, but the action of every individual different; and the converse also holds good; action, we say, is guided by feelings,—that is, simply not by concepts, but as a matter of fact by the ethical character. Dogmas occupy the idle reason; but action in the end pursues its own course independently of them, generally not according to abstract rules, but according to unspoken maxims, the expression of which is the whole man himself. Therefore, however different the religious dogmas of nations may be, yet in the case of all of them, a good action is accompanied by unspeakable satisfaction, and a bad action by endless remorse. No mockery can shake the former; no priest's absolution can deliver from the latter. Notwithstanding this, we must allow, that for the pursuit of a virtuous life, the application of reason is needful; only it is not its source, but has the subordinate function of preserving resolutions which have been made, of providing maxims to withstand the weakness of the moment, and give consistency to action. It plays the same part ultimately in art also, where it has just as little to do with the essential matter, but assists in carrying it out, for genius is not always at call, and yet the work must be completed in all its parts and rounded off to a whole.17

Lastly, virtue and holiness don't come from just thinking about them, but from the deep parts of our will and how it connects to knowledge. We’ll discuss this in more detail later; however, I want to point out here that while ethical beliefs can be the same for entire nations, the actions of individuals can vary greatly. The opposite is also true; we say that actions are guided by emotions—meaning they aren’t just based on concepts but are driven by a person's ethical character. Beliefs might occupy the idle mind, but in the end, actions go their own way, often not following abstract rules but instead guided by unspoken principles reflected in the individual. Therefore, no matter how different the religious beliefs of nations may be, for all of them, good actions bring indescribable satisfaction, while bad actions lead to endless guilt. No mockery can undermine the former; no priest's forgiveness can free one from the latter. Still, we must acknowledge that reasoning is necessary for pursuing a virtuous life. However, reason is not the source of virtue; it serves a supportive role by helping maintain decisions that have been made, offering guidelines to resist the temptations of the moment, and ensuring consistency in action. Reason plays a similar role in art as well, where it’s also not concerned with the core essence but helps in executing it. Genius isn’t always readily available, yet the work must be completed in its entirety and polished into a cohesive whole. 17

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§ 13. All these discussions of the advantages and disadvantages of the application of reason are intended to show, that although abstract rational knowledge is the reflex of ideas of perception, and is founded on them, it is by no means in such entire congruity with them that it could everywhere take their place: indeed it never corresponds to them quite accurately. And thus, as we have seen, many human actions can only be performed by the help of reason and deliberation, and yet there are some which are better performed without its assistance. This very incongruity of sensuous and abstract knowledge, on account of which the latter always merely approximates to the former, as mosaic approximates to painting, is the cause of a very remarkable phenomenon which, like reason itself, is peculiar to human nature, and of which the explanations that have ever anew been attempted, are insufficient: I mean laughter. On account of the source of this phenomenon, we cannot avoid giving the explanation of it here, though it again interrupts the course of our work to do so. The cause of laughter in every case is simply the sudden perception of the incongruity between a concept and the real objects which have been thought through it in some relation, and laughter itself is just the expression of this incongruity. It often occurs in this way: two or more real objects are thought through one concept, and the identity of the concept is transferred to the objects; it then becomes strikingly apparent from the entire difference of the objects in other respects, that the concept was only applicable to them from a one-sided point of view. It occurs just as often, however, that the incongruity between a single real object and the concept under which, from one point of view, it has rightly been subsumed, is suddenly felt. Now the more correct the subsumption of such objects under a concept may be from one point of view, and the greater and more glaring their incongruity with it, from another point of view, the greater is [pg 077] the ludicrous effect which is produced by this contrast. All laughter then is occasioned by a paradox, and therefore by unexpected subsumption, whether this is expressed in words or in actions. This, briefly stated, is the true explanation of the ludicrous.

§ 13. All these discussions about the pros and cons of using reason aim to show that while abstract rational knowledge reflects perceptual ideas and is based on them, it doesn’t completely match them, so it can’t fully replace them. In fact, it never aligns with them perfectly. As we've seen, many human actions can only be carried out with the help of reason and careful thought, but there are some that are actually better done without it. This mismatch between sensory and abstract knowledge, where the latter only comes close to the former, like mosaic art approaching painting, leads to a very interesting phenomenon that, just like reason itself, is unique to human nature, and the explanations offered for it have always fallen short: I mean laughing. Because of the nature of this phenomenon, we can't help but explain it here, even though it interrupts our work. The cause of laughter is simply the sudden realization of the incongruity between a concept and the real objects connected to it in some way, and laughter itself is the expression of that inconsistency. It often happens like this: two or more real objects are viewed through one concept, and the idea is wrongly applied to the objects; it then becomes glaringly obvious due to the significant differences among the objects that the concept only fits them from a limited perspective. However, it also frequently occurs that the incongruity between a single real object and the concept under which it has rightly been categorized from one perspective is suddenly recognized. The more accurate the classification of such objects under a concept may be from one angle, and the greater and more obvious their incongruity with it from another angle, the more pronounced the humorous effect caused by this contrast. Therefore, all laughter results from a paradox, and thus from unexpected classification, whether this is shown in words or actions. This, in short, is the real explanation of what’s funny.

I shall not pause here to relate anecdotes as examples to illustrate my theory; for it is so simple and comprehensible that it does not require them, and everything ludicrous which the reader may remember is equally valuable as a proof of it. But the theory is confirmed and illustrated by distinguishing two species into which the ludicrous is divided, and which result from the theory. Either, we have previously known two or more very different real objects, ideas of sense-perception, and have intentionally identified them through the unity of a concept which comprehends them both; this species of the ludicrous is called wit. Or, conversely, the concept is first present in knowledge, and we pass from it to reality, and to operation upon it, to action: objects which in other respects are fundamentally different, but which are all thought in that one concept, are now regarded and treated in the same way, till, to the surprise and astonishment of the person acting, the great difference of their other aspects appears: this species of the ludicrous is called folly. Therefore everything ludicrous is either a flash of wit or a foolish action, according as the procedure has been from the discrepancy of the objects to the identity of the concept, or the converse; the former always intentional, the latter always unintentional, and from without. To seem to reverse the starting-point, and to conceal wit with the mask of folly, is the art of the jester and the clown. Being quite aware of the diversity of the objects, the jester unites them, with secret wit, under one concept, and then starting from this concept he receives from the subsequently discovered diversity of the objects the surprise which he himself prepared. It follows from this short but [pg 078] sufficient theory of the ludicrous, that, if we set aside the last case, that of the jester, wit must always show itself in words, folly generally in actions, though also in words, when it only expresses an intention and does not actually carry it out, or when it shows itself merely in judgments and opinions.

I won't stop here to share stories as examples to explain my theory; it's so straightforward and easy to understand that it doesn’t need them, and anything ridiculous the reader might recall is just as valid as evidence of it. However, the theory is supported and explained by dividing humor into two types that stem from the theory. First, we may have previously known two or more very different real objects or sensory ideas and have intentionally linked them through a common concept that encompasses them both; this type of humor is called humor. Alternatively, the concept might initially exist in our minds, and we move from it to reality, taking action: objects that are otherwise fundamentally different but are all considered within that single concept are now viewed and treated the same way, until the significant differences in their other characteristics emerge, surprising and astonishing the person acting; this type of humor is called foolishness. Thus, everything humorous is either a spark of wit or a foolish action, depending on whether the process moves from the difference between the objects to the unity of the concept, or vice versa; the former is always intentional, while the latter is always unintentional and external. To seem to flip the starting point and disguise wit as folly is the skill of the jester and the clown. Fully aware of the differences among the objects, the jester cleverly unites them under one concept, and from this concept, he derives surprise from the newly discovered differences among the objects that he himself has set up. It follows from this brief yet [pg 078] sufficient theory of humor that, aside from the last case concerning the jester, wit must always be expressed in words, while folly generally comes out in actions but can also appear in words, when it merely conveys an intention without actually carrying it out, or when it manifests solely in judgments and opinions.

Pedantry is a form of folly. It arises in this way: a man lacks confidence in his own understanding, and, therefore, does not wish to trust to it, to recognise what is right directly in the particular case. He, therefore, puts it entirely under the control of the reason, and seeks to be guided by reason in everything; that is to say, he tries always to proceed from general concepts, rules, and maxims, and to confine himself strictly to them in life, in art, and even in moral conduct. Hence that clinging to the form, to the manner, to the expression and word which is characteristic of pedantry, and which with it takes the place of the real nature of the matter. The incongruity then between the concept and reality soon shows itself here, and it becomes evident that the former never condescends to the particular case, and that with its generality and rigid definiteness it can never accurately apply to the fine distinctions of difference and innumerable modifications of the actual. Therefore, the pedant, with his general maxims, almost always misses the mark in life, shows himself to be foolish, awkward, useless. In art, in which the concept is unfruitful, he produces lifeless, stiff, abortive mannerisms. Even with regard to ethics, the purpose to act rightly or nobly cannot always be carried out in accordance with abstract maxims; for in many cases the excessively nice distinctions in the nature of the circumstances necessitate a choice of the right proceeding directly from the character; for the application of mere abstract maxims sometimes gives false results, because the maxims only half apply; and sometimes cannot be carried out, because they are foreign to the [pg 079] individual character of the actor, and this never allows itself to be entirely discovered; therefore, inconsistencies arise. Since then Kant makes it a condition of the moral worth of an action, that it shall proceed from pure rational abstract maxims, without any inclination or momentary emotion, we cannot entirely absolve him from the reproach of encouraging moral pedantry. This reproach is the significance of Schiller's epigram, entitled “Scruples of Conscience.” When we speak, especially in connection with politics, of doctrinaires, theorists, savants, and so forth, we mean pedants, that is, persons who know the things well in the abstract, but not in the concrete. Abstraction consists in thinking away the less general predicates; but it is precisely upon these that so much depends in practice.

Nitpicking is a kind of foolishness. It happens when a person lacks confidence in their own understanding and, therefore, doesn't trust their judgment to recognize what is right in a specific situation. Instead, they rely entirely on reason and try to guide their actions based on general concepts, rules, and maxims, strictly sticking to these in life, art, and even moral behavior. This leads to a focus on form, manner, expression, and wording that is typical of pedantry, which replaces the true essence of the matter. Consequently, the gap between concept and reality quickly becomes apparent, and it's clear that the former does not account for the specific case. Its generality and rigidity can never accurately address the subtle distinctions and countless variations of real life. As a result, the pedant, relying on generic principles, often fails in life, appearing foolish, clumsy, and ineffective. In art, where concepts are unproductive, they create lifeless, stiff, and unsuccessful imitations. Even in ethics, the aim to act rightly or nobly cannot always align with abstract maxims, as many situations require decisions based on character instead of rigid rules. The application of these abstract maxims sometimes yields misleading outcomes because they only partially apply and can often be impossible to implement, as they do not fit with the unique character of the individual, leading to discrepancies. Since Kant posits that the moral value of an action must come from pure rational abstract maxims, free from any personal inclination or emotional response, we cannot entirely dismiss the criticism that he promotes moral pedantry. This criticism is central to Schiller's epigram titled “Conscience Dilemmas.” When we discuss doctrinaires, theorists, learned individuals, and others in politics, we are referring to pedants—those who understand abstract concepts well but struggle with real-world applications. Abstraction involves disregarding less general predicates, but it's these very details that are crucial in practice.

To complete our theory it remains for us to mention a spurious kind of wit, the play upon words, the calembourg, the pun, to which may be added the equivocation, the double entendre, the chief use of which is the expression of what is obscene. Just as the witticism brings two very different real objects under one concept, the pun brings two different concepts, by the assistance of accident, under one word. The same contrast appears, only familiar and more superficial, because it does not spring from the nature of things, but merely from the accident of nomenclature. In the case of the witticism the identity is in the concept, the difference in the reality, but in the case of the pun the difference is in the concepts and the identity in the reality, for the terminology is here the reality. It would only be a somewhat far-fetched comparison if we were to say that the pun is related to the witticism as the parabola (sic) of the upper inverted cone to that of the lower. The misunderstanding of the word or the quid pro quo is the unintentional pun, and is related to it exactly as folly is to wit. Thus the deaf man often affords occasion for laughter, just as much as the fool, and inferior writers [pg 080] of comedy often use the former for the latter to raise a laugh.

To complete our theory, we need to mention a false kind of wit: wordplay, the pun, which is also known as a calembour. This includes equivocation and the double meaning, primarily used to express something obscene. While a witticism combines two very different real objects under one concept, a pun connects two different concepts through chance under a single word. The same contrast exists, but it’s more familiar and superficial here because it doesn't arise from the nature of things, but rather from the accidents of naming. In a witticism, the identity lies in the concept while the difference is in reality; with a pun, the difference is in the concepts and the identity is in reality, as the terminology is the reality. Comparing puns to witticisms could be like relating the parabola of the upper inverted cone to that of the lower; it's a bit of a stretch. Misunderstanding a word or a this for that produces an unintentional pun, akin to the relationship between folly and wit. Thus, a deaf person can often be a source of laughter, just like a fool, and lesser comedy writers [pg 080] often use the former to mimic the latter for comedic effect.

I have treated laughter here only from the psychical side; with regard to the physical side, I refer to what is said on the subject in the “Parerga,” vol. II. ch. vi., § 98.18

I have discussed laughter here only from the psychological perspective; for the physical aspect, I refer to what is mentioned on the topic in the “Parerga,” vol. II, ch. vi, § 98.18

§ 14. By means of these various discussions it is hoped that both the difference and the relation between the process of knowledge that belongs to the reason, rational knowledge, the concept on the one hand, and the direct knowledge in purely sensuous, mathematical intuition or perception, and apprehension by the understanding on the other hand, has been clearly brought out. This remarkable relation of our kinds of knowledge led us almost inevitably to give, in passing, explanations of feeling and of laughter, but from all this we now turn back to the further consideration of science as the third great benefit which reason confers on man, the other two being speech and deliberate action. The general discussion of science which now devolves upon us, will be concerned partly with its form, partly with the foundation of its judgments, and lastly with its content.

§ 14. Through these various discussions, we hope to clarify both the distinction and the connection between the type of knowledge that comes from reason—rational knowledge and concepts—and the immediate knowledge we gain from pure sensory experience, mathematical intuition, or understanding. This interesting connection between our different kinds of knowledge naturally leads us to briefly explain emotions and laughter. However, we will now shift our focus back to the further examination of science, which is the third major benefit that reason provides to humanity, alongside language and intentional action. The upcoming discussion of science will cover its structure, the basis of its judgments, and finally, its content.

We have seen that, with the exception of the basis of pure logic, rational knowledge in general has not its source in the reason itself; but having been otherwise obtained as knowledge of perception, it is stored up in the reason, for through reason it has entirely changed its character, and has become abstract knowledge. All rational knowledge, that is, knowledge that has been raised to consciousness in the abstract, is related to science strictly so called, as a fragment to the whole. Every one has gained a rational knowledge of many different things through experience, through consideration of the individual objects presented to him, but only he who sets himself the task of acquiring a complete knowledge in the abstract of a particular class of objects, strives after science. This class can only be marked off [pg 081] by means of a concept; therefore, at the beginning of every science there stands a concept, and by means of it the class of objects concerning which this science promises a complete knowledge in the abstract, is separated in thought from the whole world of things. For example, the concept of space-relations, or of the action of unorganised bodies upon each other, or of the nature of plants, or of animals, or of the successive changes of the surface of the globe, or of the changes of the human race as a whole, or of the construction of a language, and so forth. If science sought to obtain the knowledge of its object, by investigating each individual thing that is thought through the concept, till by degrees it had learned the whole, no human memory would be equal to the task, and no certainty of completeness would be obtainable. Therefore, it makes use of that property of concept-spheres explained above, that they include each other, and it concerns itself mainly with the wider spheres which lie within the concept of its object in general. When the relations of these spheres to each other have been determined, all that is thought in them is also generally determined, and can now be more and more accurately determined by the separation of smaller and smaller concept-spheres. In this way it is possible for a science to comprehend its object completely. This path which it follows to knowledge, the path from the general to the particular, distinguishes it from ordinary rational knowledge; therefore, systematic form is an essential and characteristic feature of science. The combination of the most general concept-spheres of every science, that is, the knowledge of its first principles, is the indispensable condition of mastering it; how far we advance from these to the more special propositions is a matter of choice, and does not increase the thoroughness but only the extent of our knowledge of the science. The number of the first principles to which all the rest are subordinated, varies greatly in the different sciences, [pg 082] so that in some there is more subordination, in others more co-ordination; and in this respect, the former make greater claims upon the judgment, the latter upon the memory. It was known to the schoolmen,19 that, as the syllogism requires two premises, no science can proceed from a single first principle which cannot be the subject of further deduction, but must have several, at least two. The specially classifying sciences: Zoology, Botany, and also Physics and Chemistry, inasmuch as they refer all inorganic action to a few fundamental forces, have most subordination; history, on the other hand, has really none at all; for the general in it consists merely in the survey of the principal periods, from which, however, the particular events cannot be deduced, and are only subordinated to them according to time, but according to the concept are co-ordinate with them. Therefore, history, strictly speaking, is certainly rational knowledge, but is not science. In mathematics, according to Euclid's treatment, the axioms alone are indemonstrable first principles, and all demonstrations are in gradation strictly subordinated to them. But this method of treatment is not essential to mathematics, and in fact each proposition introduces quite a new space construction, which in itself is independent of those which precede it, and indeed can be completely comprehended from itself, quite independently of them, in the pure intuition or perception of space, in which the most complicated construction is just as directly evident as the axiom; but of this more fully hereafter. Meanwhile every mathematical proposition remains always a universal truth, which is valid for innumerable particular cases; and a graduated process from the simple to the complicated propositions which are to be deduced from them, is also essential to mathematics; therefore, in every respect mathematics is a science. The completeness of a science as such, that is, in respect of form, consists in there being as much subordination and as little [pg 083] co-ordination of the principles as possible. Scientific talent in general is, therefore, the faculty of subordinating the concept-spheres according to their different determinations, so that, as Plato repeatedly counsels, a science shall not be constituted by a general concept and an indefinite multiplicity immediately under it, but that knowledge shall descend by degrees from the general to the particular, through intermediate concepts and divisions, according to closer and closer definitions. In Kantian language this is called satisfying equally the law of homogeneity and that of specification. It arises from this peculiar nature of scientific completeness, that the aim of science is not greater certainty—for certainty may be possessed in just as high a degree by the most disconnected particular knowledge—but its aim is rather the facilitating of rational knowledge by means of its form, and the possibility of the completeness of rational knowledge which this form affords. It is therefore a very prevalent but perverted opinion that the scientific character of knowledge consists in its greater certainty, and just as false is the conclusion following from this, that, strictly speaking, the only sciences are mathematics and logic, because only in them, on account of their purely a priori character, is there unassailable certainty of knowledge. This advantage cannot be denied them, but it gives them no special claim to be regarded as sciences; for the special characteristic of science does not lie in certainty but in the systematic form of knowledge, based on the gradual descent from the general to the particular. The process of knowledge from the general to the particular, which is peculiar to the sciences, involves the necessity that in the sciences much should be established by deduction from preceding propositions, that is to say, by demonstration; and this has given rise to the old mistake that only what has been demonstrated is absolutely true, and that every truth requires a demonstration; whereas, on the contrary, every demonstration [pg 084] requires an undemonstrated truth, which ultimately supports it, or it may be, its own demonstration. Therefore a directly established truth is as much to be preferred to a truth established by demonstration as water from the spring is to water from the aqueduct. Perception, partly pure a priori, as it forms the basis of mathematics, partly empirical a posteriori, as it forms the basis of all the other sciences, is the source of all truth and the foundation of all science. (Logic alone is to be excepted, which is not founded upon perception but yet upon direct knowledge by the reason of its own laws.) Not the demonstrated judgments nor their demonstrations, but judgments which are created directly out of perception, and founded upon it rather than on any demonstrations, are to science what the sun is to the world; for all light proceeds from them, and lighted by their light the others give light also. To establish the truth of such primary judgments directly from perception, to raise such strongholds of science from the innumerable multitude of real objects, that is the work of the faculty of judgment, which consists in the power of rightly and accurately carrying over into abstract consciousness what is known in perception, and judgment is consequently the mediator between understanding and reason. Only extraordinary and exceptional strength of judgment in the individual can actually advance science; but every one who is possessed of a healthy reason is able to deduce propositions from propositions, to demonstrate, to draw conclusions. To lay down and make permanent for reflection, in suitable concepts, what is known through perception, so that, on the one hand, what is common to many real objects is thought through one concept, and, on the other hand, their points of difference are each thought through one concept, so that the different shall be known and thought as different in spite of a partial agreement, and the identical shall be known and thought as identical in spite of a partial difference, all in accordance with the end and intention which in each case [pg 085] is in view; all this is done by the faculty of judgment. Deficiency in judgment is silliness. The silly man fails to grasp, now the partial or relative difference of concepts which in one aspect are identical, now the identity of concepts which are relatively or partially different. To this explanation of the faculty of judgment, moreover, Kant's division of it into reflecting and subsuming judgment may be applied, according as it passes from the perceived objects to the concepts, or from the latter to the former; in both cases always mediating between empirical knowledge of the understanding and the reflective knowledge of the reason. There can be no truth which could be brought out by means of syllogisms alone; and the necessity of establishing truth by means of syllogisms is merely relative, indeed subjective. Since all demonstration is syllogistic, in the case of a new truth we must first seek, not for a demonstration, but for direct evidence, and only in the absence of such evidence is a demonstration to be temporarily made use of. No science is susceptible of demonstration throughout any more than a building can stand in the air; all its demonstrations must ultimately rest upon what is perceived, and consequently cannot be demonstrated, for the whole world of reflection rests upon and is rooted in the world of perception. All primal, that is, original, evidence is a perception, as the word itself indicates. Therefore it is either empirical or founded upon the perception a priori of the conditions of possible experience. In both cases it affords only immanent, not transcendent knowledge. Every concept has its worth and its existence only in its relation, sometimes very indirect, to an idea of perception; what is true of the concepts is also true of the judgments constructed out of them, and of all science. Therefore it must in some way be possible to know directly without demonstrations or syllogisms every truth that is arrived at through syllogisms and communicated by demonstrations. This is most difficult in the [pg 086] case of certain complicated mathematical propositions at which we only arrive by chains of syllogisms; for example, the calculation of the chords and tangents to all arcs by deduction from the proposition of Pythagoras. But even such a truth as this cannot essentially and solely rest upon abstract principles, and the space-relations which lie at its foundation also must be capable of being so presented a priori in pure intuition or perception that the truth of their abstract expression is directly established. But of mathematical demonstration we shall speak more fully shortly.

We have seen that, apart from the foundation of pure logic, rational knowledge generally does not originate from reason itself. Rather, it is acquired as perceptual knowledge and is stored in reason, which completely transforms its nature into abstract knowledge. All rational knowledge, meaning knowledge that has been raised to conscious abstract thought, is related to science in a limited way, similar to how a fragment relates to the whole. Everyone gains rational knowledge of many different things through experience and by considering the individual objects in front of them. However, only those who aim to acquire a comprehensive abstract understanding of a specific category of objects strive toward science. This category can only be defined through a concept; thus, at the start of any science, there is a concept that helps separate the class of objects this science claims to have a complete abstract knowledge of from the entire world of things. For instance, the concept of spatial relations, the interactions of unmoving bodies, the nature of plants or animals, the sequential changes of the Earth's surface, the changes of humanity as a whole, or the structure of a language, among others. If science aimed to gain knowledge about its object by examining each individual instance as defined by the concept, gradually learning about the whole, no human memory would suffice for such a task, nor would it be possible to ensure completeness. Therefore, science utilizes the property of concept spheres mentioned earlier, where they encompass one another, focusing mainly on the broader spheres contained within the general concept of its object. Once the relationships between these spheres are established, everything thought within them can also be determined generally and can be refined by breaking down into smaller concept spheres. This way, a science can attain a complete understanding of its object. This method of moving from the general to the specific sets it apart from everyday rational knowledge; hence, systematic structure is a crucial and defining characteristic of science. The integration of the most general concept spheres in any science, or understanding its foundational principles, is an essential condition for mastering it. How far we progress from these towards more specific propositions is a matter of choice, which increases the breadth of our knowledge of the science rather than its depth. The number of foundational principles that all others depend on varies widely across different sciences, so in some areas there is more hierarchy, and in others, more coordination; in this regard, the former demands more from judgment, while the latter relies more on memory. The schoolmen recognized that since a syllogism needs two premises, no science can derive from a single foundational principle that cannot be further deduced but must have multiple, at least two. The classifications of sciences such as Zoology, Botany, and also Physics and Chemistry have a significant amount of dependency on a few fundamental forces, while history has essentially none; its general aspects consist primarily of a view of major periods, from which the specific events cannot be deduced but are time-dependently subordinated, while conceptually, they are coordinated with them. Thus, history is certainly rational knowledge, but it is not science. In mathematics, according to Euclid's approach, the axioms are the only indisputable foundational principles, and all demonstrations are strictly subordinate to them. However, this method of approach is not essential to mathematics as each proposition introduces an entirely new spatial structure, which can be fully understood on its own without needing to rely on previous constructions. In this pure intuition or perception of space, the most complex constructions are just as evident as the axioms; though there will be more on this later. Meanwhile, every mathematical proposition remains a universal truth, applicable to countless specific cases, and a progressive process from simple to more complex propositions that can be derived from them is also essential to mathematics; thus, in every respect, mathematics is a science. The completeness of a science regarding its structure is characterized by the amount of hierarchy and the minimal coordination of its principles. Scientific ability, therefore, is the skill of organizing concept spheres according to their various distinctions, so that, as Plato repeatedly advises, a science should not be formed from a general concept followed by an indefinite multitude of others, but rather that knowledge should progressively descend from the general to the specific through intermediary concepts and divisions, relying on more precise definitions. In Kantian terms, this is referred to as satisfying both the law of homogeneity and that of specification. The unique nature of scientific completeness implies that the goal of science is not necessarily greater certainty—because certainty can indeed be achieved with completely disconnected particular knowledge—but rather it aims to facilitate rational knowledge through its structured form and the possibility of achieving completeness of rational knowledge that this form allows. Consequently, it is a widespread yet distorted belief that the scientific nature of knowledge lies in its greater certainty, and it is equally erroneous to conclude from this that, strictly speaking, the only sciences are mathematics and logic since only in these areas, because of their purely a priori nature, is there unassailable certainty of knowledge. They undeniably have this advantage, but it does not give them any special status as sciences; the distinct characteristic of science lies not in certainty but in the systematic structure of knowledge that derives from the gradual transition from the general to the specific. This process of knowledge from general to specific, peculiar to the sciences, necessitates establishing much through deduction from earlier propositions, meaning by demonstration, which has led to the misconception that only what has been demonstrated is absolutely true, and that every truth requires a demonstration; however, conversely, every demonstration requires an undemonstrated truth that ultimately supports it or may be its own demonstration. Therefore, a directly established truth is to be preferred over a truth established by demonstration just as spring water is preferable to aqueduct water. Perception, partly pure a priori as the basis of mathematics, and partly empirical a posteriori as the basis of all other sciences, is the source of all truth and the foundation of all science. (Logic alone is excluded, as it is not based on perception but rather on direct knowledge by reason of its own principles.) It is not the demonstrated judgments or their demonstrations that are crucial to science, but rather those judgments that are directly derived from perception and grounded in it rather than on demonstrations; for they are to science what the sun is to the world: all light emanates from them, and illuminated by their light, other truths also shine. Establishing the truth of such primary judgments directly from perception, building up these strongholds of science from the countless real objects, is the task of the faculty of judgment. This involves accurately and rightly transferring what is known in perception into abstract consciousness, making judgment a mediator between understanding and reason. Only extraordinary and exceptional judgment strength in an individual can truly advance science. Yet everyone with a sound reason can deduce propositions from propositions, demonstrate, and infer conclusions. To articulate and solidify for reflection, in appropriate concepts, what is learned through perception, ensures that, on one hand, what is common across many real objects is represented through a single concept, and on the other hand, their unique aspects are each represented through a single concept, allowing the distinct to be acknowledged and understood as different despite certain similarities, and the identical to be recognized as identical despite some differences, all in line with the purpose and intention for each case in focus; all this is accomplished by the faculty of judgment. A lack of judgment is silliness. A silly person fails to perceive either the partial or relative differences among concepts that are identical in one respect or the similarities among concepts that are relatively or partially different. To this explanation of the faculty of judgment, Kant's division into reflective and subsuming judgment also applies, moving from perceived objects to concepts or vice versa; in both cases, it always mediates between empirical understanding and reflective reasoning. There can be no truth that can be solely obtained through syllogisms; the necessity of demonstrating truth through syllogisms is merely relative and indeed subjective. Since all demonstrations are syllogistic, for a new truth, we should first seek direct evidence, and only in the absence of such evidence should a demonstration be temporarily utilized. No science can be entirely demonstrated any more than a building can float in the air; all its demonstrations must ultimately rest on perception, as the entire realm of reflection is grounded in the world of perception. All primal, that is, original, evidence is perception, as the term itself suggests. Therefore, it can either be empirical or based on the a priori perception of conditions for possible experience. In either case, it provides only immanent, not transcendent knowledge. Every concept holds its value and existence solely in relation, sometimes quite indirectly, to an idea of perception; what applies to concepts also applies to the judgments constructed from them, and to all science. Hence, it should be possible to know directly without needing demonstrations or syllogisms every truth reached through syllogisms and conveyed through demonstrations. This is most challenging in the case of particularly complex mathematical propositions, which we arrive at through chains of syllogisms; for instance, the calculation of chords and tangents to all arcs derived from Pythagoras's theorem. However, even such a truth cannot fundamentally and solely be based on abstract principles, and the spatial relationships that underlie it must also be representable a priori in pure intuition or perception such that the truth of their abstract expression is directly established. But we will discuss mathematical demonstrations more comprehensively shortly.

It is true we often hear men speak in a lofty strain of sciences which rest entirely upon correct conclusions drawn from sure premises, and which are consequently unassailable. But through pure logical reasoning, however true the premises may be, we shall never receive more than an articulate expression and exposition of what lies already complete in the premises; thus we shall only explicitly expound what was already implicitly understood. The esteemed sciences referred to are, however, specially the mathematical sciences, particularly astronomy. But the certainty of astronomy arises from the fact that it has for its basis the intuition or perception of space, which is given a priori, and is therefore infallible. All space-relations, however, follow from each other with a necessity (ground of being) which affords a priori certainty, and they can therefore be safely deduced from each other. To these mathematical properties we have only to add one force of nature, gravity, which acts precisely in relation to the masses and the square of the distance; and, lastly, the law of inertia, which follows from the law of causality and is therefore true a priori, and with it the empirical datum of the motion impressed, once for all, upon each of these masses. This is the whole material of astronomy, which both by its simplicity and its certainty leads to definite results, which are highly interesting on account of the [pg 087] vastness and importance of the objects. For example, if I know the mass of a planet and the distance of its satellite from it, I can tell with certainty the period of the revolution of the latter according to Kepler's second law. But the ground of this law is, that with this distance only this velocity will both chain the satellite to the planet and prevent it from falling into it. Thus it is only upon such a geometrical basis, that is, by means of an intuition or perception a priori, and also under the application of a law of nature, that much can be arrived at by means of syllogisms, for here they are merely like bridges from one sensuous apprehension to others; but it is not so with mere pure syllogistic reasoning in the exclusively logical method. The source of the first fundamental truths of astronomy is, however, properly induction, that is, the comprehension of what is given in many perceptions in one true and directly founded judgment. From this, hypotheses are afterwards constructed, and their confirmation by experience, as induction approaching to completeness, affords the proof of the first judgment. For example, the apparent motion of the planets is known empirically; after many false hypotheses with regard to the spacial connection of this motion (planetary course) the right one was at last found, then the laws which it obeyed (the laws of Kepler), and, lastly, the cause of these laws (universal gravitation), and the empirically known agreement of all observed cases with the whole of the hypotheses, and with their consequences, that is to say, induction, established them with complete certainty. The invention of the hypotheses was the work of the judgment, which rightly comprehended the given facts and expressed them accordingly; but induction, that is, a multitude of perceptions, confirmed their truth. But their truth could also be known directly, and by a single empirical perception, if we could pass freely through space and had telescopic eyes. Therefore, here also syllogisms are not [pg 088] the essential and only source of knowledge, but really only a makeshift.

It's true that we often hear people talk in grand terms about sciences that are based entirely on correct conclusions drawn from solid premises, making them unassailable. However, through pure logical reasoning, no matter how true the premises are, we can only articulate and explain what is already complete in those premises; we will only explicitly express what was implicitly understood. The esteemed sciences mentioned here are primarily the mathematical sciences, especially astronomy. The certainty of astronomy comes from its foundation in the intuition or perception of space, which is given a priori and is therefore infallible. All spatial relationships necessarily follow from one another, providing a priori certainty, and can safely be deduced from each other. To these mathematical properties, we only need to add one natural force, gravity, which acts precisely in relation to the masses and the square of the distance; and finally, the law of inertia, which follows from the law of causality and is therefore true a priori, along with the empirical data of the motion imparted, once and for all, to each of these masses. This constitutes the entire material of astronomy, which, due to its simplicity and certainty, leads to definite conclusions that are highly interesting given the vastness and significance of the objects involved. For instance, if I know the mass of a planet and the distance of its satellite from it, I can confidently determine the period of the satellite's revolution according to Kepler's second law. The basis of this law is that with this distance, only this velocity will both keep the satellite bound to the planet and prevent it from falling into it. Thus, it is only on such a geometrical basis, that is, through intuition or perception a priori, and by applying a natural law, that much can be achieved through syllogisms; here, they merely function as bridges from one sensory understanding to others. However, this isn't the case with pure syllogistic reasoning used solely in a logical manner. The source of the fundamental truths of astronomy, however, is properly induction, which means comprehending what is given in many perceptions in one true and well-founded judgment. From this, hypotheses are constructed, and their confirmation through experience, as induction approaches completeness, provides proof of the initial judgment. For example, the apparent motion of the planets is known empirically; after many false hypotheses regarding the spatial connection of this motion (planetary course), the correct one was eventually found, followed by the laws it obeys (Kepler's laws), and finally, the cause of these laws (universal gravitation). The empirically known agreement of all observed instances with the entirety of the hypotheses and their consequences—that is to say, induction—established them with complete certainty. The invention of the hypotheses was the achievement of the judgment, which accurately comprehended the given facts and expressed them accordingly; but induction, which involves a multitude of perceptions, confirmed their truth. However, their truth could also be directly known through a single empirical perception if we could freely navigate through space and had telescopic vision. Therefore, here too, syllogisms are not the essential and only source of knowledge; rather, they are merely a stopgap solution.

As a third example taken from a different sphere we may mention that the so-called metaphysical truths, that is, such truths as those to which Kant assigns the position of the metaphysical first principles of natural science, do not owe their evidence to demonstration. What is a priori certain we know directly; as the form of all knowledge, it is known to us with the most complete necessity. For example, that matter is permanent, that is, can neither come into being nor pass away, we know directly as negative truth; for our pure intuition or perception of space and time gives the possibility of motion; in the law of causality the understanding affords us the possibility of change of form and quality, but we lack powers of the imagination for conceiving the coming into being or passing away of matter. Therefore that truth has at all times been evident to all men everywhere, nor has it ever been seriously doubted; and this could not be the case if it had no other ground of knowledge than the abstruse and exceedingly subtle proof of Kant. But besides this, I have found Kant's proof to be false (as is explained in the Appendix), and have shown above that the permanence of matter is to be deduced, not from the share which time has in the possibility of experience, but from the share which belongs to space. The true foundation of all truths which in this sense are called metaphysical, that is, abstract expressions of the necessary and universal forms of knowledge, cannot itself lie in abstract principles; but only in the immediate consciousness of the forms of the idea communicating itself in apodictic assertions a priori, and fearing no refutation. But if we yet desire to give a proof of them, it can only consist in showing that what is to be proved is contained in some truth about which there is no doubt, either as a part of it or as a presupposition. Thus, for example, I have shown that all empirical perception implies the [pg 089] application of the law of causality, the knowledge of which is hence a condition of all experience, and therefore cannot be first given and conditioned through experience as Hume thought. Demonstrations in general are not so much for those who wish to learn as for those who wish to dispute. Such persons stubbornly deny directly established insight; now only the truth can be consistent in all directions, and therefore we must show such persons that they admit under one form and indirectly, what they deny under another form and directly; that is, the logically necessary connection between what is denied and what is admitted.

As a third example from a different area, we can point out that the so-called metaphysical truths—those that Kant believes are the fundamental principles of natural science— don’t gain their validity from demonstration. What is beforehand certain is something we know directly; as the framework for all knowledge, it is known to us with complete necessity. For instance, we know directly and negatively that matter is permanent, meaning it cannot come into existence or cease to exist; our pure intuition or perception of space and time allows for the possibility of motion. In the law of causality, our understanding gives us the potential for changes in form and quality, but we lack the imagination to conceive of matter coming into being or disappearing. This truth has always been clear to everyone everywhere, and it has never been seriously questioned; that wouldn’t be the case if it relied solely on Kant's obscure and highly nuanced proof. Moreover, I have found Kant's proof to be false (as explained in the Appendix), and I have shown earlier that the permanence of matter can be inferred not from time's role in the possibility of experience, but from space's role. The real foundation of all truths referred to as metaphysical—meaning abstract expressions of necessary and universal knowledge forms—cannot lie in abstract principles alone but only in the immediate awareness of the forms of ideas expressing themselves in self-evident assertions prior, which do not fear contradiction. However, if we want to provide proof for them, it can only be by showing that what we aim to prove is included in some undeniable truth, either as part of it or as a presupposition. Thus, for example, I have demonstrated that all empirical perception implies the [pg 089] application of the law of causality, the knowledge of which, therefore, is a condition for all experience and cannot be first given and dependent on experience, as Hume thought. Demonstrations, in general, serve not so much those who wish to learn but those who wish to debate. Such individuals stubbornly reject directly established insights; only the truth can remain consistent in all respects, and thus we must show these individuals that they accept under one form and indirectly what they deny directly under another form; that is, the logically necessary connection between what is denied and what is accepted.

It is also a consequence of the scientific form, the subordination of everything particular under a general, and so on always to what is more general, that the truth of many propositions is only logically proved,—that is, through their dependence upon other propositions, through syllogisms, which at the same time appear as proofs. But we must never forget that this whole form of science is merely a means of rendering knowledge more easy, not a means to greater certainty. It is easier to discover the nature of an animal, by means of the species to which it belongs, and so on through the genus, family, order, and class, than to examine on every occasion the animal presented to us: but the truth of all propositions arrived at syllogistically is always conditioned by and ultimately dependent upon some truth which rests not upon reasoning but upon perception. If this perception were always as much within our reach as a deduction through syllogisms, then it would be in every respect preferable. For every deduction from concepts is exposed to great danger of error, on account of the fact we have considered above, that so many spheres lie partly within each other, and that their content is often vague or uncertain. This is illustrated by a multitude of demonstrations of false doctrines and sophisms of every kind. Syllogisms are indeed perfectly certain as regards form, but they are [pg 090] very uncertain on account of their matter, the concepts. For, on the one hand, the spheres of these are not sufficiently sharply defined, and, on the other hand, they intersect each other in so many ways that one sphere is in part contained in many others, and we may pass at will from it to one or another of these, and from this sphere again to others, as we have already shown. Or, in other words, the minor term and also the middle can always be subordinated to different concepts, from which we may choose at will the major and the middle, and the nature of the conclusion depends on this choice. Consequently immediate evidence is always much to be preferred to reasoned truth, and the latter is only to be accepted when the former is too remote, and not when it is as near or indeed nearer than the latter. Accordingly we saw above that, as a matter of fact, in the case of logic, in which the immediate knowledge in each individual case lies nearer to hand than deduced scientific knowledge, we always conduct our thought according to our immediate knowledge of the laws of thought, and leave logic unused.20

It’s also a result of the scientific method, which prioritizes everything specific under a general idea, that the truth of many statements is only logically proven—meaning, through their connection to other statements, through syllogisms that also serve as proofs. But we should always remember that this entire scientific approach is just a way to make knowledge easier, not a way to achieve greater certainty. It’s simpler to figure out the nature of an animal by looking at the species it belongs to, and then through the genus, family, order, and class, rather than examining each animal presented to us every time. However, the truth of all propositions reached through syllogisms is always dependent on some truth that doesn’t come from reasoning but from perception. If this perception were always as easily accessible as deductions through syllogisms, then it would always be preferable. Every deduction from concepts is prone to significant errors because, as we noted earlier, many spheres overlap, and their content is often vague or uncertain. This is demonstrated by numerous arguments for false doctrines and various sophisms. Syllogisms are certainly correct in terms of form, but they are very uncertain regarding their content, the concepts. On one hand, the boundaries of these concepts aren’t clearly defined, and on the other, they overlap in so many ways that one sphere can be part of many others, allowing us to switch between them freely, as we already pointed out. In other words, the minor term and the middle can always be linked to different concepts, from which we can choose the major and the middle, and the nature of the conclusion relies on this choice. Therefore, immediate evidence is always much preferred over reasoned truth, and the latter should only be accepted when the former is too far away and not when it’s just as close or even closer than the latter. Thus, we previously observed that in logic, where immediate knowledge of each individual case is closer at hand than the derived scientific knowledge, we always think according to our immediate understanding of the laws of thought and leave logic aside. 20

§ 15. If now with our conviction that perception is the primary source of all evidence, and that only direct or indirect connection with it is absolute truth; and further, that the shortest way to this is always the surest, as every interposition of concepts means exposure to many deceptions; if, I say, we now turn with this conviction to mathematics, as it was established as a science by Euclid, and has remained as a whole to our own day, we cannot help regarding the method it adopts, as strange and indeed perverted. We ask that every logical proof shall be traced back to an origin in perception; but mathematics, on the contrary, is at great pains deliberately to throw away the evidence of perception which is peculiar to it, and always at hand, that it may substitute for it a logical demonstration. This must seem to us [pg 091] like the action of a man who cuts off his legs in order to go on crutches, or like that of the prince in the Triumph der Empfindsamkeit who flees from the beautiful reality of nature, to delight in a stage scene that imitates it. I must here refer to what I have said in the sixth chapter of the essay on the principle of sufficient reason, and take for granted that it is fresh and present in the memory of the reader; so that I may link my observations on to it without explaining again the difference between the mere ground of knowledge of a mathematical truth, which can be given logically, and the ground of being, which is the immediate connection of the parts of space and time, known only in perception. It is only insight into the ground of being that secures satisfaction and thorough knowledge. The mere ground of knowledge must always remain superficial; it can afford us indeed rational knowledge that a thing is as it is, but it cannot tell why it is so. Euclid chose the latter way to the obvious detriment of the science. For just at the beginning, for example, when he ought to show once for all how in a triangle the angles and sides reciprocally determine each other, and stand to each other in the relation of reason and consequent, in accordance with the form which the principle of sufficient reason has in pure space, and which there, as in every other sphere, always affords the necessity that a thing is as it is, because something quite different from it, is as it is; instead of in this way giving a thorough insight into the nature of the triangle, he sets up certain disconnected arbitrarily chosen propositions concerning the triangle, and gives a logical ground of knowledge of them, through a laborious logical demonstration, based upon the principle of contradiction. Instead of an exhaustive knowledge of these space-relations we therefore receive merely certain results of them, imparted to us at pleasure, and in fact we are very much in the position of a man to whom the different effects of an ingenious [pg 092] machine are shown, but from whom its inner connection and construction are withheld. We are compelled by the principle of contradiction to admit that what Euclid demonstrates is true, but we do not comprehend why it is so. We have therefore almost the same uncomfortable feeling that we experience after a juggling trick, and, in fact, most of Euclid's demonstrations are remarkably like such feats. The truth almost always enters by the back door, for it manifests itself per accidens through some contingent circumstance. Often a reductio ad absurdum shuts all the doors one after another, until only one is left through which we are therefore compelled to enter. Often, as in the proposition of Pythagoras, lines are drawn, we don't know why, and it afterwards appears that they were traps which close unexpectedly and take prisoner the assent of the astonished learner, who must now admit what remains wholly inconceivable in its inner connection, so much so, that he may study the whole of Euclid through and through without gaining a real insight into the laws of space-relations, but instead of them he only learns by heart certain results which follow from them. This specially empirical and unscientific knowledge is like that of the doctor who knows both the disease and the cure for it, but does not know the connection between them. But all this is the necessary consequence if we capriciously reject the special kind of proof and evidence of one species of knowledge, and forcibly introduce in its stead a kind which is quite foreign to its nature. However, in other respects the manner in which this has been accomplished by Euclid deserves all the praise which has been bestowed on him through so many centuries, and which has been carried so far that his method of treating mathematics has been set up as the pattern of all scientific exposition. Men tried indeed to model all the sciences after it, but later they gave up the attempt without quite knowing why. Yet in our eyes this method of Euclid in mathematics [pg 093] can appear only as a very brilliant piece of perversity. But when a great error in life or in science has been intentionally and methodically carried out with universal applause, it is always possible to discover its source in the philosophy which prevailed at the time. The Eleatics first brought out the difference, and indeed often the conflict, that exists between what is perceived, φαινομενον,21 and what is thought, νουμενον, and used it in many ways in their philosophical epigrams, and also in sophisms. They were followed later by the Megarics, the Dialecticians, the Sophists, the New-Academy, and the Sceptics; these drew attention to the illusion, that is to say, to the deception of the senses, or rather of the understanding which transforms the data of the senses into perception, and which often causes us to see things to which the reason unhesitatingly denies reality; for example, a stick broken in water, and such like. It came to be known that sense-perception was not to be trusted unconditionally, and it was therefore hastily concluded that only rational, logical thought could establish truth; although Plato (in the Parmenides), the Megarics, Pyrrho, and the New-Academy, showed by examples (in the manner which was afterwards adopted by Sextus Empiricus) how syllogisms and concepts were also sometimes misleading, and indeed produced paralogisms and sophisms which arise much more easily and are far harder to explain than the illusion of sense-perception. However, this rationalism, which arose in opposition to empiricism, kept the upper hand, and Euclid constructed the science of mathematics in accordance with it. He was compelled by necessity to found the axioms upon evidence of perception (φαινομενον), but all the rest he based upon reasoning (νουμενον). His method reigned supreme through all the succeeding centuries, and it could not but do so as long as pure intuition or perception, a priori, [pg 094] was not distinguished from empirical perception. Certain passages from the works of Proclus, the commentator of Euclid, which Kepler translated into Latin in his book, “De Harmonia Mundi,” seem to show that he fully recognised this distinction. But Proclus did not attach enough importance to the matter; he merely mentioned it by the way, so that he remained unnoticed and accomplished nothing. Therefore, not till two thousand years later will the doctrine of Kant, which is destined to make such great changes in all the knowledge, thought, and action of European nations, produce this change in mathematics also. For it is only after we have learned from this great man that the intuitions or perceptions of space and time are quite different from empirical perceptions, entirely independent of any impression of the senses, conditioning it, not conditioned by it, i.e., are a priori, and therefore are not exposed to the illusions of sense; only after we have learned this, I say, can we comprehend that Euclid's logical method of treating mathematics is a useless precaution, a crutch for sound legs, that it is like a wanderer who during the night mistakes a bright, firm road for water, and carefully avoiding it, toils over the broken ground beside it, content to keep from point to point along the edge of the supposed water. Only now can we affirm with certainty that what presents itself to us as necessary in the perception of a figure, does not come from the figure on the paper, which is perhaps very defectively drawn, nor from the abstract concept under which we think it, but immediately from the form of all knowledge of which we are conscious a priori. This is always the principle of sufficient reason; here as the form of perception, i.e., space, it is the principle of the ground of being, the evidence and validity of which is, however, just as great and as immediate as that of the principle of the ground of knowing, i.e., logical certainty. Thus we need not and ought not to leave the peculiar province of mathematics [pg 095] in order to put our trust only in logical proof, and seek to authenticate mathematics in a sphere which is quite foreign to it, that of concepts. If we confine ourselves to the ground peculiar to mathematics, we gain the great advantage that in it the rational knowledge that something is, is one with the knowledge why it is so, whereas the method of Euclid entirely separates these two, and lets us know only the first, not the second. Aristotle says admirably in the Analyt., post. i. 27: “Ακριβεστερα δ᾽ επιστημη επιστημης και προτερα, ἡτε του ὁτι και του διοτι ἡ αυτη, αλλα μη χωρις του ὁτι, της του διοτι” (Subtilior autem et praestantior ea est scientia, quâ quod aliquid sit, et cur sit una simulque intelligimus non separatim quod, et cur sit). In physics we are only satisfied when the knowledge that a thing is as it is is combined with the knowledge why it is so. To know that the mercury in the Torricellian tube stands thirty inches high is not really rational knowledge if we do not know that it is sustained at this height by the counterbalancing weight of the atmosphere. Shall we then be satisfied in mathematics with the qualitas occulta of the circle that the segments of any two intersecting chords always contain equal rectangles? That it is so Euclid certainly demonstrates in the 35th Prop. of the Third Book; why it is so remains doubtful. In the same way the proposition of Pythagoras teaches us a qualitas occulta of the right-angled triangle; the stilted and indeed fallacious demonstration of Euclid forsakes us at the why, and a simple figure, which we already know, and which is present to us, gives at a glance far more insight into the matter, and firm inner conviction of that necessity, and of the dependence of that quality upon the right angle:—

§ 15. If now with our conviction that perception is the primary source of all evidence, and that only direct or indirect connection with it is absolute truth; and further, that the shortest way to this is always the surest, since every introduction of concepts leads to numerous deceptions; if, I say, we now turn with this conviction to mathematics, as it was established as a science by Euclid, and has remained largely unchanged to our day, we cannot help but view the method it adopts as strange and even twisted. We demand that every logical proof be traced back to a source in perception; yet mathematics, on the contrary, deliberately discards the evidence of perception that is unique to it and always available, in favor of logical demonstration. This must seem to us like a person who cuts off his legs to use crutches, or like the prince in the Triumph of Sensibility who escapes the beautiful reality of nature to enjoy a staged scene that mimics it. I must refer to what I mentioned in the sixth chapter of the essay on the principle of sufficient reason, and assume that it is fresh in the reader’s mind; so that I can connect my observations to it without further explaining the difference between the mere basis of knowledge for a mathematical truth, which can be presented logically, and the basis of being, which is the immediate connection of the parts of space and time, known only through perception. It is only insight into the basis of being that guarantees satisfaction and complete knowledge. The mere basis of knowledge will always remain superficial; it can provide us with rational knowledge that a thing is as it is, but it cannot explain why it is so. Euclid chose the latter approach to the clear detriment of the science. For right from the start, for instance, when he should show conclusively how in a triangle the angles and sides influence each other reciprocally and relate to each other as reason and consequence, according to the form that the principle of sufficient reason holds in pure space, which in every realm necessitates that a thing is as it is, because something entirely different from it is as it is; instead of providing a thorough insight into the nature of the triangle, he establishes certain disconnected, arbitrarily chosen propositions about the triangle, and supplies a logical basis for them through a laborious logical demonstration rooted in the principle of contradiction. Thus, instead of gaining a comprehensive understanding of these spatial relations, we only acquire specific results of them presented at will, and in fact, we find ourselves much like a person who is shown the various effects of an ingenious [pg 092] machine but is denied insight into its inner workings and structure. We are compelled by the principle of contradiction to accept that what Euclid demonstrates is true, yet we do not grasp why it is so. Consequently, we experience almost the same uncomfortable feeling one gets after a magic trick, and indeed, many of Euclid's demonstrations closely resemble such feats. The truth typically comes in through the back door, manifesting itself per accident through some incidental circumstance. Often a reductio ad absurdum systematically closes all the doors one after another, leaving only one through which we are thus compelled to enter. Frequently, as in the proposition of Pythagoras, lines are drawn without any apparent reason, and it later turns out that they were traps which unexpectedly close and capture the assent of the astonished learner, who now must accept what remains entirely incomprehensible in its inner connection, to the point that he can study all of Euclid extensively without grasping the true nature of spatial relationships but only memorizing certain conclusions that stem from them. This particularly empirical and unscientific understanding resembles that of a doctor who knows both the disease and its cure but has no idea of the connection between them. Yet all this is the inevitable result of whimsically rejecting the specific type of proof and evidence unique to one type of knowledge, while forcefully replacing it with a kind totally alien to its nature. However, in other respects, the way in which Euclid has achieved this merits all the praise he has received over the centuries, which has grown to the extent that his approach to mathematics has been upheld as the standard for all scientific explanation. Indeed, many have attempted to model all sciences after it, but later they abandoned the effort without truly understanding why. Yet, in our view, Euclid's method in mathematics [pg 093] appears only as a remarkable example of misdirection. But when a significant error in life or science is systematically executed with widespread approval, it is always possible to trace its origin back to the philosophy that dominated the time. The Eleatics first highlighted the difference, and often the conflict, between what is perceived, φαινομενον, and what is thought, νουμενον, using it in various ways in their philosophical epigrams and also in sophisms. They were later succeeded by the Megarics, the Dialecticians, the Sophists, the New-Academy, and the Sceptics; they drew attention to the illusion, that is to say, the deception of the senses, or rather of the understanding which transforms sensory data into perception, and which often leads us to see things that reason undoubtedly denies reality to; for instance, a stick appearing broken in water, and so on. It became clear that sensory perception was not to be trusted unconditionally, leading to the hasty conclusion that only rational, logical thought could establish the truth; although Plato (in the Parmenides), the Megarics, Pyrrho, and the New-Academy demonstrated through examples (in the manner later adopted by Sextus Empiricus) how syllogisms and concepts could also be misleading, resulting in paralogisms and sophisms which are often much easier to produce and far more difficult to explain than the illusion of sensory perception. However, this rationalism, which emerged in opposition to empiricism, prevailed, and Euclid built the science of mathematics based on it. He was necessarily required to ground the axioms on evidence of perception (φαινομενον), but everything else was founded on reasoning (νουμενον). His method dominated for centuries, and it could do no less as long as pure intuition or perception, before the fact, [pg 094] was not differentiated from empirical perception. Certain excerpts from the works of Proclus, Euclid's commentator, which Kepler translated into Latin in his book, “On the Harmony of the World,” seem to indicate that he fully recognized this distinction. But Proclus did not emphasize the matter enough; he merely mentioned it in passing, leading him to go unnoticed and achieve nothing. Consequently, it was not until two thousand years later that Kant's doctrine, destined to bring about significant changes in all the knowledge, thought, and behavior of European nations, introduced this shift in mathematics as well. For it is only after we understand from this great man that intuitions or perceptions of space and time differ completely from empirical perceptions, entirely independent of any impression from the senses, conditioning it, not conditioned by it, e.g., are beforehand, and therefore are not susceptible to sensory illusions; only after grasping this, I say, can we comprehend that Euclid's logical approach to mathematics is a useless safeguard, a crutch for sound legs, akin to a traveler who mistakes a bright, solid road for water in the night and, cautiously avoiding it, trudges over the uneven ground beside it, satisfied to move from point to point along the edge of the supposed water. Only now can we confidently declare that what appears to us as necessary in perceiving a figure does not originate from the drawing on the paper, which may be very poorly rendered, nor from the abstract concept under which we think of it, but directly from the structure of all knowledge we are conscious of beforehand. This is always the principle of sufficient reason; here as the form of perception, i.e. space, it is the principle of the basis of being, the evidence and validity of which is, however, just as great and immediate as that of the principle of the basis of knowing, i.e. logical certainty. Thus, we need not, nor should we, leave the specific realm of mathematics [pg 095] to rely solely on logical proof, seeking to validate mathematics in a domain totally alien to it, that of concepts. If we focus solely on the foundation unique to mathematics, we gain the significant advantage that in it the rational knowledge that something is, is aligned with the knowledge why it is so, whereas Euclid's method completely separates these two, only providing us with the former, not the latter. Aristotle eloquently states in the Analyt., post. i. 27: "More specifically, science is about the understanding of both what is and why it is, as they are the same, but not without the understanding of what it is, and of why it is." (However, this knowledge is more refined and superior, by which quod something is, and cur we understand together, not separately quod, et cur sit). In physics, we are only satisfied when the knowledge that something is as it is is combined with the knowledge of why it is so. To know that the mercury in the Torricellian tube stands thirty inches high is not truly rational knowledge if we do not understand that it is held at this height by the counterbalancing weight of the atmosphere. Should we then be satisfied in mathematics with the hidden quality of the circle that the segments of any two intersecting chords always contain equal rectangles? Euclid certainly demonstrates that it is so in the 35th Prop. of the Third Book; why it is so remains uncertain. Similarly, the proposition of Pythagoras reveals a hidden quality of the right-angled triangle; the awkward, and indeed flawed, demonstration of Euclid leaves us at the why, and a simple figure, which we already recognize and which is right before us, offers much more insight into the issue, as well as a strong internal conviction of that necessity and of the dependence of that quality upon the right angle:—

[pg 096]

In the case of unequal catheti also, and indeed generally in the case of every possible geometrical truth, it is quite possible to obtain such a conviction based on perception, because these truths were always discovered by such an empirically known necessity, and their demonstration was only thought out afterwards in addition. Thus we only require an analysis of the process of thought in the first discovery of a geometrical truth in order to know its necessity empirically. It is the analytical method in general that I wish for the exposition of mathematics, instead of the synthetical method which Euclid made use of. Yet this would have very great, though not insuperable, difficulties in the case of complicated mathematical truths. Here and there in Germany men are beginning to alter the exposition of mathematics, and to proceed more in this analytical way. The greatest effort in this direction has been made by Herr Kosack, teacher of mathematics and physics in the Gymnasium at Nordhausen, who added a thorough attempt to teach geometry according to my principles to the programme of the school examination on the 6th of April 1852.

In the case of unequal sides of a right triangle and, generally, with every possible geometric truth, it’s definitely possible to gain a conviction based on observation because these truths were always discovered through empirical necessity, and their proof was only thought out afterwards. Therefore, we only need to analyze the thought process involved in the initial discovery of a geometric truth to understand its empirical necessity. I favor the analytical method for explaining mathematics instead of the synthetic method that Euclid used. However, this approach would present significant, though not insurmountable, challenges when dealing with complex mathematical truths. In some parts of Germany, people are starting to change how mathematics is taught and are moving toward this more analytical approach. The most significant effort in this direction has been made by Herr Kosack, a teacher of mathematics and physics at the Gymnasium in Nordhausen, who made a serious attempt to teach geometry according to my principles as part of the school examination program on April 6, 1852.

In order to improve the method of mathematics, it is especially necessary to overcome the prejudice that demonstrated truth has any superiority over what is known through perception, or that logical truth founded upon the principle of contradiction has any superiority over metaphysical truth, which is immediately evident, and to which belongs the pure intuition or perception of space.

To enhance the approach to mathematics, it's crucial to address the bias that proven truths are better than truths gained through perception, or that logical truths based on the principle of contradiction are superior to metaphysical truths, which are instantly clear and are tied to the pure intuition or perception of space.

That which is most certain, and yet always inexplicable, is what is involved in the principle of sufficient reason, for this principle, in its different aspects, expresses the universal form of all our ideas and knowledge. All explanation consists of reduction to it, exemplification in the particular case of the connection of ideas expressed generally through it. It is thus the principle of all explanation, and therefore it is neither susceptible of an explanation itself, nor does it stand in need of it; for [pg 097] every explanation presupposes it, and only obtains meaning through it. Now, none of its forms are superior to the rest; it is equally certain and incapable of demonstration as the principle of the ground of being, or of change, or of action, or of knowing. The relation of reason and consequent is a necessity in all its forms, and indeed it is, in general, the source of the concept of necessity, for necessity has no other meaning. If the reason is given there is no other necessity than that of the consequent, and there is no reason that does not involve the necessity of the consequent. Just as surely then as the consequent expressed in the conclusion follows from the ground of knowledge given in the premises, does the ground of being in space determine its consequent in space: if I know through perception the relation of these two, this certainty is just as great as any logical certainty. But every geometrical proposition is just as good an expression of such a relation as one of the twelve axioms; it is a metaphysical truth, and as such, just as certain as the principle of contradiction itself, which is a metalogical truth, and the common foundation of all logical demonstration. Whoever denies the necessity, exhibited for intuition or perception, of the space-relations expressed in any proposition, may just as well deny the axioms, or that the conclusion follows from the premises, or, indeed, he may as well deny the principle of contradiction itself, for all these relations are equally undemonstrable, immediately evident and known a priori. For any one to wish to derive the necessity of space-relations, known in intuition or perception, from the principle of contradiction by means of a logical demonstration is just the same as for the feudal superior of an estate to wish to hold it as the vassal of another. Yet this is what Euclid has done. His axioms only, he is compelled to leave resting upon immediate evidence; all the geometrical truths which follow are demonstrated logically, that is to say, from [pg 098] the agreement of the assumptions made in the proposition with the axioms which are presupposed, or with some earlier proposition; or from the contradiction between the opposite of the proposition and the assumptions made in it, or the axioms, or earlier propositions, or even itself. But the axioms themselves have no more immediate evidence than any other geometrical problem, but only more simplicity on account of their smaller content.

What is most certain, yet always hard to explain, is the principle of sufficient reason. This principle, in its various forms, represents the universal framework for all our ideas and knowledge. Every explanation boils down to this principle, illustrating how specific cases of idea connections can be generally understood through it. Thus, it is the foundation of all explanations, and it doesn’t require an explanation itself; every explanation relies on it and only gains meaning through it. None of its variations is superior to the others; it is just as certain and cannot be proven as the principle of being, change, action, or knowledge. The relationship between reason and consequence is necessary in all its forms, and indeed, it is the source of the concept of necessity because necessity has no other meaning. If a reason is given, the only necessity is that of the consequence, and any reason involves the necessity of the consequence. Just as surely as a conclusion follows from the knowledge provided in the premises, the ground of being in space determines its consequence in space: if I know through perception the relationship between these two, this certainty is just as strong as any logical certainty. Every geometric proposition reflects such a relationship just as well as one of the twelve axioms; it is a metaphysical truth, just as certain as the principle of contradiction itself, which is a metalogical truth and the common basis for all logical demonstration. Anyone who denies the necessity exhibited by intuition or perception in the spatial relationships expressed in any proposition might as well deny the axioms, or that the conclusion follows from the premises, or even deny the principle of contradiction itself, since all these relationships are equally unprovable, immediately evident, and known beforehand. To attempt to derive the necessity of space relationships, known through intuition or perception, from the principle of contradiction through logical demonstration is much like a feudal lord trying to hold onto an estate as the vassal of another. Yet, this is what Euclid has done. He can only leave his axioms based on immediate evidence; all the geometric truths that follow are demonstrated logically, meaning from the agreement of the assumptions made in the proposition with the axioms presupposed or with some earlier proposition; or from the contradiction between what opposes the proposition and the assumptions made in it, or the axioms, or earlier propositions, or even itself. However, the axioms themselves have no more immediate evidence than any other geometric problem, just more simplicity due to their lesser complexity.

When a criminal is examined, a procès-verbal is made of his statement in order that we may judge of its truth from its consistency. But this is only a makeshift, and we are not satisfied with it if it is possible to investigate the truth of each of his answers for itself; especially as he might lie consistently from the beginning. But Euclid investigated space according to this first method. He set about it, indeed, under the correct assumption that nature must everywhere be consistent, and that therefore it must also be so in space, its fundamental form. Since then the parts of space stand to each other in a relation of reason and consequent, no single property of space can be different from what it is without being in contradiction with all the others. But this is a very troublesome, unsatisfactory, and roundabout way to follow. It prefers indirect knowledge to direct, which is just as certain, and it separates the knowledge that a thing is from the knowledge why it is, to the great disadvantage of the science; and lastly, it entirely withholds from the beginner insight into the laws of space, and indeed renders him unaccustomed to the special investigation of the ground and inner connection of things, inclining him to be satisfied with a mere historical knowledge that a thing is as it is. The exercise of acuteness which this method is unceasingly extolled as affording consists merely in this, that the pupil practises drawing conclusions, i.e., he practises applying the principle of contradiction, but specially he exerts his memory to retain all those data whose agreement is to be tested. [pg 099] Moreover, it is worth noticing that this method of proof was applied only to geometry and not to arithmetic. In arithmetic the truth is really allowed to come home to us through perception alone, which in it consists simply in counting. As the perception of numbers is in time alone, and therefore cannot be represented by a sensuous schema like the geometrical figure, the suspicion that perception is merely empirical, and possibly illusive, disappeared in arithmetic, and the introduction of the logical method of proof into geometry was entirely due to this suspicion. As time has only one dimension, counting is the only arithmetical operation, to which all others may be reduced; and yet counting is just intuition or perception a priori, to which there is no hesitation in appealing here, and through which alone everything else, every sum and every equation, is ultimately proved. We prove, for example, not that (7 + 9 × 8 - 2)/3 = 42; but we refer to the pure perception in time, counting thus makes each individual problem an axiom. Instead of the demonstrations that fill geometry, the whole content of arithmetic and algebra is thus simply a method of abbreviating counting. We mentioned above that our immediate perception of numbers in time extends only to about ten. Beyond this an abstract concept of the numbers, fixed by a word, must take the place of the perception; which does not therefore actually occur any longer, but is only indicated in a thoroughly definite manner. Yet even so, by the important assistance of the system of figures which enables us to represent all larger numbers by the same small ones, intuitive or perceptive evidence of every sum is made possible, even where we make such use of abstraction that not only the numbers, but indefinite quantities and whole operations are thought only in the abstract and indicated as so thought, as [sqrt](r^b) so that we do not perform them, but merely symbolise them.

When a criminal is questioned, a meeting minutes is created from their statement so we can judge its truth based on consistency. However, this is just a temporary solution, and we aren't satisfied if we can investigate the truth of each of their answers individually, especially since they might lie consistently from the very beginning. But Euclid examined space using this first method. He approached it with the correct idea that nature must be consistent everywhere, and therefore must also be so in space, its fundamental form. Since the parts of space relate to each other in a logical manner, no single property of space can differ from what it is without contradicting all the others. But this is a complicated, unsatisfactory, and roundabout way to approach things. It favors indirect knowledge over direct knowledge, which is equally certain, and it separates the understanding of what something is from the understanding of why it is, greatly hindering the science. Lastly, it completely denies beginners insight into the laws of space and makes them unaccustomed to deeply investigating the underlying connections of things, leading them to settle for just a historical understanding of how things are. The sharpness that this method is praised for consists merely of the student practicing making conclusions, i.e., they practice applying the principle of contradiction, but especially they work to remember all those pieces of information whose agreement needs to be tested. [pg 099] Furthermore, it's worth noting that this method of proof was only applied to geometry and not to arithmetic. In arithmetic, the truth is really allowed to come directly to us through perception alone, which is simply counting. Since the perception of numbers exists in me time, and can't be represented by a sensory diagram like a geometrical figure, the doubt that perception is merely empirical and possibly misleading was eliminated in arithmetic, and the introduction of the logical method of proof into geometry was entirely due to this doubt. Since time has only one dimension, counting is the only arithmetic operation, to which all others can be simplified; and yet counting is just intuitive or perceptual beforehand, to which we can confidently refer here, and through which everything else, every sum and every equation, is ultimately proved. For example, we don't prove that (7 + 9 × 8 - 2)/3 = 42; instead, we refer to pure perception in time, which means counting makes every individual problem an axiom. Instead of the proofs that fill geometry, the whole content of arithmetic and algebra is simply a method of shortening counting. We mentioned earlier that our immediate perception of numbers in time extends only to about ten. Beyond this, an abstract concept of numbers, defined by a word, must replace the perception; which no longer actually occurs, but is only indicated in a very specific way. Yet even so, thanks to the useful system of figures that lets us represent all larger numbers with small ones, we can achieve intuitive or perceptive proof of every sum, even when we use abstraction so much that we think about not only the numbers but also indefinite quantities and entire operations only in the abstract and indicate them as such, like [sqrt](r^b), so that we don’t perform them but merely symbolize them.

We might establish truth in geometry also, through [pg 100] pure a priori perception, with the same right and certainty as in arithmetic. It is in fact always this necessity, known through perception in accordance with the principle of sufficient reason of being, which gives to geometry its principal evidence, and upon which in the consciousness of every one, the certainty of its propositions rests. The stilted logical demonstration is always foreign to the matter, and is generally soon forgotten, without weakening our conviction. It might indeed be dispensed with altogether without diminishing the evidence of geometry, for this is always quite independent of such demonstration, which never proves anything we are not convinced of already, through another kind of knowledge. So far then it is like a cowardly soldier, who adds a wound to an enemy slain by another, and then boasts that he slew him himself.22

We can also establish truth in geometry through [pg 100] pure beforehand perception, with the same validity and assurance as in arithmetic. Ultimately, it’s this necessity, understood through perception according to the principle of sufficient reason, that provides geometry with its main certainty, and on which everyone’s confidence in its propositions relies. The overly complicated logical proofs tend to be irrelevant, and they are usually forgotten quickly without undermining our belief. In fact, we could completely do away with them without reducing the certainty of geometry, since it has always been completely independent of such proofs, which never demonstrate anything we don’t already believe through another form of understanding. In this sense, it's like a cowardly soldier who adds a wound to an enemy already defeated by someone else and then claims he was the one who killed him.22

After all this we hope there will be no doubt that the evidence of mathematics, which has become the pattern and symbol of all evidence, rests essentially not upon demonstration, but upon immediate perception, which is thus here, as everywhere else, the ultimate ground and source of truth. Yet the perception which lies at the basis of mathematics has a great advantage over all other perception, and therefore over empirical perception. It is a priori, and therefore independent of experience, which is always given only in successive parts; therefore everything is equally near to it, and we can start either from the reason or from the consequent, as we please. Now this makes it absolutely reliable, [pg 101] for in it the consequent is known from the reason, and this is the only kind of knowledge that has necessity; for example, the equality of the sides is known as established by the equality of the angles. All empirical perception, on the other hand, and the greater part of experience, proceeds conversely from the consequent to the reason, and this kind of knowledge is not infallible, for necessity only attaches to the consequent on account of the reason being given, and no necessity attaches to the knowledge of the reason from the consequent, for the same consequent may follow from different reasons. The latter kind of knowledge is simply induction, i.e., from many consequents which point to one reason, the reason is accepted as certain; but as the cases can never be all before us, the truth here is not unconditionally certain. But all knowledge through sense-perception, and the great bulk of experience, has only this kind of truth. The affection of one of the senses induces the understanding to infer a cause of the effect, but, as a conclusion from the consequent to the reason is never certain, illusion, which is deception of the senses, is possible, and indeed often occurs, as was pointed out above. Only when several of the senses, or it may be all the five, receive impressions which point to the same cause, the possibility of illusion is reduced to a minimum; but yet it still exists, for there are cases, for example, the case of counterfeit money, in which all the senses are deceived. All empirical knowledge, and consequently the whole of natural science, is in the same position, except only the pure, or as Kant calls it, metaphysical part of it. Here also the causes are known from the effects, consequently all natural philosophy rests upon hypotheses, which are often false, and must then gradually give place to more correct ones. Only in the case of purposely arranged experiments, knowledge proceeds from the cause to the effect, that is, it follows the method that affords certainty; but these experiments [pg 102] themselves are undertaken in consequence of hypotheses. Therefore, no branch of natural science, such as physics, or astronomy, or physiology could be discovered all at once, as was the case with mathematics and logic, but required and requires the collected and compared experiences of many centuries. In the first place, repeated confirmation in experience brings the induction, upon which the hypothesis rests, so near completeness that in practice it takes the place of certainty, and is regarded as diminishing the value of the hypothesis, its source, just as little as the incommensurability of straight and curved lines diminishes the value of the application of geometry, or that perfect exactness of the logarithm, which is not attainable, diminishes the value of arithmetic. For as the logarithm, or the squaring of the circle, approaches infinitely near to correctness through infinite fractions, so, through manifold experience, the induction, i.e., the knowledge of the cause from the effects, approaches, not infinitely indeed, but yet so near mathematical evidence, i.e., knowledge of the effects from the cause, that the possibility of mistake is small enough to be neglected, but yet the possibility exists; for example, a conclusion from an indefinite number of cases to all cases, i.e., to the unknown ground on which all depend, is an induction. What conclusion of this kind seems more certain than that all men have the heart on the left side? Yet there are extremely rare and quite isolated exceptions of men who have the heart upon the right side. Sense-perception and empirical science have, therefore, the same kind of evidence. The advantage which mathematics, pure natural science, and logic have over them, as a priori knowledge, rests merely upon this, that the formal element in knowledge upon which all that is a priori is based, is given as a whole and at once, and therefore in it we can always proceed from the cause to the effect, while in the former kind of knowledge we are generally obliged to proceed from the effect to the [pg 103] cause. In other respects, the law of causality, or the principle of sufficient reason of change, which guides empirical knowledge, is in itself just as certain as the other forms of the principle of sufficient reason which are followed by the a priori sciences referred to above. Logical demonstrations from concepts or syllogisms have the advantage of proceeding from the reason to the consequent, just as much as knowledge through perception a priori, and therefore in themselves, i.e., according to their form, they are infallible. This has greatly assisted to bring demonstration in general into such esteem. But this infallibility is merely relative; the demonstration merely subsumes under the first principles of the science, and it is these which contain the whole material truth of science, and they must not themselves be demonstrated, but must be founded on perception. In the few a priori sciences we have named above, this perception is pure, but everywhere else it is empirical, and is only raised to universality through induction. If, then, in the empirical sciences also, the particular is proved from the general, yet the general, on the other hand, has received its truth from the particular; it is only a store of collected material, not a self-constituted foundation.

After all this, we hope there will be no doubt that the evidence of mathematics, which has become the standard and symbol of all evidence, is fundamentally based not on demonstration, but on immediate perception, which is, as in every other case, the ultimate foundation and source of truth. However, the perception that underlies mathematics has a significant advantage over all other perceptions, and therefore over empirical perception. It is before the fact, meaning it is independent of experience, which is always given only in parts; as a result, everything is equally close to it, and we can start either from the reason or from the conclusion, as we choose. This makes it completely reliable, [pg 101] because in it the conclusion is known from the reason, and this is the only type of knowledge that has necessity; for instance, the equality of the sides is understood to be established by the equality of the angles. On the other hand, all empirical perception, and much of experience, moves in the opposite direction from the conclusion to the reason, and this type of knowledge is not infallible, because necessity only connects to the conclusion due to the reason being given, and no necessity connects to the knowledge of the reason from the conclusion, as the same conclusion may arise from different reasons. This kind of knowledge is simply induction, i.e., from many conclusions that point to one reason, the reason is accepted as certain; but since the instances can never all be before us, the truth here is not absolutely certain. But all knowledge through sense perception, and the majority of experience, has only this kind of truth. The stimulation of one of the senses prompts the understanding to infer a cause for the effect, but since a conclusion from the conclusion to the reason is never certain, deception, which is a trick of the senses, is possible, and indeed often happens, as previously noted. Only when several senses, or perhaps all five, receive impressions that point to the same cause is the possibility of illusion minimized; however, it still exists, for example, in the case of counterfeit money, where all the senses can be fooled. All empirical knowledge, and thus all of natural science, is in the same situation, except for the pure, or as Kant describes it, metaphysical aspects. Here too, the causes are understood from the effects, consequently all natural philosophy relies on hypotheses, which are often incorrect, and must then gradually be replaced with more accurate ones. Only in the case of carefully designed experiments does knowledge move from the cause to the effect, following a method that leads to certainty; but these experiments [pg 102] are carried out based on hypotheses. Therefore, no field of natural science, such as physics, astronomy, or physiology, could be discovered all at once, as was the case with mathematics and logic, but required and continues to require the collected and compared experiences of many centuries. Initially, repeated confirmations in experience bring the induction, upon which the hypothesis is based, so close to completeness that in practice it serves as certainty, and is regarded as diminishing the value of the hypothesis, its source, just as little as the incommensurability of straight and curved lines diminishes the value of the application of geometry, or that perfect exactness of logarithms, which is unattainable, diminishes the value of arithmetic. For just as the logarithm, or the squaring of the circle, approaches correctness infinitely closely through infinite fractions, so, through numerous experiences, the induction, i.e., the knowledge of the cause from the effects, approaches, not infinitely, but closely enough to mathematical evidence, i.e. knowledge of the effects from the cause, that the possibility of error is minor enough to be ignored; yet the possibility remains; for instance, a conclusion drawn from an indefinite number of cases to all cases, i.e., to the unknown basis on which all depend, is an induction. What conclusion of this kind seems more certain than that all people have their heart on the left side? Yet there are extremely rare and entirely isolated exceptions of individuals who have their heart on the right side. Sense perception and empirical science, therefore, have the same type of evidence. The advantage that mathematics, pure natural science, and logic hold over them, as prior knowledge, is merely based on the fact that the formal element in knowledge that underlies everything that is before the fact is presented as a whole and at once, allowing us always to proceed from the cause to the effect, while in the previous kind of knowledge we are generally required to move from the effect to the [pg 103] cause. In other respects, the law of causality, or the principle of sufficient reason for change, which guides empirical knowledge, is just as certain as the other forms of the principle of sufficient reason followed by the beforehand sciences mentioned earlier. Logical demonstrations from concepts or syllogisms have the advantage of moving from the reason to the conclusion, just as knowledge through perception beforehand, and thus in themselves, i.e., in terms of their form, they are infallible. This has significantly contributed to the esteem for demonstrations in general. However, this infallibility is merely relative; the demonstration only subsumes under the first principles of the science, and it is these which contain the entire material truth of the science, and they must not themselves be demonstrated, but must be grounded in perception. In the few before the fact sciences we have mentioned earlier, this perception is pure, but in all other cases it is empirical, and it only becomes universal through induction. Therefore, even if in the empirical sciences the particular is proven from the general, the general, on the other hand, has received its truth from the particular; it is merely a collection of gathered material, not a self-established foundation.

So much for the foundation of truth. Of the source and possibility of error many explanations have been tried since Plato's metaphorical solution of the dove-cot where the wrong pigeons are caught, &c. (Theætetus, p. 167, et seq.) Kant's vague, indefinite explanation of the source of error by means of the diagram of diagonal motion, will be found in the “Critique of Pure Reason,” p. 294 of the first edition, and p. 350 of the fifth. As truth is the relation of a judgment to its ground of knowledge, it is always a problem how the person judging can believe that he has such a ground of knowledge and yet not have it; that is to say, how error, the deception of reason, is possible. I find this possibility quite analogous to that of illusion, or the deception of the understanding, [pg 104] which has been explained above. My opinion is (and this is what gives this explanation its proper place here) that every error is an inference from the consequent to the reason, which indeed is valid when we know that the consequent has that reason and can have no other; but otherwise is not valid. The person who falls into error, either attributes to a consequent a reason which it cannot have, in which case he shows actual deficiency of understanding, i.e., deficiency in the capacity for immediate knowledge of the connection between the cause and the effect, or, as more frequently happens, he attributes to the effect a cause which is possible, but he adds to the major proposition of the syllogism, in which he infers the cause from the effect, that this effect always results only from this cause. Now he could only be assured of this by a complete induction, which, however, he assumes without having made it. This “always” is therefore too wide a concept, and instead of it he ought to have used “sometimes” or “generally.” The conclusion would then be problematical, and therefore not erroneous. That the man who errs should proceed in this way is due either to haste, or to insufficient knowledge of what is possible, on account of which he does not know the necessity of the induction that ought to be made. Error then is quite analogous to illusion. Both are inferences from the effect to the cause; the illusion brought about always in accordance with the law of causality, and by the understanding alone, thus directly, in perception itself; the error in accordance with all the forms of the principle of sufficient reason, and by the reason, thus in thought itself; yet most commonly in accordance with the law of causality, as will appear from the three following examples, which may be taken as types or representatives of the three kinds of error. (1.) The illusion of the senses (deception of the understanding) induces error (deception of the reason); for example, if one mistakes a painting for an alto-relief, and actually [pg 105] takes it for such; the error results from a conclusion from the following major premise: “If dark grey passes regularly through all shades to white; the cause is always the light, which strikes differently upon projections and depressions, ergo—.” (2.) “If there is no money in my safe, the cause is always that my servant has got a key for it: ergo—.” (3.) “If a ray of sunlight, broken through a prism, i.e., bent up or down, appears as a coloured band instead of round and white as before, the cause must always be that light consists of homogeneous rays, differently coloured and refrangible to different degrees, which, when forced asunder on account of the difference of their refrangibility, give an elongated and variously-coloured spectrum: ergo—bibamus!—It must be possible to trace every error to such a conclusion, drawn from a major premise which is often only falsely generalised, hypothetical, and founded on the assumption that some particular cause is that of a certain effect. Only certain mistakes in counting are to be excepted, and they are not really errors, but merely mistakes. The operation prescribed by the concepts of the numbers has not been carried out in pure intuition or perception, in counting, but some other operation instead of it.

So much for the foundation of truth. Many explanations have been offered about the source and possibility of error since Plato's metaphorical solution of the dove-cot where the wrong pigeons are caught, etc. (Theætetus, p. 167, et seq.) Kant's vague and unclear explanation of the source of error through the diagram of diagonal motion can be found in the "Critique of Pure Reason" p. 294 of the first edition and p. 350 of the fifth. Since truth is the relationship of a judgment to its foundation of knowledge, it is always a question how the person judging can believe that they have such a foundation and yet not have it; that is, how the deception of reason is possible. I find this possibility quite similar to that of illusion, or the deception of understanding, [pg 104] which has been explained above. My view is (and this is what gives this explanation its proper place here) that Every mistake is a conclusion drawn from the result back to the cause., which is indeed valid when we know that the consequent has that reason and can have no other; but otherwise, it is not valid. The person who makes an error either attributes to a consequent a reason that it cannot have, demonstrating a real deficiency of understanding, i.e., a lack of capacity for immediate knowledge of the connection between cause and effect, or, more commonly, they attribute to the effect a cause that is possible, but they add to the major premise of the syllogism, from which they infer the cause from the effect, that this effect always results only from this cause. Now, they could only be sure of this through a complete induction, which, however, they assume without having carried it out. This "always" is therefore too broad a concept, and instead, it should have been "sometimes" or "typically." The conclusion would then be questionable and, therefore, not erroneous. That the person who errs proceeds in this way is either due to haste or insufficient knowledge of what is possible, which leads them not to understand the necessity of the induction that should be made. Error, then, is quite like illusion. Both are inferences from effect to cause; the illusion occurs always according to the law of causality and through understanding alone, thus directly, in perception itself; the error occurs in accordance with all forms of the principle of sufficient reason, and through reason, thus in thought itself; yet most commonly according to the law of causality, as will become clear from the three examples below, which can be seen as types or representations of the three kinds of error. (1.) The illusion of the senses (deception of understanding) leads to error (deception of reason); for example, if someone mistakes a painting for an alto-relief and actually [pg 105] takes it as such; the error results from a conclusion based on the following major premise: "If dark gray transitions smoothly through all shades to white, the reason is always the light, which hits projections and depressions in different ways, therefore—." (2.) "If there's no money in my safe, it's always because my servant has a key to it: ergo—." (3.) “When a ray of sunlight passes through a prism, i.e., bending up or down, it shows as a colored band instead of round and white like before. The reason for this is that light is made up of uniform rays that are different colors and bend differently. When these rays are separated due to their varying levels of refraction, they create a long and colorful spectrum: ergo—bibamus!—It must be possible to trace every error back to such a conclusion, drawn from a major premise that is often falsely generalized, hypothetical, and based on the assumption that some specific cause is that of a certain effect. Only certain mistakes in counting should be excluded, and they aren’t really errors but just mistakes. The operation prescribed by the concepts of numbers has not been carried out in pure intuition or perception, in counting, but rather some other operation instead.

As regards the content of the sciences generally, it is, in fact, always the relation of the phenomena of the world to each other, according to the principle of sufficient reason, under the guidance of the why, which has validity and meaning only through this principle. Explanation is the establishment of this relation. Therefore explanation can never go further than to show two ideas standing to each other in the relation peculiar to that form of the principle of sufficient reason which reigns in the class to which they belong. If this is done we cannot further be asked the question, why: for the relation proved is that one which absolutely cannot be imagined as other than it is, i.e., it is the form of all knowledge. Therefore we do not ask why 2 + 2 = 4; or why the equality of the [pg 106] angles of a triangle determines the equality of the sides; or why its effect follows any given cause; or why the truth of the conclusion is evident from the truth of the premises. Every explanation which does not ultimately lead to a relation of which no “why” can further be demanded, stops at an accepted qualitas occulta; but this is the character of every original force of nature. Every explanation in natural science must ultimately end with such a qualitas occulta, and thus with complete obscurity. It must leave the inner nature of a stone just as much unexplained as that of a human being; it can give as little account of the weight, the cohesion, the chemical qualities, &c., of the former, as of the knowing and acting of the latter. Thus, for example, weight is a qualitas occulta, for it can be thought away, and does not proceed as a necessity from the form of knowledge; which, on the contrary, is not the case with the law of inertia, for it follows from the law of causality, and is therefore sufficiently explained if it is referred to that law. There are two things which are altogether inexplicable,—that is to say, do not ultimately lead to the relation which the principle of sufficient reason expresses. These are, first, the principle of sufficient reason itself in all its four forms, because it is the principle of all explanation, which has meaning only in relation to it; secondly, that to which this principle does not extend, but which is the original source of all phenomena; the thing-in-itself, the knowledge of which is not subject to the principle of sufficient reason. We must be content for the present not to understand this thing-in-itself, for it can only be made intelligible by means of the following book, in which we shall resume this consideration of the possible achievements of the sciences. But at the point at which natural science, and indeed every science, leaves things, because not only its explanation of them, but even the principle of this explanation, the principle of sufficient reason, does not extend beyond this point; there philosophy [pg 107] takes them up and treats them after its own method, which is quite distinct from the method of science. In my essay on the principle of sufficient reason, § 51, I have shown how in the different sciences the chief guiding clue is one or other form of that principle; and, in fact, perhaps the most appropriate classification of the sciences might be based upon this circumstance. Every explanation arrived at by the help of this clue is, as we have said, merely relative; it explains things in relation to each other, but something which indeed is presupposed is always left unexplained. In mathematics, for example, this is space and time; in mechanics, physics, and chemistry it is matter, qualities, original forces and laws of nature; in botany and zoology it is the difference of species, and life itself; in history it is the human race with all its properties of thought and will: in all it is that form of the principle of sufficient reason which is respectively applicable. It is peculiar to philosophy that it presupposes nothing as known, but treats everything as equally external and a problem; not merely the relations of phenomena, but also the phenomena themselves, and even the principle of sufficient reason to which the other sciences are content to refer everything. In philosophy nothing would be gained by such a reference, as one member of the series is just as external to it as another; and, moreover, that kind of connection is just as much a problem for philosophy as what is joined together by it, and the latter again is just as much a problem after its combination has been explained as before it. For, as we have said, just what the sciences presuppose and lay down as the basis and the limits of their explanation, is precisely and peculiarly the problem of philosophy, which may therefore be said to begin where science ends. It cannot be founded upon demonstrations, for they lead from known principles to unknown, but everything is equally unknown and external to philosophy. There can be no principle in consequence of which the world with [pg 108] all its phenomena first came into existence, and therefore it is not possible to construct, as Spinoza wished, a philosophy which demonstrates ex firmis principiis. Philosophy is the most general rational knowledge, the first principles of which cannot therefore be derived from another principle still more general. The principle of contradiction establishes merely the agreement of concepts, but does not itself produce concepts. The principle of sufficient reason explains the connections of phenomena, but not the phenomena themselves; therefore philosophy cannot proceed upon these principles to seek a causa efficiens or a causa finalis of the whole world. My philosophy, at least, does not by any means seek to know whence or wherefore the world exists, but merely what the world is. But the why is here subordinated to the what, for it already belongs to the world, as it arises and has meaning and validity only through the form of its phenomena, the principle of sufficient reason. We might indeed say that every one knows what the world is without help, for he is himself that subject of knowledge of which the world is the idea; and so far this would be true. But that knowledge is empirical, is in the concrete; the task of philosophy is to reproduce this in the abstract to raise to permanent rational knowledge the successive changing perceptions, and in general, all that is contained under the wide concept of feeling and merely negatively defined as not abstract, distinct, rational knowledge. It must therefore consist of a statement in the abstract, of the nature of the whole world, of the whole, and of all the parts. In order then that it may not lose itself in the endless multitude of particular judgments, it must make use of abstraction and think everything individual in the universal, and its differences also in the universal. It must therefore partly separate and partly unite, in order to present to rational knowledge the whole manifold of the world generally, according to its nature, comprehended in a few abstract concepts. [pg 109] Through these concepts, in which it fixes the nature of the world, the whole individual must be known as well as the universal, the knowledge of both therefore must be bound together to the minutest point. Therefore the capacity for philosophy consists just in that in which Plato placed it, the knowledge of the one in the many, and the many in the one. Philosophy will therefore be a sum-total of general judgments, whose ground of knowledge is immediately the world itself in its entirety, without excepting anything; thus all that is to be found in human consciousness; it will be a complete recapitulation, as it were, a reflection, of the world in abstract concepts, which is only possible by the union of the essentially identical in one concept and the relegation of the different to another. This task was already prescribed to philosophy by Bacon of Verulam when he said: ea demum vera est philosophia, quae mundi ipsius voces fidelissime reddit, et veluti dictante mundo conscripta est, et nihil aliud est, quam ejusdem simulacrum et reflectio, neque addit quidquam de proprio, sed tantum iterat et resonat (De Augm. Scient., L. 2, c. 13). But we take this in a wider sense than Bacon could then conceive.

As for the content of science in general, it fundamentally concerns the relationships between the phenomena of the world according to the principle of sufficient reason, guided by the why, which is meaningful only through this principle. Explanation involves establishing this relationship. Therefore, explanation can only show how two ideas relate to each other within the specific aspect of the principle of sufficient reason that applies to that category. Once this relationship is demonstrated, we cannot be asked why again: the established relationship is one that cannot be conceived in any other way, i.e., it forms the basis of all knowledge. Thus, we don't question why 2 + 2 = 4; or why the equality of the [pg 106] angles of a triangle implies the equality of the sides; or why a particular effect follows a specific cause; or why the truth of the conclusion is evident from the truth of the premises. Any explanation that does not ultimately lead to a relationship for which no further "why" can be demanded ends at an accepted hidden quality; and this is characteristic of every original force of nature. Every explanation in natural science must ultimately conclude with such a hidden quality, thus remaining completely obscure. It must leave the inner nature of a stone just as unexplained as that of a human being; it cannot account for the weight, cohesion, chemical properties, etc., of the former, any more than it can for the cognition and action of the latter. For instance, weight is a hidden quality, as it can be disregarded and does not necessarily arise from the form of knowledge; in contrast, the law of inertia follows from the law of causality and is therefore adequately explained by referring to that law. There are two concepts that are entirely inexplicable—that is, do not lead to the relationship expressed by the principle of sufficient reason. These are, firstly, the principle of sufficient reason itself in all its four forms, as it embodies the principle of all explanation, which has meaning solely in relation to it; secondly, that which this principle does not reach, which serves as the original source of all phenomena; the thing-in-itself, knowledge of which does not adhere to the principle of sufficient reason. For now, we must accept that we do not understand this thing-in-itself, as it can only be clarified through the following book, where we will revisit the potential achievements of the sciences. However, when natural science, and indeed every science, reaches the limit of its explanation and even the principle of this explanation, the principle of sufficient reason, does not extend beyond that point; this is where philosophy [pg 107] takes over and examines things in its own manner, which is entirely distinct from the scientific method. In my essay on the principle of sufficient reason, § 51, I illustrated how, in various sciences, the main guiding principle is one or another form of that principle; indeed, perhaps the most suitable categorization of sciences could be based on this aspect. Each explanation derived from this principle is, as stated, merely relative; it explains phenomena in relation to one another, yet something that is assumed remains unexplained. In mathematics, for instance, this is space and time; in mechanics, physics, and chemistry, it is matter, qualities, fundamental forces, and natural laws; in botany and zoology, it is species differences and life itself; in history, it involves the human race with all its cognitive and volitional traits: in all cases, it adheres to the form of the principle of sufficient reason that applies to each discipline. Philosophy uniquely presumes nothing as known but examines everything as equally external and problematic; not only the relations of phenomena but the phenomena themselves, and even the principle of sufficient reason to which other sciences are content to refer everything. In philosophy, referencing such a principle yields no insight since one part of the series is just as external to it as another; moreover, such connections pose just as much of a problem for philosophy as the phenomena they link, and the linked relationships remain just as problematic after being explained as they were before. As stated, precisely what the sciences assume and establish as the foundation and limits of their explanations is uniquely the problem of philosophy, which may be said to begin where science concludes. It cannot be grounded in demonstrations, as they move from known principles to unknown; everything is equally unknown and external to philosophy. There can be no principle that explains how the world along with [pg 108] all its phenomena first came into existence, and thus, as Spinoza wished, it is impossible to construct a philosophy that demonstrates from strong principles. Philosophy represents the most comprehensive form of rational knowledge, the first principles of which cannot be derived from another principle that is even more general. The principle of contradiction only establishes the agreement of concepts, but does not itself create concepts. The principle of sufficient reason explains the connections among phenomena but not the phenomena themselves; therefore, philosophy cannot utilize these principles to search for a causal agent or a final cause of the entire world. My philosophy, at least, does not aim to understand from where or why the world exists, but simply what the world is. However, the why is subordinated to the what, as it pertains to the world, arising from and obtaining meaning and validity only through the form of its phenomena, the principle of sufficient reason. We might say that everyone intuitively knows what the world is without aid, as they are themselves the subjects of knowledge of which the world is the idea; and to a degree, this is accurate. Yet that knowledge is empirical, grounded in specifics; the role of philosophy is to abstract this knowledge to elevate the shifting perceptions to stable, rational knowledge, and generally to encompass all that is identified under the broad concept of feeling and merely defined negatively as not abstract, distinct, rational knowledge. It must thus comprise a statement in the abstract regarding the nature of the entire world, encompassing the whole and all its parts. To avoid becoming lost in the endless variety of particular judgments, it must employ abstraction, thinking of every individual aspect in the universal and its variations likewise in the universal. Thus, it must partially separate and partially unite to present to rational knowledge the whole diversity of the world generally, according to its nature, condensed into a few abstract concepts. [pg 109] Through these concepts, which define the essence of the world, the entire individual must be understood alongside the universal, creating a bond of knowledge between both down to the finest detail. Therefore, the essence of philosophy lies, as Plato suggested, in understanding the one within the many, and the many within the one. Philosophy will thus be a comprehensive summation of general judgments, whose foundation of knowledge is directly the world itself in its entirety, leaving nothing out; hence, it will include everything found in human consciousness. It will be a full summary, in a way, a reflection of the world in abstract ideas, achievable only through the synthesis of the essentially identical in one concept and the relegation of the distinct to another. This mission was already designated to philosophy by Bacon of Verulam when he stated: True philosophy is finally that which faithfully represents the voices of the world itself, as if it were written by the world dictating, and it is nothing other than the same simulacrum et reflectio, doesn't add anything of its own, but only repeats and echoes (De Augm. Scient., L. 2, c. 13). However, we mean this in a broader sense than what Bacon could have envisioned at the time.

The agreement which all the sides and parts of the world have with each other, just because they belong to a whole, must also be found in this abstract copy of it. Therefore the judgments in this sum-total could to a certain extent be deduced from each other, and indeed always reciprocally so deduced. Yet to make the first judgment possible, they must all be present, and thus implied as prior to it in the knowledge of the world in the concrete, especially as all direct proof is more certain than indirect proof; their harmony with each other by virtue of which they come together into the unity of one thought, and which arises from the harmony and unity of the world of perception itself, which is their common ground of knowledge, is not therefore to be made use of to establish them, as that which is prior to them, [pg 110] but is only added as a confirmation of their truth. This problem itself can only become quite clear in being solved.23

The agreement that everyone around the world has with one another, simply because they are part of a whole, must also be reflected in this abstract representation of it. Therefore, the conclusions in this totality can to some extent be inferred from each other, and indeed, they always support each other in that inference. However, to make the first conclusion valid, they must all be present and thus implied as preceding it in the actual understanding of the world, especially since direct evidence is more reliable than indirect evidence; their alignment with each other, which allows them to come together in the unity of one thought, stems from the harmony and unity of the perceptual world itself, which serves as their shared foundation of knowledge. This alignment shouldn't be used to establish them as that which comes before, [pg 110] but rather should be seen as a reinforcement of their validity. This issue can only become entirely clear when it is resolved.23

§ 16. After this full consideration of reason as a special faculty of knowledge belonging to man alone, and the results and phenomena peculiar to human nature brought about by it, it still remains for me to speak of reason, so far as it is the guide of human action, and in this respect may be called practical. But what there is to say upon this point has found its place elsewhere in the appendix to this work, where I controvert the existence of the so-called practical reason of Kant, which he (certainly very conveniently) explained as the immediate source of virtue, and as the seat of an absolute (i.e., fallen from heaven) imperative. The detailed and thorough refutation of this Kantian principle of morality I have given later in the “Fundamental Problems of Ethics.” There remains, therefore, but little for me to say here about the actual influence of reason, in the true sense of the word, upon action. At the commencement of our treatment of reason we remarked, in general terms, how much the action and behaviour of men differs from that of brutes, and that this difference is to be regarded as entirely due to the presence of abstract concepts in consciousness. The influence of these upon our whole existence is so penetrating and significant that, on account of them, we are related to the lower animals very much as those animals that see are related to those that have no eyes (certain larvae, worms, and zoophytes). Animals without eyes know only by touch what is immediately present to them in space, what comes into contact with them; those which see, on the contrary, know a wide circle of near and distant objects. In the same way the absence of reason confines the lower animals to the ideas of perception, i.e., the real objects which are immediately present to them in time; we, on the contrary, on account [pg 111] of knowledge in the abstract, comprehend not only the narrow actual present, but also the whole past and future, and the wide sphere of the possible; we view life freely on all its sides, and go far beyond the present and the actual. Thus what the eye is in space and for sensuous knowledge, reason is, to a certain extent, in time and for inner knowledge. But as the visibility of objects has its worth and meaning only in the fact that it informs us of their tangibility, so the whole worth of abstract knowledge always consists in its relation to what is perceived. Therefore men naturally attach far more worth to immediate and perceived knowledge than to abstract concepts, to that which is merely thought; they place empirical knowledge before logical. But this is not the opinion of men who live more in words than in deeds, who have seen more on paper and in books than in actual life, and who in their greatest degeneracy become pedants and lovers of the mere letter. Thus only is it conceivable that Leibnitz and Wolf and all their successors could go so far astray as to explain knowledge of perception, after the example of Duns Scotus, as merely confused abstract knowledge! To the honour of Spinoza, I must mention that his truer sense led him, on the contrary, to explain all general concepts as having arisen from the confusion of that which was known in perception (Eth. II., prop. 40, Schol. 1). It is also a result of perverted opinion that in mathematics the evidence proper to it was rejected, and logical evidence alone accepted; that everything in general which was not abstract knowledge was comprehended under the wide name of feeling, and consequently was little valued; and lastly that the Kantian ethics regarded the good will which immediately asserts itself upon knowledge of the circumstances, and guides to right and good action as mere feeling and emotion, and consequently as worthless and without merit, and would [pg 112] only recognise actions which proceed from abstract maxims as having moral worth.

§ 16. After considering reason as a unique capacity for knowledge that is exclusive to humans, as well as the outcomes and characteristics specific to human nature that arise from it, I still need to discuss reason in terms of its role in guiding human actions, which can be described as practical. However, what I have to say on this subject is detailed in the appendix of this work, where I challenge the existence of what Kant calls practical reason, which he (certainly very conveniently) defined as the immediate source of virtue and the basis of an absolute (i.e., handed down from a higher power) imperative. I provide a thorough critique of this Kantian moral principle later in the "Key Issues in Ethics." Therefore, there is little left for me to discuss here regarding the true impact of reason on action. At the start of our discussion about reason, we noted how significantly the actions and behavior of humans differ from those of animals, and that this difference is entirely due to the presence of abstract concepts in our consciousness. The influence of these concepts on our entire existence is so deep and important that, because of them, we relate to lower animals much like sighted animals relate to blind ones (certain larvae, worms, and zoophytes). Animals that lack sight know only through touch what is immediately in their space, what comes into contact with them; those that can see, on the other hand, are aware of a vast range of nearby and distant objects. Similarly, the lack of reason limits lower animals to ideas based solely on perception, i.e., the real objects that are immediately present to them in time; we, in contrast, because of our abstract knowledge, understand not only the immediate present but also the entire past and future and the broad realm of possibilities; we view life freely from all angles and venture far beyond what is present and actual. Just as the eye allows us to perceive space and physical qualities, reason serves, to some extent, in the realm of time and for inner understanding. However, just as the visibility of objects holds value only when it indicates their physical presence, the value of abstract knowledge lies in its relation to what is perceived. Thus, humans naturally place far more value on immediate, perceived knowledge over abstract concepts or what is merely thought; they prioritize empirical knowledge over logical reasoning. Yet, this isn't the perspective of those who are more invested in words than actions, who have encountered more on paper and in books than in real life, and who, in their worst decline, become mere pedants and lovers of superficiality. This explains how figures like Leibnitz and Wolf, along with their successors, could erroneously define perceptual knowledge, following Duns Scotus, as merely disorganized abstract knowledge! In honor of Spinoza, I must note that his clearer insight led him to articulate that all general concepts originated from the confusion of what was known through perception (Eth. II., prop. 40, Schol. 1). It is also a consequence of misguided opinions that in mathematics, the evidence appropriate to it has been dismissed, accepting only logical evidence; that everything that isn't abstract knowledge has been grouped broadly under the term of feeling, leading to its undervaluation; and finally, that Kantian ethics considers the good will which immediately arises from understanding circumstances and guides right and good actions as mere feeling and emotion, thus rendering it worthless and without merit, thereby acknowledging only actions that arise from abstract maxims as having moral value.

The many-sided view of life as a whole which man, as distinguished from the lower animals, possesses through reason, may be compared to a geometrical, colourless, abstract, reduced plan of his actual life. He, therefore, stands to the lower animals as the navigator who, by means of chart, compass, and quadrant, knows accurately his course and his position at any time upon the sea, stands to the uneducated sailors who see only the waves and the heavens. Thus it is worth noticing, and indeed wonderful, how, besides his life in the concrete, man always lives another life in the abstract. In the former he is given as a prey to all the storms of actual life, and to the influence of the present; he must struggle, suffer, and die like the brute. But his life in the abstract, as it lies before his rational consciousness, is the still reflection of the former, and of the world in which he lives; it is just that reduced chart or plan to which we have referred. Here in the sphere of quiet deliberation, what completely possessed him and moved him intensely before, appears to him cold, colourless, and for the moment external to him; he is merely the spectator, the observer. In respect of this withdrawal into reflection he may be compared to an actor who has played his part in one scene, and who takes his place among the audience till it is time for him to go upon the stage again, and quietly looks on at whatever may happen, even though it be the preparation for his own death (in the piece), but afterwards he again goes on the stage and acts and suffers as he must. From this double life proceeds that quietness peculiar to human beings, so very different from the thoughtlessness of the brutes, and with which, in accordance with previous reflection, or a formed determination, or a recognised necessity, a man suffers or accomplishes in cold blood, what is of the utmost and often terrible importance to him; suicide, execution, the [pg 113] duel, enterprises of every kind fraught with danger to life, and, in general, things against which his whole animal nature rebels. Under such circumstances we see to what an extent reason has mastered the animal nature, and we say to the strong: σιδηρειον νυ τοι ἡτορ! (ferreum certe tibi cor), Il. 24, 521. Here we can say truly that reason manifests itself practically, and thus wherever action is guided by reason, where the motives are abstract concepts, wherever we are not determined by particular ideas of perception, nor by the impression of the moment which guides the brutes, there practical reason shows itself. But I have fully explained in the Appendix, and illustrated by examples, that this is entirely different from and unrelated to the ethical worth of actions; that rational action and virtuous action are two entirely different things; that reason may just as well find itself in connection with great evil as with great good, and by its assistance may give great power to the one as well as to the other; that it is equally ready and valuable for the methodical and consistent carrying out of the noble and of the bad intention, of the wise as of the foolish maxim; which all results from the constitution of its nature, which is feminine, receptive, retentive, and not spontaneous; all this I have shown in detail in the Appendix, and illustrated by examples. What is said there would have been placed here, but on account of my polemic against Kant's pretended practical reason I have been obliged to relegate it to the Appendix, to which I therefore refer.

The multifaceted view of life that humans, unlike lower animals, have through reason can be likened to a geometric, colorless, abstract, simplified map of their actual lives. Therefore, humans relate to lower animals like navigators, who, using charts, compasses, and quadrants, know their course and position on the sea, while uneducated sailors only see the waves and the sky. It’s noteworthy, and indeed remarkable, how alongside their concrete life, humans always lead another life in the abstract. In the concrete life, they are at the mercy of life's storms and the present moment; they must struggle, suffer, and die like animals. However, their abstract life, laid out before their rational consciousness, is a calm reflection of their concrete existence and the world they inhabit; it serves as that simplified map we mentioned. In this realm of quiet contemplation, what once overwhelmed and intensely moved them appears cold, colorless, and somewhat external; they become mere spectators and observers. In terms of this retreat into reflection, they can be compared to an actor who has just performed in one scene and then takes his seat among the audience until it’s time for him to perform again, quietly watching whatever happens, even if it is the setup for his own death in the play, before returning to act and endure as required. This duality gives rise to that unique calm found in humans, which starkly contrasts with the thoughtlessness of animals, allowing a person to suffer or accomplish what is of utmost and often terrifying importance to them—like suicide, execution, duels, and various life-threatening endeavors—with a kind of cold resolve, even when their entire animal instinct protests. In such situations, we witness how fully reason has taken control of animal instincts, and we tell the strong: σιδηρειον νυ τοι ἡτορ! (iron heart for you), Il. 24, 521. Here we can genuinely say that reason shows itself in practice, so wherever actions are guided by reason, where motives stem from abstract concepts rather than immediate perceptions or the fleeting impressions that influence animals, there practical reasoning is evident. However, I have detailed in the Appendix, with examples, that this is completely different from and unrelated to the ethical value of actions; that rational action and virtuous action are two wholly distinct matters; that reason can align itself with both great evil and great good and can empower either significantly; that it is equally adept at methodically and consistently executing noble intentions as well as malicious ones, whether wise or foolish maxims, which all stems from the nature of reason—it is feminine, receptive, retentive, and not spontaneous; I have elaborated on all of this in the Appendix with illustrations. What is discussed there would have appeared here, but due to my criticism of Kant’s so-called practical reason, I have had to move it to the Appendix, which I now reference.

The ideal explained in the Stoical philosophy is the most complete development of practical reason in the true and genuine sense of the word; it is the highest summit to which man can attain by the mere use of his reason, and in it his difference from the brutes shows itself most distinctly. For the ethics of Stoicism are originally and essentially, not a doctrine of virtue, but merely a guide to a rational life, the end and aim of which is happiness through peace of mind. Virtuous conduct appears in it [pg 114] as it were merely by accident, as the means, not as the end. Therefore the ethical theory of Stoicism is in its whole nature and point of view fundamentally different from the ethical systems which lay stress directly upon virtue, such as the doctrines of the Vedas, of Plato, of Christianity, and of Kant. The aim of Stoical ethics is happiness: τελος το ευδαι μονειν (virtutes omnes finem habere beatitudinem) it is called in the account of the Stoa by Stobæus (Ecl., L. ii. c. 7, p. 114, and also p. 138). Yet the ethics of Stoicism teach that happiness can only be attained with certainty through inward peace and quietness of spirit (αταραξια), and that this again can only be reached through virtue; this is the whole meaning of the saying that virtue is the highest good. But if indeed by degrees the end is lost sight of in the means, and virtue is inculcated in a way which discloses an interest entirely different from that of one's own happiness, for it contradicts this too distinctly; this is just one of those inconsistencies by means of which, in every system, the immediately known, or, as it is called, felt truth leads us back to the right way in defiance of syllogistic reasoning; as, for example, we see clearly in the ethical teaching of Spinoza, which deduces a pure doctrine of virtue from the egoistical suum utile quærere by means of palpable sophisms. According to this, as I conceive the spirit of the Stoical ethics, their source lies in the question whether the great prerogative of man, reason, which, by means of planned action and its results, relieves life and its burdens so much, might not also be capable of freeing him at once, directly, i.e., through mere knowledge, completely, or nearly so, of the sorrows and miseries of every kind of which his life is full. They held that it was not in keeping with the prerogative of reason that the nature given with it, which by means of it comprehends and contemplates an infinity of things and circumstances, should yet, through the present, and the accidents that can be contained in the few years of a life that is short, [pg 115] fleeting, and uncertain, be exposed to such intense pain, to such great anxiety and suffering, as arise from the tempestuous strain of the desires and the antipathies; and they believed that the due application of reason must raise men above them, and can make them invulnerable. Therefore Antisthenes says: Δει κτασθαι νουν, η βροχον (aut mentem parandam, aut laqueum. Plut. de stoic. repugn., c. 14), i.e., life is so full of troubles and vexations, that one must either rise above it by means of corrected thoughts, or leave it. It was seen that want and suffering did not directly and of necessity spring from not having, but from desiring to have and not having; that therefore this desire to have is the necessary condition under which alone it becomes a privation not to have and begets pain. Ου πενια λυπην εργαζεται, αλλα επιθυμια (non paupertas dolorem efficit, sed cupiditas), Epict., fragm. 25. Men learned also from experience that it is only the hope of what is claimed that begets and nourishes the wish; therefore neither the many unavoidable evils which are common to all, nor unattainable blessings, disquiet or trouble us, but only the trifling more or less of those things which we can avoid or attain; indeed, not only what is absolutely unavoidable or unattainable, but also what is merely relatively so, leaves us quite undisturbed; therefore the ills that have once become joined to our individuality, or the good things that must of necessity always be denied us, are treated with indifference, in accordance with the peculiarity of human nature that every wish soon dies and can no more beget pain if it is not nourished by hope. It followed from all this that happiness always depends upon the proportion between our claims and what we receive. It is all one whether the quantities thus related be great or small, and the proportion can be established just as well by diminishing the amount of the first as by increasing the amount of the second; and in the same way it also follows that all suffering proceeds from the want of proportion [pg 116] between what we demand and expect and what we get. Now this want of proportion obviously lies only in knowledge, and it could be entirely abolished through fuller insight.24 Therefore Chrysippus says: δει ζῃν κατ᾽ εμπειριαν των φυσει συμβαινοντων (Stob. Ecl., L. ii. c. 7, p. 134), that is, one ought to live with a due knowledge of the transitory nature of the things of the world. For as often as a man loses self-command, or is struck down by a misfortune, or grows angry, or becomes faint-hearted, he shows that he finds things different from what he expected, consequently that he was caught in error, and did not know the world and life, did not know that the will of the individual is crossed at every step by the chance of inanimate nature and the antagonism of aims and the wickedness of other individuals: he has therefore either not made use of his reason in order to arrive at a general knowledge of this characteristic of life, or he lacks judgment, in that he does not recognise in the particular what he knows in general, and is therefore surprised by it and loses his self-command.25 Thus also every keen pleasure is an error and an illusion, for no attained wish can give lasting satisfaction; and, moreover, every possession and every happiness is but lent by chance for an uncertain time, and may therefore be demanded back the next hour. All pain rests on the passing away of such an illusion; thus both arise from defective knowledge; the wise man therefore holds himself equally aloof from joy and sorrow, and no event disturbs his αταραξια.

The ideal explained in the Stoic philosophy is the most complete development of practical reasoning in the true and genuine sense of the word; it is the highest point to which a person can reach using just their reason, and it clearly shows their distinction from animals. The ethics of Stoicism are originally and essentially not about virtue, but rather serve as a guide to a rational life, aimed primarily at achieving happiness through inner peace. Virtuous conduct appears merely as a means to an end, not the end itself. Therefore, Stoic ethical theory is fundamentally different in nature and perspective from ethical systems that emphasize virtue, like those of the Vedas, Plato, Christianity, and Kant. The goal of Stoic ethics is happiness: τελος το ευδαι μονειν (all virtues aim for happiness), as stated in the writings of Stobæus (Ecl., L. ii. c. 7, p. 114, and also p. 138). However, Stoic ethics teach that happiness can only be reliably achieved through inner peace and tranquility of spirit (αταραξια), which in turn can only be attained through virtue; this encapsulates the meaning of the saying that virtue is the highest good. But if over time the goal is overshadowed by the means, and virtue is promoted in a way that reveals an entirely different concern than one’s personal happiness, it contradicts the essence of Stoicism; this inconsistency allows the immediately known, or what is often called felt truth, to guide us back to the right path despite logical reasoning. We see this clearly in Spinoza's ethical teachings, which derive a pure doctrine of virtue from the egoistic pursue your own benefit using obvious fallacies. According to my understanding of Stoic ethics, their foundation lies in questioning whether the great privilege of humans, reason, which alleviates life and its burdens, could also directly free someone through mere knowledge from the pains and sorrows of existence. They believed it was incompatible with the privilege of reason, which can observe countless things and situations, to be subjected to intense pain and suffering arising from the chaotic pressure of desires and aversions just because of the fleeting and uncertain nature of a short life. Therefore, Antisthenes states: Δει κτασθαι νουν, η βροχον (either fix the mind or trap. Plut. de stoic. repugn., c. 14), i.e. life is so full of troubles and annoyances that one must either rise above them through corrected thoughts or escape them. It became clear that want and suffering do not arise directly from lack, but from the desire to have what one does not; thus this desire is the necessary condition under which not having produces pain. Ου πενια λυπην εργαζεται, αλλα επιθυμια (It's not poverty that causes pain, but desire.), Epict., fragm. 25. People also learned through experience that it is merely the hope of what is desired that creates and sustains the wish; therefore, it’s not the many unavoidable misfortunes shared by all, nor unattainable blessings, that disturb or trouble us, but only the minor differences in the things we can avoid or achieve; indeed, not only what is absolutely inevitable or unattainable, but also what is only relatively so, leaves us undisturbed; hence, the troubles we’ve accepted as part of our individuality or the goods that we must consistently be denied are treated with indifference, in line with the nature of human beings, where every wish soon fades and no longer causes pain if it is not fueled by hope. Consequently, happiness always relies on the balance between our expectations and what we actually receive. It doesn’t matter whether these quantities are large or small; the balance can be adjusted either by reducing our demands or by increasing what we attain; likewise, it follows that all suffering results from an imbalance [pg 116] between what we want and expect and what we actually get. Now, this imbalance lies only in our knowledge, and it could be entirely eliminated through greater understanding.24 Therefore Chrysippus says: δει ζῃν κατ᾽ εμπειριαν των φυσει συμβαινοντων (Stob. Ecl., L. ii. c. 7, p. 134), meaning one should live with an awareness of the transitory nature of worldly things. Whenever someone loses self-control, is struck by misfortune, becomes angry, or feels disheartened, it shows they find circumstances different from their expectations, indicating they were deceived and did not understand life or the world, failing to realize that personal will is often countered by the randomness of nature, conflicting aims, and the negative actions of others: thus, they either did not utilize their reason to grasp this aspect of life or lack insight, as they do not recognize the particular within the general and are caught off guard, losing their self-control.25 Likewise, every intense pleasure is an error and an illusion, because no fulfilled wish can provide lasting satisfaction; furthermore, every possession and happiness is merely borrowed from chance for an uncertain duration and can be reclaimed at any moment. All pain stems from the loss of such an illusion; thus both arise from inadequate knowledge; the wise person, therefore, maintains distance from both joy and sorrow, and no event disrupts their αταραξια.

In accordance with this spirit and aim of the Stoa, Epictetus began and ended with the doctrine as the kernel [pg 117] of his philosophy, that we should consider well and distinguish what depends upon us and what does not, and therefore entirely avoid counting upon the latter, whereby we shall certainly remain free from all pain, sorrow, and anxiety. But that which alone is dependent upon us is the will; and here a transition gradually takes place to a doctrine of virtue, for it is observed that as the outer world, which is independent of us, determines good and bad fortune, so inner contentment with ourselves, or the absence of it, proceeds from the will. But it was then asked whether we ought to apply the words bonum and malum to the two former or to the two latter? This was indeed arbitrary and a matter of choice, and did not make any real difference, but yet the Stoics disputed everlastingly with the Peripatetics and Epicureans about it, and amused themselves with the inadmissible comparison of two entirely incommensurable quantities, and the antithetical, paradoxical judgments which proceeded from them, and which they flung at each other. The Paradoxa of Cicero afford us an interesting collection of these from the Stoical side.

In line with the beliefs and goals of the Stoa, Epictetus started and concluded with the core teaching of his philosophy: we should carefully consider and differentiate what is up to us and what isn’t, and therefore completely avoid relying on the latter, as this will definitely keep us free from all pain, sorrow, and anxiety. The only thing that depends on us is our will; and this leads us gradually to a lesson on virtue, as it becomes clear that while the external world, which is out of our control, dictates our good and bad fortune, our inner peace with ourselves, or lack thereof, comes from our will. There was then a debate about whether we should apply the terms good and malum to the former or the latter? This was actually subjective and a matter of preference, and it didn’t really change anything, yet the Stoics endlessly argued with the Peripatetics and Epicureans about it, entertaining themselves with the invalid comparison of two completely incomparable categories and the contradictory, paradoxical conclusions that arose from them, which they hurled at each other. The Paradoxa of Cicero provides us with an intriguing compilation of these from the Stoic perspective.

Zeno, the founder, seems originally to have followed a somewhat different path. The starting-point with him was that for the attainment of the highest good, i.e., blessedness and spiritual peace, one must live in harmony with oneself (ὁμολογουμενους ξῃν; δ᾽ εστι καθ᾽ ἑνα λογον και συμφωνον ξῃν.—Consonanter vivere: hoc est secundum unam rationem et concordem sibi vivere. Stob. Ecl. eth. L. ii., c. 7, p. 132. Also: Αρετην διαθεσιν ειναι ψυχης συμφωνον ἑαυτῃ περι ὁλον τον βιον. Virtutem esse animi affectiomem secum per totam vitam consentientem, ibid., p. 104.) Now this was only possible for a man if he determined himself entirely rationally, according to concepts, not according to changing impressions and moods; since, however, only the maxims of our conduct, not the consequences nor the outward circumstances, are in our power, in order to be always consistent we must set [pg 118] before us as our aim only the maxims and not the consequences and circumstances, and thus again a doctrine of virtue is introduced.

Zeno, the founder, initially seemed to take a slightly different approach. He believed that to achieve the highest good, meaning blessedness and spiritual peace, one must live in harmony with oneself. This is summed up in the idea of living according to a consistent principle and in agreement with oneself. The essence of this is that virtue is a state of the soul that remains in harmony with itself throughout life. For a person to do this, they must act entirely rationally, guided by concepts instead of fluctuating impressions and emotions. Since only our guiding principles are within our control—not the outcomes or external situations—we need to focus solely on these principles rather than the results or circumstances. This leads us back to a teaching about virtue.

But the ethical principle of Zeno—to live in harmony with oneself—appeared even to his immediate successors to be too formal and empty. They therefore gave it material content by the addition—“to live in harmony with nature” (ὁμολογουμενως τῃ φυσει ζῃν), which, as Stobæus mentions in another place, was first added by Kleanthes, and extended the matter very much on account of the wide sphere of the concept and the vagueness of the expression. For Kleanthes meant the whole of nature in general, while Chrysippus meant human nature in particular (Diog. Laert., 7, 89). It followed that what alone was adapted to the latter was virtue, just as the satisfaction of animal desires was adapted to animal natures; and thus ethics had again to be forcibly united to a doctrine of virtue, and in some way or other established through physics. For the Stoics always aimed at unity of principle, as for them God and the world were not dissevered.

But Zeno's ethical principle—to live in harmony with oneself—seemed too formal and empty to his immediate followers. So, they added more substance to it by saying—"to live in harmony with nature" (ὁμολογουμενως τῃ φυσει ζῃν), which, as Stobæus points out elsewhere, was first introduced by Kleanthes. This addition greatly expanded the concept because the expression was quite vague. Kleanthes referred to all of nature in general, while Chrysippus focused specifically on human nature (Diog. Laert., 7, 89). Consequently, the only thing suited to the latter was virtue, just as fulfilling animal desires was appropriate for animal natures. Therefore, ethics needed to be closely tied to a doctrine of virtue and, in some way, established through physics. The Stoics always sought a unity of principle, as they believed that God and the world were interconnected.

The ethical system of Stoicism, regarded as a whole, is in fact a very valuable and estimable attempt to use the great prerogative of man, reason, for an important and salutary end; to raise him above the suffering and pain to which all life is exposed, by means of a maxim—

The ethical system of Stoicism, when considered as a whole, is actually a highly valuable and admirable effort to use humanity's greatest gift, reason, for a significant and beneficial purpose; to elevate individuals above the suffering and pain inherent in life through a guiding principle—

For this reason, you can gently transfer the age:
Don't always let desire drive you and torment you,
Do not fear and do not have hope for things that are moderately useful,

and thus to make him partake, in the highest degree, of the dignity which belongs to him as a rational being, as distinguished from the brutes; a dignity of which, in this sense at any rate, we can speak, though not in any other. It is a consequence of my view of the ethical system of Stoicism that it must be explained at the part of my work at which I consider what [pg 119] reason is and what it can do. But although it may to a certain extent be possible to attain that end through the application of reason, and through a purely rational system of ethics, and although experience shows that the happiest men are those purely rational characters commonly called practical philosophers,—and rightly so, because just as the true, that is, the theoretical philosopher carries life into the concept, they carry the concept into life,—yet it is far from the case that perfection can be attained in this way, and that the reason, rightly used, can really free us from the burden and sorrow of life, and lead us to happiness. Rather, there lies an absolute contradiction in wishing to live without suffering, and this contradiction is also implied in the commonly used expression, “blessed life.” This will become perfectly clear to whoever comprehends the whole of the following exposition. In this purely rational system of ethics the contradiction reveals itself thus, the Stoic is obliged in his doctrine of the way to the blessed life (for that is what his ethical system always remains) to insert a recommendation of suicide (as among the magnificent ornaments and apparel of Eastern despots there is always a costly vial of poison) for the case in which the sufferings of the body, which cannot be philosophised away by any principles or syllogistic reasonings, are paramount and incurable; thus its one aim, blessedness, is rendered vain, and nothing remains as a mode of escape from suffering except death; in such a case then death must be voluntarily accepted, just as we would take any other medicine. Here then a marked antagonism is brought out between the ethical system of Stoicism and all those systems referred to above which make virtue in itself directly, and accompanied by the most grievous sorrows, their aim, and will not allow a man to end his life in order to escape from suffering. Not one of them, however, was able to give the true reason for the rejection of suicide, but they laboriously collected illusory explanations from all sides: the true [pg 120] reason will appear in the Fourth Book in the course of the development of our system. But the antagonism referred to reveals and establishes the essential difference in fundamental principle between Stoicism, which is just a special form of endæmonism, and those doctrines we have mentioned, although both are often at one in their results, and are apparently related. And the inner contradiction referred to above, with which the ethical system of Stoicism is affected even in its fundamental thought, shows itself further in the circumstance that its ideal, the Stoic philosopher, as the system itself represents him, could never obtain life or inner poetic truth, but remains a wooden, stiff lay-figure of which nothing can be made. He cannot himself make use of his wisdom, and his perfect peace, contentment, and blessedness directly contradict the nature of man, and preclude us from forming any concrete idea of him. When compared with him, how entirely different appear the overcomers of the world, and voluntary hermits that Indian philosophy presents to us, and has actually produced; or indeed, the holy man of Christianity, that excellent form full of deep life, of the greatest poetic truth, and the highest significance, which stands before us in perfect virtue, holiness, and sublimity, yet in a state of supreme suffering.26

and so to make him share, to the fullest extent, in the dignity that comes with being a rational being, as opposed to mere animals; a dignity we can discuss in this sense, but not in any other. It follows from my view of the ethical system of Stoicism that I need to explain it when I discuss what [pg 119] reason is and what it can achieve. While it may be possible to reach that goal through the application of reason and a purely rational ethical system, and while experience shows that the happiest people are those who embody the purely rational characters typically called practical philosophers—rightly so, because just as the true, or theoretical philosopher brings life into the concept, they bring the concept into life—it is far from true that perfection can be achieved this way, or that reason, when used correctly, can truly liberate us from life’s burdens and sorrows and lead us to happiness. In fact, there’s a fundamental contradiction in wanting to live without suffering, which is also implied in the commonly used phrase, “blessed life.” This will be completely clear to anyone who understands the entirety of the following discussion. In this purely rational ethical system, the contradiction appears in the Stoic’s need to include a recommendation for suicide in his doctrine regarding the path to a blessed life (as among the lavish adornments and attire of Eastern despots, there is always an expensive vial of poison) in cases where bodily sufferings cannot be philosophized away by any principles or logical reasoning. Thus, its sole aim, blessedness, becomes futile, and the only escape from suffering left is death; in such cases, death must be willingly accepted, just like any other medicine. This highlights a significant conflict between the ethical system of Stoicism and all those previously mentioned systems which regard virtue itself—despite the most severe sorrows—as their goal, and do not permit someone to end their life to evade suffering. However, none of them were able to provide the true reason for rejecting suicide, but instead gathered misleading justifications from various sources: the true [pg 120] reason will be revealed in the Fourth Book as we develop our system. But the aforementioned conflict reveals and establishes the essential fundamental difference between Stoicism, which is merely a specific form of endæmonism, and those doctrines we have discussed, even though both often lead to similar outcomes and appear related. Moreover, the inner contradiction mentioned earlier, which affects the ethical system of Stoicism at its core, is also evident in the fact that its ideal, the Stoic philosopher—as the system portrays him—could never experience life or genuine inner truth but remains a rigid, lifeless figure from which nothing meaningful can emerge. He cannot apply his wisdom, and his perfect peace, contentment, and blessedness contradict the nature of humanity, preventing us from forming a concrete image of him. In contrast, the world conquerors and voluntary hermits presented by Indian philosophy seem entirely different; or, indeed, the holy man of Christianity, that exceptional figure brimming with profound life, the greatest poetic truth, and the highest significance, stands before us in perfect virtue, holiness, and sublimity, yet in a state of extreme suffering.26

[pg 121]

Second Book. The World As Will.

First Aspect: The Objectification of the Will.

We dwell, not in the underworld, but neither among the stars of the sky:
The spirit that lives in us, makes that happen.
[pg 123]

§ 17. In the first book we considered the idea merely as such, that is, only according to its general form. It is true that as far as the abstract idea, the concept, is concerned, we obtained a knowledge of it in respect of its content also, because it has content and meaning only in relation to the idea of perception, without which it would be worthless and empty. Accordingly, directing our attention exclusively to the idea of perception, we shall now endeavour to arrive at a knowledge of its content, its more exact definition, and the forms which it presents to us. And it will specially interest us to find an explanation of its peculiar significance, that significance which is otherwise merely felt, but on account of which it is that these pictures do not pass by us entirely strange and meaningless, as they must otherwise do, but speak to us directly, are understood, and obtain an interest which concerns our whole nature.

§ 17. In the first book, we looked at the idea just as it is, focusing only on its general structure. It’s true that regarding the abstract idea, or concept, we gained some understanding of its content too, since it only has value and meaning when connected to the idea of perception; without that, it would be meaningless and empty. Therefore, we will now focus solely on the idea of perception, aiming to understand its content, more precise definition, and the forms it takes. We will be particularly interested in explaining its unique significance— a significance that is usually only felt, but which is why these images don’t seem completely foreign and meaningless to us; instead, they resonate with us directly, are comprehensible, and engage our entire being.

We direct our attention to mathematics, natural science, and philosophy, for each of these holds out the hope that it will afford us a part of the explanation we desire. Now, taking philosophy first, we find that it is like a monster with many heads, each of which speaks a different language. They are not, indeed, all at variance on the point we are here considering, the significance of the idea of perception. For, with the exception of the Sceptics and the Idealists, the others, for the most part, speak very much in the same way of an object which constitutes the basis of the idea, and which is indeed different in its whole being and nature from the idea, but yet is in all [pg 124] points as like it as one egg is to another. But this does not help us, for we are quite unable to distinguish such an object from the idea; we find that they are one and the same; for every object always and for ever presupposes a subject, and therefore remains idea, so that we recognised objectivity as belonging to the most universal form of the idea, which is the division into subject and object. Further, the principle of sufficient reason, which is referred to in support of this doctrine, is for us merely the form of the idea, the orderly combination of one idea with another, but not the combination of the whole finite or infinite series of ideas with something which is not idea at all, and which cannot therefore be presented in perception. Of the Sceptics and Idealists we spoke above, in examining the controversy about the reality of the outer world.

We focus on math, natural science, and philosophy, as each of these offers hope for part of the explanation we seek. Starting with philosophy, we see it as a creature with many heads, each speaking a different language. However, they are generally aligned on the topic of perception. Except for the Skeptics and Idealists, most speak similarly about an item that forms the basis of the idea, which is fundamentally different in essence from the idea itself, yet in many ways resembles it, just like one egg resembles another. But this doesn’t help us, as we struggle to differentiate such an object from the idea; they seem to be one and the same. Every object always assumes a subject, so it remains an idea, leading us to recognize objectivity as part of the broadest form of the idea, which involves the distinction between subject and object. Moreover, the principle of sufficient reason that supports this doctrine serves merely as the form of the idea, the systematic combination of one idea with another, not the combination of an entire finite or infinite series of ideas with something that isn’t an idea at all, which cannot be perceived. We mentioned the Skeptics and Idealists earlier when discussing the debate over the reality of the outer world.

If we turn to mathematics to look for the fuller knowledge we desire of the idea of perception, which we have, as yet, only understood generally, merely in its form, we find that mathematics only treats of these ideas so far as they fill time and space, that is, so far as they are quantities. It will tell us with the greatest accuracy the how-many and the how-much; but as this is always merely relative, that is to say, merely a comparison of one idea with others, and a comparison only in the one respect of quantity, this also is not the information we are principally in search of.

If we turn to mathematics in search of a deeper understanding of perception, which we only grasp generally and in its basic form, we find that mathematics only addresses these ideas in terms of time and space, meaning it focuses on quantities. It can tell us exactly how many and how much; however, since this is always relative—merely a comparison between one idea and others in terms of quantity—it isn't the main information we're looking for.

Lastly, if we turn to the wide province of natural science, which is divided into many fields, we may, in the first place, make a general division of it into two parts. It is either the description of forms, which I call Morphology, or the explanation of changes, which I call Etiology. The first treats of the permanent forms, the second of the changing matter, according to the laws of its transition from one form to another. The first is the whole extent of what is generally called natural history. It teaches us, especially in the sciences of [pg 125] botany and zoology, the various permanent, organised, and therefore definitely determined forms in the constant change of individuals; and these forms constitute a great part of the content of the idea of perception. In natural history they are classified, separated, united, arranged according to natural and artificial systems, and brought under concepts which make a general view and knowledge of the whole of them possible. Further, an infinitely fine analogy both in the whole and in the parts of these forms, and running through them all (unité de plan), is established, and thus they may be compared to innumerable variations on a theme which is not given. The passage of matter into these forms, that is to say, the origin of individuals, is not a special part of natural science, for every individual springs from its like by generation, which is everywhere equally mysterious, and has as yet evaded definite knowledge. The little that is known on the subject finds its place in physiology, which belongs to that part of natural science I have called etiology. Mineralogy also, especially where it becomes geology, inclines towards etiology, though it principally belongs to morphology. Etiology proper comprehends all those branches of natural science in which the chief concern is the knowledge of cause and effect. The sciences teach how, according to an invariable rule, one condition of matter is necessarily followed by a certain other condition; how one change necessarily conditions and brings about a certain other change; this sort of teaching is called explanation. The principal sciences in this department are mechanics, physics, chemistry, and physiology.

Lastly, if we look at the broad field of natural science, which is divided into many areas, we can first split it into two parts. It focuses either on describing forms, which I call Morphology, or on explaining changes, which I call Causes. The first deals with permanent forms, while the second is about changing matter, based on the laws governing its transition from one form to another. The first encompasses what is typically known as natural history. It teaches us, especially in the sciences of [pg 125] botany and zoology, about the various stable, organized, and thus well-defined forms amidst the constant change of individuals; these forms make up a substantial part of the concept of perception. In natural history, they are classified, separated, grouped, and organized according to both natural and artificial systems, allowing for a comprehensive understanding of them all. Additionally, an incredibly fine analogy runs through both the entirety and the components of these forms (planning unit), making them comparable to countless variations on an unseen theme. The transition of matter into these forms, meaning the origin of individuals, isn’t a distinct part of natural science since each individual arises from its predecessor through generation, a process that remains universally mysterious and has yet to be fully understood. The limited knowledge available on the topic falls under physiology, which I’ve categorized as part of natural science known as etiology. Mineralogy, particularly as it transitions into geology, also tends toward etiology, although it primarily belongs to morphology. Etiology, in its true sense, includes all branches of natural science where the primary focus is on understanding causes and effects. These sciences explain how, according to a consistent rule, one condition of matter is invariably followed by a certain other condition; how one change necessarily leads to a specific other change; this kind of teaching is referred to as explanation. The main sciences in this area are mechanics, physics, chemistry, and physiology.

If, however, we surrender ourselves to its teaching, we soon become convinced that etiology cannot afford us the information we chiefly desire, any more than morphology. The latter presents to us innumerable and infinitely varied forms, which are yet related by an unmistakable family likeness. These are for us ideas, and when only treated in this way, they remain always strange to us, [pg 126] and stand before us like hieroglyphics which we do not understand. Etiology, on the other hand, teaches us that, according to the law of cause and effect, this particular condition of matter brings about that other particular condition, and thus it has explained it and performed its part. However, it really does nothing more than indicate the orderly arrangement according to which the states of matter appear in space and time, and teach in all cases what phenomenon must necessarily appear at a particular time in a particular place. It thus determines the position of phenomena in time and space, according to a law whose special content is derived from experience, but whose universal form and necessity is yet known to us independently of experience. But it affords us absolutely no information about the inner nature of any one of these phenomena: this is called a force of nature, and it lies outside the province of causal explanation, which calls the constant uniformity with which manifestations of such a force appear whenever their known conditions are present, a law of nature. But this law of nature, these conditions, and this appearance in a particular place at a particular time, are all that it knows or ever can know. The force itself which manifests itself, the inner nature of the phenomena which appear in accordance with these laws, remains always a secret to it, something entirely strange and unknown in the case of the simplest as well as of the most complex phenomena. For although as yet etiology has most completely achieved its aim in mechanics, and least completely in physiology, still the force on account of which a stone falls to the ground or one body repels another is, in its inner nature, not less strange and mysterious than that which produces the movements and the growth of an animal. The science of mechanics presupposes matter, weight, impenetrability, the possibility of communicating motion by impact, inertia and so forth as ultimate facts, calls them forces of nature, and their necessary and [pg 127] orderly appearance under certain conditions a law of nature. Only after this does its explanation begin, and it consists in indicating truly and with mathematical exactness, how, where and when each force manifests itself, and in referring every phenomenon which presents itself to the operation of one of these forces. Physics, chemistry, and physiology proceed in the same way in their province, only they presuppose more and accomplish less. Consequently the most complete etiological explanation of the whole of nature can never be more than an enumeration of forces which cannot be explained, and a reliable statement of the rule according to which phenomena appear in time and space, succeed, and make way for each other. But the inner nature of the forces which thus appear remains unexplained by such an explanation, which must confine itself to phenomena and their arrangement, because the law which it follows does not extend further. In this respect it may be compared to a section of a piece of marble which shows many veins beside each other, but does not allow us to trace the course of the veins from the interior of the marble to its surface. Or, if I may use an absurd but more striking comparison, the philosophical investigator must always have the same feeling towards the complete etiology of the whole of nature, as a man who, without knowing how, has been brought into a company quite unknown to him, each member of which in turn presents another to him as his friend and cousin, and therefore as quite well known, and yet the man himself, while at each introduction he expresses himself gratified, has always the question on his lips: “But how the deuce do I stand to the whole company?”

If we give in to its teachings, we quickly realize that etiology doesn’t provide the information we really want, just like morphology doesn’t. Morphology shows us countless and incredibly diverse forms, all connected by a clear family resemblance. These are just concepts to us, and if we only look at them this way, they always feel foreign, [pg 126] and appear before us like hieroglyphics we can't decipher. In contrast, etiology tells us that, based on the law of cause and effect, one specific condition of matter leads to another specific condition. So, it explains things to a degree and fulfills its role. However, it only points out the orderly arrangement in which states of matter appear over time and space, and shows what phenomena will necessarily occur at a certain time and place. It defines the positioning of phenomena in time and space based on a law whose details come from experience, but whose overall structure and necessity we know independently of experience. Yet, it gives us no insight into the inner nature of these phenomena; this is referred to as a force of nature, which lies outside the realm of causal explanation. The constancy with which these forces manifest whenever their known conditions are met is called a natural law. But this law of nature, those conditions, and this occurrence in a specific place at a specific time are all it knows or ever will know. The force that shows itself, the inner essence of the phenomena that arise according to these laws, remains a mystery—it’s something completely strange and unknown in both simple and complex phenomena. Although etiology has been most successful in mechanics and less so in physiology, the force that causes a stone to fall or one body to repel another is, at its core, just as strange and mysterious as the force that drives the movement and growth of an animal. The field of mechanics assumes concepts like matter, weight, impenetrability, the ability to transfer motion through impact, inertia, and so on as fundamental facts, referring to them as forces of nature, while their necessary and [pg 127] orderly appearance under certain conditions is termed a law of nature. Only after establishing this do explanations begin, detailing accurately and mathematically how, where, and when each force appears, and connecting every observed phenomenon to one of these forces. Physics, chemistry, and physiology follow the same pattern in their domains, though they assume more and achieve less. Therefore, the most comprehensive etiological explanation of nature can only ever be a list of unexplained forces and a reliable description of the rules governing how phenomena emerge over time and space, succeeding or yielding to one another. But the inner nature of those forces remains unexplained by such an approach, which must limit itself to phenomena and their organization since the law guiding it doesn't extend beyond that. In this way, it’s like a slice of marble showing several veins side by side but not revealing how those veins connect from the marble's interior to its surface. Or, to give an absurd but striking comparison, the philosophical investigator experiences a similar feeling towards the complete etiology of nature as a person who suddenly finds himself in an unfamiliar group where each member introduces another as a friend or relative, leading him to believe they are all familiar, yet the person, while expressing gratitude at each introduction, is always left wondering: "But how on earth do I connect with the entire group?"

Thus we see that, with regard to those phenomena which we know only as our ideas, etiology can never give us the desired information that shall carry us beyond this point. For, after all its explanations, they still remain quite strange to us, as mere ideas whose significance [pg 128] we do not understand. The causal connection merely gives us the rule and the relative order of their appearance in space and time, but affords us no further knowledge of that which so appears. Moreover, the law of causality itself has only validity for ideas, for objects of a definite class, and it has meaning only in so far as it presupposes them. Thus, like these objects themselves, it always exists only in relation to a subject, that is, conditionally; and so it is known just as well if we start from the subject, i.e., a priori, as if we start from the object, i.e., a posteriori. Kant indeed has taught us this.

So we see that when it comes to those phenomena that we only know as our ideas, etiology can never provide the information we want that goes beyond this point. After all its explanations, these ideas still seem quite strange to us, as we don't understand their significance. The causal relationship only provides us with the rules and the relative order of how they appear in space and time, but it doesn't give us any deeper understanding of what appears. Furthermore, the law of causality is only valid for ideas, for objects of a specific class, and it only makes sense to the extent that it assumes them. Thus, like these objects themselves, it always exists only in relation to a subject, meaning conditionally; and it can be understood equally well whether we start from the subject, i.e., a priori, or from the object, i.e., a posteriori. Kant indeed taught us this.

But what now impels us to inquiry is just that we are not satisfied with knowing that we have ideas, that they are such and such, and that they are connected according to certain laws, the general expression of which is the principle of sufficient reason. We wish to know the significance of these ideas; we ask whether this world is merely idea; in which case it would pass by us like an empty dream or a baseless vision, not worth our notice; or whether it is also something else, something more than idea, and if so, what. Thus much is certain, that this something we seek for must be completely and in its whole nature different from the idea; that the forms and laws of the idea must therefore be completely foreign to it; further, that we cannot arrive at it from the idea under the guidance of the laws which merely combine objects, ideas, among themselves, and which are the forms of the principle of sufficient reason.

But what drives us to ask questions now is that we're not satisfied with just knowing we have ideas, what those ideas are, and how they connect according to certain laws, summarized by the principle of sufficient reason. We want to understand the meaning of these ideas; we wonder whether this world is just an idea, in which case it would slip by us like an empty dream or a meaningless vision, not worth our attention; or if it’s something more, something beyond just an idea, and if so, what that is. It's clear that whatever we seek must be entirely and fundamentally different from the idea; the forms and laws of the idea must therefore be totally unrelated to it; moreover, we cannot reach it from the idea by following the laws that merely connect objects, ideas, to each other, which are the forms of the principle of sufficient reason.

Thus we see already that we can never arrive at the real nature of things from without. However much we investigate, we can never reach anything but images and names. We are like a man who goes round a castle seeking in vain for an entrance, and sometimes sketching the façades. And yet this is the method that has been followed by all philosophers before me.

So, we can already see that we can never truly understand the real nature of things from the outside. No matter how much we explore, we can only come up with images and names. It’s like someone walking around a castle, trying in vain to find an entrance and occasionally drawing the facades. Yet, this is the approach that all philosophers before me have taken.

§ 18. In fact, the meaning for which we seek of that [pg 129] world which is present to us only as our idea, or the transition from the world as mere idea of the knowing subject to whatever it may be besides this, would never be found if the investigator himself were nothing more than the pure knowing subject (a winged cherub without a body). But he is himself rooted in that world; he finds himself in it as an individual, that is to say, his knowledge, which is the necessary supporter of the whole world as idea, is yet always given through the medium of a body, whose affections are, as we have shown, the starting-point for the understanding in the perception of that world. His body is, for the pure knowing subject, an idea like every other idea, an object among objects. Its movements and actions are so far known to him in precisely the same way as the changes of all other perceived objects, and would be just as strange and incomprehensible to him if their meaning were not explained for him in an entirely different way. Otherwise he would see his actions follow upon given motives with the constancy of a law of nature, just as the changes of other objects follow upon causes, stimuli, or motives. But he would not understand the influence of the motives any more than the connection between every other effect which he sees and its cause. He would then call the inner nature of these manifestations and actions of his body which he did not understand a force, a quality, or a character, as he pleased, but he would have no further insight into it. But all this is not the case; indeed the answer to the riddle is given to the subject of knowledge who appears as an individual, and the answer is will. This and this alone gives him the key to his own existence, reveals to him the significance, shows him the inner mechanism of his being, of his action, of his movements. The body is given in two entirely different ways to the subject of knowledge, who becomes an individual only through his identity with it. It is given as an idea in intelligent perception, as an object among objects and [pg 130] subject to the laws of objects. And it is also given in quite a different way as that which is immediately known to every one, and is signified by the word will. Every true act of his will is also at once and without exception a movement of his body. The act of will and the movement of the body are not two different things objectively known, which the bond of causality unites; they do not stand in the relation of cause and effect; they are one and the same, but they are given in entirely different ways,—immediately, and again in perception for the understanding. The action of the body is nothing but the act of the will objectified, i.e., passed into perception. It will appear later that this is true of every movement of the body, not merely those which follow upon motives, but also involuntary movements which follow upon mere stimuli, and, indeed, that the whole body is nothing but objectified will, i.e., will become idea. All this will be proved and made quite clear in the course of this work. In one respect, therefore, I shall call the body the objectivity of will; as in the previous book, and in the essay on the principle of sufficient reason, in accordance with the one-sided point of view intentionally adopted there (that of the idea), I called it the immediate object. Thus in a certain sense we may also say that will is the knowledge a priori of the body, and the body is the knowledge a posteriori of the will. Resolutions of the will which relate to the future are merely deliberations of the reason about what we shall will at a particular time, not real acts of will. Only the carrying out of the resolve stamps it as will, for till then it is never more than an intention that may be changed, and that exists only in the reason in abstracto. It is only in reflection that to will and to act are different; in reality they are one. Every true, genuine, immediate act of will is also, at once and immediately, a visible act of the body. And, corresponding to this, every impression upon the body is also, on the other hand, at once [pg 131] and immediately an impression upon the will. As such it is called pain when it is opposed to the will; gratification or pleasure when it is in accordance with it. The degrees of both are widely different. It is quite wrong, however, to call pain and pleasure ideas, for they are by no means ideas, but immediate affections of the will in its manifestation, the body; compulsory, instantaneous willing or not-willing of the impression which the body sustains. There are only a few impressions of the body which do not touch the will, and it is through these alone that the body is an immediate object of knowledge, for, as perceived by the understanding, it is already an indirect object like all others. These impressions are, therefore, to be treated directly as mere ideas, and excepted from what has been said. The impressions we refer to are the affections of the purely objective senses of sight, hearing, and touch, though only so far as these organs are affected in the way which is specially peculiar to their specific nature. This affection of them is so excessively weak an excitement of the heightened and specifically modified sensibility of these parts that it does not affect the will, but only furnishes the understanding with the data out of which the perception arises, undisturbed by any excitement of the will. But every stronger or different kind of affection of these organs of sense is painful, that is to say, against the will, and thus they also belong to its objectivity. Weakness of the nerves shows itself in this, that the impressions which have only such a degree of strength as would usually be sufficient to make them data for the understanding reach the higher degree at which they influence the will, that is to say, give pain or pleasure, though more often pain, which is, however, to some extent deadened and inarticulate, so that not only particular tones and strong light are painful to us, but there ensues a generally unhealthy and hypochondriacal disposition which is not distinctly understood. The identity of the body and the will shows itself further, [pg 132] among other ways, in the circumstance that every vehement and excessive movement of the will, i.e., every emotion, agitates the body and its inner constitution directly, and disturbs the course of its vital functions. This is shown in detail in “Will in Nature,” p. 27 of the second edition and p. 28 of the third.

§ 18. In fact, the meaning we're looking for in that [pg 129] world, which we only perceive as an idea, or the shift from the world as merely an idea of the knowing subject to whatever else it may be, would never be uncovered if the investigator were just a pure knowing subject (a winged cherub without a body). But he is rooted in that world; he finds himself in it as an person, meaning that his knowledge, which underpins the entire world as an idea, is always given through the medium of a body, whose experiences, as we've shown, are the starting point for understanding the perception of that world. For the pure knowing subject, his body is just an idea like every other idea, an object among objects. He knows its movements and actions in the same way he knows the changes of all other perceived objects, and they would be just as strange and incomprehensible to him unless their meaning was explained in a different way. Otherwise, he would see his actions follow given motives with the same consistency as a law of nature, just as the changes of other objects relate to causes, stimuli, or motives. But he wouldn’t understand the influence of these motives any more than he would comprehend the connection between every effect he observes and its cause. He might call the inner nature of the manifestations and actions of his body—those he doesn’t understand—a force, a quality, or a character, as he likes, but he'd have no deeper insight into it. However, this isn’t the case; the answer to the riddle is given to the subject of knowledge who appears as an individual, and the answer is gonna. This alone provides him with the key to his own existence, reveals to him the significance, and shows him the inner workings of his being, actions, and movements. The body is understood in two completely different ways by the subject of knowledge, who becomes an individual only through his relationship with it. It is perceived as an idea in intelligent perception, as an object among objects and [pg 130] subject to the laws of objects. It is also presented in a fundamentally different way as something immediately known to everyone, signified by the word gonna. Every genuine act of his will is also, without exception, a movement of his body. The will and the movement of the body are not two separate things objectively known that the bond of causality connects; they don't have a cause-and-effect relationship; they are one and the same, but they are experienced in completely different ways—immediately, and again in perception for understanding. The action of the body is nothing but the act of the will objectified, i.e., translated into perception. It will later be evident that this is true for every movement of the body, not just those that follow motives, but also involuntary movements that respond to mere stimuli, and, indeed, that the entire body is simply objectified will, i.e., will made into an idea. All of this will be proven and clarified in the course of this work. Therefore, in one respect, I will refer to the body as the willpower objectivity; as in the previous book and in the essay on the principle of sufficient reason, according to the one-sided perspective intentionally adopted there (that of the idea), I referred to it as the direct object. Thus, in a certain sense, we can also say that will is the knowledge before the fact of the body, and the body is the knowledge after the fact of the will. Decisions of the will related to the future are just deliberations of reason about what we will choose at a given time, not actual acts of will. Only executing the resolve marks it as will, because until then, it’s merely an intention that might change and exists only in reason in abstract. It is only in reflection that to will and to act are seen as different; in reality, they are one. Every true, immediate act of will is also, at once and immediately, a visible act of the body. Correspondingly, every impression on the body is also, on the other hand, instantly an impression on the will. When this impression opposes the will, it is called pain; when it aligns with it, it’s gratification or pleasure. The degrees of both vary widely. However, it's incorrect to label pain and pleasure as ideas because they are not ideas at all; they are immediate impacts on the will in its manifestation, the body; compelled, instant willing or unwilling of the impression that the body experiences. There are only a few impressions of the body that don’t engage the will, and it is only through these that the body is an immediate object of knowledge, because, as perceived by the understanding, it is already an indirect object like all others. These impressions should thus be treated simply as ideas and excluded from what has been stated. The impressions we refer to are the effects of the purely objective senses of sight, hearing, and touch, but only as these organs are impacted in the way that is characteristic of their distinct nature. This response is such a weak excitement of the heightened and specifically modified sensitivity of these parts that it doesn’t affect the will, only supplying the understanding with the data from which perception arises, untouched by any excitement of the will. But any stronger or different kind of impact on these sensory organs is painful, meaning it opposes the will, and thus it belongs to its objectivity. Weakness in the nerves manifests itself in that the impressions that only have enough strength to be data for the understanding reach a higher level at which they impact the will, meaning they cause pain or pleasure, but more often pain, which is somewhat dulled and inarticulate, so that not only specific tones and bright lights cause us pain, but there arises a generally unhealthy and hypochondriacal state that isn’t clearly understood. The connection of the body and the will further reveals itself, [pg 132] among other ways, in the fact that every strong and excessive movement of the will, i.e., every emotion, agitates the body and its internal makeup directly, and disrupts its vital functions. This is detailed in "Will in Nature," p. 27 of the second edition and p. 28 of the third.

Lastly, the knowledge which I have of my will, though it is immediate, cannot be separated from that which I have of my body. I know my will, not as a whole, not as a unity, not completely, according to its nature, but I know it only in its particular acts, and therefore in time, which is the form of the phenomenal aspect of my body, as of every object. Therefore the body is a condition of the knowledge of my will. Thus, I cannot really imagine this will apart from my body. In the essay on the principle of sufficient reason, the will, or rather the subject of willing, is treated as a special class of ideas or objects. But even there we saw this object become one with the subject; that is, we saw it cease to be an object. We there called this union the miracle κατ᾽ εξοχην, and the whole of the present work is to a certain extent an explanation of this. So far as I know my will specially as object, I know it as body. But then I am again at the first class of ideas laid down in that essay, i.e., real objects. As we proceed we shall see always more clearly that these ideas of the first class obtain their explanation and solution from those of the fourth class given in the essay, which could no longer be properly opposed to the subject as object, and that, therefore, we must learn to understand the inner nature of the law of causality which is valid in the first class, and of all that happens in accordance with it from the law of motivation which governs the fourth class.

Lastly, the knowledge I have of my will, while immediate, cannot be separated from what I know of my body. I understand my will, not in its entirety, not as a single entity, and not completely according to its true nature, but only through its specific actions, and therefore in time, which reflects the external aspect of my body, as well as every other object. Thus, the body conditions my understanding of my will. Therefore, I can't truly imagine this will existing separately from my body. In the essay on the principle of sufficient reason, the will, or rather the subject of willing, is regarded as a specific type of idea or object. But even there, we observe this object merging with the subject; that is, we see it stop being an object. We referred to this union as the miracle outright, and this entire work is, to some extent, an explanation of that. As far as I know my will specifically as an object, I understand it as a body. However, I find myself back at the first category of ideas presented in that essay, i.e., real objects. As we continue, we will see more clearly that these first-class ideas draw their explanations and solutions from those of the fourth class discussed in the essay, which can no longer be properly opposed to the subject as object. Therefore, we need to understand the true nature of the law of causality that applies in the first class and of everything that occurs according to it, from the law of motivation that governs the fourth class.

The identity of the will and the body, of which we have now given a cursory explanation, can only be proved in the manner we have adopted here. We have proved this identity for the first time, and shall do so more and [pg 133] more fully in the course of this work. By “proved” we mean raised from the immediate consciousness, from knowledge in the concrete to abstract knowledge of the reason, or carried over into abstract knowledge. On the other hand, from its very nature it can never be demonstrated, that is, deduced as indirect knowledge from some other more direct knowledge, just because it is itself the most direct knowledge; and if we do not apprehend it and stick to it as such, we shall expect in vain to receive it again in some indirect way as derivative knowledge. It is knowledge of quite a special kind, whose truth cannot therefore properly be brought under any of the four rubrics under which I have classified all truth in the essay on the principle of sufficient reason, § 29, the logical, the empirical, the metaphysical, and the metalogical, for it is not, like all these, the relation of an abstract idea to another idea, or to the necessary form of perceptive or of abstract ideation, but it is the relation of a judgment to the connection which an idea of perception, the body, has to that which is not an idea at all, but something toto genere different, will. I should like therefore to distinguish this from all other truth, and call it κατ᾽ εξοχην philosophical truth. We can turn the expression of this truth in different ways and say: My body and my will are one;—or, What as an idea of perception I call my body, I call my will, so far as I am conscious of it in an entirely different way which cannot be compared to any other;—or, My body is the objectivity of my will;—or, My body considered apart from the fact that it is my idea is still my will, and so forth.27

The identity of the will and the body, which we have briefly explained, can only be established in the way we've outlined here. We are proving this identity for the first time and will elaborate on it more thoroughly throughout this work. By “proved,” we mean elevating it from immediate awareness, from concrete knowledge to abstract reasoning or transforming it into abstract knowledge. However, due to its very nature, it can never be proven as indirect knowledge derived from some other more direct knowledge, simply because it is itself the most direct knowledge. If we don’t grasp it and hold onto it as such, we will vainly hope to receive it again as derivative knowledge in some indirect way. It is a unique kind of knowledge, whose truth cannot properly fit into any of the four categories I used to classify all truth in the essay on the principle of sufficient reason, § 29: the logical, the empirical, the metaphysical, and the metalogical. Unlike all of these, it isn’t a relation between an abstract idea and another idea, or to the necessary form of perception or abstract thought; rather, it’s the connection of a judgment to the relationship that a perceptual idea, the body, has with something that isn’t an idea at all, but something completely different: the will. Therefore, I’d like to distinguish this knowledge from all other truths and call it κατ᾽ εξοχην philosophical truth. We can express this truth in different ways and say: My body and my will are one;—or, What I refer to as my body in perception, I also refer to as my will, as far as I am aware of it in a completely different way that can’t be compared to anything else;—or, My body is the objectivity of my will;—or, My body, when considered apart from the fact that it is my idea, is still my will, and so on.27

§ 19. In the first book we were reluctantly driven to explain the human body as merely idea of the subject which knows it, like all the other objects of this world of perception. But it has now become clear that what enables us consciously to distinguish our own body from all other objects which in other respects are precisely the [pg 134] same, is that our body appears in consciousness in quite another way toto genere different from idea, and this we denote by the word will; and that it is just this double knowledge which we have of our own body that affords us information about it, about its action and movement following on motives, and also about what it experiences by means of external impressions; in a word, about what it is, not as idea, but as more than idea; that is to say, what it is in itself. None of this information have we got directly with regard to the nature, action, and experience of other real objects.

§ 19. In the first book, we were somewhat forced to explain the human body as just an idea in the mind of the observer, like all the other things in this world of perception. However, it has become clear that what allows us to consciously distinguish our own body from all other objects that are otherwise essentially the same is that our body appears in consciousness in a completely different way, which we refer to as gonna. It is this dual understanding we have of our own body that provides us insight into it, including its actions and movements driven by motives, and also what it feels through external impressions; in short, what it is, not just as an idea, but as something more than an idea; that is, what it is in and of itself. We do not have any of this information directly concerning the nature, actions, and experiences of other real objects.

It is just because of this special relation to one body that the knowing subject is an individual. For regarded apart from this relation, his body is for him only an idea like all other ideas. But the relation through which the knowing subject is an individual, is just on that account a relation which subsists only between him and one particular idea of all those which he has. Therefore he is conscious of this one idea, not merely as an idea, but in quite a different way as a will. If, however, he abstracts from that special relation, from that twofold and completely heterogeneous knowledge of what is one and the same, then that one, the body, is an idea like all other ideas. Therefore, in order to understand the matter, the individual who knows must either assume that what distinguishes that one idea from others is merely the fact that his knowledge stands in this double relation to it alone; that insight in two ways at the same time is open to him only in the case of this one object of perception, and that this is to be explained not by the difference of this object from all others, but only by the difference between the relation of his knowledge to this one object, and its relation to all other objects. Or else he must assume that this object is essentially different from all others; that it alone of all objects is at once both will and idea, while the rest are only ideas, i.e., only phantoms. Thus he must assume that his body is the only real individual in [pg 135] the world, i.e., the only phenomenon of will and the only immediate object of the subject. That other objects, considered merely as ideas, are like his body, that is, like it, fill space (which itself can only be present as idea), and also, like it, are causally active in space, is indeed demonstrably certain from the law of causality which is a priori valid for ideas, and which admits of no effect without a cause; but apart from the fact that we can only reason from an effect to a cause generally, and not to a similar cause, we are still in the sphere of mere ideas, in which alone the law of causality is valid, and beyond which it can never take us. But whether the objects known to the individual only as ideas are yet, like his own body, manifestations of a will, is, as was said in the First Book, the proper meaning of the question as to the reality of the external world. To deny this is theoretical egoism, which on that account regards all phenomena that are outside its own will as phantoms, just as in a practical reference exactly the same thing is done by practical egoism. For in it a man regards and treats himself alone as a person, and all other persons as mere phantoms. Theoretical egoism can never be demonstrably refuted, yet in philosophy it has never been used otherwise than as a sceptical sophism, i.e., a pretence. As a serious conviction, on the other hand, it could only be found in a madhouse, and as such it stands in need of a cure rather than a refutation. We do not therefore combat it any further in this regard, but treat it as merely the last stronghold of scepticism, which is always polemical. Thus our knowledge, which is always bound to individuality and is limited by this circumstance, brings with it the necessity that each of us can only be one, while, on the other hand, each of us can know all; and it is this limitation that creates the need for philosophy. We therefore who, for this very reason, are striving to extend the limits of our knowledge through philosophy, will treat this sceptical argument of theoretical egoism [pg 136] which meets us, as an army would treat a small frontier fortress. The fortress cannot indeed be taken, but the garrison can never sally forth from it, and therefore we pass it by without danger, and are not afraid to have it in our rear.

It is just because of this special connection to one body that a knowing subject exists as an individual. When seen apart from this connection, the body is just an idea like any other idea. However, the connection that makes the knowing subject an person is unique because it exists only between them and one specific idea among all the ideas they have. Thus, they are aware of this one idea, not just as an idea, but in an entirely different way as a will. If they disengage from that special connection, from that dual and completely different understanding of what is one and the same, then that one, the body, becomes just an idea like all other ideas. To grasp this, the knowing individual must either assume that what makes this one idea different from others is simply the fact that their knowledge has this dual relationship with it alone; that they can have insight in these two ways only for this specific object of perception, and that this difference stems not from the object itself but from the way their knowledge is related to this specific object compared to all others. Alternatively, they must believe that this object is fundamentally different from all others; that it is the only object that is simultaneously both will and idea, while others are just ideas, i.e., mere illusions. Thus, they must conclude that their body is the only real individual in the world, i.e., the only expression of will and the only immediate object of the subject. Other objects, viewed simply as ideas, are like their body, meaning that they also occupy space (which can only exist as an idea) and are, like it, causally active in space. This is clearly supported by the law of causality, which is before the fact valid for ideas, holding that no effect can exist without a cause; but aside from the fact that we can only reason from effects to causes generally, and not to similar causes, we still remain within the realm of mere ideas, where the law of causality applies, and it cannot transcend this realm. Whether the objects known to the individual solely as ideas are, like their body, expressions of will, is, as mentioned in the First Book, the core meaning of the question about the reality of the external world. Denying this is egoism, which consequently views all phenomena outside its own will as illusions, just as practical egoism does the same in a practical context. In practical egoism, a person sees and treats only themselves as a person, while regarding all other people as mere phantoms. Theoretical egoism can never be definitively disproven, but in philosophy, it has only ever been used as a skeptical argument, i.e., a facade. As a serious belief, however, it could only exist in a mental institution and therefore needs treatment more than refutation. We do not pursue it further in this context, but consider it merely the last bastion of skepticism, which is always confrontational. Our knowledge, which is always tied to individuality and limited by this fact, brings with it the necessity that each of us can only become one, while at the same time, each of us can know everything; this limitation creates the need for philosophy. Thus, we who are striving to expand the boundaries of our knowledge through philosophy will treat this skeptical argument of theoretical egoism that we encounter, much like an army would approach a small fortified post. The fortress cannot truly be conquered, but the garrison can never emerge from it, so we can safely bypass it without concern, not fearing to leave it behind us.

The double knowledge which each of us has of the nature and activity of his own body, and which is given in two completely different ways, has now been clearly brought out. We shall accordingly make further use of it as a key to the nature of every phenomenon in nature, and shall judge of all objects which are not our own bodies, and are consequently not given to our consciousness in a double way but only as ideas, according to the analogy of our own bodies, and shall therefore assume that as in one aspect they are idea, just like our bodies, and in this respect are analogous to them, so in another aspect, what remains of objects when we set aside their existence as idea of the subject, must in its inner nature be the same as that in us which we call will. For what other kind of existence or reality should we attribute to the rest of the material world? Whence should we take the elements out of which we construct such a world? Besides will and idea nothing is known to us or thinkable. If we wish to attribute the greatest known reality to the material world which exists immediately only in our idea, we give it the reality which our own body has for each of us; for that is the most real thing for every one. But if we now analyse the reality of this body and its actions, beyond the fact that it is idea, we find nothing in it except the will; with this its reality is exhausted. Therefore we can nowhere find another kind of reality which we can attribute to the material world. Thus if we hold that the material world is something more than merely our idea, we must say that besides being idea, that is, in itself and according to its inmost nature, it is that which we find immediately in ourselves as will. I say according to its inmost nature; but we must first come [pg 137] to know more accurately this real nature of the will, in order that we may be able to distinguish from it what does not belong to itself, but to its manifestation, which has many grades. Such, for example, is the circumstance of its being accompanied by knowledge, and the determination by motives which is conditioned by this knowledge. As we shall see farther on, this does not belong to the real nature of will, but merely to its distinct manifestation as an animal or a human being. If, therefore, I say,—the force which attracts a stone to the earth is according to its nature, in itself, and apart from all idea, will, I shall not be supposed to express in this proposition the insane opinion that the stone moves itself in accordance with a known motive, merely because this is the way in which will appears in man.28 We shall now proceed more clearly and in detail to prove, establish, and develop to its full extent what as yet has only been provisionally and generally explained.29

The dual understanding that each of us has about our own body—how it operates and what it is—has now been clearly laid out. We will further utilize this understanding as a key to grasp the essence of every natural phenomenon. We will view all objects not belonging to our own bodies—which don’t present themselves to us in a dual manner, but only as ideas—through the lens of our own bodies. In one way, these objects are ideas, just like our bodies, and in this regard, they are similar to them. In another sense, what is left of objects when we disregard their existence as the subject's idea must, in its core nature, be the same as what we refer to as will within ourselves. After all, what other kind of existence or reality could we attribute to the rest of the material world? Where would we derive the components necessary to construct such a world? Apart from will and idea, we know or can conceive of nothing. If we wish to attribute the greatest known reality to the material world that exists only in our perception, we assign it the reality our own body represents for each of us, because that is the most tangible thing for everyone. However, when we analyze the reality of this body and its actions, beyond the fact that it is an idea, we find nothing in it other than will; its reality ends there. Therefore, we cannot find another kind of reality that we can assign to the material world. If we assert that the material world is something beyond merely our ideas, we must contend that in addition to being an idea—that is, in itself and according to its most fundamental nature—it is what we immediately recognize in ourselves as gonna. I mention “according to its innermost nature”; however, we first need to understand the true nature of will more accurately so we can differentiate from it what doesn't pertain to its essence but to its expression, which comes in many forms. For instance, this includes the fact that will is accompanied by knowledge and influenced by motives conditioned by this knowledge. As we will see later, this does not belong to the true nature of will but is merely part of its specific manifestation as an animal or human being. So, when I say that the force that pulls a stone to the earth is, in its essence, will—independent of any idea—I am not implying that the stone moves itself according to a known motive, just because that is how will operates in humans.28 We will now proceed to clarify, detail, and fully develop what has only been provisionally and generally explained so far.29

§ 20. As we have said, the will proclaims itself primarily in the voluntary movements of our own body, as the inmost nature of this body, as that which it is besides being object of perception, idea. For these voluntary movements are nothing else than the visible aspect of the individual acts of will, with which they are directly coincident and identical, and only distinguished through the form of knowledge into which they have passed, and in which alone they can be known, the form of idea.

§ 20. As we mentioned, the will expresses itself mainly through the voluntary movements of our own body, reflecting the true nature of this body, beyond just being an object of perception or an idea. These voluntary movements are simply the visible manifestation of individual acts of will, which they are directly connected to and identical with, only differentiated by the form of knowledge they have taken on, in which they can be understood, the form of idea.

But these acts of will have always a ground or reason outside themselves in motives. Yet these motives never determine more than what I will at this time, in this [pg 138] place, and under these circumstances, not that I will in general, or what I will in general, that is, the maxims which characterise my volition generally. Therefore the inner nature of my volition cannot be explained from these motives; but they merely determine its manifestation at a given point of time: they are merely the occasion of my will showing itself; but the will itself lies outside the province of the law of motivation, which determines nothing but its appearance at each point of time. It is only under the presupposition of my empirical character that the motive is a sufficient ground of explanation of my action. But if I abstract from my character, and then ask, why, in general, I will this and not that, no answer is possible, because it is only the manifestation of the will that is subject to the principle of sufficient reason, and not the will itself, which in this respect is to be called groundless. At this point I presuppose Kant's doctrine of the empirical and intelligible character, and also my own treatment of the subject in “The Fundamental Problems of Ethics,” pp. 48, 58, and 178, et seq., of first edition (p. 174, et seq., of second edition). I shall also have to speak more fully on the question in the Fourth Book. For the present, I have only to draw attention to this, that the fact of one manifestation being established through another, as here the deed through the motive, does not at all conflict with the fact that its real nature is will, which itself has no ground; for as the principle of sufficient reason in all its aspects is only the form of knowledge, its validity extends only to the idea, to the phenomena, to the visibility of the will, but not to the will itself, which becomes visible.

But these acts of will always have a reason outside themselves in motives. However, these motives only determine what I will at this time, in this [pg 138] place, and under these circumstances, not that I will in general, or what I will in general, meaning the maxims that characterize my will overall. Therefore, the inner nature of my will cannot be explained by these motives; they simply determine how it expresses itself at a particular moment: they are just the occasion for my will to show itself, while the will itself is outside the realm of the law of motivation, which only governs its appearance at each moment. It is only under the assumption of my empirical character that the motive serves as a sufficient explanation for my actions. But if I set aside my character and then ask why I will this instead of that, no answer is possible because only the manifestation of the will falls under the principle of sufficient reason, not the will itself, which in this regard is considered baseless. Here, I assume Kant's theory of empirical and intelligible character, as well as my own discussion on the topic in "Fundamental Problems of Ethics," pp. 48, 58, and 178, et seq., of the first edition (p. 174, et seq., of the second edition). I will need to delve deeper into this issue in the Fourth Book. For now, I just want to point out that the fact that one manifestation is established through another, as in this case where the act is established through the motive, does not contradict the fact that its true nature is will, which itself has no ground; because the principle of sufficient reason, in all its forms, is merely a way of knowing, its validity extends only to the idea, to the phenomena, to the visibility of the will, not to the will itself, which becomes visible.

If now every action of my body is the manifestation of an act of will in which my will itself in general, and as a whole, thus my character, expresses itself under given motives, manifestation of the will must be the inevitable condition and presupposition of every action. For the fact of its manifestation cannot depend upon something [pg 139] which does not exist directly and only through it, which consequently is for it merely accidental, and through which its manifestation itself would be merely accidental. Now that condition is just the whole body itself. Thus the body itself must be manifestation of the will, and it must be related to my will as a whole, that is, to my intelligible character, whose phenomenal appearance in time is my empirical character, as the particular action of the body is related to the particular act of the will. The whole body, then, must be simply my will become visible, must be my will itself, so far as this is object of perception, an idea of the first class. It has already been advanced in confirmation of this that every impression upon my body also affects my will at once and immediately, and in this respect is called pain or pleasure, or, in its lower degrees, agreeable or disagreeable sensation; and also, conversely, that every violent movement of the will, every emotion or passion, convulses the body and disturbs the course of its functions. Indeed we can also give an etiological account, though a very incomplete one, of the origin of my body, and a somewhat better account of its development and conservation, and this is the substance of physiology. But physiology merely explains its theme in precisely the same way as motives explain action. Thus the physiological explanation of the functions of the body detracts just as little from the philosophical truth that the whole existence of this body and the sum total of its functions are merely the objectification of that will which appears in its outward actions in accordance with a motive, as the establishment of the individual action through the motive and the necessary sequence of the action from the motive conflicts with the fact that action in general, and according to its nature, is only the manifestation of a will which itself has no ground. If, however, physiology tries to refer even these outward actions, the immediate voluntary movements, to causes in the organism,—for example, if it [pg 140] explains the movement of the muscles as resulting from the presence of fluids (“like the contraction of a cord when it is wet,” says Reil in his “Archiv für Physiologie,” vol. vi. p. 153), even supposing it really could give a thorough explanation of this kind, yet this would never invalidate the immediately certain truth that every voluntary motion (functiones animales) is the manifestation of an act of will. Now, just as little can the physiological explanation of vegetative life (functiones naturales vitales), however far it may advance, ever invalidate the truth that the whole animal life which thus develops itself is the manifestation of will. In general, then, as we have shown above, no etiological explanation can ever give us more than the necessarily determined position in time and space of a particular manifestation, its necessary appearance there, according to a fixed law; but the inner nature of everything that appears in this way remains wholly inexplicable, and is presupposed by every etiological explanation, and merely indicated by the names, force, or law of nature, or, if we are speaking of action, character or will. Thus, although every particular action, under the presupposition of the definite character, necessarily follows from the given motive, and although growth, the process of nourishment, and all the changes of the animal body take place according to necessarily acting causes (stimuli), yet the whole series of actions, and consequently every individual act, and also its condition, the whole body itself which accomplishes it, and therefore also the process through which and in which it exists, are nothing but the manifestation of the will, the becoming visible, the objectification of the will. Upon this rests the perfect suitableness of the human and animal body to the human and animal will in general, resembling, though far surpassing, the correspondence between an instrument made for a purpose and the will of the maker, and on this account appearing as design, i.e., the teleological explanation of [pg 141] the body. The parts of the body must, therefore, completely correspond to the principal desires through which the will manifests itself; they must be the visible expression of these desires. Teeth, throat, and bowels are objectified hunger; the organs of generation are objectified sexual desire; the grasping hand, the hurrying feet, correspond to the more indirect desires of the will which they express. As the human form generally corresponds to the human will generally, so the individual bodily structure corresponds to the individually modified will, the character of the individual, and therefore it is throughout and in all its parts characteristic and full of expression. It is very remarkable that Parmenides already gave expression to this in the following verses, quoted by Aristotle (Metaph. iii. 5):—

If every action of my body reflects an act of will where my overall will and character express themselves through certain motives, then the manifestation of will must be an essential condition and prerequisite for every action. This is because its manifestation can't rely on something that doesn’t exist directly and only through it, which would therefore be incidental to it, making its manifestation itself merely coincidental. That foundational condition is the entire body. Therefore, the body must express the will and relate to my will as a whole—meaning my intelligible character, whose visible manifestation in time is my empirical character—just as a specific bodily action corresponds to a specific act of will. The body as a whole must simply be my will made visible, my will itself as it is perceived, an idea of the first order. It's been suggested that every sensation affecting my body also impacts my will immediately, and in this regard, is termed pain or pleasure, or in lesser degrees, pleasant or unpleasant sensation; and conversely, that every intense act of will, every emotion or passion, causes the body to convulse and disrupts its functioning. We can also provide a partial etiological explanation for the origin of my body, as well as a slightly better explanation of its development and maintenance, which is the essence of physiology. However, physiology merely explains its subject the same way motives explain actions. Thus, the physiological explanation of bodily functions doesn’t undermine the philosophical truth that the entirety of this body and all its functions are simply the realization of that will which appears in its external actions based on a motive, just as the establishment of a particular action through motive and the causal sequence of that action from the motive doesn’t contradict the fact that action is fundamentally just the manifestation of a will that itself has no ground. If physiology attempts to attribute even these outward actions, the immediate voluntary movements, to causes within the organism—such as explaining muscle movement as a result of fluid presence (as Reil states in his “Archiv für Physiologie,” vol. vi, p. 153, “like the contraction of a cord when it is wet”)—even if it could fully explain this, it would never negate the immediately evident truth that every voluntary movement (functiones animales) is an expression of an act of will. Similarly, the physiological explanation of vegetative life (functiones naturales vitales) cannot, no matter how advanced, ever disprove the fact that the entire animal life that develops itself is a manifestation of will. In general, as we’ve indicated earlier, no etiological explanation can provide more than the necessarily determined position in time and space of a particular manifestation, its necessary appearance according to established laws; but the intrinsic nature of everything that appears in this way remains entirely inexplicable, and is assumed by every etiological explanation, merely indicated by terms like force, or law of nature, or, in the context of actions, character or will. Therefore, although each specific action, taking into account a definite character, necessarily follows from a given motive, and although growth, nutrition, and all the changes in the animal body occur according to necessary causes (stimuli), yet the entire series of actions, and thus each individual act, and also its condition, the whole body itself that performs it, as well as the process through which it exists, are nothing but the manifestation of the will, the visible realization, the objectification of will. This is what underpins the perfect suitability of the human and animal bodies to their respective wills, resembling, but greatly exceeding, the correlation between a tool made for a purpose and its maker's intention, and thus appearing as design, i.e. the teleological explanation of [pg 141] the body. The body parts must therefore entirely align with the main desires through which the will expresses itself; they must be the visible representation of these desires. Teeth, throat, and bowels represent objectified hunger; the reproductive organs represent objectified sexual desire; the grasping hand and the rushing feet reflect the more indirect desires of the will which they express. Just as the human form generally corresponds to the human will generally, the individual body's structure corresponds to the uniquely modified will, the individual character, making it throughout and in all its parts characteristic and expressive. It’s notable that Parmenides already articulated this in the following verses, as quoted by Aristotle (Metaph. iii. 5):—

For everyone has wine from twisted vines.
What has appeared to humans? For the same thing...
It is what he thinks, the nature of man.
And to everyone and everything; for it is more meaningful.

(Ut enim cuique complexio membrorum flexibilium se habet, ita mens hominibus adest: idem namque est, quod sapit, membrorum natura hominibus, et omnibus et omni: quod enim plus est, intelligentia est.)30

(Ut enim cuique complexio membrorum flexibilium se habet, ita mens hominibus adest: idem namque est, quod sapit, membrorum natura hominibus, et omnibus et omni: quod enim plus est, intelligentia est.)30

§ 21. Whoever has now gained from all these expositions a knowledge in abstracto, and therefore clear and certain, of what every one knows directly in concreto, i.e., as feeling, a knowledge that his will is the real inner nature of his phenomenal being, which manifests itself to him as idea, both in his actions and in their permanent substratum, his body, and that his will is that which is most immediate in his consciousness, though it has not as such completely passed into the form of idea in which object and subject stand over against each other, but makes [pg 142] itself known to him in a direct manner, in which he does not quite clearly distinguish subject and object, yet is not known as a whole to the individual himself, but only in its particular acts,—whoever, I say, has with me gained this conviction will find that of itself it affords him the key to the knowledge of the inmost being of the whole of nature; for he now transfers it to all those phenomena which are not given to him, like his own phenomenal existence, both in direct and indirect knowledge, but only in the latter, thus merely one-sidedly as idea alone. He will recognise this will of which we are speaking not only in those phenomenal existences which exactly resemble his own, in men and animals as their inmost nature, but the course of reflection will lead him to recognise the force which germinates and vegetates in the plant, and indeed the force through which the crystal is formed, that by which the magnet turns to the north pole, the force whose shock he experiences from the contact of two different kinds of metals, the force which appears in the elective affinities of matter as repulsion and attraction, decomposition and combination, and, lastly, even gravitation, which acts so powerfully throughout matter, draws the stone to the earth and the earth to the sun,—all these, I say, he will recognise as different only in their phenomenal existence, but in their inner nature as identical, as that which is directly known to him so intimately and so much better than anything else, and which in its most distinct manifestation is called will. It is this application of reflection alone that prevents us from remaining any longer at the phenomenon, and leads us to the thing in itself. Phenomenal existence is idea and nothing more. All idea, of whatever kind it may be, all object, is phenomenal existence, but the will alone is a thing in itself. As such, it is throughout not idea, but toto genere different from it; it is that of which all idea, all object, is the phenomenal appearance, the visibility, [pg 143] the objectification. It is the inmost nature, the kernel, of every particular thing, and also of the whole. It appears in every blind force of nature and also in the preconsidered action of man; and the great difference between these two is merely in the degree of the manifestation, not in the nature of what manifests itself.

§ 21. Anyone who has now gained from all these explanations a clear and certain understanding of what everyone knows directly through their own experience, that is, as feeling, a knowledge that their will is the true inner nature of their visible existence, which shows itself to them as an idea—both in their actions and in their permanent foundation, their body—and that their will is what is most immediate in their awareness, even though it hasn't fully transformed into the form of an idea where subject and object stand apart, but makes itself known to them directly in a way that doesn’t clearly distinguish between subject and object, yet isn’t fully known by the individual as a whole, but only through particular actions—whoever, I say, has reached this understanding with me will find that it naturally provides them the key to knowing the deepest essence of all of nature; for they now apply it to all those phenomena that are not given to them directly, like their own perceptible existence, both through direct and indirect knowledge, but only in the latter, thus only one-sidedly as the idea alone. They will recognize this will we are talking about not only in those phenomenal existences that closely resemble their own, in humans and animals as their deepest nature, but the process of reflection will lead them to see the force that grows and develops in plants, and indeed the force through which crystals form, the force that causes a magnet to align with the north, the force whose impact they feel from touching two different types of metals, the force that shows up in the attraction and repulsion of materials, in decomposition and combination, and finally, even gravity, which acts so powerfully throughout matter, pulling stones to the earth and the earth to the sun—all of these, I say, they will see as only different in their visible manifestations, but in their inner essence as identical, as that which is directly known to them so intimately and much better than anything else, and which in its clearest manifestation is called will. It is this application of reflection alone that keeps us from remaining stuck at the phenomenon and leads us to the thing in itself. Phenomenal existence is idea and nothing more. All ideas, of any kind, all objects, are phenomenal existence, but the will alone is a thing in itself. As such, it is fundamentally different from idea; it is what all ideas, all objects, are the phenomenal appearance of, the visibility, the objectification. It is the innermost nature, the core, of every individual thing, and also of the whole. It appears in every blind force of nature and also in the deliberate actions of humans; and the significant difference between these two is merely in the degree of manifestation, not in the essence of what is manifesting.

§ 22. Now, if we are to think as an object this thing-in-itself (we wish to retain the Kantian expression as a standing formula), which, as such, is never object, because all object is its mere manifestation, and therefore cannot be it itself, we must borrow for it the name and concept of an object, of something in some way objectively given, consequently of one of its own manifestations. But in order to serve as a clue for the understanding, this can be no other than the most complete of all its manifestations, i.e., the most distinct, the most developed, and directly enlightened by knowledge. Now this is the human will. It is, however, well to observe that here, at any rate, we only make use of a denominatio a potiori, through which, therefore, the concept of will receives a greater extension than it has hitherto had. Knowledge of the identical in different phenomena, and of difference in similar phenomena, is, as Plato so often remarks, a sine qua non of philosophy. But hitherto it was not recognised that every kind of active and operating force in nature is essentially identical with will, and therefore the multifarious kinds of phenomena were not seen to be merely different species of the same genus, but were treated as heterogeneous. Consequently there could be no word to denote the concept of this genus. I therefore name the genus after its most important species, the direct knowledge of which lies nearer to us and guides us to the indirect knowledge of all other species. But whoever is incapable of carrying out the required extension of the concept will remain involved in a permanent misunderstanding. For by the word will he understands only that species of it which has hitherto been exclusively [pg 144] denoted by it, the will which is guided by knowledge, and whose manifestation follows only upon motives, and indeed merely abstract motives, and thus takes place under the guidance of the reason. This, we have said, is only the most prominent example of the manifestation of will. We must now distinctly separate in thought the inmost essence of this manifestation which is known to us directly, and then transfer it to all the weaker, less distinct manifestations of the same nature, and thus we shall accomplish the desired extension of the concept of will. From another point of view I should be equally misunderstood by any one who should think that it is all the same in the end whether we denote this inner nature of all phenomena by the word will or by any other. This would be the case if the thing-in-itself were something whose existence we merely inferred, and thus knew indirectly and only in the abstract. Then, indeed, we might call it what we pleased; the name would stand merely as the symbol of an unknown quantity. But the word will, which, like a magic spell, discloses to us the inmost being of everything in nature, is by no means an unknown quantity, something arrived at only by inference, but is fully and immediately comprehended, and is so familiar to us that we know and understand what will is far better than anything else whatever. The concept of will has hitherto commonly been subordinated to that of force, but I reverse the matter entirely, and desire that every force in nature should be thought as will. It must not be supposed that this is mere verbal quibbling or of no consequence; rather, it is of the greatest significance and importance. For at the foundation of the concept of force, as of all other concepts, there ultimately lies the knowledge in sense-perception of the objective world, that is to say, the phenomenon, the idea; and the concept is constructed out of this. It is an abstraction from the province in which cause and effect reign, i.e., from ideas of perception, and means just the causal nature of [pg 145] causes at the point at which this causal nature is no further etiologically explicable, but is the necessary presupposition of all etiological explanation. The concept will, on the other hand, is of all possible concepts the only one which has its source not in the phenomenal, not in the mere idea of perception, but comes from within, and proceeds from the most immediate consciousness of each of us, in which each of us knows his own individuality, according to its nature, immediately, apart from all form, even that of subject and object, and which at the same time is this individuality, for here the subject and the object of knowledge are one. If, therefore, we refer the concept of force to that of will, we have in fact referred the less known to what is infinitely better known; indeed, to the one thing that is really immediately and fully known to us, and have very greatly extended our knowledge. If, on the contrary, we subsume the concept of will under that of force, as has hitherto always been done, we renounce the only immediate knowledge which we have of the inner nature of the world, for we allow it to disappear in a concept which is abstracted from the phenomenal, and with which we can therefore never go beyond the phenomenal.

§ 22. Now, if we are to consider this thing-in-itself (we want to keep the Kantian term as a standard reference) as an object, which, as such, is never actually an object, since all objects are merely its manifestations and therefore cannot be it itself, we must borrow a name and concept that describes an object, or something given in an objective way, hence one of its manifestations. However, to provide a framework for understanding, this can only be its most complete manifestation, i.e., the most distinct, developed, and directly illuminated by knowledge. This is the human will. It's important to note that here we are utilizing a renaming from the main, through which the concept of will gains a broader definition than it has had previously. Understanding the sameness in different phenomena and the differences in similar phenomena is, as Plato often notes, a essential element of philosophy. However, it hasn't been recognized that every kind of active and operating force in nature is fundamentally identical to will, and thus the various kinds of phenomena were not viewed as different types of the same genus, but rather treated as unrelated. Therefore, there has been no term to refer to this genus. I name the genus after its most significant species, the direct knowledge of which is closer to us and leads us to the indirect understanding of all other species. But anyone who cannot grasp this extension of the concept will remain in a state of permanent misunderstanding. Because by the word gonna, he only thinks of that type of will that has been exclusively [pg 144] indicated by it, the will guided by knowledge, whose manifestation only occurs due to motives, specifically abstract motives, and thus takes place under the direction of reason. This, as we have stated, is merely the most prominent instance of will's manifestation. We now need to clearly separate in our thoughts the innermost essence of this manifestation that we know directly, and then apply it to all the weaker, less distinct manifestations of the same nature, thus achieving the desired broadening of the concept of will. From another angle, I would similarly be misunderstood by anyone who thinks it doesn’t matter whether we refer to this inner nature of all phenomena by the word gonna or any other term. This would apply if the thing-in-itself were something whose existence we merely implied, and thus understood only indirectly and abstractly. Then, we could indeed call it whatever we liked; the name would just symbolize an unknown quantity. But the term will, which like a magic spell reveals to us the innermost essence of everything in nature, is not an unknown quantity, something only arrived at through inference, but is completely and immediately understood and so familiar to us that we know and comprehend what will is much better than anything else. The concept of will has commonly been subordinated to that of force, but I completely reverse this idea and argue that every force in nature should be viewed as will. It's important not to think this is mere wordplay or inconsequential; rather, it has great significance and importance. For based on the concept of force, as well as all other concepts, the foundation ultimately lies in the sensory knowledge of the objective world, that is, the phenomenon, the idea; and the concept is drawn from this. It is an abstraction from the realm where cause and effect operate, i.e., from perceptions and refers specifically to the causal nature of [pg 145] causes at the point where this causal nature cannot be explained further etiologically, but is the necessary foundation for all etiological explanation. On the other hand, the concept of will is the only concept that does not originate from the phenomenal, not from mere perception ideas, but comes from within, emerging from each of our most immediate consciousness, in which each of us knows his individuality by its nature, directly, apart from all form, including that of subject and object, and which at the same time is this individuality, since here the subject and object of knowledge are one. If, therefore, we relate the concept of force to that of gonna, we have effectively related the lesser-known to what is infinitely better known; indeed, to the only thing that we truly know and understand completely and immediately, greatly expanding our knowledge. If, on the contrary, we place the concept of will under that of force, as has always been done, we forsake the only immediate knowledge we have of the inner nature of the world, as we allow it to dissolve into a concept abstracted from the phenomenal, with which we can therefore never transcend the phenomenal.

§ 23. The will as a thing in itself is quite different from its phenomenal appearance, and entirely free from all the forms of the phenomenal, into which it first passes when it manifests itself, and which therefore only concern its objectivity, and are foreign to the will itself. Even the most universal form of all idea, that of being object for a subject, does not concern it; still less the forms which are subordinate to this and which collectively have their common expression in the principle of sufficient reason, to which we know that time and space belong, and consequently multiplicity also, which exists and is possible only through these. In this last regard I shall call time and space the principium individuationis, borrowing an expression from the old schoolmen, and I beg to draw [pg 146] attention to this, once for all. For it is only through the medium of time and space that what is one and the same, both according to its nature and to its concept, yet appears as different, as a multiplicity of co-existent and successive phenomena. Thus time and space are the principium individuationis, the subject of so many subtleties and disputes among the schoolmen, which may be found collected in Suarez (Disp. 5, Sect. 3). According to what has been said, the will as a thing-in-itself lies outside the province of the principle of sufficient reason in all its forms, and is consequently completely groundless, although all its manifestations are entirely subordinated to the principle of sufficient reason. Further, it is free from all multiplicity, although its manifestations in time and space are innumerable. It is itself one, though not in the sense in which an object is one, for the unity of an object can only be known in opposition to a possible multiplicity; nor yet in the sense in which a concept is one, for the unity of a concept originates only in abstraction from a multiplicity; but it is one as that which lies outside time and space, the principium individuationis, i.e., the possibility of multiplicity. Only when all this has become quite clear to us through the subsequent examination of the phenomena and different manifestations of the will, shall we fully understand the meaning of the Kantian doctrine that time, space and causality do not belong to the thing-in-itself, but are only forms of knowing.

§ 23. The gonna as a thing in itself is completely different from how it appears phenomenally, and is totally free from all the forms of the phenomenal, which it only enters when it manifests itself, and which only relate to its neutrality, and are separate from the will itself. Even the most universal form of all ideas, that of being an object for a subject, doesn’t concern it; even less the forms that are subordinate to this and which collectively express the principle of sufficient reason, to which we know that time and space belong, and hence multiplicity, which exists and is possible only through these. In this context, I will refer to time and space as the principle of individuation, borrowing a term from the old schoolmen, and I want to emphasize this point once and for all. It is only through time and space that what is one and the same, both in nature and concept, appears as different, as a multitude of co-existing and successive phenomena. Thus, time and space are the principle of individuation, the subject of so many subtleties and debates among the schoolmen, which can be found summarized in Suarez (Disp. 5, Sect. 3). According to what has been said, the will as a thing-in-itself lies outside the realm of the principle of sufficient reason in all its forms, and is therefore completely unfounded, even though all its manifestations are entirely subject to the principle of sufficient reason. Furthermore, it is free from all diversity, even though its manifestations in time and space are countless. It is itself one, but not in the way that an object is one, since the unity of an object can only be understood in contrast to a possible multiplicity; nor in the sense that a concept is one, since the unity of a concept arises only from abstraction from multiplicity; rather, it is one as something that exists outside of time and space, the principle of individuation, i.e. the possibility of multiplicity. Only when all of this becomes clear to us through our later examination of the phenomena and different manifestations of the will, will we fully grasp the meaning of the Kantian doctrine that time, space, and causality do not pertain to the thing-in-itself, but are merely forms of knowing.

The uncaused nature of will has been actually recognised, where it manifests itself most distinctly, as the will of man, and this has been called free, independent. But on account of the uncaused nature of the will itself, the necessity to which its manifestation is everywhere subjected has been overlooked, and actions are treated as free, which they are not. For every individual action follows with strict necessity from the effect of the motive upon the character. All necessity is, as we have already [pg 147] said, the relation of the consequent to the reason, and nothing more. The principle of sufficient reason is the universal form of all phenomena, and man in his action must be subordinated to it like every other phenomenon. But because in self-consciousness the will is known directly and in itself, in this consciousness lies also the consciousness of freedom. The fact is, however, overlooked that the individual, the person, is not will as a thing-in-itself, but is a phenomenon of will, is already determined as such, and has come under the form of the phenomenal, the principle of sufficient reason. Hence arises the strange fact that every one believes himself a priori to be perfectly free, even in his individual actions, and thinks that at every moment he can commence another manner of life, which just means that he can become another person. But a posteriori, through experience, he finds to his astonishment that he is not free, but subjected to necessity; that in spite of all his resolutions and reflections he does not change his conduct, and that from the beginning of his life to the end of it, he must carry out the very character which he himself condemns, and as it were play the part he has undertaken to the end. I cannot pursue this subject further at present, for it belongs, as ethical, to another part of this work. In the meantime, I only wish to point out here that the phenomenon of the will which in itself is uncaused, is yet as such subordinated to the law of necessity, that is, the principle of sufficient reason, so that in the necessity with which the phenomena of nature follow each other, we may find nothing to hinder us from recognising in them the manifestations of will.

The uncaused nature of will has been recognized, especially where it is most clearly seen: in the will of man, which has been termed free and independent. However, because of the uncaused nature of will itself, the necessity to which its expression is subjected has been overlooked, leading to the belief that actions are free when they are not. Every individual action strictly follows from the influence of motives on character. All necessity, as we have already [pg 147] stated, is simply the relationship between the outcome and the reason, nothing more. The principle of sufficient reason is the universal framework for all phenomena, and humans must conform to it just like any other phenomenon. Yet, because will is known directly and intrinsically in self-consciousness, this awareness also includes a sense of freedom. However, it is overlooked that the individual, the person, is not will as a thing-in-itself but is a event of will, already determined as such and subject to the form of the phenomenal, the principle of sufficient reason. This leads to the odd situation in which everyone instinctively believes they are completely free, even in their individual actions, thinking they can change their lives at any moment, which implies that they can become a different person. But after the fact, through experience, they are shocked to find they are not free but bound by necessity; that despite all their resolutions and reflections, they do not change their behavior, and that from the beginning of their life to the end, they must embody the very character they criticize, effectively playing the role they have committed to until the end. I cannot delve deeper into this topic right now, as it belongs to another ethical part of this work. For now, I just want to highlight that the event of will, which is uncaused in itself, is still subject to the law of necessity, namely, the principle of sufficient reason, so that the necessity with which natural phenomena follow one another does not prevent us from recognizing them as expressions of will.

Only those changes which have no other ground than a motive, i.e., an idea, have hitherto been regarded as manifestations of will. Therefore in nature a will has only been attributed to man, or at the most to animals; for knowledge, the idea, is of course, as I have said elsewhere, the true and exclusive characteristic of [pg 148] animal life. But that the will is also active where no knowledge guides it, we see at once in the instinct and the mechanical skill of animals.31 That they have ideas and knowledge is here not to the point, for the end towards which they strive as definitely as if it were a known motive, is yet entirely unknown to them. Therefore in such cases their action takes place without motive, is not guided by the idea, and shows us first and most distinctly how the will may be active entirely without knowledge. The bird of a year old has no idea of the eggs for which it builds a nest; the young spider has no idea of the prey for which it spins a web; nor has the ant-lion any idea of the ants for which he digs a trench for the first time. The larva of the stag-beetle makes the hole in the wood, in which it is to await its metamorphosis, twice as big if it is going to be a male beetle as if it is going to be a female, so that if it is a male there may be room for the horns, of which, however, it has no idea. In such actions of these creatures the will is clearly operative as in their other actions, but it is in blind activity, which is indeed accompanied by knowledge but not guided by it. If now we have once gained insight into the fact, that idea as motive is not a necessary and essential condition of the activity of the will, we shall more easily recognise the activity of will where it is less apparent. For example, we shall see that the house of the snail is no more made by a will which is foreign to the snail itself, than the house which we build is produced through another will than our own; but we shall recognise in both houses the work of a will which objectifies itself in both the phenomena—a will which works in us according to motives, but in the snail still blindly as formative impulse directed outwards. In us also the same will is in many ways only blindly active: in all the functions of our body which are not guided by knowledge, in all its vital and vegetative processes, [pg 149] digestion, circulation, secretion, growth, reproduction. Not only the actions of the body, but the whole body itself is, as we have shown above, phenomenon of the will, objectified will, concrete will. All that goes on in it must therefore proceed through will, although here this will is not guided by knowledge, but acts blindly according to causes, which in this case are called stimuli.

Only those changes that have no basis other than a motive, i.e., an idea, have so far been seen as expressions of will. Therefore, in nature, will has been attributed only to humans, or at most to animals; because knowledge, the idea, is, as I have mentioned elsewhere, the true and exclusive characteristic of [pg 148] animal life. However, we can immediately see that will is also active where no knowledge guides it, as evidenced in the instincts and mechanical skills of animals. 31 The fact that they have ideas and knowledge isn't the issue here, as the goals they strive for are as clear as if they had a known motive, yet remain entirely unknown to them. Thus, in these situations, their actions occur without motive, are not guided by the idea, and demonstrate most clearly how will can operate entirely without knowledge. A year-old bird has no idea about the eggs for which it builds a nest; a young spider has no idea about the prey for which it weaves a web; nor does the ant-lion have any clue about the ants for which it digs a trench for the first time. The larva of a stag beetle makes the hole in the wood where it will wait for its transformation, making it twice as big if it will become a male beetle compared to if it will be female, ensuring there’s space for the horns, of which it has no concept. In such actions of these creatures, will is clearly at work, just like in their other actions, but it is a blind activity, accompanied by knowledge, yet not guided by it. Once we grasp the fact that the idea as motive is not a necessary and essential condition for the activity of will, we can more easily recognize will’s activity where it is less obvious. For instance, the snail's shell is not made by a will that is separate from the snail itself, just as our houses aren’t built through a will different from our own; rather, we can see in both houses the work of a will that manifests itself in both phenomena—a will that operates in us according to motives, but in the snail still acts blindly as a formative impulse directed outward. In us, the same will is often only blindly active: in all bodily functions that are not guided by knowledge, throughout all its vital and vegetative processes, [pg 149] digestion, circulation, secretion, growth, reproduction. Not just the actions of the body, but the entire body itself is, as we have shown above, a phenomenon of will, objectified will, concrete will. Everything happening within it must therefore proceed through will, even if this will is not guided by knowledge, but acts blindly according to causes, which in this context are referred to as stimuli.

I call a cause, in the narrowest sense of the word, that state of matter, which, while it introduces another state with necessity, yet suffers just as great a change itself as that which it causes; which is expressed in the rule, “action and reaction are equal.” Further, in the case of what is properly speaking a cause, the effect increases directly in proportion to the cause, and therefore also the reaction. So that, if once the mode of operation be known, the degree of the effect may be measured and calculated from the degree of the intensity of the cause; and conversely the degree of the intensity of the cause may be calculated from the degree of the effect. Such causes, properly so called, operate in all the phenomena of mechanics, chemistry, and so forth; in short, in all the changes of unorganised bodies. On the other hand, I call a stimulus, such a cause as sustains no reaction proportional to its effect, and the intensity of which does not vary directly in proportion to the intensity of its effect, so that the effect cannot be measured by it. On the contrary, a small increase of the stimulus may cause a very great increase of the effect, or conversely, it may eliminate the previous effect altogether, and so forth. All effects upon organised bodies as such are of this kind. All properly organic and vegetative changes of the animal body must therefore be referred to stimuli, not to mere causes. But the stimulus, like every cause and motive generally, never determines more than the point of time and space at [pg 150] which the manifestation of every force is to take place, and does not determine the inner nature of the force itself which is manifested. This inner nature we know, from our previous investigation, is will, to which therefore we ascribe both the unconscious and the conscious changes of the body. The stimulus holds the mean, forms the transition between the motive, which is causality accompanied throughout by knowledge, and the cause in the narrowest sense. In particular cases it is sometimes nearer a motive, sometimes nearer a cause, but yet it can always be distinguished from both. Thus, for example, the rising of the sap in a plant follows upon stimuli, and cannot be explained from mere causes, according to the laws of hydraulics or capillary attraction; yet it is certainly assisted by these, and altogether approaches very near to a purely causal change. On the other hand, the movements of the Hedysarum gyrans and the Mimosa pudica, although still following upon mere stimuli, are yet very like movements which follow upon motives, and seem almost to wish to make the transition. The contraction of the pupils of the eyes as the light is increased is due to stimuli, but it passes into movement which is due to motive; for it takes place, because too strong lights would affect the retina painfully, and to avoid this we contract the pupils. The occasion of an erection is a motive, because it is an idea, yet it operates with the necessity of a stimulus, i.e., it cannot be resisted, but we must put the idea away in order to make it cease to affect us. This is also the case with disgusting things, which excite the desire to vomit. Thus we have treated the instinct of animals as an actual link, of quite a distinct kind, between movement following upon stimuli, and action following upon a known motive. Now we might be asked to regard breathing as another link of this kind. It has been disputed whether it belongs to the voluntary or the involuntary movements, that is to say, whether it follows upon motive or stimulus, [pg 151] and perhaps it may be explained as something which is between the two. Marshall Hall (“On the Diseases of the Nervous System,” § 293 sq.) explains it as a mixed function, for it is partly under the influence of the cerebral (voluntary), and partly under that of the spinal (non-voluntary) nerves. However, we are finally obliged to number it with the expressions of will which result from motives. For other motives, i.e., mere ideas, can determine the will to check it or accelerate it, and, as is the case with every other voluntary action, it seems to us that we could give up breathing altogether and voluntarily suffocate. And in fact we could do so if any other motive influenced the will sufficiently strongly to overcome the pressing desire for air. According to some accounts Diogenes actually put an end to his life in this way (Diog. Laert. VI. 76). Certain negroes also are said to have done this (F. B. Osiander “On Suicide” [1813] pp. 170-180). If this be true, it affords us a good example of the influence of abstract motives, i.e., of the victory of distinctively rational over merely animal will. For, that breathing is at least partially conditioned by cerebral activity is shown by the fact that the primary cause of death from prussic acid is that it paralyses the brain, and so, indirectly, restricts the breathing; but if the breathing be artificially maintained till the stupefaction of the brain has passed away, death will not ensue. We may also observe in passing that breathing affords us the most obvious example of the fact that motives act with just as much necessity as stimuli, or as causes in the narrowest sense of the word, and their operation can only be neutralised by antagonistic motives, as action is neutralised by re-action. For, in the case of breathing, the illusion that we can stop when we like is much weaker than in the case of other movements which follow upon motives; because in breathing the motive is very powerful, very near to us, and its satisfaction is very easy, for the muscles which accomplish it are never tired, nothing, [pg 152] as a rule, obstructs it, and the whole process is supported by the most inveterate habit of the individual. And yet all motives act with the same necessity. The knowledge that necessity is common to movements following upon motives, and those following upon stimuli, makes it easier for us to understand that that also which takes place in our bodily organism in accordance with stimuli and in obedience to law, is yet, according to its inner nature—will, which in all its manifestations, though never in itself, is subordinated to the principle of sufficient reason, that is, to necessity.32 Accordingly, we shall not rest contented with recognising that animals, both in their actions and also in their whole existence, bodily structure and organisation, are manifestations of will; but we shall extend to plants also this immediate knowledge of the essential nature of things which is given to us alone. Now all the movements of plants follow upon stimuli; for the absence of knowledge, and the movement following upon motives which is conditioned by knowledge, constitutes the only essential difference between animals and plants. Therefore, what appears for the idea as plant life, as mere vegetation, as blindly impelling force, we shall claim, according to its inner nature, for will, and recognise it as just that which constitutes the basis of our own phenomenal being, as it expresses itself in our actions, and also in the whole existence of our body itself.

I define a reason in the strictest sense as that state of matter which, while it inevitably brings about another state, also undergoes a significant change itself—something captured by the rule, "Action and reaction are equal." Furthermore, with a true cause, the effect increases directly in proportion to the cause, and so does the reaction. Therefore, once the method of operation is understood, the strength of the effect can be measured and calculated based on the intensity of the cause; conversely, the intensity of the cause can be calculated from the strength of the effect. Such causes, in the proper sense, operate in all phenomena related to mechanics, chemistry, and so on—in short, in all changes of unorganized matter. On the other hand, I call a incentive a cause that does not produce a proportional reaction to its effect, and whose intensity does not vary in direct proportion to the intensity of its effect, so the effect cannot be measured by it. Conversely, a small increase in the stimulus can lead to a significantly larger increase in the effect or could completely eliminate the effect altogether, and so forth. All effects on organized bodies fit this description. Therefore, all truly organic and vegetative changes in the animal body should be attributed to stimuli, not to mere causes. However, the stimulus, like any cause or motive, only determines the specific point in time and space at [pg 150] which the manifestation of any force occurs, without deciding the intrinsic nature of the manifested force. This intrinsic nature, as established through prior investigation, is will, which we attribute to both the unconscious and conscious changes in the body. The stimulus serves as a middle ground, a transition between the motive, which involves knowledge throughout, and the cause in the strictest sense. In specific cases, it may resemble a motive more closely at times or may be closer to a cause, yet it can always be distinguished from both. For example, the rising of sap in a plant results from stimuli and cannot be explained solely by causes according to the laws of hydraulics or capillary attraction; however, it is certainly aided by these and approaches a purely causal change closely. On the other hand, the movements of the Dancing plant and the Mimosa pudica, while still stemming from mere stimuli, resemble movements that follow motives and seem almost to bridge the two. The contraction of the pupils in response to increased light is due to stimuli, but this transition leads to a movement determined by motive; it occurs because excessively bright lights would hurt the retina, so we contract the pupils to prevent that. The cause of an erection is a motive because it is an idea; yet it operates with the inevitability of a stimulus, i.e. it cannot be resisted, and we must dismiss the idea to stop it from affecting us. This also applies to disgusting things, which provoke the urge to vomit. Thus, we have analyzed the instincts of animals as an actual link of a distinctly different nature between movements driven by stimuli and actions following a known motive. Now, we might be asked to consider breathing as another link of this kind. There has been debate on whether it belongs to voluntary or involuntary movements, that is, whether it follows from motive or stimulus, [pg 151] and perhaps it can be explained as something in between. Marshall Hall ("On the Diseases of the Nervous System," § 293 sq.) describes it as a mixed function since it is partially controlled by the cerebral (voluntary) and partially by the spinal (non-voluntary) nerves. Nevertheless, we are ultimately compelled to categorize it among the expressions of will that stem from motives. Other motives, i.e., mere ideas can dictate our will to suppress or accelerate it, and, similar to any voluntary action, it seems possible for us to stop breathing entirely and voluntarily suffocate. In fact, we could do this if some other motive strongly influenced our will enough to overcome our pressing desire for air. According to some accounts, Diogenes actually ended his life this way (Diog. Laert. VI. 76). Certain people are also said to have done the same (F. B. Osiander "On Suicide Prevention" [1813] pp. 170-180). If this is true, it provides a clear example of how abstract motives, i.e., represent the triumph of distinctly rational will over mere animal will. Breathing is at least partially influenced by brain activity, as shown by the fact that the primary cause of death from prussic acid is brain paralysis, which indirectly restricts breathing; but if breathing is artificially maintained until the brain's numbness dissipates, death will not occur. We may also note that breathing serves as the clearest example of the fact that motives operate with just as much necessity as stimuli or strict causes, and their effect can only be neutralized by opposing motives, just as action is neutralized by reaction. In breathing, the illusion that we can stop whenever we choose is weaker than in other movements driven by motives; this is because the motive is incredibly strong, very close to us, and satisfying it is quite easy since the muscles involved never tire, nothing, [pg 152] typically obstructs it, and this entire process is supported by the most ingrained habit of the individual. Still, all motives operate with the same necessity. Understanding that necessity is common to movements driven by motives and those following stimuli helps us realize that what occurs in our bodily organism according to stimuli and in obedience to law is, at its core—will, which in all its manifestations, although never in itself, is subjected to the principle of sufficient reason, that is, necessity.32 Accordingly, we shall not be satisfied with just recognizing that animals, in both their actions and their entire existence—bodily structure and organization—are manifestations of will; but we shall also extend this immediate understanding of the essential nature of things to plants. Now, all movements of plants result from stimuli, as the absence of knowledge and movements based on motives conditioned by knowledge create the only essential difference between animals and plants. Therefore, what appears for the idea as plant life, merely vegetation, as a blind driving force, we will attribute, based on its intrinsic nature, to will, recognizing it as the foundation of our own phenomenal being, as it manifests in our actions and throughout the entire existence of our body.

It only remains for us to take the final step, the extension of our way of looking at things to all those forces which act in nature in accordance with universal, unchangeable laws, in conformity with which the movements of all those bodies take place, which are wholly without organs, and have therefore no susceptibility for stimuli, and have no knowledge, which is the necessary condition [pg 153] of motives. Thus we must also apply the key to the understanding of the inner nature of things, which the immediate knowledge of our own existence alone can give us, to those phenomena of the unorganised world which are most remote from us. And if we consider them attentively, if we observe the strong and unceasing impulse with which the waters hurry to the ocean, the persistency with which the magnet turns ever to the north pole, the readiness with which iron flies to the magnet, the eagerness with which the electric poles seek to be re-united, and which, just like human desire, is increased by obstacles; if we see the crystal quickly and suddenly take form with such wonderful regularity of construction, which is clearly only a perfectly definite and accurately determined impulse in different directions, seized and retained by crystallisation; if we observe the choice with which bodies repel and attract each other, combine and separate, when they are set free in a fluid state, and emancipated from the bonds of rigidness; lastly, if we feel directly how a burden which hampers our body by its gravitation towards the earth, unceasingly presses and strains upon it in pursuit of its one tendency; if we observe all this, I say, it will require no great effort of the imagination to recognise, even at so great a distance, our own nature. That which in us pursues its ends by the light of knowledge; but here, in the weakest of its manifestations, only strives blindly and dumbly in a one-sided and unchangeable manner, must yet in both cases come under the name of will, as it is everywhere one and the same—just as the first dim light of dawn must share the name of sunlight with the rays of the full mid-day. For the name will denotes that which is the inner nature of everything in the world, and the one kernel of every phenomenon.

It just remains for us to take the final step, extending our way of looking at things to all the forces in nature that operate according to universal, unchanging laws, which govern the movements of those bodies that have no organs, and therefore no capacity for stimuli or awareness, which is the necessary condition for motives. We must also apply the key to understanding the inner nature of things, which only our immediate knowledge of our own existence can provide, to those phenomena of the unorganized world that are farthest from us. If we observe closely, we’ll notice the strong and constant drive with which the waters rush to the ocean, the persistence with which the magnet always points to the north pole, the eagerness with which iron is attracted to the magnet, and the desire of electric poles to reunite, which, like human desire, grows stronger against obstacles; if we see how a crystal quickly forms with such remarkable regularity, which is clearly just a defined and precisely directed impulse captured and maintained by crystallization; if we notice how bodies repel and attract each other, joining and separating when they are released into a fluid state, free from the constraints of rigidity; lastly, if we directly feel how a burden, due to its gravitational pull towards the earth, constantly presses upon us, pursuing its one tendency; when we observe all this, it won’t take much imagination to recognize, even from such a distance, our own nature. What in us pursues its aims through knowledge; here, in its weakest manifestations, only strives blindly and stubbornly in a one-sided and unchanging manner, must still be called will in both cases, as it is fundamentally the same everywhere—just as the faintest light of dawn is still referred to as sunlight, just like the rays of the full midday. For the term gonna signifies the inner nature of everything in the world, and the core of every phenomenon.

Yet the remoteness, and indeed the appearance of absolute difference between the phenomena of unorganised nature and the will which we know as the [pg 154] inner reality of our own being, arises chiefly from the contrast between the completely determined conformity to law of the one species of phenomena, and the apparently unfettered freedom of the other. For in man, individuality makes itself powerfully felt. Every one has a character of his own; and therefore the same motive has not the same influence over all, and a thousand circumstances which exist in the wide sphere of the knowledge of the individual, but are unknown to others, modify its effect. Therefore action cannot be predetermined from the motive alone, for the other factor is wanting, the accurate acquaintance with the individual character, and with the knowledge which accompanies it. On the other hand, the phenomena of the forces of nature illustrate the opposite extreme. They act according to universal laws, without variation, without individuality in accordance with openly manifest circumstances, subject to the most exact predetermination; and the same force of nature appears in its million phenomena in precisely the same way. In order to explain this point and prove the identity of the one indivisible will in all its different phenomena, in the weakest as in the strongest, we must first of all consider the relation of the will as thing-in-itself to its phenomena, that is, the relation of the world as will to the world as idea; for this will open to us the best way to a more thorough investigation of the whole subject we are considering in this second book.33

Yet the distance, and indeed the clear difference between the phenomena of unorganized nature and the will we know as the [pg 154] inner reality of our being, largely comes from the contrast between the completely determined adherence to law of one type of phenomenon and the seemingly unfettered freedom of the other. In humans, individuality is strongly pronounced. Each person has their own character; therefore, the same motive doesn't have the same effect on everyone, and countless circumstances that exist in an individual’s knowledge but are unknown to others influence its impact. Thus, actions cannot be predetermined by motive alone, as the essential factor—the accurate understanding of individual character and the accompanying knowledge—is missing. In contrast, the phenomena of natural forces represent the opposite extreme. They operate according to universal laws, without variation, without individuality, in line with clearly observable circumstances, subject to the most precise predetermination; the same natural force manifests in its millions of phenomena in exactly the same way. To clarify this point and demonstrate the identity of the one indivisible will across its various phenomena, from the weakest to the strongest, we first need to examine the relationship of will as a thing-in-itself to its phenomena, that is, the relationship of the world as will to the world as idea; this will guide us towards a more thorough investigation of the entire subject we are discussing in this second book.33

§ 24. We have learnt from the great Kant that time, space, and causality, with their entire constitution, and the possibility of all their forms, are present in our consciousness quite independently of the objects which appear in them, and which constitute their content; or, in other words, they can be arrived at just as well if we [pg 155] start from the subject as if we start from the object. Therefore, with equal accuracy, we may call them either forms of intuition or perception of the subject, or qualities of the object as object (with Kant, phenomenon), i.e., idea. We may also regard these forms as the irreducible boundary between object and subject. All objects must therefore exist in them, yet the subject, independently of the phenomenal object, possesses and surveys them completely. But if the objects appearing in these forms are not to be empty phantoms, but are to have a meaning, they must refer to something, must be the expression of something which is not, like themselves, object, idea, a merely relative existence for a subject, but which exists without such dependence upon something which stands over against it as a condition of its being, and independent of the forms of such a thing, i.e., is not idea, but a thing-in-itself. Consequently it may at least be asked: Are these ideas, these objects, something more than or apart from the fact that they are ideas, objects of the subject? And what would they be in this sense? What is that other side of them which is toto genere different from idea? What is the thing-in-itself? The will, we have answered, but for the present I set that answer aside.

§ 24. We have learned from the great Kant that time, space, and causality, along with their entire structure and the possibility of all their forms, exist in our consciousness independently of the objects that appear within them and make up their content. In other words, we can arrive at these concepts just as easily starting from the subject as we can starting from the object. Therefore, we can accurately call them either forms of intuition or perception of the subject, or qualities of the object as an object (in Kant’s terms, phenomenon), i.e., concept. We can also view these forms as the fundamental boundary between object and subject. All objects must exist within these forms, yet the subject, independently of the phenomenal object, fully possesses and surveys them. However, if the objects that appear in these forms are not to be empty illusions, but instead have meaning, they must refer to something; they must express something that does not, like them, exist merely as an object or idea—something with a reality that does not depend on another condition for its existence, and is independent of the forms of such a thing, i.e., is not a good idea, but a thing-in-itself. Thus, we can at least ask: Are these ideas, these objects, something beyond or separate from the fact that they are ideas, the objects of the subject? And what would they be in that sense? What is that other side of them that is this genre different from idea? What is the thing-in-itself? The last will, we have answered, but for now, I will put that answer aside.

Whatever the thing-in-itself may be, Kant is right in his conclusion that time, space, and causality (which we afterwards found to be forms of the principle of sufficient reason, the general expression of the forms of the phenomenon) are not its properties, but come to it only after, and so far as, it has become idea. That is, they belong only to its phenomenal existence, not to itself. For since the subject fully understands and constructs them out of itself, independently of all object, they must be dependent upon existence as idea as such, not upon that which becomes idea. They must be the form of the idea as such; but not qualities of that which has assumed this form. They must be already given with the mere antithesis of subject [pg 156] and object (not as concepts but as facts), and consequently they must be only the more exact determination of the form of knowledge in general, whose most universal determination is that antithesis itself. Now, that in the phenomenon, in the object, which is in its turn conditioned by time, space and causality, inasmuch as it can only become idea by means of them, namely multiplicity, through co-existence and succession, change and permanence through the law of causality, matter which can only become idea under the presupposition of causality, and lastly, all that becomes idea only by means of these,—all this, I say, as a whole, does not in reality belong to that which appears, to that which has passed into the form of idea, but belongs merely to this form itself. And conversely, that in the phenomenon which is not conditioned through time, space and causality, and which cannot be referred to them, nor explained in accordance with them, is precisely that in which the thing manifested, the thing-in-itself, directly reveals itself. It follows from this that the most complete capacity for being known, that is to say, the greatest clearness, distinctness, and susceptibility of exhaustive explanation, will necessarily belong to that which pertains to knowledge as such, and thus to the form of knowledge; but not to that which in itself is not idea, not object, but which has become knowledge only through entering these forms; in other words, has become idea, object. Thus only that which depends entirely upon being an object of knowledge, upon existing as idea in general and as such (not upon that which becomes known, and has only become idea), which therefore belongs without distinction to everything that is known, and which, on that account, is found just as well if we start from the subject as if we start from the object,—this alone can afford us without reserve a sufficient, exhaustive knowledge, a knowledge which is clear to the very foundation. But this consists of nothing but those forms of all phenomena of which we are conscious [pg 157] a priori, and which may be generally expressed as the principle of sufficient reason. Now, the forms of this principle which occur in knowledge of perception (with which alone we are here concerned) are time, space, and causality. The whole of pure mathematics and pure natural science a priori is based entirely upon these. Therefore it is only in these sciences that knowledge finds no obscurity, does not rest upon what is incomprehensible (groundless, i.e., will), upon what cannot be further deduced. It is on this account that Kant wanted, as we have said, to apply the name science specially and even exclusively to these branches of knowledge together with logic. But, on the other hand, these branches of knowledge show us nothing more than mere connections, relations of one idea to another, form devoid of all content. All content which they receive, every phenomenon which fills these forms, contains something which is no longer completely knowable in its whole nature, something which can no longer be entirely explained through something else, something then which is groundless, through which consequently the knowledge loses its evidence and ceases to be completely lucid. This that withholds itself from investigation, however, is the thing-in-itself, is that which is essentially not idea, not object of knowledge, but has only become knowable by entering that form. The form is originally foreign to it, and the thing-in-itself can never become entirely one with it, can never be referred to mere form, and, since this form is the principle of sufficient reason, can never be completely explained. If therefore all mathematics affords us an exhaustive knowledge of that which in the phenomena is quantity, position, number, in a word, spatial and temporal relations; if all etiology gives us a complete account of the regular conditions under which phenomena, with all their determinations, appear in time and space, but, with it all, teaches us nothing more than why in each case this particular phenomenon must appear [pg 158] just at this time here, and at this place now; it is clear that with their assistance we can never penetrate to the inner nature of things. There always remains something which no explanation can venture to attack, but which it always presupposes; the forces of nature, the definite mode of operation of things, the quality and character of every phenomenon, that which is without ground, that which does not depend upon the form of the phenomenal, the principle of sufficient reason, but is something to which this form in itself is foreign, something which has yet entered this form, and now appears according to its law, a law, however, which only determines the appearance, not that which appears, only the how, not the what, only the form, not the content. Mechanics, physics, and chemistry teach the rules and laws according to which the forces of impenetrability, gravitation, rigidity, fluidity, cohesion, elasticity, heat, light, affinity, magnetism, electricity, &c., operate; that is to say, the law, the rule which these forces observe whenever they enter time and space. But do what we will, the forces themselves remain qualitates occultæ. For it is just the thing-in-itself, which, because it is manifested, exhibits these phenomena, which are entirely different from itself. In its manifestation, indeed, it is completely subordinated to the principle of sufficient reason as the form of the idea, but it can never itself be referred to this form, and therefore cannot be fully explained etiologically, can never be completely fathomed. It is certainly perfectly comprehensible so far as it has assumed that form, that is, so far as it is phenomenon, but its inner nature is not in the least explained by the fact that it can thus be comprehended. Therefore the more necessity any knowledge carries with it, the more there is in it of that which cannot be otherwise thought or presented in perception—as, for example, space-relations—the clearer and more sufficing then it is, the less pure objective content it has, or the less reality, properly so called, is [pg 159] given in it. And conversely, the more there is in it which must be conceived as mere chance, and the more it impresses us as given merely empirically, the more proper objectivity and true reality is there in such knowledge, and at the same time, the more that is inexplicable, that is, that cannot be deduced from anything else.

Whatever the thing-in-itself might be, Kant is correct in concluding that time, space, and causality (which we later discovered to be forms of the principle of sufficient reason, the general expression of the forms of phenomena) are not its properties, but only come into play after, and insofar as, it has become an idea. In other words, they belong solely to its existence as a phenomenon, not to the thing itself. Since the subject fully understands and constructs them from itself, independent of any object, they must rely on existence as a concept as such, not on what becomes an idea. They must be the form of the idea itself, but not qualities of anything that has taken on this form. They must already be present with the mere opposition of subject [pg 156] and object (not as concepts but as facts), and hence they must only provide a more precise determination of the general form of knowledge, whose most universal determination is that very opposition. Now, what exists in the phenomenon, in the object, which is in turn conditioned by time, space, and causality, since it can only become an idea through them, namely variety, through coexistence and succession, update and endurance through the law of causality, issue that can only become an idea under the assumption of causality, and finally, all that becomes an idea only through these,—all of this does not actually belong to what appears, to what has shifted into the form of an idea, but pertains only to this form itself. Conversely, what exists in the phenomenon that is not conditioned by time, space, and causality, and cannot be related to them or explained according to them, is precisely that in which the manifested thing, the thing-in-itself, reveals itself directly. This means that the fullest capacity for being known, that is, the greatest clarity, distinctness, and potential for exhaustive explanation, will necessarily relate to what belongs to knowledge thus, and thus to the form of knowledge; but not to what in itself is not an idea, not an object, but has only become knowledge by entering these forms; in other words, has become an idea, an object. Therefore, only that which entirely depends on being an object of knowledge, on existing as an idea in general and thus (not on what becomes known, and has only become an idea), which thus belongs equally to everything that is known and, for this reason, is just as easily found whether we start from the subject or from the object,—this alone can give us without reservation a sufficient, exhaustive knowledge, a knowledge that is clear to the very foundation. But this consists of nothing but those forms of all phenomena of which we are conscious [pg 157] beforehand, and which may generally be expressed as the principle of sufficient reason. Now, the forms of this principle that occur in knowledge of perception (with which we are concerned here) are time, space, and causality. All of pure mathematics and pure natural science before the fact is entirely based on these. Therefore, it is only in these sciences that knowledge finds no obscurity, does not rest upon what is incomprehensible (baseless, i.e., will), upon what cannot be further deduced. This is why Kant wanted, as we noted, to apply the name science specifically and even exclusively to these fields of knowledge along with logic. However, on the other hand, these fields of knowledge show us nothing more than mere connections, relations of one idea to another, form devoid of all content. All content that they receive, every phenomenon that fills these forms, contains something that is no longer fully knowable in its entire nature, something that can no longer be completely explained through something else, thus something that is groundless, which makes the knowledge lose its clarity and cease to be fully transparent. That which resists investigation, however, is the thing-in-itself, which is essentially not an idea, not an object of knowledge, but has only become knowable by entering that form. The form is originally alien to it, and the thing-in-itself can never fully unify with it, can never be reduced to mere form, and, since this form is the principle of sufficient reason, can never be completely explained. If all mathematics thus provides us an exhaustive knowledge of what in the phenomena is quantity, position, number, in short, spatial and temporal relations; if all etiology gives us a complete account of the regular conditions under which phenomena, with all their determinations, appear in time and space, but teaches us nothing more than why in each case this specific phenomenon must appear [pg 158] just at this time and place; it is clear that with their assistance we can never penetrate to the inner nature of things. There always remains something that no explanation can venture to challenge, but which it always presupposes; the forces of nature, the specific mode of operation of things, the quality and character of every phenomenon, that which is without ground, that which does not depend on the form of the phenomenal, the principle of sufficient reason, but is something to which this form, in itself, is foreign, something which has yet entered this form, and now presents itself according to its law, a law, however, which only determines the appearance, not that which appears, only the how, not the what, only the form, not the content. Mechanics, physics, and chemistry teach the rules and laws according to which the forces of impenetrability, gravitation, rigidity, fluidity, cohesion, elasticity, heat, light, affinity, magnetism, electricity, etc., operate; that is to say, the law, the rule that these forces follow whenever they enter time and space. But whatever we do, the forces themselves remain hidden qualities. For it is just the thing-in-itself, which, because it is manifested, displays these phenomena, which are entirely different from itself. In its manifestation, indeed, it is completely subject to the principle of sufficient reason as the form of the idea, but it can never itself be reduced to this form, and therefore cannot be fully explained etiologically, can never be completely understood. It is certainly perfectly comprehensible as far as it has taken on that form, that is, as far as it is a phenomenon, but its inner nature is not at all clarified by the fact that it can thus be understood. Hence, the more necessity any knowledge carries with it, the more there is in it of that which cannot be otherwise thought or represented in perception—as, for instance, spatial relations—the clearer and more sufficient it is, the less pure objective content it has, or the less reality, properly speaking, is [pg 159] given in it. Conversely, the more there is in it that must be considered as mere chance, and the more it strikes us as given purely empirically, the more proper objectivity and true reality is present in such knowledge, and at the same time, the more that is inexplicable, that is, that cannot be deduced from anything else.

It is true that at all times an etiology, unmindful of its real aim, has striven to reduce all organised life to chemism or electricity; all chemism, that is to say quality, again to mechanism (action determined by the shape of the atom), this again sometimes to the object of phoronomy, i.e., the combination of time and space, which makes motion possible, sometimes to the object of mere geometry, i.e., position in space (much in the same way as we rightly deduce the diminution of an effect from the square of the distance, and the theory of the lever in a purely geometrical manner): geometry may finally be reduced to arithmetic, which, on account of its one dimension, is of all the forms of the principle of sufficient reason, the most intelligible, comprehensible, and completely susceptible of investigation. As instances of the method generally indicated here, we may refer to the atoms of Democritus, the vortex of Descartes, the mechanical physics of Lesage, which towards the end of last century tried to explain both chemical affinities and gravitation mechanically by impact and pressure, as may be seen in detail in Lucrèce Neutonien;” Reil's form and combination as the cause of animal life, also tends in this direction. Finally, the crude materialism which even now in the middle of the nineteenth century has been served up again under the ignorant delusion that it is original, belongs distinctly to this class. It stupidly denies vital force, and first of all tries to explain the phenomena of life from physical and chemical forces, and those again from the mechanical effects of the matter, position, form, and motion of imagined atoms, and thus [pg 160] seeks to reduce all the forces of nature to action and reaction as its thing-in-itself. According to this teaching, light is the mechanical vibration or undulation of an imaginary ether, postulated for this end. This ether, if it reaches the eye, beats rapidly upon the retina, and gives us the knowledge of colour. Thus, for example, four hundred and eighty-three billion beats in a second give red, and seven hundred and twenty-seven billion beats in a second give violet. Upon this theory, persons who are colour-blind must be those who are unable to count the beats, must they not? Such crass, mechanical, clumsy, and certainly knotty theories, which remind one of Democritus, are quite worthy of those who, fifty years after the appearance of Goethe's doctrine of colour, still believe in Newton's homogeneous light, and are not ashamed to say so. They will find that what is overlooked in the child (Democritus) will not be forgiven to the man. They might indeed, some day, come to an ignominious end; but then every one would slink away and pretend that he never had anything to do with them. We shall soon have to speak again of this false reduction of the forces of nature to each other; so much for the present. Supposing this theory were possible, all would certainly be explained and established and finally reduced to an arithmetical problem, which would then be the holiest thing in the temple of wisdom, to which the principle of sufficient reason would at last have happily conducted us. But all content of the phenomenon would have disappeared, and the mere form would remain. The “what appears” would be referred to the “how it appears,” and this “how” would be what is a priori knowable, therefore entirely dependent on the subject, therefore only for the subject, therefore, lastly, mere phantom, idea and form of idea, through and through: no thing-in-itself could be demanded. Supposing, then, that this were possible, the whole world would be derived from the subject, and in fact, that would be accomplished which [pg 161] Fichte wanted to seem to accomplish by his empty bombast. But it is not possible: phantasies, sophisms, castles in the air, have been constructed in this way, but science never. The many and multifarious phenomena in nature have been successfully referred to particular original forces, and as often as this has been done, a real advance has been made. Several forces and qualities, which were at first regarded as different, have been derived from each other, and thus their number has been curtailed. (For example, magnetism from electricity.) Etiology will have reached its goal when it has recognised and exhibited as such all the original forces of nature, and established their mode of operation, i.e., the law according to which, under the guidance of causality, their phenomena appear in time and space, and determine their position with regard to each other. But certain original forces will always remain over; there will always remain as an insoluble residuum a content of phenomena which cannot be referred to their form, and thus cannot be explained from something else in accordance with the principle of sufficient reason. For in everything in nature there is something of which no ground can ever be assigned, of which no explanation is possible, and no ulterior cause is to be sought. This is the specific nature of its action, i.e., the nature of its existence, its being. Of each particular effect of the thing a cause may be certainly indicated, from which it follows that it must act just at this time and in this place; but no cause can ever be found from which it follows that a thing acts in general, and precisely in the way it does. If it has no other qualities, if it is merely a mote in a sunbeam, it yet exhibits this unfathomable something, at least as weight and impenetrability. But this, I say, is to the mote what his will is to a man; and, like the human will, it is, according to its inner nature, not subject to explanation; nay, more—it is in itself identical with this will. It is true that a motive may be given for every manifestation [pg 162] of will, for every act of will at a particular time and in a particular place, upon which it must necessarily follow, under the presupposition of the character of the man. But no reason can ever be given that the man has this character; that he wills at all; that, of several motives, just this one and no other, or indeed that any motive at all, moves his will. That which in the case of man is the unfathomable character which is presupposed in every explanation of his actions from motives is, in the case of every unorganised body, its definitive quality—the mode of its action, the manifestations of which are occasioned by impressions from without, while it itself, on the contrary, is determined by nothing outside itself, and thus is also inexplicable. Its particular manifestations, through which alone it becomes visible, are subordinated to the principle of sufficient reason; it itself is groundless. This was in substance rightly understood by the schoolmen, who called it forma substantialis. (Cf. Suarez, Disput. Metaph., disp. xv. sect. 1.)

It’s true that, at all times, an explanation that ignores its true purpose has tried to reduce all organized life to chemistry or electricity; all chemistry, meaning qualities, again to mechanics (actions determined by the shape of atoms), and this sometimes to the study of how time and space combine to enable motion, and sometimes to mere geometry, which looks at an object’s position in space (similar to how we accurately deduce the decrease of an effect from the square of the distance, as well as the lever theory in a purely geometrical way): geometry can ultimately be reduced to arithmetic, which, because of its single dimension, is in all forms of the principle of sufficient reason the most understandable, clear, and completely open to investigation. Examples of this method include Democritus's atoms, Descartes' vortices, and the mechanical physics of Lesage, who, toward the end of the last century, attempted to explain both chemical affinities and gravitation mechanically through impact and pressure, as detailed in “Lucrèce Neutonien.” Reil's view on form and combination as the cause of animal life also leans toward this idea. Ultimately, the crude materialism that even now, in the mid-nineteenth century, reemerges under the ignorant illusion that it’s original belongs to this category. It naively denies vital force and primarily seeks to explain life’s phenomena through physical and chemical forces, which are further explained through the mechanical effects of matter, position, shape, and motion of imagined atoms, ultimately aiming to reduce all nature’s forces to action and reaction as its essence. According to this view, light is merely the mechanical vibration or wave of an imagined ether proposed for this purpose. If this ether reaches the eye, it rapidly impacts the retina, providing our perception of color. For instance, four hundred eighty-three billion beats per second create red, while seven hundred twenty-seven billion beats per second create violet. According to this theory, color-blind individuals must be those unable to count the beats, right? Such crude, mechanical, clumsy, and certainly convoluted theories, reminiscent of Democritus, are quite suitable for those who, fifty years after the introduction of Goethe’s color theory, still hold onto Newton’s concept of homogeneous light without shame. They’ll discover that what goes unnoticed in a child (Democritus) won’t be forgiven in an adult. They might one day face disgrace; however, at that point, everyone will quietly distance themselves and pretend they never associated with them. We will soon revisit this false reduction of nature’s forces; for now, that suffices. If this theory were viable, everything would indeed be explained and established, ultimately reducing the happenings to an arithmetic problem, the most sacred thing in the temple of wisdom, aided by the principle of sufficient reason. But all substance would vanish, leaving only form. The “what appears” would be traced back to the “how it appears,” and this “how” would be what is knowable a priori, thus entirely dependent on the observer, only for the observer, ultimately mere illusion, idea, and form of an idea, through and through: no thing-in-itself could be demanded. If this were possible, the entire world would emerge from the observer, and indeed, what Fichte attempted to make it seem like he could achieve with his empty rhetoric would actually be realized. But it’s simply not possible: fantasies, fallacies, and castles in the air have been built this way, but not science. The vast and varied phenomena in nature have been successfully traced back to specific original forces, and whenever this has occurred, genuine progress has been made. Several forces and qualities initially seen as distinct have been shown to stem from one another, thereby reducing their number (for instance, magnetism derived from electricity). Etiology will have achieved its goal when it recognizes and demonstrates all the original forces of nature and clarifies their operations, that is, the law by which, under causality’s guidance, their phenomena manifest in time and space and determine their positions relative to one another. However, certain original forces will always remain; there will always be an inescapable residue of phenomena that cannot be traced to their form and, therefore, cannot be explained by something else according to the principle of sufficient reason. For within everything in nature, there lies something that can never be traced back to a cause, something for which no explanation is possible, and no further reason should be sought. This is the specific nature of its action, that is, the essence of its existence, its being. For each specific effect of a thing, a cause can certainly be identified, leading to the conclusion that it must act at this precise moment and place; yet, no cause can ever be discovered that could explain why a thing acts at all, or precisely as it does. If it possesses no other qualities, if it’s merely a speck of dust in a sunbeam, it still displays this unfathomable essence, at least as weight and impenetrability. But this, I assert, is to the speck what his will is to a human; and, like the human will, it is, by its very nature, inexplicable; indeed, it is inherently identical with this will. It is true that a motive can be given for every manifestation of will, for every act of will at a specific time and place, which must logically follow, provided we assume the nature of the person. However, no reason can ever be given for why the individual possesses this character; that he wills at all; that, among several motives, this one and no other, or indeed any motive, prompts his will. That which in the case of humanity is the unfathomable character assumed in every explanation of actions based on motives is, for every unorganized body, its final quality—its mode of action, whose manifestations arise from external influences, while it itself, conversely, is determined by nothing outside itself, and is, therefore, also inexplicable. Its particular manifestations, by which it becomes visible, are governed by the principle of sufficient reason; it itself is without a grounding cause. This was accurately understood in essence by the schoolmen, who referred to it as forma substantialis. (Cf. Suarez, Disput. Metaph., disp. xv. sect. 1.)

It is a greater and a commoner error that the phenomena which we best understand are those which are of most frequent occurrence, and which are most universal and simple; for, on the contrary, these are just the phenomena that we are most accustomed to see about us, and to be ignorant of. It is just as inexplicable to us that a stone should fall to the earth as that an animal should move itself. It has been supposed, as we have remarked above, that, starting from the most universal forces of nature (gravitation, cohesion, impenetrability), it was possible to explain from them the rarer forces, which only operate under a combination of circumstances (for example, chemical quality, electricity, magnetism), and, lastly, from these to understand the organism and the life of animals, and even the nature of human knowing and willing. Men resigned themselves without a word to starting from mere qualitates occultæ, the elucidation of which was entirely given up, for they intended to build [pg 163] upon them, not to investigate them. Such an intention cannot, as we have already said, be carried out. But apart from this, such structures would always stand in the air. What is the use of explanations which ultimately refer us to something which is quite as unknown as the problem with which we started? Do we in the end understand more of the inner nature of these universal natural forces than of the inner nature of an animal? Is not the one as much a sealed book to us as the other? Unfathomable because it is without ground, because it is the content, that which the phenomenon is, and which can never be referred to the form, to the how, to the principle of sufficient reason. But we, who have in view not etiology but philosophy, that is, not relative but unconditioned knowledge of the real nature of the world, take the opposite course, and start from that which is immediately and most completely known to us, and fully and entirely trusted by us—that which lies nearest to us, in order to understand that which is known to us only at a distance, one-sidedly and indirectly. From the most powerful, most significant, and most distinct phenomenon we seek to arrive at an understanding of those that are less complete and weaker. With the exception of my own body, all things are known to me only on one side, that of the idea. Their inner nature remains hidden from me and a profound secret, even if I know all the causes from which their changes follow. Only by comparison with that which goes on in me if my body performs an action when I am influenced by a motive—only by comparison, I say, with what is the inner nature of my own changes determined by external reasons, can I obtain insight into the way in which these lifeless bodies change under the influence of causes, and so understand what is their inner nature. For the knowledge of the causes of the manifestation of this inner nature affords me merely the rule of its appearance in time and space, and nothing more. I can make this comparison because [pg 164] my body is the only object of which I know not merely the one side, that of the idea, but also the other side which is called will. Thus, instead of believing that I would better understand my own organisation, and then my own knowing and willing, and my movements following upon motives, if I could only refer them to movements due to electrical, chemical, and mechanical causes, I must, seeing that I seek philosophy and not etiology, learn to understand from my own movements following upon motives the inner nature of the simplest and commonest movements of an unorganised body which I see following upon causes. I must recognise the inscrutable forces which manifest themselves in all natural bodies as identical in kind with that which in me is the will, and as differing from it only in degree. That is to say, the fourth class of ideas given in the Essay on the Principle of Sufficient Reason must be the key to the knowledge of the inner nature of the first class, and by means of the law of motivation I must come to understand the inner meaning of the law of causation.

It's a widespread and common mistake to think that the phenomena we understand best are the ones we encounter most frequently and that are the simplest and most universal. In fact, these are often the very phenomena we're most familiar with and yet most ignorant about. It's just as mysterious to us why a stone falls to the ground as it is to understand how an animal moves. As previously mentioned, it’s been suggested that if we start from the most universal forces of nature (like gravity, cohesion, and impenetrability), we could use them to explain the rarer forces that only work under certain conditions (like chemical qualities, electricity, and magnetism), and ultimately use those to comprehend living organisms and human consciousness. People resigned themselves to starting from mere hidden qualities, giving up on clarifying them, since they intended to build [pg 163] on this foundation instead of investigating it. This approach, as we've pointed out, cannot be executed. However, aside from that, such constructions would always be left unsupported. What good are explanations that ultimately lead us back to something just as unknown as the problem we started with? Do we really understand the inner nature of these universal natural forces any better than we understand that of an animal? Isn’t each just as much a mystery to us as the other? They're unfathomable because they're without a foundation; they represent the essence of what the phenomenon is and can never be connected to its form, its method, or the principle of sufficient reason. But, focusing not on etiology but on philosophy—on the unconditioned knowledge of the real nature of the world—we take the opposite approach. We start from what we know most directly and reliably—what is closest to us—to make sense of what we only know from a distance in a limited and indirect way. From the most powerful, significant, and clearly defined phenomenon, we try to gain insight into those that are less complete and weaker. Other than my own body, I only know everything else from one perspective: the perspective of the idea. Their true nature remains hidden from me, a deep secret, even if I understand all the causes behind their changes. Only by comparing with what happens inside me when my body acts in response to motives—only through this comparison can I gain insight into how these lifeless bodies change under the influence of causes and thus understand their inner nature. Understanding the causes of this inner nature merely gives me the rules for how it appears over time and space, nothing more. I can make this comparison because [pg 164] my body is the only object I know not just from the one side, that of the idea, but also from the other side, which is called will. Therefore, instead of assuming that I could better comprehend my own organization and then my knowing and wanting—along with my actions that follow motives—by linking them to movements caused by electrical, chemical, and mechanical forces, I must learn to understand, from my own actions following motives, the inner nature of the simplest and most common movements of an unorganized body affected by causes. I must recognize the inscrutable forces present in all natural bodies as being essentially the same as the will in me, only differing in degree. In other words, the fourth class of ideas from the Essay on the Principle of Sufficient Reason must be the key to understanding the inner nature of the first class, and through the law of motivation, I must come to grasp the real meaning of the law of causation.

Spinoza (Epist. 62) says that if a stone which has been projected through the air had consciousness, it would believe that it was moving of its own will. I add to this only that the stone would be right. The impulse given it is for the stone what the motive is for me, and what in the case of the stone appears as cohesion, gravitation, rigidity, is in its inner nature the same as that which I recognise in myself as will, and what the stone also, if knowledge were given to it, would recognise as will. In the passage referred to, Spinoza had in view the necessity with which the stone flies, and he rightly desires to transfer this necessity to that of the particular act of will of a person. I, on the other hand, consider the inner being, which alone imparts meaning and validity to all real necessity (i.e., effect following upon a cause) as its presupposition. In the case of men this is called character; in the case of a stone it is called quality, but it is [pg 165] the same in both. When it is immediately known it is called will. In the stone it has the weakest, and in man the strongest degree of visibility, of objectivity. St. Augustine recognises, with a true instinct, this identity of the tendencies of all things with our own willing, and I cannot refrain from quoting his naïve account of the matter:—Si pecora essemus, carnalem vitam et quod secundum sensum ejusdem est amaremus, idque esset sufficiens bonum nostrum, et secundum hoc si esset nobis bene, nihil aliud quæreremus. Item, si arbores essemus, nihil quidem sentientes motu amare possemus: verumtamen id quasi appetere videremur, quo feracius essemus, uberiusque fructuosæ. Si essemus lapides, aut fluctus, aut ventus, aut flamma, vel quid ejusmodi, sine ullo quidem sensu atque vita, non tamen nobis deesset quasi quidam nostrorum locorum atque ordinis appetitus. Nam velut amores corporum momenta sunt ponderum, sive deorsum gravitate, sive sursum levitate nitantur: ita enim corpus pondere, sicut animus amore fertur quocunque fertur (De Civ. Dei, xi. 28).

Spinoza (Epist. 62) says that if a stone thrown through the air had consciousness, it would think it was moving by its own choice. I’d add that the stone would be right. The force behind its movement is like the motivation I feel, and what comes across as cohesion, gravity, and rigidity for the stone is essentially the same as what I recognize in myself as will. The stone, if it had knowledge, would also see it as will. In the referenced passage, Spinoza discussed the necessity driving the stone's flight, and he successfully aims to link this necessity to a person's specific act of will. I, however, focus on the inner essence that gives meaning and validity to all real necessity (i.e., effects following from causes) as its foundation. For humans, this is called character; for a stone, it's called quality, but fundamentally, they are the same. When it's immediately obvious, it's called will. The visibility and objectivity of this will is weakest in a stone and strongest in humans. St. Augustine instinctively recognizes the shared tendencies of all things with our desires, and I can't help but quote his simple explanation:—“If we were sheep, we would love the physical life and everything that relates to it, and that would be enough for our good, and based on this, if we were well, we wouldn’t seek anything else. Similarly, if we were trees, while we wouldn't feel, we might still seem to desire to be fruitful and yield more abundant produce. If we were stones, waves, wind, or fire, or anything like that, lacking any sense or life, we wouldn’t miss out on a kind of inherent desire for place and order. For just as the forces of bodies are determined by weight—whether they pull down by gravity or push up by buoyancy—so a body is moved by weight just as a mind is driven by desire wherever it may lead.” (De Civ. Dei, xi. 28).

It ought further to be mentioned that Euler saw that the inner nature of gravitation must ultimately be referred to an “inclination and desire” (thus will) peculiar to material bodies (in the 68th letter to the Princess). Indeed, it is just this that makes him averse to the conception of gravitation as it existed for Newton, and he is inclined to try a modification of it in accordance with the earlier Cartesian theory, and so to derive gravitation from the impact of an ether upon the bodies, as being “more rational and more suitable for persons who like clear and intelligible principles.” He wishes to banish attraction from physics as a qualitas occulta. This is only in keeping with the dead view of nature which prevailed at Euler's time as the correlative of the immaterial soul. It is only worth noticing because of its bearing upon the fundamental truth established by me, which even at that time this fine intellect saw glimmering in the distance. He hastened to turn in time, and then, in his anxiety at [pg 166] seeing all the prevalent fundamental views endangered, he sought safety in the old and already exploded absurdities.

It should also be noted that Euler recognized that the true nature of gravitation must ultimately be linked to an “interest and desire” (that is, will) specific to material bodies (in the 68th letter to the Princess). In fact, this perspective made him reject the concept of gravitation as it was understood by Newton, leading him to consider modifying it in line with the earlier Cartesian theory, attempting to derive gravitation from the impact of an ether on the bodies, which he believed was "more logical and better for people who like straightforward and easy-to-understand principles." He aimed to eliminate attraction from physics as a hidden quality. This aligns with the outdated view of nature that was common during Euler's time, which was tied to the concept of an immaterial soul. It is noteworthy only because of its relevance to the fundamental truth I established, which even at that time, this brilliant mind perceived as a distant possibility. He moved quickly to adapt, and during his concern about the threats to all the prevailing foundational views, he sought refuge in old and already debunked notions.

We know that multiplicity in general is necessarily conditioned by space and time, and is only thinkable in them. In this respect they are called the principium individuationis. But we have found that space and time are forms of the principle of sufficient reason. In this principle all our knowledge a priori is expressed, but, as we showed above, this a priori knowledge, as such, only applies to the knowableness of things, not to the things themselves, i.e., it is only our form of knowledge, it is not a property of the thing-in-itself. The thing-in-itself is, as such, free from all forms of knowledge, even the most universal, that of being an object for the subject. In other words, the thing-in-itself is something altogether different from the idea. If, now, this thing-in-itself is the will, as I believe I have fully and convincingly proved it to be, then, regarded as such and apart from its manifestation, it lies outside time and space, and therefore knows no multiplicity, and is consequently one. Yet, as I have said, it is not one in the sense in which an individual or a concept is one, but as something to which the condition of the possibility of multiplicity, the principium individuationis, is foreign. The multiplicity of things in space and time, which collectively constitute the objectification of will, does not affect the will itself, which remains indivisible notwithstanding it. It is not the case that, in some way or other, a smaller part of will is in the stone and a larger part in the man, for the relation of part and whole belongs exclusively to space, and has no longer any meaning when we go beyond this form of intuition or perception. The more and the less have application only to the phenomenon of will, that is, its visibility, its objectification. Of this there is a higher grade in the plant than in the stone; in the animal a higher grade than in the plant: indeed, the passage of will into visibility, its [pg 167] objectification, has grades as innumerable as exist between the dimmest twilight and the brightest sunshine, the loudest sound and the faintest echo. We shall return later to the consideration of these grades of visibility which belong to the objectification of the will, to the reflection of its nature. But as the grades of its objectification do not directly concern the will itself, still less is it concerned by the multiplicity of the phenomena of these different grades, i.e., the multitude of individuals of each form, or the particular manifestations of each force. For this multiplicity is directly conditioned by time and space, into which the will itself never enters. The will reveals itself as completely and as much in one oak as in millions. Their number and multiplication in space and time has no meaning with regard to it, but only with regard to the multiplicity of individuals who know in space and time, and who are themselves multiplied and dispersed in these. The multiplicity of these individuals itself belongs not to the will, but only to its manifestation. We may therefore say that if, per impossibile, a single real existence, even the most insignificant, were to be entirely annihilated, the whole world would necessarily perish with it. The great mystic Angelus Silesius feels this when he says—

We understand that diversity in general is inevitably shaped by space and time, and can only be conceived within them. In this sense, they are referred to as the principle of individuation. However, we have discovered that space and time are aspects of the principle of sufficient reason. This principle expresses all our knowledge beforehand, but as we mentioned earlier, this beforehand knowledge only pertains to the knowability of things, not the things themselves, i.e. it represents our way of knowing, and is not a characteristic of the thing-in-itself. The thing-in-itself is, in essence, free from all forms of knowledge, even the most universal, like being an object for the subject. In other words, the thing-in-itself is fundamentally different from the idea. If this thing-in-itself is the will, as I believe I have convincingly argued, then, seen in that light and apart from its manifestation, it exists outside of time and space, and therefore is not subject to multiplicity, and is consequently one. However, as I mentioned, it is not one in the same way an individual or a concept is one, but as something to which the condition for the possibility of multiplicity, the principle of individuation, is irrelevant. The multiplicity of things in space and time, which together form the manifestation of the will, does not impact the will itself, which remains indivisible despite it. It is not the case that a smaller fragment of will exists in the stone while a larger one exists in the man, since the relationship of part and whole pertains solely to space, and loses meaning when we move beyond this form of intuition or perception. More and less only apply to the phenomenon of will, that is, its visibility, its manifestation. There is a higher degree of it in the plant than in the stone; in the animal, a higher degree than in the plant: indeed, the transition of will into visibility, its [pg 167] manifestation, has levels as countless as those found between the faintest twilight and the brightest sunshine, the loudest sound and the faintest echo. We will revisit this concept later when discussing the levels of visibility that relate to the manifestation of the will and reflect its nature. However, since these levels of its manifestation do not directly concern the will itself, it is even less affected by the multiplicity of phenomena representing these different levels, i.e. the many individuals of each form, or the specific manifestations of each force. Because this multiplicity is directly influenced by time and space, which the will itself never enters. The will shows itself as completely and as much in one oak as in millions. The number and multiplication in space and time have no significance regarding it, only concerning the multiplicity of individuals who perceive in space and time, and who are themselves multiplied and dispersed within that context. The multiplicity of those individuals does not belong to the will; it only pertains to its manifestation. Therefore, we can say that if, per impossibile, a single real existence, even the most trivial, were completely wiped out, the entire world would necessarily cease to exist with it. The great mystic Angelus Silesius senses this when he states—

I know that God can't exist even for a moment without me,
He has to give up if I stop existing.

Men have tried in various ways to bring the immeasurable greatness of the material universe nearer to the comprehension of us all, and then they have seized the opportunity to make edifying remarks. They have referred perhaps to the relative smallness of the earth, and indeed of man; or, on the contrary, they have pointed out the greatness of the mind of this man who is so insignificant—the mind that can solve, comprehend, and even measure the greatness of the universe, and so forth. Now, all this is very well, but to me, when I consider the vastness [pg 168] of the world, the most important point is this, that the thing-in-itself, whose manifestation is the world—whatever else it may be—cannot have its true self spread out and dispersed after this fashion in boundless space, but that this endless extension belongs only to its manifestation. The thing-in-itself, on the contrary, is present entire and undivided in every object of nature and in every living being. Therefore we lose nothing by standing still beside any single individual thing, and true wisdom is not to be gained by measuring out the boundless world, or, what would be more to the purpose, by actually traversing endless space. It is rather to be attained by the thorough investigation of any individual thing, for thus we seek to arrive at a full knowledge and understanding of its true and peculiar nature.

People have tried in various ways to make the vastness of the material universe easier for us to understand, using the opportunity to share insightful thoughts. They've talked about how small the Earth is, and indeed how small humans are; or, on the flip side, they've highlighted the greatness of the human mind, which, despite being so insignificant, can solve, understand, and even measure the universe's enormity, and so on. Now, that's all fine, but when I think about the vastness of the world, what stands out to me is that the thing-in-itself, which manifests as the world—whatever else it might be—cannot truly spread out and be dispersed like this in infinite space, but that this endless extension only relates to its manifestation. The thing-in-itself, on the other hand, is wholly and undividedly present in every natural object and living being. So we gain nothing by just standing beside any single thing, and true wisdom isn’t found in measuring the boundless world, or, more relevantly, in traveling through endless space. Instead, it’s better gained through a deep investigation of any specific thing, as this can lead us to a complete understanding of its true and unique nature.

The subject which will therefore be fully considered in the next book, and which has, doubtless, already presented itself to the mind of every student of Plato, is, that these different grades of the objectification of will which are manifested in innumerable individuals, and exist as their unattained types or as the eternal forms of things, not entering themselves into time and space, which are the medium of individual things, but remaining fixed, subject to no change, always being, never becoming, while the particular things arise and pass away, always become and never are,—that these grades of the objectification of will are, I say, simply Plato's Ideas. I make this passing reference to the matter here in order that I may be able in future to use the word Idea in this sense. In my writings, therefore, the word is always to be understood in its true and original meaning given to it by Plato, and has absolutely no reference to those abstract productions of dogmatising scholastic reason, which Kant has inaptly and illegitimately used this word to denote, though Plato had already appropriated and used it most fitly. By Idea, then, I understand every definite and fixed grade of the objectification [pg 169] of will, so far as it is thing-in-itself, and therefore has no multiplicity. These grades are related to individual things as their eternal forms or prototypes. The shortest and most concise statement of this famous Platonic doctrine is given us by Diogenes Laertes (iii. 12): “ὁ Πλατων φησι, εν τῃ φυσει τας ιδεας ἑσταναι, καθαπερ παραδειγματα, τα δ᾽ αλλα ταυταις εοικεναι, τουτων ὁμοιωματα καθεστωτα”—(Plato ideas in natura velut exemplaria dixit subsistere; cetera his esse similia, ad istarum similitudinem consistentia). Of Kant's misuse of the word I take no further notice; what it is needful to say about it will be found in the Appendix.

The topic that will be fully explored in the next book, and which has likely already occurred to every student of Plato, is that these different levels of the objectification of will, displayed in countless individuals, exist as their unattained types or as the eternal forms of things. These forms do not enter the realms of time and space, which are the domains of individual things. Instead, they remain fixed, unchanging, always existing, never becoming, while particular things come into being and fade away, always changing and never truly existing. I assert that these levels of the objectification of will are simply Plato's Theory of Forms. I mention this here so that in the future I can use the term Concept in this way. In my writings, the word is always meant to be understood in its true and original sense as given by Plato, and it has absolutely no connection to those abstract concepts of dogmatic scholastic reasoning that Kant has incorrectly and illegitimately associated with this word, although Plato had already fittingly used it. By Idea, I therefore mean every definite and fixed level of the objectification [pg 169] of will, as it exists in itself and thus has no multiplicity. These levels are related to individual things as their eternal forms or prototypes. The most concise statement of this famous Platonic doctrine is provided by Diogenes Laertes (iii. 12): “Plato says that in nature, the ideas exist like models, and everything else resembles them as imitations are established.”—("Plato said that ideas exist in nature as examples; the rest are similar to these, consisting in that similarity."). I will not further discuss Kant's misuse of the term; what needs to be said about it will be found in the Appendix.

§ 26. The lowest grades of the objectification of will are to be found in those most universal forces of nature which partly appear in all matter without exception, as gravity and impenetrability, and partly have shared the given matter among them, so that certain of them reign in one species of matter and others in another species, constituting its specific difference, as rigidity, fluidity, elasticity, electricity, magnetism, chemical properties and qualities of every kind. They are in themselves immediate manifestations of will, just as much as human action; and as such they are groundless, like human character. Only their particular manifestations are subordinated to the principle of sufficient reason, like the particular actions of men. They themselves, on the other hand, can never be called either effect or cause, but are the prior and presupposed conditions of all causes and effects through which their real nature unfolds and reveals itself. It is therefore senseless to demand a cause of gravity or electricity, for they are original forces. Their expressions, indeed, take place in accordance with the law of cause and effect, so that every one of their particular manifestations has a cause, which is itself again just a similar particular manifestation which determines that this force must express itself here, must appear in space and time; but the force itself is by no means the effect of a cause, nor the cause of an [pg 170] effect. It is therefore a mistake to say “gravity is the cause of a stone falling;” for the cause in this case is rather the nearness of the earth, because it attracts the stone. Take the earth away and the stone will not fall, although gravity remains. The force itself lies quite outside the chain of causes and effects, which presupposes time, because it only has meaning in relation to it; but the force lies outside time. The individual change always has for its cause another change just as individual as itself, and not the force of which it is the expression. For that which always gives its efficiency to a cause, however many times it may appear, is a force of nature. As such, it is groundless, i.e., it lies outside the chain of causes and outside the province of the principle of sufficient reason in general, and is philosophically known as the immediate objectivity of will, which is the “in-itself” of the whole of nature; but in etiology, which in this reference is physics, it is set down as an original force, i.e., a qualitas occulta.

§ 26. The lowest levels of the manifestation of will can be observed in the most universal forces of nature that are found in all matter, such as gravity and impenetrability. Some forces are specific to certain types of matter, meaning that different forces dominate in different materials, establishing their unique characteristics—like rigidity, fluidity, elasticity, electricity, magnetism, and various chemical properties. These forces are direct expressions of will, just like human actions; they are fundamentally ungrounded, similar to human character. However, their individual expressions are subject to the principle of sufficient reason, just as human actions are. The forces themselves cannot be labeled as either effects or causes; they are instead the prior and assumed conditions for all causes and effects, through which their true nature unfolds. Therefore, it makes no sense to look for a cause of gravity or electricity, as they are original forces. Their expressions do operate according to the laws of cause and effect, meaning that each specific manifestation has a cause that is, in turn, another specific manifestation that prompts this force to express itself in a particular way in space and time. However, the force itself is neither the effect of a cause nor the cause of an effect. So, it’s incorrect to say, “gravity is the cause of a stone falling,” because the actual cause in this case is the proximity of the earth, which attracts the stone. Remove the earth, and the stone won’t fall, even though gravity persists. The force itself exists outside the chain of causes and effects, which is bound by time, since it only makes sense in relation to time; yet, the force exists beyond time. Each individual change is caused by another change that is just as specific as the first, not by the force of which it is a manifestation. What continually provides power to a cause, regardless of how many times it appears, is a force of nature. As such, it is ungrounded, meaning it exists outside the chain of causes and outside the realm of the principle of sufficient reason in general. Philosophically, this is understood as the immediate objectivity of will, the “in-itself” of all nature; in etiology, which refers to physics in this context, it is identified as an original force, meaning a *qualitas occulta*.

In the higher grades of the objectivity of will we see individuality occupy a prominent position, especially in the case of man, where it appears as the great difference of individual characters, i.e., as complete personality, outwardly expressed in strongly marked individual physiognomy, which influences the whole bodily form. None of the brutes have this individuality in anything like so high a degree, though the higher species of them have a trace of it; but the character of the species completely predominates over it, and therefore they have little individual physiognomy. The farther down we go, the more completely is every trace of the individual character lost in the common character of the species, and the physiognomy of the species alone remains. We know the physiological character of the species, and from that we know exactly what is to be expected from the individual; while, on the contrary, in the human species every individual has to be studied and fathomed for [pg 171] himself, which, if we wish to forecast his action with some degree of certainty, is, on account of the possibility of concealment that first appears with reason, a matter of the greatest difficulty. It is probably connected with this difference of the human species from all others, that the folds and convolutions of the brain, which are entirely wanting in birds, and very weakly marked in rodents, are even in the case of the higher animals far more symmetrical on both sides, and more constantly the same in each individual, than in the case of human beings.34 It is further to be regarded as a phenomenon of this peculiar individual character which distinguishes men from all the lower animals, that in the case of the brutes the sexual instinct seeks its satisfaction without observable choice of objects, while in the case of man this choice is, in a purely instinctive manner and independent of all reflection, carried so far that it rises into a powerful passion. While then every man is to be regarded as a specially determined and characterised phenomenon of will, and indeed to a certain extent as a special Idea, in the case of the brutes this individual character as a whole is wanting, because only the species has a special significance. And the farther we go from man, the fainter becomes the trace of this individual character, so that plants have no individual qualities left, except such as may be fully explained from the favourable or unfavourable external influences of soil, climate, and other accidents. Finally, in the inorganic kingdom of nature all individuality disappears. The crystal alone is to be regarded as to a certain extent individual. It is a unity of the tendency in definite directions, fixed by crystallisation, which makes the trace of this tendency permanent. It is at the same time a cumulative repetition of its primitive form, bound into unity by an idea, just as the [pg 172] tree is an aggregate of the single germinating fibre which shows itself in every rib of the leaves, in every leaf, in every branch; which repeats itself, and to some extent makes each of these appear as a separate growth, nourishing itself from the greater as a parasite, so that the tree, resembling the crystal, is a systematic aggregate of small plants, although only the whole is the complete expression of an individual Idea, i.e., of this particular grade of the objectification of will. But the individuals of the same species of crystal can have no other difference than such as is produced by external accidents; indeed we can make at pleasure large or small crystals of every species. The individual, however, as such, that is, with traces of an individual character, does not exist further in unorganised nature. All its phenomena are expressions of general forces of nature, i.e., of those grades of the objectification of will which do not objectify themselves (as is the case in organised nature), by means of the difference of the individualities which collectively express the whole of the Idea, but show themselves only in the species, and as a whole, without any variation in each particular example of it. Time, space, multiplicity, and existence conditioned by causes, do not belong to the will or to the Idea (the grade of the objectification of will), but only to their particular phenomena. Therefore such a force of nature as, for example, gravity or electricity, must show itself as such in precisely the same way in all its million phenomena, and only external circumstances can modify these. This unity of its being in all its phenomena, this unchangeable constancy of the appearance of these, whenever, under the guidance of causality, the necessary conditions are present, is called a law of nature. If such a law is once learned from experience, then the phenomenon of that force of nature, the character of which is expressed and laid down in it, may be accurately forecast and counted upon. But it is just this conformity to law of the [pg 173] phenomena of the lower grades of the objectification of will which gives them such a different aspect from the phenomena of the same will in the higher, i.e., the more distinct, grades of its objectification, in animals, and in men and their actions, where the stronger or weaker influence of the individual character and the susceptibility to motives which often remain hidden from the spectator, because they lie in knowledge, has had the result that the identity of the inner nature of the two kinds of phenomena has hitherto been entirely overlooked.

In the higher levels of will’s objectivity, we see individuality take center stage, especially in humans, where it represents a significant difference in individual personalities, that is, complete personality, outwardly demonstrated in distinct individual features, which influence the entire physical form. None of the animals display individuality to nearly the same extent, although some of the more advanced species show a hint of it; however, the traits of the species dominate, resulting in minimal individual features. The further we go down the scale, the more every trace of individual character disappears into the broader characteristics of the species, leaving only the physiognomy of the species. We understand the physiological traits of the species, which allows us to predict what to expect from an individual; in contrast, with humans, we must study and understand each individual on their own to predict their actions, which, due to the potential for concealment that first arises with reason, is extremely challenging. This difference between humans and other species is likely related to the complex folds and convolutions of the brain, which are entirely absent in birds and only weakly defined in rodents. Even among higher animals, these structures are much more symmetrical and consistent in each individual than in humans. Furthermore, it is significant that, in contrast to animals, where the sexual instinct seeks satisfaction without a clear choice of partners, human choice is instinctual and, without reflection, becomes a powerful passion. While each man can be viewed as a uniquely characterized manifestation of will, and to some extent as a unique idea, this individualized character is absent in animals, where only the species holds particular significance. As we move further from humans, the indication of individual character fades, to the point that plants have no individual traits left, apart from those fully explained by external factors like soil, climate, and other influences. Lastly, in the realm of inorganic nature, individuality completely vanishes. The crystal can be viewed as somewhat individual; it represents a singular tendency in specified directions, fixed by crystallization, making the mark of this tendency permanent. It is also a cumulative repetition of its original form, unified by an idea, just as the tree is a collection of single germinating fibers that appear in every rib of the leaves, in every leaf, and in every branch, which repeats itself, giving the impression of separate growths, feeding off the larger structure like a parasite. Thus, the tree, much like the crystal, is a systematic collection of small entities, though the entire structure represents a complete expression of a unique idea, that is, this specific level of the objectification of will. However, individuals within the same species of crystal differ solely due to external influences; indeed, we can easily create large or small crystals of any type. The individual, as such, bearing traits of individuality, does not exist further in unorganized nature. All its phenomena reflect general forces of nature, meaning those levels of the objectification of will that do not express themselves (as is the case in organized nature) through variations in individualities that collectively manifest the whole idea but only show themselves in the species, and as a whole, without variation in each instance. Time, space, multiplicity, and existence conditioned by causes do not pertain to the will or to the idea (the level of the objectification of will), but only to their specific phenomena. Therefore, a natural force like gravity or electricity must express itself in exactly the same manner in all its numerous phenomena, with only external factors able to modify these. This unity in its existence across all phenomena, and the unchanging consistency of their appearance whenever, under causality, the required conditions are met, is known as a natural law. Once such a law is understood from experience, the phenomenon of that natural force, characterized and outlined within it, can be accurately predicted and relied upon. But it is this conformity to the law of phenomena at the lower levels of the objectification of will that gives them a drastically different appearance from the phenomena of the same will in the higher, that is, more defined, levels of its objectification in animals and in humans and their behaviors, where the varying influence of individual character and the vulnerability to motives, which often remain hidden from the observer because they lie in knowledge, has resulted in the complete oversight of the similarity in the inner nature of the two types of phenomena.

If we start from the knowledge of the particular, and not from that of the Idea, there is something astonishing, and sometimes even terrible, in the absolute uniformity of the laws of nature. It might astonish us that nature never once forgets her laws; that if, for example, it has once been according to a law of nature that where certain materials are brought together under given conditions, a chemical combination will take place, or gas will be evolved, or they will go on fire; if these conditions are fulfilled, whether by our interposition or entirely by chance (and in this case the accuracy is the more astonishing because unexpected), to-day just as well as a thousand years ago, the determined phenomenon will take place at once and without delay. We are most vividly impressed with the marvellousness of this fact in the case of rare phenomena, which only occur under very complex circumstances, but which we are previously informed will take place if these conditions are fulfilled. For example, when we are told that if certain metals, when arranged alternately in fluid with which an acid has been mixed, are brought into contact, silver leaf brought between the extremities of this combination will suddenly be consumed in a green flame; or that under certain conditions the hard diamond turns into carbonic acid. It is the ghostly omnipresence of natural forces that astonishes us in such [pg 174] cases, and we remark here what in the case of phenomena which happen daily no longer strikes us, how the connection between cause and effect is really as mysterious as that which is imagined between a magic formula and a spirit that must appear when invoked by it. On the other hand, if we have attained to the philosophical knowledge that a force of nature is a definite grade of the objectification of will, that is to say, a definite grade of that which we recognise as our own inmost nature, and that this will, in itself, and distinguished from its phenomena and their forms, lies outside time and space, and that, therefore, the multiplicity, which is conditioned by time and space, does not belong to it, nor directly to the grade of its objectification, i.e., the Idea, but only to the phenomena of the Idea; and if we remember that the law of causality has significance only in relation to time and space, inasmuch as it determines the position of the multitude of phenomena of the different Ideas in which the will reveals itself, governing the order in which they must appear; if, I say, in this knowledge the inner meaning of the great doctrine of Kant has been fully grasped, the doctrine that time, space, and causality do not belong to the thing-in-itself, but merely to the phenomenon, that they are only the forms of our knowledge, not qualities of things in themselves; then we shall understand that this astonishment at the conformity to law and accurate operation of a force of nature, this astonishment at the complete sameness of all its million phenomena and the infallibility of their occurrence, is really like that of a child or a savage who looks for the first time through a glass with many facets at a flower, and marvels at the complete similarity of the innumerable flowers which he sees, and counts the leaves of each of them separately.

If we start from understanding the specific instead of the overall Idea, it’s remarkable and sometimes even frightening how completely uniform the laws of nature are. It’s surprising that nature never forgets her laws; that if, for example, it’s once been established by a law of nature that certain materials, when combined under certain conditions, will result in a chemical reaction, produce gas, or catch fire, then whenever these conditions are met—whether by our intervention or purely by chance (which is even more astonishing when unexpected)—today, just like a thousand years ago, the same determined phenomenon will happen instantly and without fail. We are especially struck by how incredible this is when it comes to rare occurrences that only happen under very complicated circumstances, but which we know in advance will take place if the conditions are right. For instance, when we learn that if certain metals are alternately arranged in a liquid mixed with acid and brought into contact, silver leaf positioned between the ends of this setup will suddenly ignite in a green flame; or that under certain conditions, a hard diamond can become carbonic acid. It’s the eerie and constant presence of natural forces that amazes us in such cases, highlighting the fact that the link between cause and effect is just as mysterious as the imagined connection between a magical incantation and a spirit that must appear when it's called. On the other hand, if we reach the philosophical understanding that a natural force reflects a certain degree of will, which means it’s a specific aspect of what we recognize as our own deepest nature, and that this will, in its essence—and separate from its occurrences and their forms—exists outside of time and space, then the multiplicity we experience, which is shaped by time and space, isn’t part of it or the essence of its manifestation, that is, the Idea, but only pertains to the phenomena of the Idea; and if we remember that the law of causality matters only in relation to time and space, as it determines the positioning of the multitude of phenomena from different Ideas in which the will reveals itself, controlling the order in which they must appear; if, I say, through this understanding we fully grasp the deeper meaning of Kant's great doctrine, the doctrine that time, space, and causality aren’t properties of the thing-in-itself, but merely belong to the phenomenon, that they are just the frameworks of our knowledge, not inherent qualities of things as they truly are; then we’ll realize that this amazement at the law-like behavior and precise function of a natural force, this awe at the complete consistency of its countless phenomena and the certainty of their occurrence, is actually quite similar to that of a child or an uneducated person observing a flower through a faceted glass for the first time, marveling at the striking similarity of the countless flowers they see, counting the leaves on each one individually.

Thus every universal, original force of nature is nothing but a low grade of the objectification of will, and we call [pg 175] every such grade an eternal Idea in Plato's sense. But a law of nature is the relation of the Idea to the form of its manifestation. This form is time, space, and causality, which are necessarily and inseparably connected and related to each other. Through time and space the Idea multiplies itself in innumerable phenomena, but the order according to which it enters these forms of multiplicity is definitely determined by the law of causality; this law is as it were the norm of the limit of these phenomena of different Ideas, in accordance with which time, space, and matter are assigned to them. This norm is therefore necessarily related to the identity of the aggregate of existing matter, which is the common substratum of all those different phenomena. If all these were not directed to that common matter in the possession of which they must be divided, there would be no need for such a law to decide their claims. They might all at once and together fill a boundless space throughout an endless time. Therefore, because all these phenomena of the eternal Ideas are directed to one and the same matter, must there be a rule for their appearance and disappearance; for if there were not, they would not make way for each other. Thus the law of causality is essentially bound up with that of the permanence of substance; they reciprocally derive significance from each other. Time and space, again, are related to them in the same way. For time is merely the possibility of conflicting states of the same matter, and space is merely the possibility of the permanence of the same matter under all sorts of conflicting states. Accordingly, in the preceding book we explained matter as the union of space and time, and this union shows itself as change of the accidents in the permanence of the substance, of which causality or becoming is the universal possibility. And accordingly, we said that matter is through and through causality. We explained the understanding as the subjective correlative of causality, and said matter (and thus the whole [pg 176] world as idea) exists only for the understanding; the understanding is its condition, its supporter as its necessary correlative. I repeat all this in passing, merely to call to mind what was demonstrated in the First Book, for it is necessary for the complete understanding of these two books that their inner agreement should be observed, since what is inseparably united in the actual world as its two sides, will and idea, has, in order that we might understand each of them more clearly in isolation, been dissevered in these two books.

Every universal, original force of nature is simply a lower level of the objectification of will, and we refer to each of these levels as an eternal Concept in Plato's sense. A natural law describes the relationship between the Idea and the form in which it manifests. This form consists of time, space, and causality, which are necessarily and inseparably linked. The Idea replicates itself in countless phenomena through time and space, but the order in which it manifests in these multiplicities is strictly determined by the law of causality; this law acts like a standard that limits these phenomena of different Ideas, according to which time, space, and matter are allocated to them. This standard is therefore intrinsically related to the identity of all existing matter, which serves as the common foundation for all those diverse phenomena. If these weren't all directed toward that shared matter—which must be divided among them—there would be no need for such a law to resolve their interactions. They could simultaneously occupy endless space across infinite time. Hence, since all these phenomena of the eternal Ideas are focused on the same matter, there must be a rule governing their appearance and disappearance; without it, they would not make way for one another. Consequently, the law of causality is fundamentally linked to the permanence of substance; they derive significance from one another. Time and space are also connected in the same way. Time is merely the potential for conflicting states of the same matter, while space is merely the potential for the permanence of the same matter amid various conflicting states. Therefore, in the previous book, we described matter as the combination of space and time, and this combination manifests as changes in the properties while the substance remains constant, with causality or becoming representing the universal possibility. Thus, we stated that matter is entirely causality. We characterized understanding as the subjective counterpart of causality, asserting that matter (and thus the entire [pg 176] world as idea) exists solely for understanding; understanding is its condition and necessary counterpart. I mention all this again briefly to remind you of what was explained in the First Book, as understanding these two books fully requires recognizing their internal consistency, since what is inseparably linked in the real world as its two aspects, will and idea, has been separated in these two books to help clarify each concept individually.

It may not perhaps be superfluous to elucidate further by an example how the law of causality has meaning only in relation to time and space, and the matter which consists in the union of the two. For it determines the limits in accordance with which the phenomena of the forces of nature divide themselves in the possession of matter, while the original forces of nature, as the immediate objectification of will, which, as a thing in itself, is not subordinated to the principle of sufficient reason, lie outside these forms, within which alone all etiological explanation has validity and meaning, and just on that account can never lead us to the inner reality of nature. For this purpose let us think of some kind of machine constructed according to the laws of mechanics. Iron weights begin the motion by their gravity; copper wheels resist by their rigidity, affect and raise each other and the lever by their impenetrability, and so on. Here gravity, rigidity, and impenetrability are original unexplained forces; mechanics only gives us the condition under which, and the manner in which, they manifest themselves, appear, and govern a definite matter, time, and place. If, now, a strong magnet is made to attract the iron of the weight, and overcome its gravity, the movement of the machine stops, and the matter becomes forthwith the scene of quite a different force of nature—magnetism, of which etiology again gives no further explanation than the condition under which it appears. [pg 177] Or let us suppose that the copper discs of such a machine are laid upon zinc plates, and an acid solution introduced between them. At once the same matter of the machine has become subject to another original force, galvanism, which now governs it according to its own laws, and reveals itself in it through its phenomena; and etiology can again tell us nothing about this force except the conditions under which, and the laws in accordance with which, it manifests itself. Let us now raise the temperature and add pure acid; the whole machine burns; that is to say, once more an entirely different force of nature, chemical energy, asserts at this time and in this place irresistible claims to this particular matter, and reveals itself in it as Idea, as a definite grade of the objectification of will. The calcined metal thus produced now unites with an acid, and a salt is obtained which forms itself into crystals. These are the phenomena of another Idea, which in itself is again quite inexplicable, while the appearance of its phenomena is dependent upon certain conditions which etiology can give us. The crystals dissolve, mix with other materials, and vegetation springs up from them—a new phenomenon of will: and so the same permanent matter may be followed ad infinitum, to observe how now this and now that natural force obtains a right to it and temporarily takes possession of it, in order to appear and reveal its own nature. The condition of this right, the point of time and space at which it becomes valid, is given by causality, but the explanation founded upon this law only extends thus far. The force itself is a manifestation of will, and as such is not subject to the forms of the principle of sufficient reason, that is, it is groundless. It lies outside all time, is omnipresent, and seems as it were to wait constantly till the circumstances occur under which it can appear and take possession of a definite matter, supplanting the forces which have reigned in it till then. All time exists only for the phenomena of such a force, [pg 178] and is without significance for the force itself. Through thousands of years chemical forces slumber in matter till the contact with the reagents sets them free; then they appear; but time exists only for the phenomena, not for the forces themselves. For thousands of years galvanism slumbered in copper and zinc, and they lay quietly beside silver, which must be consumed in flame as soon as all three are brought together under the required conditions. Even in the organic kingdom we see a dry seed preserve the slumbering force through three thousand years, and when at last the favourable circumstances occur, grow up as a plant.35

It might not be unnecessary to clarify with an example how the law of causality only makes sense in relation to time and space and the matter that arises from their combination. This law defines the boundaries within which the phenomena of natural forces are divided among matter, while the original forces of nature, which are the direct manifestation of will—something that, as a thing in itself, is not bound by the principle of sufficient reason—exist outside of these forms, within which all causal explanations are valid and meaningful. Therefore, they can never lead us to the true essence of nature. To illustrate this, let’s consider a machine designed according to the laws of mechanics. Iron weights initiate motion through gravity; copper wheels resist with rigidity, interact, and lift each other and the lever due to their impenetrability, and so forth. Here, gravity, rigidity, and impenetrability serve as original unexplained forces; mechanics only describes the conditions and ways in which they manifest, appear, and control specific matter, time, and place. Now, if a strong magnet is used to attract the iron weight, overcoming its gravity, the machine stops, and the matter suddenly becomes subject to a completely different natural force—magnetism—which again, causality only explains in terms of the conditions under which it arises. Or let’s assume that copper discs in such a machine are placed on zinc plates, and an acid solution is added between them. Suddenly, the same machine matter is governed by another original force, galvanism, which now regulates it according to its own principles, revealing itself through its effects; and causality can again only provide information about this force in terms of the conditions and laws of its manifestation. If we now increase the temperature and add pure acid, the whole machine burns; that is, another different natural force, chemical energy, claims undeniable authority over this specific matter at this time and place, showing itself as an idea, a particular grade of the manifestation of will. The burned metal produced then combines with acid, resulting in a salt that crystallizes. These are the manifestations of another idea, which, in itself, remains quite inexplicable, while the appearance of its effects depends on specific conditions that causality can explain. The crystals dissolve, mix with other substances, and vegetation emerges from them—a new phenomenon of will: and so the same enduring matter can be traced endlessly, observing how various natural forces acquire legitimacy over it and temporarily claim possession, making their nature known. The condition for this right, the point in time and space where it becomes effective, is granted by causality, but the explanations based on this law only go this far. The force itself is a manifestation of will, and as such, it is not bound to the forms of the principle of sufficient reason; it is, in other words, without cause. It exists outside of all time, is omnipresent, and seems to be waiting indefinitely for the right circumstances to emerge that allow it to appear and take over specific matter, displacing the forces that had dominated it until then. Time only exists for the phenomena of such a force, and lacks significance for the force itself. For thousands of years, chemical forces lie dormant in matter until contact with the reactants frees them; then they reveal themselves; however, time only matters for the manifestations, not for the forces themselves. Galvanism slumbered for centuries in copper and zinc, lying quietly alongside silver, which must be consumed in flames as soon as all three are brought together under the right conditions. Even in the organic world, we see a dry seed retain dormant force for three thousand years, and when the favorable circumstances finally arise, it grows into a plant.35

If by this exposition the difference between a force of nature and all its phenomena has been made quite distinct; if we have seen clearly that the former is the will itself at this particular grade of its objectification, but that multiplicity comes to phenomena only through time and space, and that the law of causality is nothing but the determination of the position of these phenomena in time and space; then we shall recognise the complete truth and the deep meaning of Malebranche's doctrine of occasional causes (causes occasionelles). It is well worth [pg 179] while comparing this doctrine of his, as he explains it in the Recherches de la Vérite,” both in the 3rd Chapter of the second part of the 6th Book, and in the éclaircissements appended to this chapter, with this exposition of mine, and observing the complete agreement of the two doctrines in the case of such different systems of thought. Indeed I cannot help admiring how Malebranche, though thoroughly involved in the positive dogmas which his age inevitably forced upon him, yet, in such bonds and under such a burden, hit the truth so happily, so correctly, and even knew how to combine it with these dogmas, at all events verbally.

If this exposition has clearly established the difference between a force of nature and all its phenomena; if we've recognized that the former is the will itself at this specific level of its expression, but that the variety of phenomena arises only through time and space, and that the law of causality is simply the way these phenomena are situated in time and space; then we will understand the complete truth and profound meaning of Malebranche's idea of occasional causes (occasional causes). It’s definitely worth [pg 179] to compare his explanation of this concept in the Search for Truth,” both in the 3rd Chapter of the second part of the 6th Book and in the clarifications added to this chapter, with my own explanation, and note the complete agreement of the two ideas despite the vastly different systems of thought. I can't help but admire how Malebranche, despite being deeply entrenched in the dogmas that his era imposed on him, still managed to grasp the truth so aptly and accurately, and even found a way to articulate it alongside these dogmas.

For the power of truth is incredibly great and of unspeakable endurance. We find constant traces of it in all, even the most eccentric and absurd dogmas, of different times and different lands,—often indeed in strange company, curiously mixed up with other things, but still recognisable. It is like a plant that germinates under a heap of great stones, but still struggles up to the light, working itself through with many deviations and windings, disfigured, worn out, stunted in its growth,—but yet, to the light.

For the power of truth is incredibly strong and enduring. We see its constant presence in all, even the most odd and ridiculous beliefs from different times and places—often found in unusual combinations with other ideas, yet still identifiable. It's like a plant that sprouts beneath a pile of heavy stones, but still manages to reach for the light, navigating through twists and turns, disfigured, worn down, and restricted in its growth—but still reaching for the light.

In any case Malebranche is right: every natural cause is only an occasional cause. It only gives opportunity or occasion for the manifestation of the one indivisible will which is the “in-itself” of all things, and whose graduated objectification is the whole visible world. Only the appearance, the becoming visible, in this place, at this time, is brought about by the cause and is so far dependent on it, but not the whole of the phenomenon, nor its inner nature. This is the will itself, to which the principle of sufficient reason has not application, and which is therefore groundless. Nothing in the world has a sufficient cause of its existence generally, but only a cause of existence just here and just now. That a stone exhibits now gravity, now rigidity, now electricity, now chemical qualities, depends upon causes, [pg 180] upon impressions upon it from without, and is to be explained from these. But these qualities themselves, and thus the whole inner nature of the stone which consists in them, and therefore manifests itself in all the ways referred to; thus, in general, that the stone is such as it is, that it exists generally—all this, I say, has no ground, but is the visible appearance of the groundless will. Every cause is thus an occasional cause. We have found it to be so in nature, which is without knowledge, and it is also precisely the same when motives and not causes or stimuli determine the point at which the phenomena are to appear, that is to say, in the actions of animals and human beings. For in both cases it is one and the same will which appears; very different in the grades of its manifestation, multiplied in the phenomena of these grades, and, in respect of these, subordinated to the principle of sufficient reason, but in itself free from all this. Motives do not determine the character of man, but only the phenomena of his character, that is, his actions; the outward fashion of his life, not its inner meaning and content. These proceed from the character which is the immediate manifestation of the will, and is therefore groundless. That one man is bad and another good, does not depend upon motives or outward influences, such as teaching and preaching, and is in this sense quite inexplicable. But whether a bad man shows his badness in petty acts of injustice, cowardly tricks, and low knavery which he practises in the narrow sphere of his circumstances, or whether as a conqueror he oppresses nations, throws a world into lamentation, and sheds the blood of millions; this is the outward form of his manifestation, that which is unessential to it, and depends upon the circumstances in which fate has placed him, upon his surroundings, upon external influences, upon motives; but his decision upon these motives can never be explained from them; it proceeds from the will, of which this man is a manifestation. Of this we shall [pg 181] speak in the Fourth Book. The manner in which the character discloses its qualities is quite analogous to the way in which those of every material body in unconscious nature are disclosed. Water remains water with its intrinsic qualities, whether as a still lake it reflects its banks, or leaps in foam from the cliffs, or, artificially confined, spouts in a long jet into the air. All that depends upon external causes; the one form is as natural to it as the other, but it will always show the same form in the same circumstances; it is equally ready for any, but in every case true to its character, and at all times revealing this alone. So will every human character under all circumstances reveal itself, but the phenomena which proceed from it will always be in accordance with the circumstances.

In any case, Malebranche is correct: every natural cause is just an occasional cause. It simply creates the opportunity for the expression of the one indivisible will, which is the “in-itself” of all things, and whose varying manifestation is the entire visible world. The appearance, or the becoming visible, in this place and at this time is caused by that cause and is dependent on it to that extent, but not on the entirety of the phenomenon or its internal nature. This is the will itself, which the principle of sufficient reason does not apply to, making it inherently groundless. Nothing in the world has a sufficient cause for its existence in general, but only a cause for existence right here and right now. Whether a stone shows gravity, rigidity, electricity, or chemical properties depends on external causes acting upon it and can be explained through these. However, these qualities themselves, along with the entire inner nature of the stone that comprises them, that is, the reason that the stone is as it is and exists at all—none of this has a foundational basis; it is merely the visible manifestation of the groundless will. Every cause is therefore an occasional cause. We observe this in nature, which operates without knowledge, and it holds true just the same when motives—not causes or stimuli—dictate when phenomena appear, like in the actions of animals and humans. In both cases, it is the same will appearing; albeit in different levels of manifestation, reflected in the variety of these phenomena, which are subordinated to the principle of sufficient reason but remain free in themselves. Motives don't shape a person's character; they only affect the manifestation of that character—essentially, the person's actions; they define the external aspects of their life, not its true meaning or content. These arise from the character that represents the will directly and is therefore groundless. That one person is bad and another good doesn’t depend on motives or external influences like teaching and preaching, and is essentially inexplicable in that way. However, whether a bad person expresses their badness through petty acts of injustice, cowardly tricks, and mean behavior in their limited environment, or if they, as a conqueror, oppress nations, bring sorrow to the world, and spill the blood of millions; this represents the outer form of their manifestation, which is unessential, and relies on the circumstances fate has placed them in, their surroundings, external influences, and motives; but that person’s decisions based on those motives cannot be explained by them; they stem from the will of which that person is a manifestation. We will discuss this more in the Fourth Book. The way in which character reveals its traits is similar to how the traits of every material body in unconscious nature are revealed. Water remains water with its inherent qualities, whether it reflects its banks in a calm lake, splashes from cliffs, or, when confined, shoots upward in a jet. All that depends on external causes; each form is equally natural to it, but it will consistently display the same form under the same circumstances; it is adaptable to any but remains true to its character, revealing this alone at all times. In the same way, every human character will reveal itself under all circumstances, but the resulting phenomena will always align with those circumstances.

§ 27. If, from the foregoing consideration of the forces of nature and their phenomena, we have come to see clearly how far an explanation from causes can go, and where it must stop if it is not to degenerate into the vain attempt to reduce the content of all phenomena to their mere form, in which case there would ultimately remain nothing but form, we shall be able to settle in general terms what is to be demanded of etiology as a whole. It must seek out the causes of all phenomena in nature, i.e., the circumstances under which they invariably appear. Then it must refer the multitude of phenomena which have various forms in various circumstances to what is active in every phenomenon, and is presupposed in the cause,—original forces of nature. It must correctly distinguish between a difference of the phenomenon which arises from a difference of the force, and one which results merely from a difference of the circumstances under which the force expresses itself; and with equal care it must guard against taking the expressions of one and the same force under different circumstances for the manifestations of different forces, and conversely against taking for manifestations of one [pg 182] and the same force what originally belongs to different forces. Now this is the direct work of the faculty of judgment, and that is why so few men are capable of increasing our insight in physics, while all are able to enlarge experience. Indolence and ignorance make us disposed to appeal too soon to original forces. This is exemplified with an exaggeration that savours of irony in the entities and quidities of the schoolmen. Nothing is further from my desire than to favour their resuscitation. We have just as little right to appeal to the objectification of will, instead of giving a physical explanation, as we have to appeal to the creative power of God. For physics demands causes, and the will is never a cause. Its whole relation to the phenomenon is not in accordance with the principle of sufficient reason. But that which in itself is the will exists in another aspect as idea; that is to say, is phenomenon. As such, it obeys the laws which constitute the form of the phenomenon. Every movement, for example, although it is always a manifestation of will, must yet have a cause from which it is to be explained in relation to a particular time and space; that is, not in general in its inner nature, but as a particular phenomenon. In the case of the stone, this is a mechanical cause; in that of the movement of a man, it is a motive; but in no case can it be wanting. On the other hand, the universal common nature of all phenomena of one particular kind, that which must be presupposed if the explanation from causes is to have any sense and meaning, is the general force of nature, which, in physics, must remain a qualitas occulta, because with it the etiological explanation ends and the metaphysical begins. But the chain of causes and effects is never broken by an original force to which it has been necessary to appeal. It does not run back to such a force as if it were its first link, but the nearest link, as well as the remotest, presupposes the original force, and could otherwise explain nothing. A series of [pg 183] causes and effects may be the manifestation of the most different kinds of forces, whose successive visible appearances are conducted through it, as I have illustrated above by the example of a metal machine. But the difference of these original forces, which cannot be referred to each other, by no means breaks the unity of that chain of causes, and the connection between all its links. The etiology and the philosophy of nature never do violence to each other, but go hand in hand, regarding the same object from different points of view. Etiology gives an account of the causes which necessarily produce the particular phenomenon to be explained. It exhibits, as the foundation of all its explanations, the universal forces which are active in all these causes and effects. It accurately defines, enumerates, and distinguishes these forces, and then indicates all the different effects in which each force appears, regulated by the difference of the circumstances, always in accordance with its own peculiar character, which it discloses in obedience to an invariable rule, called a law of nature. When all this has been thoroughly accomplished by physics in every particular, it will be complete, and its work will be done. There will then remain no unknown force in unorganised nature, nor any effect, which has not been proved to be the manifestation of one of these forces under definite circumstances, in accordance with a law of nature. Yet a law of nature remains merely the observed rule according to which nature invariably proceeds whenever certain definite circumstances occur. Therefore a law of nature may be defined as a fact expressed generally—un fait généralisé—and thus a complete enumeration of all the laws of nature would only be a complete register of facts. The consideration of nature as a whole is thus completed in morphology, which enumerates, compares, and arranges all the enduring forms of organised nature. Of the causes of the appearance of the individual creature it has little to say, for in all cases this is procreation (the theory of [pg 184] which is a separate matter), and in rare cases the generatio æquivoca. But to this last belongs, strictly speaking, the manner in which all the lower grades of the objectification of will, that is to say, physical and chemical phenomena, appear as individual, and it is precisely the task of etiology to point out the conditions of this appearance. Philosophy, on the other hand, concerns itself only with the universal, in nature as everywhere else. The original forces themselves are here its object, and it recognises in them the different grades of the objectivity of will, which is the inner nature, the “in-itself” of this world; and when it regards the world apart from will, it explains it as merely the idea of the subject. But if etiology, instead of preparing the way for philosophy, and supplying its doctrines with practical application by means of instances, supposes that its aim is rather to deny the existence of all original forces, except perhaps one, the most general, for example, impenetrability, which it imagines it thoroughly understands, and consequently seeks forcibly to refer all the others to it—it forsakes its own province and can only give us error instead of truth. The content of nature is supplanted by its form, everything is ascribed to the circumstances which work from without, and nothing to the inner nature of the thing. Now if it were possible to succeed by this method, a problem in arithmetic would ultimately, as we have already remarked, solve the riddle of the universe. But this is the method adopted by those, referred to above, who think that all physiological effects ought to be reduced to form and combination, this, perhaps, to electricity, and this again to chemism, and chemism to mechanism. The mistake of Descartes, for example, and of all the Atomists, was of this last description. They referred the movements of the globe to the impact of a fluid, and the qualities of matter to the connection and form of the atoms, and hence they laboured to explain all the phenomena of nature as merely manifestations of impenetrability [pg 185] and cohesion. Although this has been given up, precisely the same error is committed in our own day by the electrical, chemical, and mechanical physiologists, who obstinately attempt to explain the whole of life and all the functions of the organism from “form and combination.” In Meckel's “Archiv für Physiologie” (1820, vol. v. p. 185) we still find it stated that the aim of physiological explanation is the reduction of organic life to the universal forces with which physics deals. Lamarck also, in his Philosophie Zoologique,” explains life as merely the effect of warmth and electricity: le calorique et la matière électrique suffisent parfaitement pour composer ensemble cette cause essentielle de la vie (p. 16). According to this, warmth and electricity would be the “thing-in-itself,” and the world of animals and plants its phenomenal appearance. The absurdity of this opinion becomes glaringly apparent at the 306th and following pages of that work. It is well known that all these opinions, that have been so often refuted, have reappeared quite recently with renewed confidence. If we carefully examine the foundation of these views, we shall find that they ultimately involve the presupposition that the organism is merely an aggregate of phenomena of physical, chemical, and mechanical forces, which have come together here by chance, and produced the organism as a freak of nature without further significance. The organism of an animal or of a human being would therefore be, if considered philosophically, not the exhibition of a special Idea, that is, not itself immediate objectivity of the will at a definite higher grade, but in it would appear only those Ideas which objectify the will in electricity, in chemism, and in mechanism. Thus the organism would be as fortuitously constructed by the concurrence of these forces as the forms of men and beasts in clouds and stalactites, and would therefore in itself be no more interesting than they are. However, we shall see immediately how far the application of physical and chemical modes of explanation [pg 186] to the organism may yet, within certain limits, be allowable and useful; for I shall explain that the vital force certainly avails itself of and uses the forces of unorganised nature; yet these forces no more constitute the vital force than a hammer and anvil make a blacksmith. Therefore even the most simple example of plant life can never be explained from these forces by any theory of capillary attraction and endosmose, much less animal life. The following observations will prepare the way for this somewhat difficult discussion.

§ 27. If, from the previous examination of the forces of nature and their phenomena, we have come to understand clearly how far an explanation based on causes can extend, and where it must accept limits to avoid becoming a futile attempt to reduce all phenomena to their mere form, ultimately leaving only form, we can generally outline what should be expected of etiology as a whole. It must investigate the causes of all phenomena in nature, i.e. the conditions under which they consistently appear. Then, it should relate the various forms of phenomena occurring under different circumstances to the active elements inherent in every phenomenon, which are the original forces of nature. It must accurately differentiate between changes in phenomena caused by different forces and those arising merely from variations in the circumstances under which the force operates; similarly, it must avoid mistaking the differing expressions of the same force in various situations for manifestations of different forces, and vice versa, mistaking the manifestations of different forces as coming from one [pg 182] and the same force. This task requires careful judgment, which is why few individuals can enhance our understanding in physics, while almost everyone can expand their experience. Laziness and ignorance make us quick to invoke original forces. This tendency is ironically exemplified in the entities and concepts of the scholastics. I have no desire to support their revival. We have no more right to refer to the objectification of will rather than provide a physical explanation than we have to call upon the creative power of God. Physics demands causes, and will is never a cause. Its whole relationship to phenomena does not align with the principle of sufficient reason. However, what constitutes the will also exists as an idea; that is, it is a phenomenon. As such, it follows the laws that define the form of the phenomenon. For instance, every movement, while always a manifestation of will, must have a cause that explains it in relation to specific time and space—not generally in its inner nature, but as a specific phenomenon. In the case of a stone, this is a mechanical cause; in the case of a person's movement, it's a motive; but in every case, a cause must be present. On the other hand, the universal common nature of all phenomena of a specific kind, which must be assumed for the explanation from causes to make sense, is the general force of nature, which, in physics, must remain a hidden quality, because the etiological explanation ends and the metaphysical begins with it. However, the chain of causes and effects is never interrupted by an original force to which we have had to refer. It does not trace back to such a force as its first link but instead presupposes that original force at every link, both nearest and furthest; otherwise, it could not explain anything. A series of [pg 183] causes and effects may manifest the most diverse kinds of forces, whose successive visible appearances are conveyed through it, as I illustrated earlier with the example of a metal machine. However, the differences among these original forces, which cannot be referred to each other, do not disrupt the unity of that chain of causes or the connection between all its links. Etiology and the philosophy of nature do not clash but instead work together, examining the same subject from different perspectives. Etiology explains the causes that necessarily create the specific phenomenon being analyzed. It presents the universal forces that operate within all these causes and effects as the basis for all its explanations. It precisely defines, lists, and distinguishes these forces, and then outlines the various effects in which each force manifests, governed by differences in circumstances, always in line with its unique character, which it reveals following an unchanging rule called a natural law. Once physics has thoroughly completed this within every specific instance, it will be whole, and its work will be finished. There will then be no unknown force in unorganized nature, nor any effect that has not been shown to be the manifestation of one of these forces under specific circumstances, in accordance with a law of nature. Nevertheless, a law of nature remains merely the observed principle by which nature consistently operates whenever certain specific circumstances are present. Therefore, a law of nature can be defined as a fact expressed generally—a widespread fact—and thus a complete list of all laws of nature would merely be a comprehensive record of facts. The overall consideration of nature thus concludes in morphology, which catalogs, compares, and organizes all the lasting forms of organized nature. It says little about the causes of the appearance of individual creatures, as this is procreation in all cases (a separate matter of theory) and, in rare cases, ambiguous generation. Yet, strict interpretation shows that this last process involves how all lower forms of the objectification of will—namely, physical and chemical phenomena—appear individually, and it is specifically etiology’s role to identify the conditions for this appearance. Philosophy, in contrast, concerns itself only with the universal, both in nature and elsewhere. The original forces themselves are its subjects, recognizing in them the different grades of the objectivity of will, which is the inner essence, the "in itself" of this world. When it views the world apart from will, it interprets it as merely the idea of the subject. However, if etiology, instead of laying the groundwork for philosophy and enriching its doctrines with practical examples, assumes its goal is to deny the existence of all original forces except perhaps one—the most general one, like impenetrability, which it believes it understands entirely, and consequently seeks to forcibly relate all the others to it—it abandons its own area and can only provide us with error instead of truth. The essence of nature is replaced by its form; everything is attributed to external circumstances, while nothing relates to the inner nature of the thing. If it were truly possible to succeed through this method, a problem in arithmetic could ultimately, as we noted before, unravel the mystery of the universe. But this method is employed by those previously mentioned, who believe that all physiological effects should be condensed to form and combination, perhaps to electricity, which would then condense into chemistry, and chemistry into mechanics. The error of Descartes, for instance, and all Atomists, fell into this category. They linked the movements of the globe to the impact of a fluid and the qualities of matter to the arrangement and form of atoms, thus striving to explain all of nature’s phenomena merely as manifestations of impenetrability [pg 185] and cohesion. Even though this perspective has been abandoned, the same error is committed today by electrical, chemical, and mechanical physiologists, who stubbornly attempt to explain the entirety of life and all functions of the organism through “shape and arrangement.” In Meckel's "Journal of Physiology" (1820, vol. v. p. 185), it is still declared that the goal of physiological explanation is to reduce organic life to the universal forces dealt with by physics. Lamarck, too, in his Zoological Philosophy,” describes life merely as the result of warmth and electricity: The caloric and electrical matter are more than enough to together form this essential cause of life. (p. 16). Thus, according to this view, warmth and electricity would be the “thing in itself,” and the world of animals and plants its phenomenal manifestation. The ridiculousness of this position becomes painfully clear on the 306th page and beyond of that work. It is well-known that all of these views, which have been so frequently disproven, have recently reemerged with renewed confidence. If we closely examine the foundations of these perspectives, we will find that they ultimately rest on the assumption that the organism is merely a collection of phenomena of physical, chemical, and mechanical forces that have randomly coincided to create the organism as a natural anomaly lacking further significance. Therefore, when viewed philosophically, the organism of an animal or human would not exemplify a special Idea; that is, it would not represent the immediate objectivity of will at a distinct higher level, but would merely reflect those Ideas that objectify the will in electricity, chemistry, and mechanics. Thus, the organism would be as randomly assembled by the convergence of these forces as the forms of humans and animals seen in clouds and stalactites, making it inherently no more intriguing than those. However, we will soon see how far the application of physical and chemical modes of explanation [pg 186] to the organism may still, within certain limits, be permissible and beneficial; I will clarify that the vital force certainly utilizes and draws upon the forces of unorganized nature; yet, these forces do not constitute the vital force any more than a hammer and anvil create a blacksmith. Therefore, even the simplest example of plant life cannot be explained by these forces through any theory of capillary attraction and osmosis, much less can animal life be explained in such a fashion. The following observations will lay the groundwork for this somewhat complex discussion.

It follows from all that has been said that it is certainly an error on the part of natural science to seek to refer the higher grades of the objectification of will to the lower; for the failure to recognise, or the denial of, original and self-existing forces of nature is just as wrong as the groundless assumption of special forces when what occurs is merely a peculiar kind of manifestation of what is already known. Thus Kant rightly says that it would be absurd to hope for a blade of grass from a Newton, that is, from one who reduced the blade of grass to the manifestations of physical and chemical forces, of which it was the chance product, and therefore a mere freak of nature, in which no special Idea appeared, i.e., the will did not directly reveal itself in it in a higher and specific grade, but just as in the phenomena of unorganised nature and by chance in this form. The schoolmen, who certainly would not have allowed such a doctrine, would rightly have said that it was a complete denial of the forma substantialis, and a degradation of it to the forma accidentalis. For the forma substantialis of Aristotle denotes exactly what I call the grade of the objectification of will in a thing. On the other hand, it is not to be overlooked that in all Ideas, that is, in all forces of unorganised, and all forms of organised nature, it is one and the same will that reveals itself, that is to say, which enters the form of the idea and passes into objectivity. Its unity must therefore be also recognisable [pg 187] through an inner relationship between all its phenomena. Now this reveals itself in the higher grades of the objectification of will, where the whole phenomenon is more distinct, thus in the vegetable and animal kingdoms, through the universally prevailing analogy of all forms, the fundamental type which recurs in all phenomena. This has, therefore, become the guiding principle of the admirable zoological system which was originated by the French in this century, and it is most completely established in comparative anatomy as l'unité de plan, l'uniformité de l'élément anatomique. To discover this fundamental type has been the chief concern, or at any rate the praiseworthy endeavour, of the natural philosophers of the school of Schelling, who have in this respect considerable merit, although in many cases their hunt after analogies in nature degenerated into mere conceits. They have, however, rightly shown that that general relationship and family likeness exists also in the Ideas of unorganised nature; for example, between electricity and magnetism, the identity of which was afterwards established; between chemical attraction and gravitation, and so forth. They specially called attention to the fact that polarity, that is, the sundering of a force into two qualitatively different and opposed activities striving after reunion, which also shows itself for the most part in space as a dispersion in opposite directions, is a fundamental type of almost all the phenomena of nature, from the magnet and the crystal to man himself. Yet this knowledge has been current in China from the earliest times, in the doctrine of opposition of Yin and Yang. Indeed, since all things in the world are the objectification of one and the same will, and therefore in their inner nature identical, it must not only be the case that there is that unmistakable analogy between them, and that in every phenomenon the trace, intimation, and plan of the higher phenomenon that lies next to it in point of [pg 188] development shows itself, but also because all these forms belong to the world as idea, it is indeed conceivable that even in the most universal forms of the idea, in that peculiar framework of the phenomenal world space and time, it may be possible to discern and establish the fundamental type, intimation, and plan of what fills the forms. It seems to have been a dim notion of this that was the origin of the Cabala and all the mathematical philosophy of the Pythagoreans, and also of the Chinese in Y-king. In the school of Schelling also, to which we have already referred, we find, among their efforts to bring to light the similarity among the phenomena of nature, several attempts (though rather unfortunate ones) to deduce laws of nature from the laws of pure space and time. However, one can never tell to what extent a man of genius will realise both endeavours.

It follows from everything that's been said that it's definitely a mistake for natural science to try to connect the higher forms of will's expression to the lower ones. Failing to recognize, or outright denying, the original and self-existing forces of nature is just as incorrect as assuming special forces when what happens is simply a different kind of manifestation of what's already known. Kant rightly points out that it would be absurd to expect a blade of grass from a Newton, meaning that someone who reduces a blade of grass to the manifestations of physical and chemical forces sees it merely as a random product of nature, and therefore, just a freak occurrence, where no special Idea is present—meaning, the will does not directly show itself in a higher and specific way, but rather, just as in the phenomena of unorganized nature, by chance in this form. The scholastics, who would have certainly rejected such a doctrine, would rightly argue that this completely denies the substantial form and degrades it to the accidental form. For Aristotle's substantial form precisely denotes what I refer to as the level of the objectification of will in a thing. On the other hand, it's important to note that in all Ideas, that is, in all forces of unorganized and all forms of organized nature, it is one and the same will that expresses itself, which means it enters into the form of the idea and transforms into objectivity. Its unity should therefore also be recognizable [pg 187] through an inner connection among all its phenomena. This unity becomes evident in the higher forms of will's objectification, where the whole phenomenon is clearer, specifically in the plant and animal kingdoms, through the universally present analogy across all forms, the fundamental type that recurs in all phenomena. This idea has thus become the guiding principle of the remarkable zoological system created by the French in this century, and it is most thoroughly established in comparative anatomy as the planning unit, the uniformity of the anatomical element. Discovering this fundamental type has been the primary focus, or at least the commendable endeavor, of the natural philosophers of Schelling's school, who have made significant contributions in this regard, even though their search for analogies in nature sometimes devolved into mere whims. They have, however, correctly pointed out that this general relationship and family resemblance also exists among the Ideas of unorganized nature; for example, between electricity and magnetism, whose identity was later confirmed; between chemical attraction and gravitation, and so forth. They specifically highlighted that polarity, meaning the splitting of a force into two qualitatively different and opposing activities striving for reunion, which often manifests in space as a spread in opposite directions, is a fundamental type of nearly all phenomena in nature, from magnets and crystals to humans. Yet this knowledge has been common in China since ancient times, found in the doctrine of the opposition of Yin and Yang. Indeed, since everything in the world is the objectification of one and the same will, and thus intrinsically identical, there must not only be that unmistakable analogy among them, and that in every phenomenon, the trace, indication, and plan of the higher phenomenon next to it in terms of [pg 188] development become apparent, but also because all these forms belong to the world as concept, it is indeed conceivable that even in the most universal forms of the idea, within the peculiar framework of the phenomenal world—space and time—it may be possible to discern and establish the fundamental type, indication, and plan of what fills the forms. This seems to have been a vague notion that inspired the Cabala and all the mathematical philosophy of the Pythagoreans, and also of the Chinese in the Y-king. In Schelling's school, to which we've already referred, we find, among their attempts to reveal the similarities among the phenomena of nature, several (though rather unfortunate) attempts to derive laws of nature from the laws of pure space and time. However, one can never predict to what extent a genius will achieve both endeavors.

Now, although the difference between phenomenon and thing-in-itself is never lost sight of, and therefore the identity of the will which objectifies itself in all Ideas can never (because it has different grades of its objectification) be distorted to mean identity of the particular Ideas themselves in which it appears, so that, for example, chemical or electrical attraction can never be reduced to the attraction of gravitation, although this inner analogy is known, and the former may be regarded as, so to speak, higher powers of the latter, just as little does the similarity of the construction of all animals warrant us in mixing and identifying the species and explaining the more developed as mere variations of the less developed; and although, finally, the physiological functions are never to be reduced to chemical or physical processes, yet, in justification of this procedure, within certain limits, we may accept the following observations as highly probable.

Now, while the distinction between a phenomenon and a thing-in-itself is always recognized, the identity of the will that expresses itself through all Ideas can never be misinterpreted as the identity of the specific Ideas themselves in which it manifests. For instance, chemical or electrical attraction cannot be simplified to gravitational attraction, even though there is a recognizable inner analogy, and the former might be considered, in a sense, as higher forms of the latter. Similarly, the resemblance in the structure of all animals does not justify merging and equating species or explaining the more advanced forms as just variations of the simpler ones. Additionally, physiological functions should not be reduced to mere chemical or physical processes. However, within certain boundaries, we can accept the following observations as quite likely to be true.

If several of the phenomena of will in the lower grades of its objectification—that is, in unorganised nature—come into conflict because each of them, under the [pg 189] guidance of causality, seeks to possess a given portion of matter, there arises from the conflict the phenomenon of a higher Idea which prevails over all the less developed phenomena previously there, yet in such a way that it allows the essence of these to continue to exist in a subordinate manner, in that it takes up into itself from them something which is analogous to them. This process is only intelligible from the identity of the will which manifests itself in all the Ideas, and which is always striving after higher objectification. We thus see, for example, in the hardening of the bones, an unmistakable analogy to crystallisation, as the force which originally had possession of the chalk, although ossification is never to be reduced to crystallisation. The analogy shows itself in a weaker degree in the flesh becoming firm. The combination of humours in the animal body and secretion are also analogous to chemical combination and separation. Indeed, the laws of chemistry are still strongly operative in this case, but subordinated, very much modified, and mastered by a higher Idea; therefore mere chemical forces outside the organism will never afford us such humours; but

If several of the manifestations of will in the simpler forms of its expression—meaning in unorganized nature—come into conflict because each one, under the guidance of causality, tries to claim a specific portion of matter, a phenomenon of a higher Idea emerges that takes precedence over all the previously existing, less developed phenomena. However, it allows the essence of these to persist in a subordinate way by incorporating something similar from them. This process can only be understood through the shared will that appears in all Ideas, which continually aims for higher forms of expression. For instance, we clearly see an analogy in the hardening of bones compared to crystallization, where the force that initially possessed the chalk is evident, although ossification shouldn’t be reduced to crystallization. This analogy is less pronounced when flesh becomes firm. The combination of humors in the animal body and secretion also resembles chemical combination and separation. Indeed, the laws of chemistry still play a significant role here, but they are subordinated, heavily modified, and governed by a higher Idea; thus, mere chemical forces outside the organism will never produce such humors; but

Chemistry refers to it as the Encheiresis of nature,”
Spotted themselves and don’t know how.

The more developed Idea resulting from this victory over several lower Ideas or objectifications of will, gains an entirely new character by taking up into itself from every Idea over which it has prevailed a strengthened analogy. The will objectifies itself in a new, more distinct way. It originally appears in generatio æquivoca; afterwards in assimilation to the given germ, organic moisture, plant, animal, man. Thus from the strife of lower phenomena the higher arise, swallowing them all up, but yet realising in the higher grade the tendency of all the lower. Here, then, already the law applies—Serpens nisi serpentem comederit non fit draco.

The more developed idea resulting from this victory over several lower ideas or expressions of will takes on a completely new character by incorporating a stronger analogy from every idea it has overcome. The will expresses itself in a new, clearer way. It initially appears in ambiguous generation; then it manifests in relation to the given germ, organic moisture, plant, animal, and human. Thus, from the conflict of lower phenomena, the higher emerges, encompassing all the lower, while still realizing in the higher form the essence of all the lower. Here, the law already applies—A serpent doesn't become a dragon unless it eats another serpent.

[pg 190]

I wish it had been possible for me to dispel by clearness of explanation the obscurity which clings to the subject of these thoughts; but I see very well that the reader's own consideration of the matter must materially aid me if I am not to remain uncomprehended or misunderstood. According to the view I have expressed, the traces of chemical and physical modes of operation will indeed be found in the organism, but it can never be explained from them; because it is by no means a phenomenon even accidentally brought about through the united actions of such forces, but a higher Idea which has overcome these lower ideas by subduing assimilation; for the one will which objectifies itself in all Ideas always seeks the highest possible objectification, and has therefore in this case given up the lower grades of its manifestation after a conflict, in order to appear in a higher grade, and one so much the more powerful. No victory without conflict: since the higher Idea or objectification of will can only appear through the conquest of the lower, it endures the opposition of these lower Ideas, which, although brought into subjection, still constantly strive to obtain an independent and complete expression of their being. The magnet that has attracted a piece of iron carries on a perpetual conflict with gravitation, which, as the lower objectification of will, has a prior right to the matter of the iron; and in this constant battle the magnet indeed grows stronger, for the opposition excites it, as it were, to greater effort. In the same way every manifestation of the will, including that which expresses itself in the human organism, wages a constant war against the many physical and chemical forces which, as lower Ideas, have a prior right to that matter. Thus the arm falls which for a while, overcoming gravity, we have held stretched out; thus the pleasing sensation of health, which proclaims the victory of the Idea of the self-conscious organism over the physical and chemical laws, which originally governed the humours of [pg 191] the body, is so often interrupted, and is indeed always accompanied by greater or less discomfort, which arises from the resistance of these forces, and on account of which the vegetative part of our life is constantly attended by slight pain. Thus also digestion weakens all the animal functions, because it requires the whole vital force to overcome the chemical forces of nature by assimilation. Hence also in general the burden of physical life, the necessity of sleep, and, finally, of death; for at last these subdued forces of nature, assisted by circumstances, win back from the organism, wearied even by the constant victory, the matter it took from them, and attain to an unimpeded expression of their being. We may therefore say that every organism expresses the Idea of which it is the image, only after we have subtracted the part of its force which is expended in subduing the lower Ideas that strive with it for matter. This seems to have been running in the mind of Jacob Böhm when he says somewhere that all the bodies of men and animals, and even all plants, are really half dead. According as the subjection in the organism of these forces of nature, which express the lower grades of the objectification of will, is more or less successful, the more or the less completely does it attain to the expression of its Idea; that is to say, the nearer it is to the ideal or the further from it—the ideal of beauty in its species.

I wish I could have clarified the unclear aspects of these thoughts more effectively, but I recognize that the reader's own reflection on the topic will significantly help me avoid being misunderstood. As I've stated, you will find evidence of chemical and physical processes in living beings, but they cannot be fully explained by them. This is because it is not merely a phenomenon accidentally created by the combined actions of these forces; rather, it is a higher concept that has overcome these lower concepts through overcoming assimilation. The one will that makes itself known through all concepts always aims for the highest possible expression, and in this case, it has relinquished the lower levels of its expression after a struggle to manifest in a higher and more powerful form. There’s no victory without struggle: the higher concept or will's manifestation can only emerge through conquering the lower ones. This higher will faces resistance from these lower concepts, which, even though they are subdued, still strive for independent expression. The magnet that attracts a piece of iron is in an ongoing battle with gravity, which, as the lower manifestation of will, has a claim to the iron. In this continual struggle, the magnet actually becomes stronger because the opposition pushes it to exert more effort. Similarly, every expression of will, including that in the human body, constantly fights against the many physical and chemical forces that have a prior claim to that matter. Thus, the arm that we've momentarily held out against gravity eventually falls; and the pleasant feeling of health, which signifies the victory of the self-aware organism over the physical and chemical laws that initially govern the body's fluids, is frequently interrupted, always accompanied by varying degrees of discomfort that stem from these forces' resistance, causing the living part of our existence to be persistently marred by slight pain. Digestion also drains the body's energy, as it requires all vital force to overcome nature's chemical forces through assimilation. Therefore, we see the burden of physical life, the need for sleep, and ultimately, death; because eventually, these subdued natural forces, aided by circumstance, reclaim from the weary organism what it borrowed from them, achieving an unobstructed expression of their existence. Thus, we can say that every organism represents the Idea that it reflects only after accounting for the energy it spends subduing the lower concepts competing for its material. This idea seems to resonate with Jacob Böhm when he mentions that all human and animal bodies, and even all plants, are essentially half-dead. Depending on how successfully these natural forces, expressing the lower forms of will's manifestation, are subdued within the organism, it approaches or drifts away from expressing its Idea; that is, it gets closer to the perfect of beauty within its kind.

Thus everywhere in nature we see strife, conflict, and alternation of victory, and in it we shall come to recognise more distinctly that variance with itself which is essential to the will. Every grade of the objectification of will fights for the matter, the space, and the time of the others. The permanent matter must constantly change its form; for under the guidance of causality, mechanical, physical, chemical, and organic phenomena, eagerly striving to appear, wrest the matter from each other, for each desires to reveal its own Idea. This strife may be followed through the whole of nature; indeed nature exists only through it: [pg 192] ει γαρ μη ην το νεικος εν τοις πραγμασιν, ἑν αν ην ἁπαντα, ὡς φησιν Εμπεδοκλης; (nam si non inesset in rebus contentio, unum omnia essent, ut ait Empedocles. Aris. Metaph., B. 5). Yet this strife itself is only the revelation of that variance with itself which is essential to the will. This universal conflict becomes most distinctly visible in the animal kingdom. For animals have the whole of the vegetable kingdom for their food, and even within the animal kingdom every beast is the prey and the food of another; that is, the matter in which its Idea expresses itself must yield itself to the expression of another Idea, for each animal can only maintain its existence by the constant destruction of some other. Thus the will to live everywhere preys upon itself, and in different forms is its own nourishment, till finally the human race, because it subdues all the others, regards nature as a manufactory for its use. Yet even the human race, as we shall see in the Fourth Book, reveals in itself with most terrible distinctness this conflict, this variance with itself of the will, and we find homo homini lupus. Meanwhile we can recognise this strife, this subjugation, just as well in the lower grades of the objectification of will. Many insects (especially ichneumon-flies) lay their eggs on the skin, and even in the body of the larvæ of other insects, whose slow destruction is the first work of the newly hatched brood. The young hydra, which grows like a bud out of the old one, and afterwards separates itself from it, fights while it is still joined to the old one for the prey that offers itself, so that the one snatches it out of the mouth of the other (Trembley, Polypod., ii. p. 110, and iii. p. 165). But the bulldog-ant of Australia affords us the most extraordinary example of this kind; for if it is cut in two, a battle begins between the head and the tail. The head seizes the tail with its teeth, and the tail defends itself bravely by stinging the head: the battle may last for half an hour, until they die or are dragged away by other ants. This contest takes place [pg 193] every time the experiment is tried. (From a letter by Howitt in the W. Journal, reprinted in Galignani's Messenger, 17th November 1855.) On the banks of the Missouri one sometimes sees a mighty oak the stem and branches of which are so encircled, fettered, and interlaced by a gigantic wild vine, that it withers as if choked. The same thing shows itself in the lowest grades; for example, when water and carbon are changed into vegetable sap, or vegetables or bread into blood by organic assimilation; and so also in every case in which animal secretion takes place, along with the restriction of chemical forces to a subordinate mode of activity. This also occurs in unorganised nature, when, for example, crystals in process of formation meet, cross, and mutually disturb each other to such an extent that they are unable to assume the pure crystalline form, so that almost every cluster of crystals is an image of such a conflict of will at this low grade of its objectification; or again, when a magnet forces its magnetism upon iron, in order to express its Idea in it; or when galvanism overcomes chemical affinity, decomposes the closest combinations, and so entirely suspends the laws of chemistry that the acid of a decomposed salt at the negative pole must pass to the positive pole without combining with the alkalies through which it goes on its way, or turning red the litmus paper that touches it. On a large scale it shows itself in the relation between the central body and the planet, for although the planet is in absolute dependence, yet it always resists, just like the chemical forces in the organism; hence arises the constant tension between centripetal and centrifugal force, which keeps the globe in motion, and is itself an example of that universal essential conflict of the manifestation of will which we are considering. For as every body must be regarded as the manifestation of a will, and as will necessarily expresses itself as a struggle, the original condition of every world that is formed into a globe cannot be rest, but motion, a striving forward in boundless space [pg 194] without rest and without end. Neither the law of inertia nor that of causality is opposed to this: for as, according to the former, matter as such is alike indifferent to rest and motion, its original condition may just as well be the one as the other, therefore if we first find it in motion, we have just as little right to assume that this was preceded by a condition of rest, and to inquire into the cause of the origin of the motion, as, conversely, if we found it at rest, we would have to assume a previous motion and inquire into the cause of its suspension. It is, therefore, not needful to seek for a first impulse for centrifugal force, for, according to the hypothesis of Kant and Laplace, it is, in the case of the planets, the residue of the original rotation of the central body, from which the planets have separated themselves as it contracted. But to this central body itself motion is essential; it always continues its rotation, and at the same time rushes forward in endless space, or perhaps circulates round a greater central body invisible to us. This view entirely agrees with the conjecture of astronomers that there is a central sun, and also with the observed advance of our whole solar system, and perhaps of the whole stellar system to which our sun belongs. From this we are finally led to assume a general advance of fixed stars, together with the central sun, and this certainly loses all meaning in boundless space (for motion in absolute space cannot be distinguished from rest), and becomes, as is already the case from its striving and aimless flight, an expression of that nothingness, that failure of all aim, which, at the close of this book, we shall be obliged to recognise in the striving of will in all its phenomena. Thus boundless space and endless time must be the most universal and essential forms of the collective phenomena of will, which exist for the expression of its whole being. Lastly, we can recognise that conflict which we are considering of all phenomena of will against each other in simple matter regarded as such; for the real characteristic [pg 195] of matter is correctly expressed by Kant as repulsive and attractive force; so that even crude matter has its existence only in the strife of conflicting forces. If we abstract from all chemical differences in matter, or go so far back in the chain of causes and effects that as yet there is no chemical difference, there remains mere matter,—the world rounded to a globe, whose life, i.e., objectification of will, is now constituted by the conflict between attractive and repulsive forces, the former as gravitation pressing from all sides towards the centre, the latter as impenetrability always opposing the former either as rigidity or elasticity; and this constant pressure and resistance may be regarded as the objectivity of will in its very lowest grade, and even there it expresses its character.

Everywhere in nature, we see struggle, conflict, and alternating victories, and through this, we can clearly recognize the inherent variability of the will. Every level of the will's expression fights for resources—matter, space, and time—from one another. Material forms must constantly change; under the influence of causality, mechanical, physical, chemical, and organic phenomena strive to emerge, competing for matter, each wanting to reveal its own idea. This conflict can be observed throughout nature; indeed, nature exists only because of it: [pg 192] ει γαρ μη ην το νεικος εν τοις πραγμασιν, ἑν αν ην ἁπαντα, ὡς φησιν Εμπεδοκλης; (nam si non inesset in rebus contentio, unum omnia essent, ut ait Empedocles. Aris. Metaph., B. 5). Yet this conflict itself is simply the manifestation of that internal variability essential to the will. This universal struggle is most clearly seen in the animal kingdom. Animals consume the entire plant kingdom for food, and even within their own kingdom, every creature is both predator and prey; meaning that the matter, in which its idea expresses itself, must yield to another idea's expression, as each animal can only continue to exist by constantly destroying others. Thus, the will to live preys upon itself everywhere and, in different forms, sustains itself until the human race, dominating all others, views nature merely as a resource for its own use. However, even the human race, as we will observe in the Fourth Book, reveals this conflict most starkly—a representation of the will's internal struggle, leading us to recognize man is a wolf to man. Meanwhile, we can also see this struggle and subjugation in lower forms of the will's expression. Many insects (especially ichneumon flies) lay their eggs on the skin or even inside the bodies of other insect larvae, whose slow demise becomes the first task of the newly hatched brood. The young hydra, budding off from the old one, fights for available prey while still attached to the older version, snatching food from each other (Trembley, Polypod., ii. p. 110, and iii. p. 165). The bulldog ant of Australia offers a remarkable example of this; if cut in half, a battle ensues between the head and the tail. The head bites the tail, while the tail defiantly stings the head. This fight can last up to half an hour, until one dies or both are carried off by other ants. This contest unfolds [pg 193] every time the experiment is conducted. (From a letter by Howitt in the W. Journal, reprinted in Galignani's Messenger, 17th November 1855.) On the banks of the Missouri, you can sometimes see a mighty oak whose trunk and branches are so completely wrapped, bound, and intertwined by a gigantic wild vine that it appears to wither as if suffocated. The same phenomenon can be observed at the lowest levels; for instance, when water and carbon transform into plant sap or when plants or bread convert into blood through organic assimilation; this also happens in every instance of animal secretion, alongside the limitation of chemical forces to a subordinate mode of activity. This occurs even in inanimate nature, when, for example, forming crystals encounter each other, intersect, and disturb one another to such an extent that they cannot achieve pure crystalline structures, making nearly every crystal cluster an illustration of such a struggle of will at this basic level of its manifestation; or when a magnet exerts its magnetism on iron, seeking to express its idea through it; or when galvanism overcomes chemical affinity, breaking down close combinations, and completely suspends chemical laws to the point where the acid from a decomposed salt at the negative pole must travel to the positive pole without reacting with the alkalies through which it passes or causing red litmus paper to change. On a grander scale, this is evident in the relationship between the central body and the planet; although the planet is entirely dependent, it consistently resists, similar to chemical forces within an organism. Hence, a constant tension arises between centripetal and centrifugal forces, keeping the globe in motion, exemplifying that universal essential conflict of the will's manifestation we are discussing. For every body must be viewed as a manifestation of will, and since will inevitably expresses itself as struggle, the original state of every world formed into a globe cannot be rest, but rather movement—a relentless striving forward in endless space [pg 194] without pause and without end. Neither the law of inertia nor that of causality contradicts this: according to the former, matter is equally indifferent to rest and motion, so its original state may just as likely be one or the other. Therefore, if we first observe it in motion, we have no reasonable grounds to assume a preceding state of rest, nor to inquire into the cause of that motion's origin; conversely, if we found it at rest, we would have to assume some prior motion and question why it was suspended. Thus, there’s no need to seek an initial impulse for centrifugal force; according to Kant and Laplace’s hypothesis, it is, regarding the planets, the remnant of the original rotation of the central body from which the planets have separated as it contracted. However, the central body itself requires motion; it perpetually rotates while also speeding through endless space, or possibly revolves around an unseen larger central body. This perspective aligns with the astronomers' hypothesis of a central sun, and also corresponds to the observed movement of our entire solar system, and perhaps even the whole stellar system to which our sun belongs. From this, we are ultimately compelled to propose a general motion of fixed stars together with the central sun, which loses all significance in infinite space (as motion in absolute space cannot be differentiated from rest), and becomes, as it already demonstrates through striving and aimless flight, an expression of that nothingness, that absence of purpose, which, at the conclusion of this book, we will have to acknowledge in the will's striving through all its phenomena. Therefore, boundless space and endless time must be regarded as the most universal and essential forms of the will's collective phenomena, existing for the expression of its entire being. Finally, we can recognize the conflict we are examining among all phenomena of will within simple matter viewed as such; for the true essence of matter is accurately captured by Kant as attractive and repulsive forces; thus, even the most basic matter exists only through the struggle of opposing forces. If we ignore all chemical distinctions in matter, or go far back in the chain of causes and effects until there are no chemical differences yet discernible, we find merely matter—the world shaped into a globe, whose life, i.e., the manifestation of will, is now formed through the conflict between attractive and repulsive forces, with the former acting as gravity pressing towards the center, and the latter as impenetrability resisting it either through rigidity or elasticity; this continuous interaction of pressure and resistance can be seen as the objectivity of will in its most fundamental state, expressing its nature even within that realm.

We should see the will express itself here in the lowest grade as blind striving, an obscure, inarticulate impulse, far from susceptible of being directly known. It is the simplest and the weakest mode of its objectification. But it appears as this blind and unconscious striving in the whole of unorganised nature, in all those original forces of which it is the work of physics and chemistry to discover and to study the laws, and each of which manifests itself to us in millions of phenomena which are exactly similar and regular, and show no trace of individual character, but are mere multiplicity through space and time, i.e., through the principium individuationis, as a picture is multiplied through the facets of a glass.

We should see the will express itself here at its most basic level as blind striving, an unclear, inarticulate impulse that can't be directly understood. It's the simplest and weakest way of showing itself. But it appears as this blind and unconscious striving throughout the entirety of unorganized nature, in all those original forces that physics and chemistry aim to uncover and study the laws of. Each of these forces shows itself to us in millions of similar and regular phenomena, exhibiting no individual character but merely existing as multiplicity across space and time, i.e. through the principle of individuality, like a picture multiplied through the facets of a glass.

From grade to grade objectifying itself more distinctly, yet still completely without consciousness as an obscure striving force, the will acts in the vegetable kingdom also, in which the bond of its phenomena consists no longer properly of causes, but of stimuli; and, finally, also in the vegetative part of the animal phenomenon, in the production and maturing of the animal, and in sustaining its inner economy, in which the manifestation of [pg 196] will is still always necessarily determined by stimuli. The ever-ascending grades of the objectification of will bring us at last to the point at which the individual that expresses the Idea could no longer receive food for its assimilation through mere movement following upon stimuli. For such a stimulus must be waited for, but the food has now come to be of a more special and definite kind, and with the ever-increasing multiplicity of the individual phenomena, the crowd and confusion has become so great that they interfere with each other, and the chance of the individual that is moved merely by stimuli and must wait for its food would be too unfavourable. From the point, therefore, at which the animal has delivered itself from the egg or the womb in which it vegetated without consciousness, its food must be sought out and selected. For this purpose movement following upon motives, and therefore consciousness, becomes necessary, and consequently it appears as an agent, μηχανη, called in at this stage of the objectification of will for the conservation of the individual and the propagation of the species. It appears represented by the brain or a large ganglion, just as every other effort or determination of the will which objectifies itself is represented by an organ, that is to say, manifests itself for the idea as an organ.36 But with this means of assistance, this μηχανη, the world as idea comes into existence at a stroke, with all its forms, object and subject, time, space, multiplicity, and causality. The world now shows its second side. Till now mere will, it becomes also idea, object of the knowing subject. The will, which up to this point followed its tendency in the dark with unerring certainty, has at this grade kindled for itself a light as a means which became necessary for getting rid of the disadvantage which arose from the throng and the complicated [pg 197] nature of its manifestations, and which would have accrued precisely to the most perfect of them. The hitherto infallible certainty and regularity with which it worked in unorganised and merely vegetative nature, rested upon the fact that it alone was active in its original nature, as blind impulse, will, without assistance, and also without interruption, from a second and entirely different world, the world as idea, which is indeed only the image of its own inner being, but is yet of quite another nature, and now encroaches on the connected whole of its phenomena. Hence its infallible certainty comes to an end. Animals are already exposed to illusion, to deception. They have, however, merely ideas of perception, no conceptions, no reflection, and they are therefore bound to the present; they cannot have regard for the future. It seems as if this knowledge without reason was not in all cases sufficient for its end, and at times required, as it were, some assistance. For the very remarkable phenomenon presents itself, that the blind working of the will and the activity enlightened by knowledge encroach in a most astonishing manner upon each other's spheres in two kinds of phenomena. In the one case we find in the very midst of those actions of animals which are guided by perceptive knowledge and its motives one kind of action which is accomplished apart from these, and thus through the necessity of the blindly acting will. I refer to those mechanical instincts which are guided by no motive or knowledge, and which yet have the appearance of performing their work from abstract rational motives. The other case, which is opposed to this, is that in which, on the contrary, the light of knowledge penetrates into the workshop of the blindly active will, and illuminates the vegetative functions of the human organism. I mean clairvoyance. Finally, when the will has attained to the highest grade of its objectification, that knowledge of the understanding given to brutes to which the senses supply the data, out of which there arises mere perception confined [pg 198] to what is immediately present, does not suffice. That complicated, many-sided, imaginative being, man, with his many needs, and exposed as he is to innumerable dangers, must, in order to exist, be lighted by a double knowledge; a higher power, as it were, of perceptive knowledge must be given him, and also reason, as the faculty of framing abstract conceptions. With this there has appeared reflection, surveying the future and the past, and, as a consequence, deliberation, care, the power of premeditated action independent of the present, and finally, the full and distinct consciousness of one's own deliberate volition as such. Now if with mere knowledge of perception there arose the possibility of illusion and deception, by which the previous infallibility of the blind striving of will was done away with, so that mechanical and other instincts, as expressions of unconscious will, had to lend their help in the midst of those that were conscious, with the entrance of reason that certainty and infallibility of the expressions of will (which at the other extreme in unorganised nature appeared as strict conformity to law) is almost entirely lost; instinct disappears altogether; deliberation, which is supposed to take the place of everything else, begets (as was shown in the First Book) irresolution and uncertainty; then error becomes possible, and in many cases obstructs the adequate objectification of the will in action. For although in the character the will has already taken its definite and unchangeable bent or direction, in accordance with which volition, when occasioned by the presence of a motive, invariably takes place, yet error can falsify its expressions, for it introduces illusive motives that take the place of the real ones which they resemble;37 as, for example, when superstition forces on a man imaginary motives which impel him to a course of action directly opposed [pg 199] to the way in which the will would otherwise express itself in the given circumstances. Agamemnon slays his daughter; a miser dispenses alms, out of pure egotism, in the hope that he will some day receive an hundred-fold; and so on.

From level to level, the will becomes more clearly defined, yet it remains completely unconscious, acting as a hidden driving force. This will is present in the plant kingdom, where the connection of its phenomena doesn't rely properly on causes anymore, but rather on stimuli. It also exists in the vegetative part of animals, concerning the development and maturation of the animal and maintaining its internal balance, where the will's manifestation is still always necessarily determined by stimuli. The escalating levels of the objectification of will ultimately lead us to the point where an individual capable of expressing the Idea can no longer obtain nourishment through mere movement triggered by stimuli. Waiting for such a stimulus is inadequate because the food has become more specific and defined, and with the increasing variety of individual phenomena, the noise and confusion have grown to such an extent that they disrupt one another. The chances for an individual that acts solely on stimuli and must wait for food would be too unfavorable. From the moment an animal leaves the egg or womb where it lived unconsciously, it must now search for and select its food. For this purpose, movement driven by motives, and therefore consciousness, becomes necessary. Hence, consciousness appears as a tool, referred to as μηχανη, which comes into play at this stage of the objectification of will for the survival of the individual and the continuation of the species. It is represented by the brain or a major ganglion, just as every other effort or determination of the will that objectifies itself is represented by an organ, manifesting itself for the idea as an organ. But with this means of support, this μηχανη, the world as a concept comes into being all at once, with all its forms, object and subject, time, space, multiplicity, and causality. The world now reveals its second aspect. Until now, just will transforms into concept, becoming the object of the knowing subject. The will, which until now followed its instincts blindly with unwavering certainty, has at this stage ignited a light, a necessary tool for overcoming the drawbacks posed by the chaos and complexity of its manifestations, which would primarily affect the most developed of them. The previously unerring certainty and consistency of its actions in unorganized and merely vegetative nature relied on the fact that it operated solely in its original nature, as a blind impulse, will, without help or interruption from a second and entirely different world—the world as idea— which, while merely a reflection of its own inner essence, is nonetheless of a different nature and now intrudes upon the interconnected whole of its phenomena. As a result, its infallible certainty comes to an end. Animals are now vulnerable to illusion and deception. They possess only perceptions but no concepts or reflection, so they are limited to the present; they cannot consider the future. This knowledge, devoid of reason, sometimes appears insufficient for its purpose and thus requires some assistance. A remarkable phenomenon occurs where the blind operation of will and the knowledge-driven activity overlap in a surprising manner across two types of phenomena. In one instance, we find actions of animals guided by perceptive knowledge and motives, alongside actions driven by the blind will. This refers to mechanical instincts that follow no motive or knowledge, yet seem to carry out their tasks from abstract rational motives. The other case contrasts this, where knowledge illuminates the realm of the blindly operating will, affecting the vegetative functions of the human body. I mean clairvoyance. Ultimately, when the will reaches the highest level of its objectification, the mere perception provided to animals by their senses, resulting in immediate and limited awareness, is no longer sufficient. The complex, multifaceted, imaginative being known as man, with numerous needs and exposed to countless dangers, must, for survival, be endowed with a dual form of knowledge; a higher level of perceptive understanding must be granted to him, along with reason, which enables the formation of abstract concepts. This brings forth reflection that considers the future and the past, leading to deliberation, care, the ability to plan actions independent of the present, and finally, an acute awareness of one’s own deliberate choices. If the mere knowledge of perception introduces the possibility of illusion and deception, undermining the previous infallibility of blind striving, then mechanical and other instincts, as expressions of unconscious will, must assist the conscious actions. With the introduction of reason, the certainty and reliability of the will's expressions begin to dwindle; instinct completely vanishes; deliberation, intended to fill this gap, instead fosters indecision and uncertainty. Errors become possible, obstructing the accurate manifestation of will in action. Even though the will has already taken a definite and unchangeable direction, which causes volition to occur in response to a motive’s presence, errors can distort its expressions by introducing misleading motives that mimic the true ones. For example, superstition can impose imaginary motives on a person, pushing them towards actions that contradict how the will would otherwise act under the same circumstances. Agamemnon sacrifices his daughter; a miser gives alms, driven by pure self-interest, hoping for a future windfall; and so on.

Thus knowledge generally, rational as well as merely sensuous, proceeds originally from the will itself, belongs to the inner being of the higher grades of its objectification as a mere μηχανη, a means of supporting the individual and the species, just like any organ of the body. Originally destined for the service of the will for the accomplishment of its aims, it remains almost throughout entirely subjected to its service: it is so in all brutes and in almost all men. Yet we shall see in the Third Book how in certain individual men knowledge can deliver itself from this bondage, throw off its yoke, and, free from all the aims of will, exist purely for itself, simply as a clear mirror of the world, which is the source of art. Finally, in the Fourth Book, we shall see how, if this kind of knowledge reacts on the will, it can bring about self-surrender, i.e., resignation, which is the final goal, and indeed the inmost nature of all virtue and holiness, and is deliverance from the world.

Thus, knowledge—both rational and purely sensory—comes from the will itself and is part of the inner essence of higher levels of objectification, functioning merely as a tool, a means to support the individual and the species, much like any organ of the body. Originally intended to serve the will and help achieve its goals, it mostly remains entirely at its service: this is true for all animals and nearly all humans. However, we will see in the Third Book how certain individuals can free their knowledge from this dependency, shake off its constraints, and exist solely for its own sake, acting as a clear reflection of the world, which is the foundation of art. Finally, in the Fourth Book, we will explore how this type of knowledge can influence the will, leading to self-surrender, i.e., resignation, which is the ultimate goal and the deepest essence of all virtue and holiness, and a release from the world.

§ 28. We have considered the great multiplicity and diversity of the phenomena in which the will objectifies itself, and we have seen their endless and implacable strife with each other. Yet, according to the whole discussion up to this point, the will itself, as thing-in-itself, is by no means included in that multiplicity and change. The diversity of the (Platonic) Ideas, i.e., grades of objectification, the multitude of individuals in which each of these expresses itself, the struggle of forms for matter,—all this does not concern it, but is only the manner of its objectification, and only through this has an indirect relation to it, by virtue of which it belongs to the expression of the nature of will for the idea. As the magic-lantern shows many different pictures, which [pg 200] are all made visible by one and the same light, so in all the multifarious phenomena which fill the world together or throng after each other as events, only one will manifests itself, of which everything is the visibility, the objectivity, and which remains unmoved in the midst of this change; it alone is thing-in-itself; all objects are manifestations, or, to speak the language of Kant, phenomena. Although in man, as (Platonic) Idea, the will finds its clearest and fullest objectification, yet man alone could not express its being. In order to manifest the full significance of the will, the Idea of man would need to appear, not alone and sundered from everything else, but accompanied by the whole series of grades, down through all the forms of animals, through the vegetable kingdom to unorganised nature. All these supplement each other in the complete objectification of will; they are as much presupposed by the Idea of man as the blossoms of a tree presuppose leaves, branches, stem, and root; they form a pyramid, of which man is the apex. If fond of similes, one might also say that their manifestations accompany that of man as necessarily as the full daylight is accompanied by all the gradations of twilight, through which, little by little, it loses itself in darkness; or one might call them the echo of man, and say: Animal and plant are the descending fifth and third of man, the inorganic kingdom is the lower octave. The full truth of this last comparison will only become clear to us when, in the following book, we attempt to fathom the deep significance of music, and see how a connected, progressive melody, made up of high, quick notes, may be regarded as in some sense expressing the life and efforts of man connected by reflection, while the unconnected complemental notes and the slow bass, which make up the harmony necessary to perfect the music, represent the rest of the animal kingdom and the whole of nature that is without knowledge. But of this in its own place, where it will not sound so paradoxical. [pg 201] We find, however, that the inner necessity of the gradation of its manifestations, which is inseparable from the adequate objectification of the will, is expressed by an outer necessity in the whole of these manifestations themselves, by reason of which man has need of the beasts for his support, the beasts in their grades have need of each other as well as of plants, which in their turn require the ground, water, chemical elements and their combinations, the planet, the sun, rotation and motion round the sun, the curve of the ellipse, &c., &c. At bottom this results from the fact that the will must live on itself, for there exists nothing beside it, and it is a hungry will. Hence arise eager pursuit, anxiety, and suffering.

§ 28. We have looked at the vast array and variety of phenomena through which the will expresses itself, and we've observed their endless and relentless conflict with one another. However, based on the discussion so far, the will itself, as the thing-in-itself, is not part of that multiplicity and change. The diversity of Platonic Ideas, meaning different levels of expression, the many individuals in which each of these manifests, the struggle for forms to take on matter – all of this doesn't concern it directly but instead reflects how it expresses itself. This has an indirect relationship to the will, as it relates to the expression of the will's nature for the idea. Just like a magic lantern projects many different images visible through a single light, in all the various phenomena that fill the world and occur as events, only one will is being expressed, of which everything is a visibility and an objectivity, and which remains unchanged amidst this change; it is the only thing-in-itself; all objects are manifestations or, in Kantian terms, phenomena. Although in humanity, as a Platonic Idea, the will finds its clearest and fullest expression, humanity alone cannot capture its essence. To show the complete significance of the will, the Idea of man needs to appear not just on its own, but alongside a whole series of forms, through all grades down to the animal kingdom, across the plant kingdom, and into unorganized nature. All these elements complement each other in the full expression of the will; they are as much a prerequisite for the Idea of man as the flowers of a tree depend on leaves, branches, trunk, and roots; they form a pyramid with man at the top. If you enjoy metaphors, one might say that their expressions accompany that of man just as broad daylight is accompanied by all the stages of twilight, gradually fading into darkness; or one might describe them as the echoes of humanity, with animals and plants as the descending fifth and third of man, and the inorganic kingdom as the lower octave. The full meaning of this last comparison will become clear when, in the next book, we explore the deep significance of music, and see how a continuous, progressive melody, made up of high, quick notes, can be seen as reflecting the life and efforts of humankind, while the disconnected complementary notes and the slow bass necessary for harmony reflect the rest of the animal kingdom and all nature that lacks knowledge. But more on this later, so it doesn't seem too paradoxical. We find, however, that the inner necessity of the gradation of its manifestations, which is essential for the proper expression of the will, is demonstrated by an outer necessity across these manifestations, as humans need animals for support, animals at different levels need each other and plants, which in turn require the ground, water, chemical elements and their combinations, the planet, the sun, its rotation, motion around the sun, the path of the ellipse, etc. Ultimately, this arises from the fact that the will must sustain itself since nothing exists outside of it, and it is an insatiable will. This gives rise to eager pursuit, anxiety, and suffering.

It is only the knowledge of the unity of will as thing-in-itself, in the endless diversity and multiplicity of the phenomena, that can afford us the true explanation of that wonderful, unmistakable analogy of all the productions of nature, that family likeness on account of which we may regard them as variations on the same ungiven theme. So in like measure, through the distinct and thoroughly comprehended knowledge of that harmony, that essential connection of all the parts of the world, that necessity of their gradation which we have just been considering, we shall obtain a true and sufficient insight into the inner nature and meaning of the undeniable teleology of all organised productions of nature, which, indeed, we presupposed a priori, when considering and investigating them.

It is only by understanding the unity of will as the thing-in-itself, amidst the endless diversity and variety of phenomena, that we can truly explain the remarkable, obvious similarities among all of nature's creations—the family resemblance that allows us to see them as variations on the same unwritten theme. Similarly, through a clear and thorough understanding of that harmony, the essential connection of all parts of the world, and the necessity of their gradation that we've just discussed, we will gain genuine and adequate insight into the inner nature and meaning of the undeniable purposefulness of all organized creations of nature, which we indeed assumed priori while we were considering and analyzing them.

This teleology is of a twofold description; sometimes an inner teleology, that is, an agreement of all the parts of a particular organism, so ordered that the sustenance of the individual and the species results from it, and therefore presents itself as the end of that disposition or arrangement. Sometimes, however, there is an outward teleology, a relation of unorganised to organised nature in general, or of particular parts of organised nature to each [pg 202] other, which makes the maintenance of the whole of organised nature, or of the particular animal species, possible, and therefore presents itself to our judgment as the means to this end.

This purpose-driven has two aspects; sometimes it refers to an internal purpose, meaning that all the parts of a specific organism work together in a way that ensures the survival of both the individual and the species, which is seen as the goal of that arrangement. Other times, it refers to external purpose, which involves the relationship between unorganized and organized nature in general, or how different parts of organized nature relate to each [pg 202] other, allowing for the survival of all organized nature or of specific animal species, and is thus perceived as the means to achieve this goal.

Inner teleology is connected with the scheme of our work in the following way. If, in accordance with what has been said, all variations of form in nature, and all multiplicity of individuals, belong not to the will itself, but merely to its objectivity and the form of this objectivity, it necessarily follows that the will is indivisible and is present as a whole in every manifestation, although the grades of its objectification, the (Platonic) Ideas, are very different from each other. We may, for the sake of simplicity, regard these different Ideas as in themselves individual and simple acts of the will, in which it expresses its nature more or less. Individuals, however, are again manifestations of the Ideas, thus of these acts, in time, space, and multiplicity. Now, in the lowest grades of objectivity, such an act (or an Idea) retains its unity in the manifestation; while, in order to appear in higher grades, it requires a whole series of conditions and developments in time, which only collectively express its nature completely. Thus, for example the Idea that reveals itself in any general force of nature has always one single expression, although it presents itself differently according to the external relations that are present: otherwise its identity could not be proved, for this is done by abstracting the diversity that arises merely from external relations. In the same way the crystal has only one manifestation of life, crystallisation, which afterwards has its fully adequate and exhaustive expression in the rigid form, the corpse of that momentary life. The plant, however, does not express the Idea, whose phenomenon it is, at once and through a single manifestation, but in a succession of developments of its organs in time. The animal not only develops its organism in the same manner, in a succession of forms which are often very different [pg 203] (metamorphosis), but this form itself, although it is already objectivity of will at this grade, does not attain to a full expression of its Idea. This expression must be completed through the actions of the animal, in which its empirical character, common to the whole species, manifests itself, and only then does it become the full revelation of the Idea, a revelation which presupposes the particular organism as its first condition. In the case of man, the empirical character is peculiar to every individual (indeed, as we shall see in the Fourth Book, even to the extent of supplanting entirely the character of the species, through the self-surrender of the whole will). That which is known as the empirical character, through the necessary development in time, and the division into particular actions that is conditioned by it, is, when we abstract from this temporal form of the manifestation the intelligible character, according to the expression of Kant, who shows his undying merit especially in establishing this distinction and explaining the relation between freedom and necessity, i.e., between the will as thing-in-itself and its manifestations in time.38 Thus the intelligible character coincides with the Idea, or, more accurately, with the original act of will which reveals itself in it. So far then, not only the empirical character of every man, but also that of every species of animal and plant, and even of every original force of unorganised nature, is to be regarded as the manifestation of an intelligible character, that is, of a timeless, indivisible act of will. I should like here to draw attention in passing to the naïveté with which every plant expresses and lays open its whole character in its mere form, reveals its whole being and will. This is [pg 204] why the physiognomy of plants is so interesting; while in order to know an animal in its Idea, it is necessary to observe the course of its action. As for man, he must be fully investigated and tested, for reason makes him capable of a high degree of dissimulation. The beast is as much more naïve than the man as the plant is more naïve than the beast. In the beast we see the will to live more naked, as it were, than in the man, in whom it is clothed with so much knowledge, and is, moreover, so veiled through the capacity for dissimulation, that it is almost only by chance, and here and there, that its true nature becomes apparent. In the plant it shows itself quite naked, but also much weaker, as mere blind striving for existence without end or aim. For the plant reveals its whole being at the first glance, and with complete innocence, which does not suffer from the fact that it carries its organs of generation exposed to view on its upper surface, though in all animals they have been assigned to the most hidden part. This innocence of the plant results from its complete want of knowledge. Guilt does not lie in willing, but in willing with knowledge. Every plant speaks to us first of all of its home, of the climate, and the nature of the ground in which it has grown. Therefore, even those who have had little practice easily tell whether an exotic plant belongs to the tropical or the temperate zone, and whether it grows in water, in marshes, on mountain, or on moorland. Besides this, however, every plant expresses the special will of its species, and says something that cannot be uttered in any other tongue. But we must now apply what has been said to the teleological consideration of the organism, so far as it concerns its inner design. If in unorganised nature the Idea, which is everywhere to be regarded as a single act of will, reveals itself also in a single manifestation which is always the same, and thus one may say that here the empirical character directly partakes of the [pg 205] unity of the intelligible, coincides, as it were, with it, so that no inner design can show itself here; if, on the contrary, all organisms express their Ideas through a series of successive developments, conditioned by a multiplicity of co-existing parts, and thus only the sum of the manifestations of the empirical character collectively constitute the expression of the intelligible character; this necessary co-existence of the parts and succession of the stages of development does not destroy the unity of the appearing Idea, the act of will which expresses itself; nay, rather this unity finds its expression in the necessary relation and connection of the parts and stages of development with each other, in accordance with the law of causality. Since it is the will which is one, indivisible, and therefore entirely in harmony with itself, that reveals itself in the whole Idea as in act, its manifestation, although broken up into a number of different parts and conditions, must yet show this unity again in the thorough agreement of all of these. This is effected by a necessary relation and dependence of all the parts upon each other, by means of which the unity of the Idea is re-established in the manifestation. In accordance with this, we now recognise these different parts and functions of the organism as related to each other reciprocally as means and end, but the organism itself as the final end of all. Consequently, neither the breaking up of the Idea, which in itself is simple, into the multiplicity of the parts and conditions of the organism, on the one hand, nor, on the other hand, the re-establishment of its unity through the necessary connection of the parts and functions which arises from the fact that they are the cause and effect, the means and end, of each other, is peculiar and essential to the appearing will as such, to the thing-in-itself, but only to its manifestation in space, time, and causality (mere modes of the principle of sufficient reason, the form of the phenomenon). They belong to the world as [pg 206] idea, not to the world as will; they belong to the way in which the will becomes object, i.e., idea at this grade of its objectivity. Every one who has grasped the meaning of this discussion—a discussion which is perhaps somewhat difficult—will now fully understand the doctrine of Kant, which follows from it, that both the design of organised and the conformity to law of unorganised nature are only introduced by our understanding, and therefore both belong only to the phenomenon, not to the thing-in-itself. The surprise, which was referred to above, at the infallible constancy of the conformity to law of unorganised nature, is essentially the same as the surprise that is excited by design in organised nature; for in both cases what we wonder at is only the sight of the original unity of the Idea, which, for the phenomenon, has assumed the form of multiplicity and diversity.39

Inner purpose is connected to our work in the following way. As discussed, all variations of form in nature and the diversity of individuals are not attributes of the will itself, but relate to its objectivity and the form of that objectivity. This implies that the will is indivisible and is present as a whole in every manifestation, even though the different grades of its objectification, the (Platonic) Ideas, vary widely. For simplicity, we can view these different Ideas as individual and simple acts of the will, in which it expresses its nature to varying degrees. However, individuals are also manifestations of these Ideas, meaning these acts occur in time, space, and multiplicity. In the lowest grades of objectivity, such an act (or an Idea) maintains its unity in manifestation; to manifest in higher grades, it requires a series of conditions and developments over time that collectively express its nature. For example, the Idea that emerges in any general force of nature always has one single expression, even if it appears differently according to the external relations present; otherwise, its identity could not be established, as this is done by abstracting the diversity arising solely from external relations. Similarly, a crystal demonstrates only one manifestation of life, crystallization, which later has its complete and exhaustive expression in its rigid form, the lifeless shell of that momentary life. A plant, however, does not express the Idea, whose phenomenon it is, all at once or through a single manifestation but rather through a series of developments of its organs over time. An animal also develops its organism in the same way, undergoing a succession of forms that can be very different (metamorphosis), but even this form, while already being the objectivity of will at this stage, does not achieve a complete expression of its Idea. This expression must be finalized through the animal's actions, where its empirical character, shared by the entire species, comes to light, and only then does it fully reveal the Idea, a revelation that presupposes the specific organism as its first condition. In the case of humans, the empirical character is unique to each individual (as we will see in the Fourth Book, even supplanting entirely the character of the species through the self-surrender of the whole will). What we term the empirical character, through the necessary development in time and the resulting division into specific actions, is, when we abstract from this temporal form of manifestation, the clear character, following Kant’s insights, which he notably established when explaining the relationship between freedom and necessity, i.e., between the will as a thing-in-itself and its manifestations in time. Thus, the intelligible character aligns with the Idea, or more precisely, with the original act of will that reveals itself in it. Therefore, we see that not just the empirical character of each human, but also of every species of animal and plant, and even every original force in unorganized nature, should be viewed as manifestations of an intelligible character—meaning a timeless, indivisible act of will. I want to highlight here the innocence with which every plant expresses and reveals its entire character in its mere form, showcasing its whole existence and will. This is [pg 204] why the appearance of plants is so intriguing; in contrast, to understand an animal in its Idea, one must observe its actions over time. Humans require a thorough investigation and scrutiny, as reason allows for a high degree of deceitfulness. Animals are more open than humans, just as plants are more direct than animals. In animals, we observe the will to live more evidently than in humans, who conceal it behind much knowledge and the ability to disguise their true nature, making it hardly noticeable except by chance and in specific instances. In plants, this will emerges clearly, but also much weaker, as a blind urge for existence without a clear purpose. A plant presents its entire being at first glance and with absolute innocence, undeterred by the fact that it displays its reproductive organs openly on its surface, whereas in animals, these are hidden away. This innocence results from a complete lack of knowledge. Guilt derives not from the act of willing, but from willing with awareness. Every plant first communicates to us about its origins, climate, and the type of soil where it has grown. Thus, even those without much experience can easily identify whether an exotic plant is from a tropical or temperate region and whether it thrives in water, swamps, mountains, or moors. Additionally, every plant expresses the unique will of its species, conveying something that cannot be articulated in any other language. Now, we need to apply what has been discussed to the teleological consideration of an organism regarding its inner design. If in unorganized nature, the Idea—viewed as a single act of will—reveals itself as a consistent manifestation, one might argue that here the empirical character directly aligns with the [pg 205] unity of the intelligible, in a sense negating any inner design. Conversely, all organisms express their Ideas through a series of successive developments determined by a mix of coexisting parts, and thus only the cumulative manifestations of the empirical character collectively constitute the expression of the intelligible character. This necessary coexistence of parts and succession of developmental stages does not disrupt the unity of the appearing Idea, the act of will expressing itself. Rather, this unity is expressed through the necessary relationship and connection of the parts and developmental stages, according to the law of causality. Since it is the will, which is singular, indivisible, and thus entirely self-harmonious, that reveals itself in the whole Idea as an act, its manifestation—though broken up into several different parts and conditions—must still exhibit this unity through the complete agreement of all components. This occurs through a necessary relationship and dependency of all parts on one another, thereby reestablishing the unity of the Idea within the manifestation. Accordingly, we recognize these various parts and functions of the organism as interconnected as means and ends, with the organism itself as the ultimate goal. Therefore, neither the fragmentation of the Idea, which is inherently simple, into the multiplicity of parts and conditions of the organism, nor the restoration of its unity through the necessary interconnections of parts and functions, arising from their reciprocal causes and effects, is unique or essential to the emerging will itself, to the thing-in-itself; it only pertains to its manifestation in space, time, and causality (mere modes of the principle of sufficient reason, the form of the phenomenon). They are attributes of the world as [pg 206] idea, not of the world as will; they belong to the manner in which the will becomes an object, i.e., idea at this level of its objectivity. Anyone who understands the implications of this discussion—perhaps a bit complex—will now fully grasp Kant's doctrine that both the design of organized beings and the lawfulness of unorganized nature are solely introduced by our understanding; thus, both pertain only to the phenomenon, not to the thing-in-itself. The astonishment mentioned earlier at the unwavering constancy of the lawfulness in unorganized nature mirrors the surprise we find in seeing design in organized nature; in both scenarios, we marvel only at the revealed original unity of the Idea, which, in terms of the phenomenon, has taken on the form of multiplicity and diversity. 39

As regards the second kind of teleology, according to the division made above, the outer design, which shows itself, not in the inner economy of the organisms, but in the support and assistance they receive from without, both from unorganised nature and from each other; its general explanation is to be found in the exposition we have just given. For the whole world, with all its phenomena, is the objectivity of the one indivisible will, the Idea, which is related to all other Ideas as harmony is related to the single voice. Therefore that unity of the will must show itself also in the agreement of all its manifestations. But we can very much increase the clearness of this insight if we go somewhat more closely into the manifestations of that outer teleology and agreement of the different parts of nature with each other, an inquiry which will also throw some light on the foregoing exposition. We shall best attain this end by considering the following analogy.

Regarding the second type of teleology, as previously outlined, the outside design doesn't appear in the internal workings of organisms but in the support and help they receive from their external environment, both from unorganized nature and from one another. The overall explanation for this can be found in the discussion we've just provided. The entire world, with all its phenomena, reflects a single, indivisible will, the Idea, which is connected to all other Ideas, much like harmony relates to a single voice. Therefore, this unity of will must also be evident in the coherence of all its expressions. However, we can enhance our understanding of this insight by examining more closely the expressions of that outer teleology and how the different parts of nature interact with one another, an inquiry that will also shed some light on the earlier discussion. We will best achieve this by considering the following analogy.

The character of each individual man, so far as it is [pg 207] thoroughly individual, and not entirely included in that of the species, may be regarded as a special Idea, corresponding to a special act of the objectification of will. This act itself would then be his intelligible character, and his empirical character would be the manifestation of it. The empirical character is entirely determined through the intelligible, which is without ground, i.e., as thing-in-itself is not subordinated to the principle of sufficient reason (the form of the phenomenon). The empirical character must in the course of life afford us the express image of the intelligible, and can only become what the nature of the latter demands. But this property extends only to the essential, not to the unessential in the course of life to which it applies. To this unessential belong the detailed events and actions which are the material in which the empirical character shows itself. These are determined by outward circumstances, which present the motives upon which the character reacts according to its nature; and as they may be very different, the outward form of the manifestation of the empirical character, that is, the definite actual or historical form of the course of life, will have to accommodate itself to their influence. Now this form may be very different, although what is essential to the manifestation, its content, remains the same. Thus, for example it is immaterial whether a man plays for nuts or for crowns; but whether a man cheats or plays fairly, that is the real matter; the latter is determined by the intelligible character, the former by outward circumstances. As the same theme may be expressed in a hundred different variations, so the same character may be expressed in a hundred very different lives. But various as the outward influence may be, the empirical character which expresses itself in the course of life must yet, whatever form it takes, accurately objectify the intelligible character, for the latter adapts its objectification to the given material of actual circumstances. We have now to assume something analogous to the [pg 208] influence of outward circumstances upon the life that is determined in essential matters by the character, if we desire to understand how the will, in the original act of its objectification, determines the various Ideas in which it objectifies itself, that is, the different forms of natural existence of every kind, among which it distributes its objectification, and which must therefore necessarily have a relation to each other in the manifestation. We must assume that between all these manifestations of the one will there existed a universal and reciprocal adaptation and accommodation of themselves to each other, by which, however, as we shall soon see more clearly, all time-determination is to be excluded, for the Idea lies outside time. In accordance with this, every manifestation must have adapted itself to the surroundings into which it entered, and these again must have adapted themselves to it, although it occupied a much later position in time; and we see this consensus naturæ everywhere. Every plant is therefore adapted to its soil and climate, every animal to its element and the prey that will be its food, and is also in some way protected, to a certain extent, against its natural enemy: the eye is adapted to the light and its refrangibility, the lungs and the blood to the air, the air-bladder of fish to water, the eye of the seal to the change of the medium in which it must see, the water-pouch in the stomach of the camel to the drought of the African deserts, the sail of the nautilus to the wind that is to drive its little bark, and so on down to the most special and astonishing outward adaptations.40 We must abstract however here from all temporal relations, for these can only concern the manifestation of the Idea, not the Idea itself. Accordingly this kind of explanation must also be used retrospectively, and we must not merely admit that every species accommodated itself to the given environment, but also that this environment itself, which preceded it in time, had just as much regard for the being [pg 209] that would some time come into it. For it is one and the same will that objectifies itself in the whole world; it knows no time, for this form of the principle of sufficient reason does not belong to it, nor to its original objectivity, the Ideas, but only to the way in which these are known by the individuals who themselves are transitory, i.e., to the manifestation of the Ideas. Thus, time has no significance for our present examination of the manner in which the objectification of the will distributes itself among the Ideas, and the Ideas whose manifestations entered into the course of time earlier, according to the law of causality, to which as phenomena they are subject, have no advantage over those whose manifestation entered later; nay rather, these last are the completest objectifications of the will, to which the earlier manifestations must adapt themselves just as much as they must adapt themselves to the earlier. Thus the course of the planets, the tendency to the ellipse, the rotation of the earth, the division of land and sea, the atmosphere, light, warmth, and all such phenomena, which are in nature what bass is in harmony, adapted themselves in anticipation of the coming species of living creatures of which they were to become the supporter and sustainer. In the same way the ground adapted itself to the nutrition of plants, plants adapted themselves to the nutrition of animals, animals to that of other animals, and conversely they all adapted themselves to the nutrition of the ground. All the parts of nature correspond to each other, for it is one will that appears in them all, but the course of time is quite foreign to its original and only adequate objectification (this expression will be explained in the following book), the Ideas. Even now, when the species have only to sustain themselves, no longer to come into existence, we see here and there some such forethought of nature extending to the future, and abstracting as it were from the process of time, a self-adaptation of what is to what [pg 210] is yet to come. The bird builds the nest for the young which it does not yet know; the beaver constructs a dam the object of which is unknown to it; ants, marmots, and bees lay in provision for the winter they have never experienced; the spider and the ant-lion make snares, as if with deliberate cunning, for future unknown prey; insects deposit their eggs where the coming brood finds future nourishment. In the spring-time the female flower of the diœcian valisneria unwinds the spirals of its stalk, by which till now it was held at the bottom of the water, and thus rises to the surface. Just then the male flower, which grows on a short stalk from the bottom, breaks away, and so, at the sacrifice of its life, reaches the surface, where it swims about in search of the female. The latter is fructified, and then draws itself down again to the bottom by contracting its spirals, and there the fruit grows.41 I must again refer here to the larva of the male stag-beetle, which makes the hole in the wood for its metamorphosis as big again as the female does, in order to have room for its future horns. The instinct of animals in general gives us the best illustration of what remains of teleology in nature. For as instinct is an action, like that which is guided by the conception of an end, and yet is entirely without this; so all construction of nature resembles that which is guided by the conception of an end, and yet is entirely without it. For in the outer as in the inner teleology of nature, what we are obliged to think as means and end is, in every case, the manifestation of the unity of the one will so thoroughly agreeing with itself, which has assumed multiplicity in space and time for our manner of knowing.

The character of each individual man, to the extent that it is thoroughly unique and not completely defined by the species, can be seen as a special Idea, linked to a specific act of will expression. This act represents his intelligible character, while his empirical character is its manifestation. The empirical character is fully shaped by the intelligible, which is groundless, meaning it doesn't follow the principle of sufficient reason (the form of the phenomenon). The empirical character throughout life should reflect the intelligible and can only become what the latter requires. However, this property only applies to the essential aspects, not the trivial details of life it refers to. The unessential includes specific events and actions that showcase the empirical character, which are influenced by external circumstances, providing the motives that the character reacts to according to its nature. Because these circumstances can vary widely, the outward expression of the empirical character, or the distinct historical form of a person's life, must adapt to their influence. This form can differ significantly, even though the essential content remains consistent. For instance, it doesn’t matter whether a person plays for peanuts or for riches; what matters is whether they cheat or play fairly—this is determined by the intelligible character, while the circumstances affect the former. Just like the same theme can be portrayed in countless variations, the same character can be expressed through many different lives. Regardless of how varied the external influences may be, the empirical character that unfolds through life must accurately represent the intelligible character, as the latter shapes its expression according to the actual circumstances at hand. We must assume something similar to the influence of external circumstances on life, essential in matters determined by character, if we want to understand how the will, in its original act of expression, shapes the various Ideas it embodies—that is, the different forms of existence among which it distributes itself, and which must therefore necessarily relate to one another in their expression. We must believe that there exists a universal and mutual adaptation among all these expressions of the one will; however, as we’ll clarify soon, all notions of time must be excluded since the Idea exists outside time. Thus, each expression must have adapted to its surroundings, and those surroundings must also adapt to it, even if it appeared later in time; we see this consensus of nature everywhere. Every plant adapts to its soil and climate, every animal to its environment and the prey it will eat, while also being somewhat protected from its natural enemies: the eye adapts to light and its refrangibility, the lungs and blood to air, the swim bladder in fish to water, the seal’s eye adjusts to the changes in its medium, the camel’s water pouch fits its needs in the dry African deserts, the sail of the nautilus accommodates the wind that propels its vessel, and so forth, down to the most specific and remarkable adaptations. We must, however, leave out all temporal relations here, as these concern only the expression of the Idea, not the Idea itself. Consequently, this type of explanation must also be applied retroactively; we must not only acknowledge that every species adapted to its environment but also that this environment, which existed earlier in time, was equally considerate of the beings that would eventually inhabit it. It's the same will that manifests in the entire world; it has no concept of time, as this form of the principle of sufficient reason doesn’t apply to it, nor to its original expressions—the Ideas—but only to how these Ideas are perceived by individual, fleeting beings. Therefore, time is not relevant for our current study of how the will’s expression distributes itself among the Ideas, and those whose manifestations entered the timeline earlier, according to the law of causality to which they, as phenomena, are subject, do not hold any advantages over those whose expressions came later; rather, the latter are the most complete expressions of the will, to which the earlier manifestations must adjust just as much as the earlier must adjust to them. Hence, the movements of planets, the tendency towards ellipses, the Earth’s rotation, the division of land and sea, the atmosphere, light, warmth, and all such phenomena are in nature what bass is in harmony, having anticipated the future species of living beings that they would eventually support and sustain. Similarly, the ground has adapted to provide nutrition for plants, plants have adapted to feed animals, animals have adapted to feed on other animals, and in turn, they all have adapted to sustain the ground. All elements of nature correspond to each other, for it is one will that manifests in them all, but the passage of time is entirely foreign to its original and only adequate expression (this concept will be elaborated in the following book). Even now, when species need only sustain themselves and are no longer coming into being, we occasionally observe nature’s foresight extending towards the future, somewhat abstracting from the passage of time—a self-adaptation of what is to what is yet to come. The bird builds a nest for young it does not yet know; the beaver creates a dam with a purpose unknown to it; ants, marmots, and bees stockpile provisions for winters they have yet to experience; spiders and ant-lions craft traps as if intentionally for prey they have not encountered; insects lay their eggs where the future larvae will find sustenance. In spring, the female flower of the dioecious valisneria unfurls the spirals of its stalk, which had kept it submerged, allowing it to rise to the water’s surface. At that moment, the male flower, which grows on a short stalk from the bottom, detaches and, sacrificing its life, reaches the surface, where it swims in search of the female. The latter is fertilized and then pulls itself back down, contracting its spirals while the fruit develops. I must again reference the larva of the male stag beetle, which digs a chamber in the wood for its transformation, large enough to accommodate its future horns just like the female. The instincts of animals provide the best example of the remnants of teleology in nature. Instinct acts similarly to goal-directed behavior but is entirely void of that direction; thus, all constructs in nature resemble actions guided by an end that lacks one. Both in external and internal teleology of nature, what we must conceive as means and ends is essentially the expression of the unity of the one will that aligns completely with itself, which has taken on multiplicity in space and time for our understanding.

The reciprocal adaptation and self-accommodation of phenomena that springs from this unity cannot, however, annul the inner contradiction which appears in the universal conflict of nature described above, and which [pg 211] is essential to the will. That harmony goes only so far as to render possible the duration of the world and the different kinds of existences in it, which without it would long since have perished. Therefore it only extends to the continuance of the species, and the general conditions of life, but not to that of the individual. If, then, by reason of that harmony and accommodation, the species in organised nature and the universal forces in unorganised nature continue to exist beside each other, and indeed support each other reciprocally, on the other hand, the inner contradiction of the will which objectifies itself in all these ideas shows itself in the ceaseless internecine war of the individuals of these species, and in the constant struggle of the manifestations of these natural forces with each other, as we pointed out above. The scene and the object of this conflict is matter, which they try to wrest from each other, and also space and time, the combination of which through the form of causality is, in fact, matter, as was explained in the First Book.42

The mutual adjustment and self-accommodation of phenomena that arises from this unity cannot eliminate the inner contradiction present in the universal struggle of nature described above, which is crucial to the will. This harmony only goes so far as to allow for the existence of the world and the various forms of life within it, which would have disappeared long ago without it. So, it only applies to the survival of species and the general conditions of life, not to that of the individual. Thus, while due to this harmony and accommodation, the species in organized nature and the universal laws in unorganized nature continue to coexist and even support each other, the inner contradiction of the will that manifests in all these ideas reveals itself in the ongoing internal conflict among the people of these species, and in the constant clashes of the signs of these natural forces against one another, as noted earlier. The setting and focus of this conflict is matter, which they strive to seize from one another, as well as space and time, where the interplay of causality effectively becomes matter, as explained in the First Book.42

§ 29. I here conclude the second principal division of my exposition, in the hope that, so far as is possible in the case of an entirely new thought, which cannot be quite free from traces of the individuality in which it originated, I have succeeded in conveying to the reader the complete certainty that this world in which we live and have our being is in its whole nature through and through will, and at the same time through and through idea: that this idea, as such, already presupposes a form, object and subject, is therefore relative; and if we ask what remains if we take away this form, and all those forms which are subordinate to it, and which express the principle of sufficient reason, the answer must be that as something toto genere different from idea, this can be nothing but will, which is thus properly the thing-in-itself. Every one finds that he himself is this will, in which the real nature of the world consists, and he also [pg 212] finds that he is the knowing subject, whose idea the whole world is, the world which exists only in relation to his consciousness, as its necessary supporter. Every one is thus himself in a double aspect the whole world, the microcosm; finds both sides whole and complete in himself. And what he thus recognises as his own real being also exhausts the being of the whole world—the macrocosm; thus the world, like man, is through and through will, and through and through idea, and nothing more than this. So we see the philosophy of Thales, which concerned the macrocosm, unite at this point with that of Socrates, which dealt with the microcosm, for the object of both is found to be the same. But all the knowledge that has been communicated in the two first books will gain greater completeness, and consequently greater certainty, from the two following books, in which I hope that several questions that have more or less distinctly arisen in the course of our work will also be sufficiently answered.

§ 29. I now conclude the second main part of my exposition, hoping that, as much as possible given the nature of a completely new idea—which inevitably carries traces of the individual from which it originated—I have managed to communicate to the reader the full certainty that this world we live in is fundamentally both will and concept: that this idea, as such, already implies a form, including object and subject, making it relative; and if we ask what remains when we strip away this form and all those subordinate forms that express the principle of sufficient reason, the answer must be that what remains, as something toto genre different from idea, can only be gonna, which is therefore the thing-in-itself. Everyone discovers that they themselves embody this will, which constitutes the true nature of the world, and they also [pg 212] find that they are the knowing subject, of which the entire world is an idea, a world that exists only in relation to their consciousness, serving as its necessary foundation. Thus, everyone is, in a dual aspect, the entire world, the microcosm; both sides are complete and whole within themselves. What they recognize as their own true being is also the essence of the entire world—the macrocosm; therefore, the world, like humanity, is entirely gonna and concept, and nothing more than this. We see Thales' philosophy, focusing on the macrocosm, merge at this point with Socrates' philosophy, which explored the microcosm, since the object of both inquiries is ultimately the same. However, all the knowledge conveyed in the first two books will gain even more completeness and, as a result, greater certainty from the next two books, where I hope to sufficiently answer several questions that have emerged more or less clearly throughout our work.

In the meantime one such question may be more particularly considered, for it can only properly arise so long as one has not fully penetrated the meaning of the foregoing exposition, and may so far serve as an illustration of it. It is this: Every will is a will towards something, has an object, an end of its willing; what then is the final end, or towards what is that will striving that is exhibited to us as the being-in-itself of the world? This question rests, like so many others, upon the confusion of the thing-in-itself with the manifestation. The principle of sufficient reason, of which the law of motivation is also a form, extends only to the latter, not to the former. It is only of phenomena, of individual things, that a ground can be given, never of the will itself, nor of the Idea in which it adequately objectifies itself. So then of every particular movement or change of any kind in nature, a cause is to be sought, that is, a condition that of necessity produced it, but never of the [pg 213] natural force itself which is revealed in this and innumerable similar phenomena; and it is therefore simple misunderstanding, arising from want of consideration, to ask for a cause of gravity, electricity, and so on. Only if one had somehow shown that gravity and electricity were not original special forces of nature, but only the manifestations of a more general force already known, would it be allowable to ask for the cause which made this force produce the phenomena of gravity or of electricity here. All this has been explained at length above. In the same way every particular act of will of a knowing individual (which is itself only a manifestation of will as the thing-in-itself) has necessarily a motive without which that act would never have occurred; but just as material causes contain merely the determination that at this time, in this place, and in this matter, a manifestation of this or that natural force must take place, so the motive determines only the act of will of a knowing being, at this time, in this place, and under these circumstances, as a particular act, but by no means determines that that being wills in general or wills in this manner; this is the expression of his intelligible character, which, as will itself, the thing-in-itself, is without ground, for it lies outside the province of the principle of sufficient reason. Therefore every man has permanent aims and motives by which he guides his conduct, and he can always give an account of his particular actions; but if he were asked why he wills at all, or why in general he wills to exist, he would have no answer, and the question would indeed seem to him meaningless; and this would be just the expression of his consciousness that he himself is nothing but will, whose willing stands by itself and requires more particular determination by motives only in its individual acts at each point of time.

In the meantime, one such question can be specifically considered, as it arises only when one hasn't fully grasped the meaning of the previous explanation, and can serve as an illustration of it. The question is this: Every will is directed towards something, has an object, an end to its willing; so what is the ultimate goal, or what is that will striving for that presents itself to us as the being-in-itself of the world? This question stems, like many others, from confusing the thing-in-itself with its manifestations. The principle of sufficient reason, of which the law of motivation is also a form, only applies to the latter, not to the former. A reason can only be provided for phenomena, for individual things, never for the will itself, nor for the Idea in which it fully expresses itself. Thus, for every specific movement or change in nature, a cause should be sought, meaning a condition that necessarily produced it, but never for the [pg 213] natural force itself that is revealed through this and countless similar phenomena; it is therefore a misunderstanding, stemming from a lack of consideration, to ask for a cause of gravity, electricity, and so forth. Only if it were somehow shown that gravity and electricity are not original special forces of nature, but merely manifestations of a more general force already known, would it be appropriate to ask for the cause that makes this force produce the phenomena of gravity or electricity here. All this has been explained extensively above. Similarly, every specific act of will by a knowing individual (which is itself just a manifestation of will as the thing-in-itself) necessarily has a motive, without which that act would never have occurred; but just as material causes only indicate that at this time, in this place, and in this matter, a manifestation of this or that natural force must take place, so the motive only determines the act of will of a knowing being, at this time, in this place, and under these circumstances, as a particular act, but it does not determine that the being wills in general or wills in this manner; this expression of his intelligible character, which, as will itself, the thing-in-itself, is groundless, since it lies outside the realm of the principle of sufficient reason. Therefore, every person has permanent aims and motives guiding their conduct, and they can always explain their specific actions; but if they were asked why they will at all, or why they will to exist in general, they would have no answer, and the question would seem meaningless to them; this reflects their awareness that they are nothing but will, whose willing exists independently and only requires more specific determination by motives in its individual acts at each moment.

In fact, freedom from all aim, from all limits, belongs to the nature of the will, which is an endless striving. This was already touched on above in the reference to [pg 214] centrifugal force. It also discloses itself in its simplest form in the lowest grade of the objectification of will, in gravitation, which we see constantly exerting itself, though a final goal is obviously impossible for it. For if, according to its will, all existing matter were collected in one mass, yet within this mass gravity, ever striving towards the centre, would still wage war with impenetrability as rigidity or elasticity. The tendency of matter can therefore only be confined, never completed or appeased. But this is precisely the case with all tendencies of all phenomena of will. Every attained end is also the beginning of a new course, and so on ad infinitum. The plant raises its manifestation from the seed through the stem and the leaf to the blossom and the fruit, which again is the beginning of a new seed, a new individual, that runs through the old course, and so on through endless time. Such also is the life of the animal; procreation is its highest point, and after attaining to it, the life of the first individual quickly or slowly sinks, while a new life ensures to nature the endurance of the species and repeats the same phenomena. Indeed, the constant renewal of the matter of every organism is also to be regarded as merely the manifestation of this continual pressure and change, and physiologists are now ceasing to hold that it is the necessary reparation of the matter wasted in motion, for the possible wearing out of the machine can by no means be equivalent to the support it is constantly receiving through nourishment. Eternal becoming, endless flux, characterises the revelation of the inner nature of will. Finally, the same thing shows itself in human endeavours and desires, which always delude us by presenting their satisfaction as the final end of will. As soon as we attain to them they no longer appear the same, and therefore they soon grow stale, are forgotten, and though not openly disowned, are yet always thrown aside as vanished illusions. We are fortunate enough if there [pg 215] still remains something to wish for and to strive after, that the game may be kept up of constant transition from desire to satisfaction, and from satisfaction to a new desire, the rapid course of which is called happiness, and the slow course sorrow, and does not sink into that stagnation that shows itself in fearful ennui that paralyses life, vain yearning without a definite object, deadening languor. According to all this, when the will is enlightened by knowledge, it always knows what it wills now and here, never what it wills in general; every particular act of will has its end, the whole will has none; just as every particular phenomenon of nature is determined by a sufficient cause so far as concerns its appearance in this place at this time, but the force which manifests itself in it has no general cause, for it belongs to the thing-in-itself, to the groundless will. The single example of self-knowledge of the will as a whole is the idea as a whole, the whole world of perception. It is the objectification, the revelation, the mirror of the will. What the will expresses in it will be the subject of our further consideration.43

In fact, freedom from any specific aim and from all limits is part of the nature of the will, which is an endless striving. This was already mentioned earlier in connection with [pg 214] centrifugal force. It also reveals itself in its simplest form in the lowest level of the will's objectification, which is gravitation. We constantly observe gravity at work, even though achieving a final goal is clearly impossible for it. Because if all existing matter were gathered into one mass as per its will, gravity would still be in a constant struggle toward the center, battling against impenetrability, rigidity, or elasticity. Therefore, the tendency of matter can only be restrained, never fully completed or satisfied. This is true for all tendencies of all phenomena of will. Every achieved goal is also the start of a new journey, and so on forever. The plant develops from the seed through the stem and leaves to the flower and fruit, which once again becomes the source of a new seed, a new individual, that goes through the same process, repeating endlessly. This is also the case for animals; procreation is the pinnacle of their lives, and once it is achieved, the life of the original individual diminishes rapidly or gradually, while a new life ensures the survival of the species and recurs with the same phenomena. In fact, the continuous renewal of the matter in every organism should also be viewed as just a manifestation of this ongoing pressure and change. Physiologists are beginning to abandon the idea that it's simply necessary repair of the matter lost in movement, since the wear of the machine can never equal the support it continuously gets from nourishment. Eternal becoming and endless change characterize the expression of the inner nature of will. Finally, the same principle can be seen in human ambitions and desires, which consistently mislead us by presenting their fulfillment as the ultimate goal of will. Once we achieve them, they don't seem the same anymore; thus, they soon fade, are forgotten, and although not openly rejected, they are inevitably dismissed as fleeting illusions. We are fortunate if there is still something left to wish for and pursue, allowing the continual shift from desire to fulfillment and from satisfaction to new desire, the swift flow of which we call happiness, while the slower progression is termed sorrow, and it doesn’t stagnate into that dreadful boredom that paralyzes life, full of aimless longing and lifeless fatigue. According to all this, when the will gains insight through knowledge, it always understands what it desires here and now, but never what it desires in general; each specific act of will has an end, but the overall will does not. Just like every particular phenomenon of nature is determined by a sufficient cause regarding its appearance in this place at this time, but the force that manifests within it has no universal cause, as it relates to the thing-in-itself, to the groundless will. The single example of self-awareness of will as a whole is the idea as a whole, the entire realm of perception. It embodies the objectification, the revelation, the reflection of the will. What the will expresses within it will be the focus of our further discussion.43

[pg 217]

Third Book. The World As Concept.

Second Aspect. The Idea Independent of the Principle of Sufficient Reason: The Platonic Idea: The Object of Art.

Τί τὸ ὄν μὲν ἀεί, γένεσιν δὲ οὐκ ἔχον; καὶ τί τό γιγνόμενον μὲν καὶ ἀπολλύμενον, ὄντως δε οὐδέποτε ὄν.——ΠΛΑΤΩΝ.

What is something that always exists but never comes into being? And what is something that is constantly changing and dying, yet doesn't truly exist? —PLATO.

[pg 219]

§ 30. In the First Book the world was explained as mere idea, object for a subject. In the Second Book we considered it from its other side, and found that in this aspect it is will, which proved to be simply that which this world is besides being idea. In accordance with this knowledge we called the world as idea, both as a whole and in its parts, the objectification of will, which therefore means the will become object, i.e., idea. Further, we remember that this objectification of will was found to have many definite grades, in which, with gradually increasing distinctness and completeness, the nature of will appears in the idea, that is to say, presents itself as object. In these grades we already recognised the Platonic Ideas, for the grades are just the determined species, or the original unchanging forms and qualities of all natural bodies, both organised and unorganised, and also the general forces which reveal themselves according to natural laws. These Ideas, then, as a whole express themselves in innumerable individuals and particulars, and are related to these as archetypes to their copies. The multiplicity of such individuals is only conceivable through time and space, their appearing and passing away through causality, and in all these forms we recognise merely the different modes of the principle of sufficient reason, which is the ultimate principle of all that is finite, of all individual existence, and the universal form of the idea as it appears in the knowledge of the individual as such. The Platonic Idea, on the other [pg 220] hand, does not come under this principle, and has therefore neither multiplicity nor change. While the individuals in which it expresses itself are innumerable, and unceasingly come into being and pass away, it remains unchanged as one and the same, and the principle of sufficient reason has for it no meaning. As, however, this is the form under which all knowledge of the subject comes, so far as the subject knows as an individual, the Ideas lie quite outside the sphere of its knowledge. If, therefore, the Ideas are to become objects of knowledge, this can only happen by transcending the individuality of the knowing subject. The more exact and detailed explanation of this is what will now occupy our attention.

§ 30. In the First Book, the world was described simply as an concept, an object for a subject. In the Second Book, we examined it from another perspective and found that, in this context, it is will, which turns out to be what this world is beyond just being an idea. Based on this understanding, we referred to the world, both as a whole and in its parts, as the objectification of free will, meaning the will made into an object, i.e., an idea. Furthermore, we noted that this objectification of will has many distinct levels, where, with gradually increasing clarity and completeness, the nature of will reveals itself in the idea, presenting itself as an object. In these levels, we already recognized the Platonic Ideas, as the levels represent the specific types or the original unchanging forms and qualities of all natural entities, both living and non-living, as well as the general forces that manifest according to natural laws. These Ideas, as a whole, express themselves through countless individuals and particulars and relate to these like archetypes to their copies. The diversity of such individuals can only be understood through time and space, their emergence and disappearance through causality, and in all these forms, we acknowledge merely the different expressions of the principle of sufficient reason, which is the fundamental principle of everything finite, of all individual existence, and the universal form of the idea as it appears in the knowledge of the individual as such. The Platonic Idea, on the other hand, does not conform to this principle, and thus has neither multiplicity nor change. While the individuals through which it manifests are countless and continuously come into existence and fade away, it remains unchanged as one and the same, and the principle of sufficient reason holds no significance for it. However, since this is the form through which all knowledge of the subject occurs, as far as the subject knows as an person, the Ideas are entirely outside the realm of its knowledge. Therefore, for the Ideas to become objects of knowledge, this can only occur by transcending the individuality of the knowing subject. A more precise and detailed explanation of this will now be our focus.

§ 31. First, however, the following very essential remark. I hope that in the preceding book I have succeeded in producing the conviction that what is called in the Kantian philosophy the thing-in-itself, and appears there as so significant, and yet so obscure and paradoxical a doctrine, and especially on account of the manner in which Kant introduced it as an inference from the caused to the cause, was considered a stumbling-stone, and, in fact, the weak side of his philosophy,—that this, I say, if it is reached by the entirely different way by which we have arrived at it, is nothing but the will when the sphere of that conception is extended and defined in the way I have shown. I hope, further, that after what has been said there will be no hesitation in recognising the definite grades of the objectification of the will, which is the inner reality of the world, to be what Plato called the eternal Ideas or unchangeable forms (ειδῆ); a doctrine which is regarded as the principal, but at the same time the most obscure and paradoxical dogma of his system, and has been the subject of reflection and controversy of ridicule and of reverence to so many and such differently endowed minds in the course of many centuries.

§ 31. First, however, I want to emphasize a crucial point. I hope that in the previous book I've been able to convince you that what is referred to in Kantian philosophy as the thing-in-itself—a concept that seems both significant and yet confusing and contradictory, especially given how Kant introduced it as an inference from effects to a cause—has often been seen as a stumbling block and really the weak point of his philosophy. I assert that if we approach it through the completely different means we have used, it becomes nothing more than the will when we broaden and clarify its scope in the way I've illustrated. Furthermore, I hope that after what has been discussed, there will be no doubt in acknowledging the specific levels of the objectification of the will— the true essence of the world—as what Plato termed the timeless Ideas or unchanging forms (ειδῆ); this doctrine is viewed as a central, yet simultaneously the most obscure and paradoxical tenet of his system, and has inspired reflection, debate, mockery, and admiration among many diverse thinkers over the centuries.

[pg 221]

If now the will is for us the thing-in-itself, and the Idea is the immediate objectivity of that will at a definite grade, we find that Kant's thing-in-itself, and Plato's Idea, which to him is the only οντως ον, these two great obscure paradoxes of the two greatest philosophers of the West are not indeed identical, but yet very closely related, and only distinguished by a single circumstance. The purport of these two great paradoxes, with all inner harmony and relationship, is yet so very different on account of the remarkable diversity of the individuality of their authors, that they are the best commentary on each other, for they are like two entirely different roads that conduct us to the same goal. This is easily made clear. What Kant says is in substance this:—“Time, space, and causality are not determinations of the thing-in-itself, but belong only to its phenomenal existence, for they are nothing but the forms of our knowledge. Since, however, all multiplicity, and all coming into being and passing away, are only possible through time, space, and causality, it follows that they also belong only to the phenomenon, not to the thing-in-itself. But as our knowledge is conditioned by these forms, the whole of experience is only knowledge of the phenomenon, not of the thing-in-itself; therefore its laws cannot be made valid for the thing-in-itself. This extends even to our own ego, and we know it only as phenomenon, and not according to what it may be in itself.” This is the meaning and content of the doctrine of Kant in the important respect we are considering. What Plato says is this:—“The things of this world which our senses perceive have no true being; they always become, they never are: they have only a relative being; they all exist merely in and through their relations to each other; their whole being may, therefore, quite as well be called a non-being. They are consequently not objects of a true knowledge (επιστημη), for such a knowledge can only be of what exists for itself, and always in the same way; [pg 222] they, on the contrary, are only the objects of an opinion based on sensation (δοξα μετ᾽ αισθησεως αλογου). So long as we are confined to the perception of these, we are like men who sit in a dark cave, bound so fast that they cannot turn their heads, and who see nothing but the shadows of real things which pass between them and a fire burning behind them, the light of which casts the shadows on the wall opposite them; and even of themselves and of each other they see only the shadows on the wall. Their wisdom would thus consist in predicting the order of the shadows learned from experience. The real archetypes, on the other hand, to which these shadows correspond, the eternal Ideas, the original forms of all things, can alone be said to have true being (οντως ον), because they always are, but never become nor pass away. To them belongs no multiplicity; for each of them is according to its nature only one, for it is the archetype itself, of which all particular transitory things of the same kind which are named after it are copies or shadows. They have also no coming into being nor passing away, for they are truly being, never becoming nor vanishing, like their fleeting shadows. (It is necessarily presupposed, however, in these two negative definitions, that time, space, and causality have no significance or validity for these Ideas, and that they do not exist in them.) Of these only can there be true knowledge, for the object of such knowledge can only be that which always and in every respect (thus in-itself) is; not that which is and again is not, according as we look at it.” This is Plato's doctrine. It is clear, and requires no further proof that the inner meaning of both doctrines is entirely the same; that both explain the visible world as a manifestation, which in itself is nothing, and which only has meaning and a borrowed reality through that which expresses itself in it (in the one case the thing-in-itself, in the other the Idea). To this last, which has true being, all the forms of that phenomenal existence, even [pg 223] the most universal and essential, are, according to both doctrines, entirely foreign. In order to disown these forms Kant has directly expressed them even in abstract terms, and distinctly refused time, space, and causality as mere forms of the phenomenon to the thing-in-itself. Plato, on the other hand, did not attain to the fullest expression, and has only distinctly refused these forms to his Ideas in that he denies of the Ideas what is only possible through these forms, multiplicity of similar things, coming into being and passing away. Though it is perhaps superfluous, I should like to illustrate this remarkable and important agreement by an example. There stands before us, let us suppose, an animal in the full activity of life. Plato would say, “This animal has no true existence, but merely an apparent existence, a constant becoming, a relative existence which may just as well be called non-being as being. Only the Idea which expresses itself in that animal is truly ‘being,’ or the animal in-itself (αυτο το θηριον), which is dependent upon nothing, but is in and for itself (καθ᾽ ἑαυτο, αει ὡς αυτως); it has not become, it will not end, but always is in the same way (αει ον, και μηδεποτε ουτε γυγνομενον ουτε απολλυμενον). If now we recognise its Idea in this animal, it is all one and of no importance whether we have this animal now before us or its progenitor of a thousand years ago, whether it is here or in a distant land, whether it presents itself in this or that manner, position, or action; whether, lastly, it is this or any other individual of the same species; all this is nothing, and only concerns the phenomenon; the Idea of the animal alone has true being, and is the object of real knowledge.” So Plato; Kant would say something of this kind, “This animal is a phenomenon in time, space, and causality, which are collectively the conditions a priori of the possibility of experience, lying in our faculty of knowledge, not determinations of the thing-in-itself. Therefore this animal as we perceive it at this definite point of time, in [pg 224] this particular place, as an individual in the connection of experience (i.e., in the chain of causes and effects), which has come into being, and will just as necessarily pass away, is not a thing-in-itself, but a phenomenon which only exists in relation to our knowledge. To know it as what it may be in itself, that is to say, independent of all the determinations which lie in time, space, and causality, would demand another kind of knowledge than that which is possible for us through the senses and the understanding.”

If we take the will to be the thing-in-itself, and the Idea as the immediate expression of that will at a specific level, we see that Kant's thing-in-itself and Plato's Idea, which he considers the only real being (οντως ον), are not exactly the same but are closely related, differing only in one aspect. The essence of these two significant paradoxes, despite their internal harmony and connection, is quite distinct due to the notable differences in the individuality of their authors. They serve as the best commentary on each other, as they are like two completely different paths leading to the same destination. This can be readily explained. Essentially, Kant argues: "Time, space, and causality aren't qualities of the thing-in-itself; they only relate to its observable existence since they are just the ways we understand things. All variations and occurrences of coming into being and fading away are only possible through time, space, and causality, so they belong exclusively to the phenomenon, not the thing-in-itself. Since our understanding is influenced by these forms, all experience is simply knowledge of the phenomenon, not of the thing-in-itself; thus, its laws can't apply to the thing-in-itself. This also holds true for our own ego, which we only experience as a phenomenon, not as it is in itself." This encapsulates Kant's doctrine regarding the essential points we are considering. Plato, on the other hand, expresses: The objects in this world that we perceive with our senses don’t have real existence; they are always becoming, never truly are: they only have relative existence; they exist only through their relationships with each other. Therefore, we could say their entire existence is basically non-being. As a result, they are not objects of true knowledge (επιστημη), since true knowledge only applies to what exists independently and remains constant; [pg 222] these objects are merely subjects of opinions based on perception (δοξα μετ᾽ αισθησεως αλογου). While we are limited to perceiving these objects, we are like people stuck in a dark cave, so tightly bound that they cannot turn their heads, seeing only the shadows of real things passing between them and a fire behind them. This fire projects the shadows on the wall in front; they only see the shadows of themselves and each other. Their understanding would consist of predicting the order of the shadows based on their experience. The true archetypes, to which these shadows correspond—the eternal Ideas, the original forms of all things—are the only ones that can be said to have true existence (οντως ον), as they always exist, without ever becoming or ceasing to exist. They have no multiplicity; each one is inherently singular, as it is the archetype itself, while all individual transient things of the same type named after it are mere copies or shadows. They also have no coming into being or passing away, because they represent true existence, never becoming or disappearing, unlike their fleeting shadows. (It is assumed in these two negative definitions that time, space, and causality are irrelevant to these Ideas, and do not exist within them.) Only these can be objects of true knowledge, because the subject of such knowledge can only be something that always exists in every aspect (thus in-itself); not something that exists at one moment and doesn’t the next, depending on our perception. This outlines Plato's doctrine. It is clear and requires no further proof that the fundamental meaning of both doctrines is entirely the same; each explains the visible world as a manifestation that, in itself, is nothing and only has meaning and a borrowed reality through what expresses itself in it (in one case, the thing-in-itself, in the other, the Idea). To this last, which holds true existence, all forms of that phenomenal existence, even [pg 223] the most universal and essential, are entirely foreign according to both doctrines. To reject these forms, Kant explicitly defined them in abstract terms and clearly dismissed time, space, and causality as mere forms of the phenomenon regarding the thing-in-itself. Plato, however, did not fully articulate this and only distinctly rejected these forms in relation to his Ideas by denying what is only feasible through them—multiplicity of similar things, coming into being, and passing away. Although it might be unnecessary, I’d like to illustrate this remarkable and significant agreement with an example. Imagine there is an animal full of life and activity before us. Plato would say, "This animal doesn't have true existence; it only has an apparent existence, a constant process of becoming, a relative existence that could just as easily be called non-being as being. Only the Idea expressed in that animal is truly ‘being,’ or the animal itself (αυτο το θηριον), which is independent of everything else and exists by and for itself (καθ᾽ ἑαυτο, αει ὡς αυτως); it hasn't come into being, it won't end, but always exists in the same way (αει ον, και μηδεποτε ουτε γυγνομενον ουτε απολλυμενον). If we recognize its Idea in this animal, it doesn't matter whether we see this animal now or its ancestor from a thousand years ago, whether it exists here or somewhere else, whether it appears in this or that way, position, or action; whether it is this specific individual or any other of its species; all of this is trivial and only pertains to the phenomenon; the Idea of the animal alone has true existence and is the subject of real knowledge." So spoke Plato; Kant would say something like this: "This animal is a phenomenon of time, space, and causality, which together form the necessary conditions a priori for the possibility of experience, existing within our cognitive abilities, not as traits of the thing-in-itself. Thus, this animal, as we perceive it right now in [pg 224] this specific location, as an individual within the context of experience (i.e., in the chain of causes and effects), which has come into existence and will eventually fade away, is not a thing-in-itself but a phenomenon that exists only in relation to our knowledge. To understand it as it might be in itself, that is, independent of all the conditions surrounding time, space, and causality, would require a different kind of understanding than what we can achieve through our senses and intellect."

In order to bring Kant's mode of expression nearer the Platonic, we might say: Time, space, and causality are that arrangement of our intellect by virtue of which the one being of each kind which alone really is, manifests itself to us as a multiplicity of similar beings, constantly appearing and disappearing in endless succession. The apprehension of things by means of and in accordance with this arrangement is immanent knowledge; that, on the other hand, which is conscious of the true state of the case, is transcendental knowledge. The latter is obtained in abstracto through the criticism of pure reason, but in exceptional cases it may also appear intuitively. This last is an addition of my own, which I am endeavouring in this Third Book to explain.

To bring Kant's way of expressing ideas closer to Plato's, we could say: Time, space, and causality are the framework of our intellect that allows the one true being of each kind, which genuinely exists, to show itself to us as a range of similar beings, continuously appearing and disappearing in an endless flow. Understanding things through this framework is immanent knowledge; on the other hand, knowledge that recognizes the true nature of things is transcendental knowledge. The latter is acquired in abstracto through the critique of pure reason, but in rare cases, it can also come through intuition. This final point is my own addition, which I am trying to clarify in this Third Book.

If the doctrine of Kant had ever been properly understood and grasped, and since Kant's time that of Plato, if men had truly and earnestly reflected on the inner meaning and content of the teaching of these two great masters, instead of involving themselves in the technicalities of the one and writing parodies of the style of the other, they could not have failed to discern long ago to what an extent these two great philosophers agree, and that the true meaning, the aim of both systems, is the same. Not only would they have refrained from constantly comparing Plato to Leibnitz, on whom his spirit certainly did not rest, or indeed to a [pg 225] well-known gentleman who is still alive,44 as if they wanted to mock the manes of the great thinker of the past; but they would have advanced much farther in general, or rather they would not have fallen so disgracefully far behind as they have in the last forty years. They would not have let themselves be led by the nose, to-day by one vain boaster and to-morrow by another, nor would they have opened the nineteenth century, which promised so much in Germany, with the philosophical farces that were performed over the grave of Kant (as the ancients sometimes did at the funeral obsequies of their dead), and which deservedly called forth the derision of other nations, for such things least become the earnest and strait-laced German. But so small is the chosen public of true philosophers, that even students who understand are but scantily brought them by the centuries—Εισι δη ναρθηκοφοροι μεν πολλοι, βακχοι δε γε παυροι (Thyrsigeri quidem multi, Baachi vero pauci). Ἡ ατιμια φιλοσοφιᾳ δια ταυτα προσπεπτωκεν, ὁτι ου κατ αξιαν αυτης ἁπτονται; ου γαρ νοθους εδει ἁπτεσθαι, αλλα γνησιους (Eam ob rem philosophia in infamiam incidit, quad non pro dignitate ipsam attingunt: neque enim a spuriis, sad a legitimis erat attrectanda).—Plato.

If Kant's ideas had ever been fully understood, and since his time, those of Plato, if people had genuinely and thoughtfully reflected on the deeper meanings and contents of the teachings of these two great thinkers, instead of getting lost in the technical details of one or writing parodies of the other's style, they would have recognized long ago how much these two philosophers agree, and that the true essence and purpose of both of their systems are the same. They wouldn’t have kept comparing Plato to Leibniz, whose spirit certainly didn’t align with his, or to a well-known living figure, as if they wanted to mock the legacy of the great thinker from the past. Instead, they would have made much greater progress overall, or rather, they wouldn’t have fallen so disappointingly behind over the last forty years. They wouldn’t have allowed themselves to be easily led, first by one arrogant figure and then another, nor would they have begun the nineteenth century, which held so much promise in Germany, with the philosophical mockeries that played out over Kant's grave (as the ancients sometimes did at their funerals), which rightfully drew ridicule from other nations, as such actions are least fitting for the serious and earnest German. But the audience of true philosophers is so scarce that even students who understand are only sparingly produced over the centuries—there are indeed many who carry the thyrsus, but few who are true Bacchae. Philosophy has fallen into disrepute for this reason, as it is not approached with the respect it deserves; for it should have been engaged with genuine thinkers, not impostors.

Men followed the words,—such words as a priori ideas,” “forms of perception and thought existing in consciousness independently of experience,” “fundamental conceptions of the pure understanding,” &c., &c.,—and asked whether Plato's Ideas, which were also original conceptions, and besides this were supposed to be reminiscences of a perception before life of the truly real things, were in some way the same as Kant's forms of perception and thought, which lie a priori in our consciousness. On account of some slight resemblance in the expression of these two entirely different doctrines, the Kantian doctrine of the forms which limit the knowledge of the individual to the phenomenon, and the Platonic doctrine [pg 226] of Ideas, the knowledge of which these very forms expressly deny, these so far diametrically opposed doctrines were carefully compared, and men deliberated and disputed as to whether they were identical, found at last that they were not the same, and concluded that Plato's doctrine of Ideas and Kant's “Critique of Reason” had nothing in common. But enough of this.45

Men followed the words—terms like “a priori ideas,” “ways of perceiving and thinking that exist in awareness without relying on experience,” "basic ideas of pure understanding," etc.—and wondered whether Plato's Ideas, which were original concepts and were also thought to be memories of a perception of the truly real things before life, were in some way similar to Kant's forms of perception and thought, which exist beforehand in our consciousness. Due to some slight similarity in the terminology of these two entirely different theories—the Kantian view of forms that limit individual knowledge to phenomena, and the Platonic view of Ideas, which these very forms deny—scholars carefully compared these opposing doctrines, debated whether they were the same, ultimately found they were not, and concluded that Plato's doctrine of Ideas and Kant's "Critique of Reason" had nothing in common. But enough of this.45

§ 32. It follows from our consideration of the subject, that, for us, Idea and thing-in-itself are not entirely one and the same, in spite of the inner agreement between Kant and Plato, and the identity of the aim they had before them, or the conception of the world which roused them and led them to philosophise. The Idea is for us rather the direct, and therefore adequate, objectivity of the thing-in-itself, which is, however, itself the will—the will as not yet objectified, not yet become idea. For the thing-in-itself must, even according to Kant, be free from all the forms connected with knowing as such; and it is merely an error on his part (as is shown in the Appendix) that he did not count among these forms, before all others, that of being object for a subject, for it is the first and most universal form of all phenomena, i.e., of all idea; he should therefore have distinctly denied objective existence to his thing-in-itself, which would have saved him from a great inconsistency that was soon discovered. The Platonic Idea, on the other hand, is necessarily object, something known, an idea, and in that respect is different from the thing-in-itself, but in that respect only. It has merely laid aside the subordinate forms of the phenomenon, all of which we include in the principle of sufficient reason, or rather it has not yet assumed them; but it has retained the first and most universal form, that of the idea in general, the form of being object for a subject. It is the forms [pg 227] which are subordinate to this (whose general expression is the principle of sufficient reason) that multiply the Idea in particular transitory individuals, whose number is a matter of complete indifference to the Idea. The principle of sufficient reason is thus again the form into which the Idea enters when it appears in the knowledge of the subject as individual. The particular thing that manifests itself in accordance with the principle of sufficient reason is thus only an indirect objectification of the thing-in-itself (which is the will), for between it and the thing-in-itself stands the Idea as the only direct objectivity of the will, because it has assumed none of the special forms of knowledge as such, except that of the idea in general, i.e., the form of being object for a subject. Therefore it alone is the most adequate objectivity of the will or thing-in-itself which is possible; indeed it is the whole thing-in-itself, only under the form of the idea; and here lies the ground of the great agreement between Plato and Kant, although, in strict accuracy, that of which they speak is not the same. But the particular things are no really adequate objectivity of the will, for in them it is obscured by those forms whose general expression is the principle of sufficient reason, but which are conditions of the knowledge which belongs to the individual as such. If it is allowable to draw conclusions from an impossible presupposition, we would, in fact, no longer know particular things, nor events, nor change, nor multiplicity, but would comprehend only Ideas,—only the grades of the objectification of that one will, of the thing-in-itself, in pure unclouded knowledge. Consequently our world would be a nunc stans, if it were not that, as knowing subjects, we are also individuals, i.e., our perceptions come to us through the medium of a body, from the affections of which they proceed, and which is itself only concrete willing, objectivity of the will, and thus is an object among objects, and as such comes into the knowing consciousness in the only way in [pg 228] which an object can, through the forms of the principle of sufficient reason, and consequently already presupposes, and therefore brings in, time, and all other forms which that principle expresses. Time is only the broken and piecemeal view which the individual being has of the Ideas, which are outside time, and consequently eternal. Therefore Plato says time is the moving picture of eternity: αιωνος εικων κινητη ὁ χρονος.46

§ 32. From our analysis of the topic, it follows that, for us, the Idea and the thing-in-itself are not entirely identical, despite the underlying agreement between Kant and Plato, and their shared philosophical goals and worldview. The Idea represents the direct and, therefore, adequate objectivity of the thing-in-itself, which is essentially the will—the will that has not been objectified or transformed into an idea yet. According to Kant, the thing-in-itself must be free from all forms associated with knowledge; it is merely a mistake on his part (as shown in the Appendix) that he did not recognize among these forms, above all others, the notion of being an object for a subject, as it is the first and most universal form of all phenomena, i.e., of all ideas. Therefore, he should have clearly denied objective existence to his thing-in-itself, which would have prevented a significant inconsistency that was later noted. The Platonic Idea, on the other hand, must be an object, something known, an idea, and in this respect is different from the thing-in-itself, but only in this regard. It has merely set aside the subordinate forms of the phenomenon, which we attribute to the principle of sufficient reason, or rather it has not yet taken them on; however, it has retained the first and most universal form, that of the idea in general, the form of being an object for a subject. The forms [pg 227] that are subordinate to this (whose general expression is the principle of sufficient reason) multiply the Idea into specific, transient individuals, the quantity of which does not matter to the Idea. The principle of sufficient reason thus becomes the form the Idea takes when it appears in the subject's knowledge as individual. The specific thing that manifests in accordance with the principle of sufficient reason is, therefore, only an indirect objectification of the thing-in-itself (which is the will), for between it and the thing-in-itself stands the Idea as the only direct objectivity of the will, since it has not adopted any of the special forms of knowledge, except for that of the idea in general, i.e., the form of being an object for a subject. Thus, it alone is the most sufficient objectivity of the will or thing-in-itself that is possible; indeed, it is the entire thing-in-itself, but only in the form of the idea; and this reveals the significant agreement between Plato and Kant, although, strictly speaking, what they refer to is not the same. However, the specific things do not provide a truly adequate objectivity of the will, as in them, it is obscured by those forms whose general expression is the principle of sufficient reason, which are conditions of the knowledge belonging to the individual. If we were to draw conclusions from an impossible assumption, we would ultimately not perceive specific things, nor events, changes, or multiplicity, but would only understand Ideas—only the degrees of the objectification of that one will, of the thing-in-itself, in pure, unobscured knowledge. Consequently, our world would be a standing now if it weren't for the fact that, as knowing subjects, we are also individuals, i.e., our perceptions come to us through the medium of a body, which influences them and is itself merely concrete willing, the objectivity of the will, and therefore exists as an object among objects, and enters the knowing consciousness in the only way in [pg 228] which an object can, through the forms of the principle of sufficient reason, thus presupposing and introducing time and all other forms that principle expresses. Time is merely the fragmented and piecemeal perspective that the individual being has of the Ideas, which exist outside of time, and are thus timeless. Therefore, Plato says that time is the moving image of eternity: αιωνος εικων κινητη ὁ χρονος.

§ 33. Since now, as individuals, we have no other knowledge than that which is subject to the principle of sufficient reason, and this form of knowledge excludes the Ideas, it is certain that if it is possible for us to raise ourselves from the knowledge of particular things to that of the Ideas, this can only happen by an alteration taking place in the subject which is analogous and corresponds to the great change of the whole nature of the object, and by virtue of which the subject, so far as it knows an Idea, is no more individual.

§ 33. Since we only know things based on the principle of sufficient reason, and this way of knowing leaves out the Ideas, it’s clear that if we can elevate our understanding from specific things to the Ideas, it can only happen through a shift in the subject that aligns with and reflects the profound change in the nature of the object. Because of this, when the subject understands an Idea, it is no longer just individual.

It will be remembered from the preceding book that knowledge in general belongs to the objectification of will at its higher grades, and sensibility, nerves, and brain, just like the other parts of the organised being, are the expression of the will at this stage of its objectivity, and therefore the idea which appears through them is also in the same way bound to the service of will as a means (μηχανη) for the attainment of its now complicated (πολυτελεστερα) aims for sustaining a being of manifold requirements. Thus originally and according to its nature, knowledge is completely subject to the will, and, like the immediate object, which, by means of the application of the law of causality, is its starting-point, all knowledge which proceeds in accordance with the principle of sufficient reason remains in a closer or more distant relation to the will. For the individual finds his body as an object among objects, to all of which it is related and connected according to the principle [pg 229] of sufficient reason. Thus all investigations of these relations and connections lead back to his body, and consequently to his will. Since it is the principle of sufficient reason which places the objects in this relation to the body, and, through it, to the will, the one endeavour of the knowledge which is subject to this principle will be to find out the relations in which objects are placed to each other through this principle, and thus to trace their innumerable connections in space, time, and causality. For only through these is the object interesting to the individual, i.e., related to the will. Therefore the knowledge which is subject to the will knows nothing further of objects than their relations, knows the objects only so far as they exist at this time, in this place, under these circumstances, from these causes, and with these effects—in a word, as particular things; and if all these relations were to be taken away, the objects would also have disappeared for it, because it knew nothing more about them. We must not disguise the fact that what the sciences consider in things is also in reality nothing more than this; their relations, the connections of time and space, the causes of natural changes, the resemblance of forms, the motives of actions,—thus merely relations. What distinguishes science from ordinary knowledge is merely its systematic form, the facilitating of knowledge by the comprehension of all particulars in the universal, by means of the subordination of concepts, and the completeness of knowledge which is thereby attained. All relation has itself only a relative existence; for example, all being in time is also non-being; for time is only that by means of which opposite determinations can belong to the same thing; therefore every phenomenon which is in time again is not, for what separates its beginning from its end is only time, which is essentially a fleeting, inconstant, and relative thing, here called duration. But time is the most universal form of all objects of the [pg 230] knowledge which is subject to the will, and the prototype of its other forms.

It will be remembered from the previous book that knowledge, in general, represents the manifestation of will at its more advanced levels. Sensibility, nerves, and the brain, just like other parts of a living being, express the will at this stage of its objectivity. Therefore, the ideas that come through them are also bound to serve the will as tools (μηχανη) to achieve its increasingly complex (πολυτελεστερα) goals for sustaining a being with diverse needs. Thus, fundamentally and inherently, knowledge is entirely subject to the will. Like the immediate object, which acts as its starting point through the application of the law of causality, all knowledge that follows the principle of sufficient reason has a closer or more distant relationship with the will. The individual perceives their body as an object among other objects, all of which relate and connect according to the principle [pg 229] of sufficient reason. Consequently, all investigations into these relationships lead back to the body and, subsequently, to the will. Since it is the principle of sufficient reason that positions objects in relation to the body, and through it to the will, the primary goal of knowledge adhering to this principle will be to uncover how objects relate to one another through it, thereby tracing their countless connections in space, time, and causality. Only through these connections does the object issue to the individual, i.e., relate to the will. Therefore, knowledge bound to the will does not know anything beyond the objects' relationships; it understands the objects only as they exist at this time, in this place, under these circumstances, stemming from these causes, and leading to these effects—in essence, as specific things. If all these relationships were removed, the objects would likewise cease to exist for it because it knows nothing more about them. We should not overlook the fact that what the sciences analyze in things is essentially just this: their relationships, the connections of time and space, the causes of natural changes, the similarities of forms, and the motivations for actions—all merely relationships. What sets science apart from ordinary knowledge is simply its systematic structure, which facilitates comprehension by organizing all particulars into universals through the subordination of concepts, and the completeness of knowledge reached in that way. All relations possess only a relative existence; for instance, everything existing in time is also not-existing; time is merely the means through which opposite determinations can apply to the same thing. Therefore, every phenomenon that exists in time is also not, as what separates its beginning from its end is simply time, which is inherently fleeting, unstable, and relative—here referred to as duration. Nonetheless, time is the most universal form of all objects of the [pg 230] knowledge that is subject to the will and serves as the prototype for its other forms.

Knowledge now, as a rule, remains always subordinate to the service of the will, as indeed it originated for this service, and grew, so to speak, to the will, as the head to the body. In the case of the brutes this subjection of knowledge to the will can never be abolished. In the case of men it can be abolished only in exceptional cases, which we shall presently consider more closely. This distinction between man and brute is outwardly expressed by the difference of the relation of the head to the body. In the case of the lower brutes both are deformed: in all brutes the head is directed towards the earth, where the objects of its will lie; even in the higher species the head and the body are still far more one than in the case of man, whose head seems freely set upon his body, as if only carried by and not serving it. This human excellence is exhibited in the highest degree by the Apollo of Belvedere; the head of the god of the Muses, with eyes fixed on the far distance, stands so freely on his shoulders that it seems wholly delivered from the body, and no more subject to its cares.

Knowledge today, as a general rule, is primarily focused on serving the will, as that’s how it originated and developed, much like the head is to the body. For animals, this subordination of knowledge to the will can never be changed. For humans, it can only be overturned in rare instances, which we'll examine in more detail shortly. This difference between humans and animals is visibly represented by how the head relates to the body. In lower animals, both are misshapen: in all animals, the head is directed toward the ground, where the objects of desire are located; even in higher species, the head and body are much more connected than in humans, whose heads appear to be freely placed on their bodies, as if they are carried by them rather than serving them. This human superiority is most clearly illustrated by the Apollo of Belvedere; the head of the god of the Muses, with his gaze fixed on the horizon, rests so freely on his shoulders that it seems entirely free from the body, no longer burdened by its concerns.

§ 34. The transition which we have referred to as possible, but yet to be regarded as only exceptional, from the common knowledge of particular things to the knowledge of the Idea, takes place suddenly; for knowledge breaks free from the service of the will, by the subject ceasing to be merely individual, and thus becoming the pure will-less subject of knowledge, which no longer traces relations in accordance with the principle of sufficient reason, but rests in fixed contemplation of the object presented to it, out of its connection with all others, and rises into it.

§ 34. The transition we've mentioned as possible, though it's still considered exceptional, from common knowledge of specific things to the understanding of the Idea happens suddenly. Knowledge detaches from the will's demands when the individual no longer sees themselves as just one person, becoming instead the pure, will-less observer of knowledge. This observer no longer connects things based on the principle of sufficient reason but instead focuses intently on the object in front of them, independent of everything else, and starts to elevate their understanding of it.

A full explanation is necessary to make this clear, and the reader must suspend his surprise for a while, till he has grasped the whole thought expressed in this work, and then it will vanish of itself.

A complete explanation is needed to clarify this, and the reader must hold off their surprise for a bit until they understand the entire idea presented in this work, at which point it will disappear on its own.

[pg 231]

If, raised by the power of the mind, a man relinquishes the common way of looking at things, gives up tracing, under the guidance of the forms of the principle of sufficient reason, their relations to each other, the final goal of which is always a relation to his own will; if he thus ceases to consider the where, the when, the why, and the whither of things, and looks simply and solely at the what; if, further, he does not allow abstract thought, the concepts of the reason, to take possession of his consciousness, but, instead of all this, gives the whole power of his mind to perception, sinks himself entirely in this, and lets his whole consciousness be filled with the quiet contemplation of the natural object actually present, whether a landscape, a tree, a mountain, a building, or whatever it may be; inasmuch as he loses himself in this object (to use a pregnant German idiom), i.e., forgets even his individuality, his will, and only continues to exist as the pure subject, the clear mirror of the object, so that it is as if the object alone were there, without any one to perceive it, and he can no longer separate the perceiver from the perception, but both have become one, because the whole consciousness is filled and occupied with one single sensuous picture; if thus the object has to such an extent passed out of all relation to something outside it, and the subject out of all relation to the will, then that which is so known is no longer the particular thing as such; but it is the Idea, the eternal form, the immediate objectivity of the will at this grade; and, therefore, he who is sunk in this perception is no longer individual, for in such perception the individual has lost himself; but he is pure, will-less, painless, timeless subject of knowledge. This, which in itself is so remarkable (which I well know confirms the saying that originated with Thomas Paine, Du sublime au ridicule il n'y a qu'un pas), will by degrees become clearer and less surprising from what follows. It was this that was running in Spinoza's mind when he wrote: Meus æterna est, quatenus res sub æternitatis specie [pg 232]concipit (Eth. V. pr. 31, Schol.)47 In such contemplation the particular thing becomes at once the Idea of its species, and the perceiving individual becomes pure subject of knowledge. The individual, as such, knows only particular things; the pure subject of knowledge knows only Ideas. For the individual is the subject of knowledge in its relation to a definite particular manifestation of will, and in subjection to this. This particular manifestation of will is, as such, subordinated to the principle of sufficient reason in all its forms; therefore, all knowledge which relates itself to it also follows the principle of sufficient reason, and no other kind of knowledge is fitted to be of use to the will but this, which always consists merely of relations to the object. The knowing individual as such, and the particular things known by him, are always in some place, at some time, and are links in the chain of causes and effects. The pure subject of knowledge and his correlative, the Idea, have passed out of all these forms of the principle of sufficient reason: time, place, the individual that knows, and the individual that is known, have for them no meaning. When an individual knower has raised himself in the manner described to be pure subject of knowledge, and at the same time has raised the observed object to the Platonic Idea, the world as idea appears complete and pure, and the full objectification of the will takes place, for the Platonic Idea alone is its adequate objectivity. The Idea includes object and subject in like manner in itself, for they are its one form; but in it they are absolutely of equal importance; for as the object is here, as elsewhere, simply the idea of the subject, the subject, which passes entirely into the perceived object has thus become this object itself, for the whole consciousness is nothing but its perfectly [pg 233] distinct picture. Now this consciousness constitutes the whole world as idea, for one imagines the whole of the Platonic Ideas, or grades of the objectivity of will, in their series passing through it. The particular things of all time and space are nothing but Ideas multiplied through the principle of sufficient reason (the form of the knowledge of the individual as such), and thus obscured as regards their pure objectivity. When the Platonic Idea appears, in it subject and object are no longer to be distinguished, for the Platonic Idea, the adequate objectivity of will, the true world as idea, arises only when the subject and object reciprocally fill and penetrate each other completely; and in the same way the knowing and the known individuals, as things in themselves, are not to be distinguished. For if we look entirely away from the true world as idea, there remains nothing but the world as will. The will is the “in-itself” of the Platonic Idea, which fully objectifies it; it is also the “in-itself” of the particular thing and of the individual that knows it, which objectify it incompletely. As will, outside the idea and all its forms, it is one and the same in the object contemplated and in the individual, who soars aloft in this contemplation, and becomes conscious of himself as pure subject. These two are, therefore, in themselves not different, for in themselves they are will, which here knows itself; and multiplicity and difference exist only as the way in which this knowledge comes to the will, i.e., only in the phenomenon, on account of its form, the principle of sufficient reason.

If a person, through the power of their mind, lets go of the usual way of viewing things, stops trying to trace connections under the principle of sufficient reason, which ultimately ties back to their own will; if they cease to consider the where, when, why, and whither of things, and instead focus solely on the what; if, furthermore, they do not let abstract thought, the concepts of reason, dominate their consciousness, but instead, dedicate their entire mental focus to perception, losing themselves completely in this, allowing their whole awareness to be filled with the quiet contemplation of the actual natural object in front of them—be it a landscape, a tree, a mountain, a building, or anything else; as they lose themselves in this object (to use a powerful German saying), i.e., they forget their individuality, their will, and merely exist as the pure subject, a clear mirror of the object, as if only the object were present, with no one to perceive it. They can no longer distinguish between the perceiver and perception; both have merged into one, because their whole consciousness is filled and occupied by a single sensory image; if the object has completely lost any relation to something outside of itself, and the subject has completely lost all relation to the will, then what is known is no longer that particular thing as such; it is the Concept, the eternal form, the immediate objectivity of the will at that level; thus, someone lost in this perception is no longer an individual, for in such perception the individual has lost themselves; they are clean, will-less, painless, timeless knowledge topic. This, which is notably remarkable (which I know well confirms the saying from Thomas Paine, From the sublime to the ridiculous, there's only one step.), will gradually become clearer and less surprising from what follows. This notion was in Spinoza's mind when he wrote: My eternity exists, as far as things are understood under the appearance of eternity [pg 232]conceives (Eth. V. pr. 31, Schol.)47 In such contemplation, the specific thing simultaneously becomes the Concept of its kind, and the perceiving individual becomes pure knowledge subject. The individual, as such, knows only specific things; the pure subject of knowledge knows only Ideas. The individual is the subject of knowledge in relation to a specific manifestation of will, and is bound by it. This specific manifestation of will is, as such, subordinated to the principle of sufficient reason in all its forms; therefore, all knowledge that relates to it also follows the principle of sufficient reason, and no other kind of knowledge serves the will but this, which consists solely of relationships to the object. The knowing individual and the specific things they know are always located in some place, at some time, and are links in the chain of causes and effects. The pure subject of knowledge and its corresponding Idea have transcended all these forms of the principle of sufficient reason: time, place, the individual that knows, and the individual that is known, hold no meaning for them. When an individual knower has elevated themselves in this manner to become a pure subject of knowledge, and simultaneously has elevated the observed object to the Platonic Idea, the world as concept appears complete and pure, and the full objectification of the will occurs, for the Platonic Idea alone represents its sufficient objectivity. The Idea encompasses both object and subject within itself; they are one form; but within it, they are of equal significance; the object here is simply the idea of the subject, and the subject, which fully merges into the perceived object thus becomes this object itself, for the entire consciousness is nothing but a perfectly [pg 233] distinct image. This consciousness constitutes the entire world as concept, for one can envision the entirety of the Platonic Ideas, or levels of the objectivity of will, passing through it in their series. The specific things of all time and space are nothing but Ideas multiplied through the principle of sufficient reason (the form of knowledge of the individual as such), thus obscuring their pure objectivity. When the Platonic Idea emerges, subject and object can no longer be differentiated, for the Platonic Idea, the adequate objectivity of will, the true world as idea, arises only when the subject and object completely fill and permeate one another; likewise, the knowing and known individuals, as things in themselves, cannot be distinguished. If we completely disregard the true world as concept, what remains is only the world as it will. The will is the “in itself” of the Platonic Idea, which fully objectifies it; it is also the "in itself" of the particular thing and of the individual that knows it, which objectify it incompletely. As will, outside the idea and all its forms, it remains the same in the object contemplated and in the individual, who soars in this contemplation and becomes aware of themselves as pure subject. Therefore, these two are not different in themselves, for in themselves they are will, which here knows itself; multiplicity and difference exist only in how this knowledge presents itself to the will, i.e., only in the phenomenon, due to its form, the principle of sufficient reason.

Now the known thing, without me as the subject of knowledge, is just as little an object, and not mere will, blind effort, as without the object, without the idea, I am a knowing subject and not mere blind will. This will is in itself, i.e., outside the idea, one and the same with mine: only in the world as idea, whose form is always at least that of subject and object, we are separated as the known and the knowing individual. As [pg 234] soon as knowledge, the world as idea, is abolished, there remains nothing but mere will, blind effort. That it should receive objectivity, become idea, supposes at once both subject and object; but that this should be pure, complete, and adequate objectivity of the will, supposes the object as Platonic Idea, free from the forms of the principle of sufficient reason, and the subject as the pure subject of knowledge, free from individuality and subjection to the will.

Now, what is known, without me as the one who knows, is just as little an object, and not just blind will or effort, as without the object, without the idea, I am a knowing subject and not just blind will. This will, in itself, i.e., outside the idea, is one and the same as mine: it’s only in the world as idea, which always takes the form of subject and object, that we are separated as the known and the knowing individual. As [pg 234] soon as knowledge, the world as idea, is abolished, all that remains is just blind will and effort. For it to gain objectivity and become an idea requires both subject and object; but for this to be pure, complete, and adequate objectivity of the will, it requires the object to be a Platonic Idea, free from the forms of the principle of sufficient reason, and the subject to be the pure subject of knowledge, free from individuality and subjection to the will.

Whoever now, has, after the manner referred to, become so absorbed and lost in the perception of nature that he only continues to exist as the pure knowing subject, becomes in this way directly conscious that, as such, he is the condition, that is, the supporter, of the world and all objective existence; for this now shows itself as dependent upon his existence. Thus he draws nature into himself, so that he sees it to be merely an accident of his own being. In this sense Byron says—

Whoever now, has become so immersed in experiencing nature that they only exist as a pure observer, realizes that, in this way, they are the foundation, or supporter, of the world and all objective reality; for this now reveals itself to depend on their existence. Thus, they internalize nature, seeing it as just a byproduct of their own being. In this sense, Byron says—

Aren't the mountains, waves, and skies a part
What about me and my soul, as I think about them?

But how shall he who feels this, regard himself as absolutely transitory, in contrast to imperishable nature? Such a man will rather be filled with the consciousness, which the Upanishad of the Veda expresses: Hæ omnes creaturæ in totum ego sum, et præter me aliud ens non est (Oupnek'hat, i. 122).48

But how can someone who feels this see himself as completely temporary, in contrast to everlasting nature? That person will instead be filled with the awareness that the Upanishad of the Veda conveys: Hey, all beings, I am everything, and apart from me, there is no other being. (Oupnek'hat, i. 122).48

§ 35. In order to gain a deeper insight into the nature of the world, it is absolutely necessary that we should learn to distinguish the will as thing-in-itself from its adequate objectivity, and also the different grades in which this appears more and more distinctly and fully, i.e., the Ideas themselves, from the merely phenomenal existence of these Ideas in the forms of the principle of sufficient reason, the restricted method of knowledge of the individual. We shall then agree with Plato when he [pg 235] attributes actual being only to the Ideas, and allows only an illusive, dream-like existence to things in space and time, the real world for the individual. Then we shall understand how one and the same Idea reveals itself in so many phenomena, and presents its nature only bit by bit to the individual, one side after another. Then we shall also distinguish the Idea itself from the way in which its manifestation appears in the observation of the individual, and recognise the former as essential and the latter as unessential. Let us consider this with the help of examples taken from the most insignificant things, and also from the greatest. When the clouds move, the figures which they form are not essential, but indifferent to them; but that as elastic vapour they are pressed together, drifted along, spread out, or torn asunder by the force of the wind: this is their nature, the essence of the forces which objectify themselves in them, the Idea; their actual forms are only for the individual observer. To the brook that flows over stones, the eddies, the waves, the foam-flakes which it forms are indifferent and unessential; but that it follows the attraction of gravity, and behaves as inelastic, perfectly mobile, formless, transparent fluid: this is its nature; this, if known through perception, is its Idea; these accidental forms are only for us so long as we know as individuals. The ice on the window-pane forms itself into crystals according to the laws of crystallisation, which reveal the essence of the force of nature that appears here, exhibit the Idea; but the trees and flowers which it traces on the pane are unessential, and are only there for us. What appears in the clouds, the brook, and the crystal is the weakest echo of that will which appears more fully in the plant, more fully still in the beast, and most fully in man. But only the essential in all these grades of its objectification constitutes the Idea; on the other hand, its unfolding or development, because broken up in the forms of the principle of sufficient reason into a multiplicity of many-sided [pg 236] phenomena, is unessential to the Idea, lies merely in the kind of knowledge that belongs to the individual and has reality only for this. The same thing necessarily holds good of the unfolding of that Idea which is the completest objectivity of will. Therefore, the history of the human race, the throng of events, the change of times, the multifarious forms of human life in different lands and countries, all this is only the accidental form of the manifestation of the Idea, does not belong to the Idea itself, in which alone lies the adequate objectivity of the will, but only to the phenomenon which appears in the knowledge of the individual, and is just as foreign, unessential, and indifferent to the Idea itself as the figures which they assume are to the clouds, the form of its eddies and foam-flakes to the brook, or its trees and flowers to the ice.

§ 35. To gain a deeper understanding of the world, we need to learn to differentiate the will as a thing-in-itself from its adequate objectivity. We also need to recognize the various levels at which this becomes clearer and more complete, i.e., the Ideas themselves, as opposed to the merely apparent existence of these Ideas through the principle of sufficient reason, which limits our knowledge to individual cases. We will then agree with Plato when he claims that true reality belongs only to the Ideas, while granting only a deceptive, dream-like existence to things in space and time, which make up the real world for the individual. We will see how a single Idea can manifest in many phenomena, revealing its nature bit by bit to the individual, one aspect at a time. Additionally, we will distinguish the Idea itself from how it appears in individual observation, recognizing the former as essential and the latter as unessential. Let’s explore this with examples ranging from the most trivial to the most significant. When clouds move, the shapes they form are unimportant and indifferent to them; however, their nature as elastic vapor, being pushed together, floated, spread out, or torn apart by the wind's force is essential—this is their nature, the essence of the forces that manifest as them, the Idea. Their actual forms only matter to the individual observer. For the brook flowing over stones, the eddies, waves, and foam it creates are unimportant; but its behavior under the influence of gravity, acting as an inelastic, perfectly mobile, formless, transparent fluid, represents its nature—this, if known through perception, is its Idea; these transient forms only exist for us as long as we understand them individually. The ice on the windowpane crystallizes according to the laws of crystallization, which reveal the essence of the natural force at play, showcasing the Idea; meanwhile, the trees and flowers traced by the ice are unessential, existing solely for our observation. What we see in the clouds, the brook, and the crystal is the faintest echo of that will, which manifests more completely in plants, even more so in animals, and most fully in humans. Only the essential aspects of these various manifestations make up the Idea; conversely, its unfolding or development, broken down by the principle of sufficient reason into a multitude of diverse phenomena, is unessential to the Idea and resides only in the type of knowledge connected to the individual, having reality solely for them. This holds true for the unfolding of the Idea that represents the most complete objectivity of the will. Therefore, the history of humanity, the rush of events, the changing times, the diverse forms of human life across different regions and countries—all of this is merely an accidental form of the Idea's manifestation, not part of the Idea itself, which contains the adequate objectivity of the will, but is tied only to the phenomenon perceived by individuals, and is as foreign, unessential, and indifferent to the Idea itself as the shapes assumed by clouds are to them, the shapes of eddies and foam to the brook, or the trees and flowers to the ice.

To him who has thoroughly grasped this, and can distinguish between the will and the Idea, and between the Idea and its manifestation, the events of the world will have significance only so far as they are the letters out of which we may read the Idea of man, but not in and for themselves. He will not believe with the vulgar that time may produce something actually new and significant; that through it, or in it, something absolutely real may attain to existence, or indeed that it itself as a whole has beginning and end, plan and development, and in some way has for its final aim the highest perfection (according to their conception) of the last generation of man, whose life is a brief thirty years. Therefore he will just as little, with Homer, people a whole Olympus with gods to guide the events of time, as, with Ossian, he will take the forms of the clouds for individual beings; for, as we have said, both have just as much meaning as regards the Idea which appears in them. In the manifold forms of human life and in the unceasing change of events, he will regard the Idea only as the abiding and essential, in which the will to live has its fullest objectivity, [pg 237] and which shows its different sides in the capacities, the passions, the errors and the excellences of the human race; in self-interest, hatred, love, fear, boldness, frivolity, stupidity, slyness, wit, genius, and so forth, all of which crowding together and combining in thousands of forms (individuals), continually create the history of the great and the little world, in which it is all the same whether they are set in motion by nuts or by crowns. Finally, he will find that in the world it is the same as in the dramas of Gozzi, in all of which the same persons appear, with like intention, and with a like fate; the motives and incidents are certainly different in each piece, but the spirit of the incidents is the same; the actors in one piece know nothing of the incidents of another, although they performed in it themselves; therefore, after all experience of former pieces, Pantaloon has become no more agile or generous, Tartaglia no more conscientious, Brighella no more courageous, and Columbine no more modest.

For someone who truly understands this and can tell the difference between will and the Idea, and between the Idea and its expression, the events of the world will only matter to the extent that they are the letters from which we can decipher the Idea of humanity, but not for their own sake. They won’t fall for the common belief that time can create something truly new and meaningful; that through time, or within it, something entirely real can come into being, or that time itself has a beginning and an end, a purpose, and a development that somehow aims for the highest perfection (according to their view) of the last generation of humanity, which has a brief lifespan of thirty years. Consequently, they will neither, like Homer, populate an entire Olympus with gods overseeing the events of time, nor will they, like Ossian, mistake the shapes of clouds for individual beings; because, as mentioned, both have just as much significance concerning the Idea they represent. In the diverse forms of human life and the continuous changes in events, they will see the Idea as the enduring and fundamental truth, where the will to live finds its fullest expression, [pg 237] revealing its various aspects through the capacities, passions, mistakes, and virtues of humanity; in self-interest, hatred, love, fear, bravery, silliness, cunning, humor, and brilliance, all mixing and combining in countless forms (individuals), continually crafting the history of both the grand and the mundane, whether they are driven by trivialities or by crowns. Ultimately, they will find that the world resembles the plays of Gozzi, where the same characters appear, with similar intentions and fates; the motivations and events differ in each play, but the spirit behind them remains consistent; the actors in one play are unaware of the events in another, even though they performed in it themselves; thus, after all the experiences of previous plays, Pantaloon has not become more agile or generous, Tartaglia has not become more reliable, Brighella has not become more courageous, and Columbine has not become more modest.

Suppose we were allowed for once a clearer glance into the kingdom of the possible, and over the whole chain of causes and effects; if the earth-spirit appeared and showed us in a picture all the greatest men, enlighteners of the world, and heroes, that chance destroyed before they were ripe for their work; then the great events that would have changed the history of the world and brought in periods of the highest culture and enlightenment, but which the blindest chance, the most insignificant accident, hindered at the outset; lastly, the splendid powers of great men, that would have enriched whole ages of the world, but which, either misled by error or passion, or compelled by necessity, they squandered uselessly on unworthy or unfruitful objects, or even wasted in play. If we saw all this, we would shudder and lament at the thought of the lost treasures of whole periods of the world. But the earth-spirit would smile and say, “The source from which the individuals and their powers [pg 238] proceed is inexhaustible and unending as time and space; for, like these forms of all phenomena, they also are only phenomena, visibility of the will. No finite measure can exhaust that infinite source; therefore an undiminished eternity is always open for the return of any event or work that was nipped in the bud. In this world of phenomena true loss is just as little possible as true gain. The will alone is; it is the thing in-itself, and the source of all these phenomena. Its self-knowledge and its assertion or denial, which is then decided upon, is the only event in-itself.”49

Suppose we were given a rare chance to take a clearer look into the realm of possibilities and the entire chain of causes and effects; if the earth-spirit appeared and showed us in a depiction all the greatest individuals—those who enlightened the world and the heroes—who chance destroyed before they could fulfill their purpose; then we would see the significant events that could have changed the course of history and ushered in periods of the highest culture and enlightenment, but which blind chance and the most trivial accidents stopped at the start; finally, the incredible talents of great individuals that could have enriched entire eras, but which, either misled by mistakes or strong emotions, or forced by circumstances, they wasted pointless on unworthy or fruitless pursuits, or even squandered on trivial pursuits. If we witnessed all this, we would shudder and mourn over the thought of the lost treasures of entire eras. But the earth-spirit would smile and say, "The source from which individuals and their powers come is as endless and eternal as time and space; because, like these forms of all phenomena, they too are simply phenomena, expressions of the will. No limited measure can drain that infinite source; therefore, an undiminished eternity is always available for the return of any event or effort that was cut short. In this world of phenomena, true loss is just as impossible as true gain. The will is the only constant; it is the essence and the source of all these phenomena. Its self-awareness and its decisions—whether to affirm or deny—are the only true events in themselves."49

§ 36. History follows the thread of events; it is pragmatic so far as it deduces them in accordance with the law of motivation, a law that determines the self-manifesting will wherever it is enlightened by knowledge. At the lowest grades of its objectivity, where it still acts without knowledge, natural science, in the form of etiology, treats of the laws of the changes of its phenomena, and, in the form of morphology, of what is permanent in them. This almost endless task is lightened by the aid of concepts, which comprehend what is general in order that we may deduce what is particular from it. Lastly, mathematics treats of the mere forms, time and space, in which the Ideas, broken up into multiplicity, appear for the knowledge of the subject as individual. All these, of which the common name is science, proceed according to the principle of sufficient reason in its different forms, and their theme is always the phenomenon, its laws, connections, and the relations which result from them. But what kind of knowledge is concerned with that which is outside and independent of all relations, that which alone is really essential to the world, the true content of its phenomena, that which is subject to no change, and therefore is known with equal truth for all time, in a word, the Ideas, which are the direct and adequate objectivity [pg 239] of the thing in-itself, the will? We answer, Art, the work of genius. It repeats or reproduces the eternal Ideas grasped through pure contemplation, the essential and abiding in all the phenomena of the world; and according to what the material is in which it reproduces, it is sculpture or painting, poetry or music. Its one source is the knowledge of Ideas; its one aim the communication of this knowledge. While science, following the unresting and inconstant stream of the fourfold forms of reason and consequent, with each end attained sees further, and can never reach a final goal nor attain full satisfaction, any more than by running we can reach the place where the clouds touch the horizon; art, on the contrary, is everywhere at its goal. For it plucks the object of its contemplation out of the stream of the world's course, and has it isolated before it. And this particular thing, which in that stream was a small perishing part, becomes to art the representative of the whole, an equivalent of the endless multitude in space and time. It therefore pauses at this particular thing; the course of time stops; the relations vanish for it; only the essential, the Idea, is its object. We may, therefore, accurately define it as the way of viewing things independent of the principle of sufficient reason, in opposition to the way of viewing them which proceeds in accordance with that principle, and which is the method of experience and of science. This last method of considering things may be compared to a line infinitely extended in a horizontal direction, and the former to a vertical line which cuts it at any point. The method of viewing things which proceeds in accordance with the principle of sufficient reason is the rational method, and it alone is valid and of use in practical life and in science. The method which looks away from the content of this principle is the method of genius, which is only valid and of use in art. The first is the method of Aristotle; the second is, on the whole, that of Plato. The first is like [pg 240] the mighty storm, that rushes along without beginning and without aim, bending, agitating, and carrying away everything before it; the second is like the silent sunbeam, that pierces through the storm quite unaffected by it. The first is like the innumerable showering drops of the waterfall, which, constantly changing, never rest for an instant; the second is like the rainbow, quietly resting on this raging torrent. Only through the pure contemplation described above, which ends entirely in the object, can Ideas be comprehended; and the nature of genius consists in pre-eminent capacity for such contemplation. Now, as this requires that a man should entirely forget himself and the relations in which he stands, genius is simply the completest objectivity, i.e., the objective tendency of the mind, as opposed to the subjective, which is directed to one's own self—in other words, to the will. Thus genius is the faculty of continuing in the state of pure perception, of losing oneself in perception, and of enlisting in this service the knowledge which originally existed only for the service of the will; that is to say, genius is the power of leaving one's own interests, wishes, and aims entirely out of sight, thus of entirely renouncing one's own personality for a time, so as to remain pure knowing subject, clear vision of the world; and this not merely at moments, but for a sufficient length of time, and with sufficient consciousness, to enable one to reproduce by deliberate art what has thus been apprehended, and “to fix in lasting thoughts the wavering images that float before the mind.” It is as if, when genius appears in an individual, a far larger measure of the power of knowledge falls to his lot than is necessary for the service of an individual will; and this superfluity of knowledge, being free, now becomes subject purified from will, a clear mirror of the inner nature of the world. This explains the activity, amounting even to disquietude, of men of genius, for the present can seldom satisfy them, because it does not fill their consciousness. This gives [pg 241] them that restless aspiration, that unceasing desire for new things, and for the contemplation of lofty things, and also that longing that is hardly ever satisfied, for men of similar nature and of like stature, to whom they might communicate themselves; whilst the common mortal, entirely filled and satisfied by the common present, ends in it, and finding everywhere his like, enjoys that peculiar satisfaction in daily life that is denied to genius.

§ 36. History follows the sequence of events; it is practical as it explains them based on the law of motivation, which guides the self-manifesting will wherever it is enlightened by knowledge. At its most basic level, where it still operates without knowledge, natural science, as etiology, studies the laws governing changes in its phenomena, and, in the form of morphology, examines what is constant within them. This almost limitless task is aided by concepts that encompass the general in order to deduce the specific from it. Finally, mathematics deals with the mere forms, time and space, in which the Ideas, fragmented into diversity, appear for individual understanding as specific entities. All of these, collectively known as science, operate under the principle of sufficient reason in its various forms, and their subject matter is always the phenomenon, its laws, connections, and the relationships that emerge from them. But what kind of knowledge concerns what is outside and independent of all relations, what is truly essential to the world, the real content of its phenomena, that which is unchanging, and therefore known with equal accuracy for all time, in short, the Ideas, which are the direct and accurate objectivity [pg 239] of the thing-in-itself, the will? We respond, Art, the product of genius. It repeats or reproduces the eternal Ideas understood through pure contemplation, the essential and enduring aspects of all the phenomena of the world; and depending on the medium in which it reproduces, it can be sculpture or painting, poetry or music. Its sole source is the knowledge of Ideas; its sole purpose is to communicate this knowledge. While science, following the restless and ever-changing flow of the fourfold forms of reason and consequence, continually sees further with each goal reached, never attaining a final destination or complete satisfaction, much like how we can never reach the place where the clouds meet the horizon; art, on the other hand, is always at its destination. For it extracts its object of contemplation from the stream of the world's flow, presenting it in isolation. This particular thing, which in that flow was a small transient part, becomes, for art, a representation of the whole, an equivalent of the endless multitude in space and time. It therefore stops at this specific object; the passage of time halts; relationships fade away; only the essence, the Idea, remains its focus. We may, therefore, precisely define it as the a perspective that doesn't rely on the principle of sufficient reason, contrasting with the perspective that follows that principle, which is the method of experience and science. The latter method of analysis may be likened to an infinitely extended horizontal line, while the former is like a vertical line intersecting it at any given point. The rational method, which adheres to the principle of sufficient reason, is the only valid approach in practical life and scientific study. The method that disregards the substance of this principle is the method of genius, which holds validity solely in the realm of art. The first is the method of Aristotle; the second is, generally speaking, that of Plato. The first is akin to a mighty storm, that rushes forward without beginning or aim, bending, disturbing, and sweeping everything in its path; the second is like a tranquil sunbeam, piercing through the storm unaffected by it. The first is like the countless droplets of a waterfall, which, constantly shifting, never pause for an instant; the second is like the rainbow, quietly resting upon this raging torrent. Only through the pure contemplation described above, which is entirely focused on the object, can Ideas be understood; and the essence of genius lies in its exceptional capacity for such contemplation. Now, as this demands that a person entirely forget themselves and the relationships they occupy, genius embodies the utmost neutrality, i.e. the objective inclination of the mind, as opposed to the subjective, which is directed toward oneself—in other words, to the will. Thus genius is the ability to persist in a state of pure perception, to become immersed in perception, and to employ the knowledge that originally served only the will; in other words, genius is the capacity to completely set aside one's own interests, desires, and objectives for a time, enabling one to remain a pure knowledge subject, a clear vision of the world; and this not just for brief moments, but for a sufficient duration, and with enough awareness to enable one to reproduce through deliberate art what has been apprehended, and “to firmly embed the changing images that drift through the mind.” It is as if when genius manifests in an individual, a far greater quantity of knowledge emerges than is necessary for serving an individual will; and this surplus of knowledge, being liberated, becomes purified understanding free of will, a clear reflection of the inner nature of the world. This accounts for the activity, bordering on restlessness, of individuals of genius, as the present seldom fulfills them because it fails to engage their consciousness. This fosters [pg 241] a persistent longing, unending desire for new experiences, and for the contemplation of higher ideals, coupled with an insatiable yearning for fellowship with others of similar nature and stature, to whom they might share themselves; while the ordinary person, completely filled and satisfied by the mundane present, reaches the end of it, and finding their likeness everywhere, enjoys a unique satisfaction in daily life that eludes genius.

Imagination has rightly been recognised as an essential element of genius; it has sometimes even been regarded as identical with it; but this is a mistake. As the objects of genius are the eternal Ideas, the permanent, essential forms of the world and all its phenomena, and as the knowledge of the Idea is necessarily knowledge through perception, is not abstract, the knowledge of the genius would be limited to the Ideas of the objects actually present to his person, and dependent upon the chain of circumstances that brought these objects to him, if his imagination did not extend his horizon far beyond the limits of his actual personal existence, and thus enable him to construct the whole out of the little that comes into his own actual apperception, and so to let almost all possible scenes of life pass before him in his own consciousness. Further, the actual objects are almost always very imperfect copies of the Ideas expressed in them; therefore the man of genius requires imagination in order to see in things, not that which Nature has actually made, but that which she endeavoured to make, yet could not because of that conflict of her forms among themselves which we referred to in the last book. We shall return to this farther on in treating of sculpture. The imagination then extends the intellectual horizon of the man of genius beyond the objects which actually present themselves to him, both as regards quality and quantity. Therefore extraordinary strength of imagination accompanies, and is indeed a necessary condition of genius. But the converse does not hold, for strength of imagination [pg 242] does not indicate genius; on the contrary, men who have no touch of genius may have much imagination. For as it is possible to consider a real object in two opposite ways, purely objectively, the way of genius grasping its Idea, or in the common way, merely in the relations in which it stands to other objects and to one's own will, in accordance with the principle of sufficient reason, it is also possible to perceive an imaginary object in both of these ways. Regarded in the first way, it is a means to the knowledge of the Idea, the communication of which is the work of art; in the second case, the imaginary object is used to build castles in the air congenial to egotism and the individual humour, and which for the moment delude and gratify; thus only the relations of the phantasies so linked together are known. The man who indulges in such an amusement is a dreamer; he will easily mingle those fancies that delight his solitude with reality, and so unfit himself for real life: perhaps he will write them down, and then we shall have the ordinary novel of every description, which entertains those who are like him and the public at large, for the readers imagine themselves in the place of the hero, and then find the story very agreeable.

Imagination has been seen as a key part of genius; some even consider it the same thing, but that's a mistake. Since the focus of genius is on eternal Ideas, the fundamental forms of the world and all its phenomena, and because understanding these Ideas comes through perception rather than abstract thought, a genius would be limited to the Ideas of objects currently around them and influenced by the circumstances that brought those objects to them if their imagination didn't expand their perspective far beyond their immediate reality. This expansion allows them to piece together a complete picture from the few things they can perceive, letting them envision almost all possible scenarios of life in their consciousness. Moreover, real objects are usually just imperfect representations of the Ideas they express; that's why a genius needs imagination to see not just what Nature has created, but what she attempted to create but failed due to conflicting forms, as we discussed in the previous book. We'll revisit this when we talk about sculpture. Thus, imagination broadens the genius’s intellectual landscape beyond the actual objects before them, both in quality and quantity. Extraordinary imagination goes hand in hand with genius, and it’s an essential condition for it. However, the opposite is not true; having a strong imagination doesn't mean someone is a genius. In fact, people without any spark of genius can still have a vivid imagination. Just as it's possible to view a real object in two different ways—purely objectively, as a genius would see its Idea, or in a common way, focusing on its relationships with other objects and personal desires according to the principle of sufficient reason—it's also possible to perceive an imaginary object in both manners. When looked at the first way, it serves as a means to understand the Idea, which is the goal of art; in the second way, the imaginary object is used to build self-indulgent fantasies that briefly distract and satisfy one's ego, revealing only the connections of those linked fantasies. A person who engages in this sort of daydreaming is a dreamer; they may easily confuse delightful fantasies that please their solitude with reality, making them less fit for real life. Perhaps they will write these fantasies down, resulting in the typical novel in various forms, which entertains those like them and the general public, as readers envision themselves in the hero's place and find the story quite enjoyable.

The common mortal, that manufacture of Nature which she produces by the thousand every day, is, as we have said, not capable, at least not continuously so, of observation that in every sense is wholly disinterested, as sensuous contemplation, strictly so called, is. He can turn his attention to things only so far as they have some relation to his will, however indirect it may be. Since in this respect, which never demands anything but the knowledge of relations, the abstract conception of the thing is sufficient, and for the most part even better adapted for use; the ordinary man does not linger long over the mere perception, does not fix his attention long on one object, but in all that is presented to him hastily seeks merely the concept under which it is to be brought, [pg 243] as the lazy man seeks a chair, and then it interests him no further. This is why he is so soon done with everything, with works of art, objects of natural beauty, and indeed everywhere with the truly significant contemplation of all the scenes of life. He does not linger; only seeks to know his own way in life, together with all that might at any time become his way. Thus he makes topographical notes in the widest sense; over the consideration of life itself as such he wastes no time. The man of genius, on the other hand, whose excessive power of knowledge frees it at times from the service of will, dwells on the consideration of life itself, strives to comprehend the Idea of each thing, not its relations to other things; and in doing this he often forgets to consider his own path in life, and therefore for the most part pursues it awkwardly enough. While to the ordinary man his faculty of knowledge is a lamp to lighten his path, to the man of genius it is the sun which reveals the world. This great diversity in their way of looking at life soon becomes visible in the outward appearance both of the man of genius and of the ordinary mortal. The man in whom genius lives and works is easily distinguished by his glance, which is both keen and steady, and bears the stamp of perception, of contemplation. This is easily seen from the likenesses of the few men of genius whom Nature has produced here and there among countless millions. On the other hand, in the case of an ordinary man, the true object of his contemplation, what he is prying into, can be easily seen from his glance, if indeed it is not quite stupid and vacant, as is generally the case. Therefore the expression of genius in a face consists in this, that in it a decided predominance of knowledge over will is visible, and consequently there also shows itself in it a knowledge that is entirely devoid of relation to will, i.e., pure knowing. On the contrary, in ordinary countenances there is a predominant expression of will; and we see that knowledge only comes into activity under [pg 244] the impulse of will, and thus is directed merely by motives.

The average person, created by Nature and produced by the thousands every day, as we mentioned, is not capable—at least not consistently—of experiencing completely disinterested observation, which is what pure sensory contemplation is all about. They can only focus on things as long as they relate to their own desires, no matter how indirectly. Because this perspective only requires knowledge of relationships, an abstract understanding of things is usually sufficient and often more practical; the ordinary person doesn’t spend much time on mere perception, doesn’t fixate on one object for long, but quickly looks for the concept under which it can be categorized, like a lazy person looking for a chair. Once they find it, they often lose interest. This is why they quickly move on from everything, including works of art, natural beauty, and the truly meaningful contemplation of life’s scenes. They do not dwell; they only seek to understand their own path in life and everything that might come to be part of it. So, they make quick notes about their surroundings; they don’t waste time on reflecting on life itself. On the other hand, the genius—whose extraordinary ability to know sometimes frees them from the influence of their will—focuses on contemplating life itself. They aim to grasp the essence of each thing, not its relationships with others, and in doing so, they often neglect their own life path, which they usually pursue rather clumsily. For the ordinary person, their knowledge serves as a lamp illuminating their way, while for the genius, it is the sun that reveals the world. This stark difference in their perspectives on life is evident in their outward appearances. A person with genius can be easily identified by their keen and steady gaze, which shows evidence of perception and contemplation. You can see this in the likenesses of the few geniuses Nature has produced among countless millions. In contrast, an ordinary person's true focus—what they are investigating—is often clear from their expression, which may indeed be quite dull and vacant, as it usually is. Thus, the expression of genius is characterized by a noticeable dominance of knowledge over will in their face, revealing a form of knowledge that is entirely detached from any desires, that is, pure knowing. In contrast, ordinary faces show a prominent expression of will; we see that knowledge only activates under the influence of will and is therefore merely guided by motives.

Since the knowledge that pertains to genius, or the knowledge of Ideas, is that knowledge which does not follow the principle of sufficient reason, so, on the other hand, the knowledge which does follow that principle is that which gives us prudence and rationality in life, and which creates the sciences. Thus men of genius are affected with the deficiencies entailed in the neglect of this latter kind of knowledge. Yet what I say in this regard is subject to the limitation that it only concerns them in so far as and while they are actually engaged in that kind of knowledge which is peculiar to genius; and this is by no means at every moment of their lives, for the great though spontaneous exertion which is demanded for the comprehension of Ideas free from will must necessarily relax, and there are long intervals during which men of genius are placed in very much the same position as ordinary mortals, both as regards advantages and deficiencies. On this account the action of genius has always been regarded as an inspiration, as indeed the name indicates, as the action of a superhuman being distinct from the individual himself, and which takes possession of him only periodically. The disinclination of men of genius to direct their attention to the content of the principle of sufficient reason will first show itself, with regard to the ground of being, as dislike of mathematics; for its procedure is based upon the most universal forms of the phenomenon space and time, which are themselves merely modes of the principle of sufficient reason, and is consequently precisely the opposite of that method of thought which seeks merely the content of the phenomenon, the Idea which expresses itself in it apart from all relations. The logical method of mathematics is also antagonistic to genius, for it does not satisfy but obstructs true insight, and presents merely a chain of conclusions in accordance with the principle of [pg 245] the ground of knowing. The mental faculty upon which it makes the greatest claim is memory, for it is necessary to recollect all the earlier propositions which are referred to. Experience has also proved that men of great artistic genius have no faculty for mathematics; no man was ever very distinguished for both. Alfieri relates that he was never able to understand the fourth proposition of Euclid. Goethe was constantly reproached with his want of mathematical knowledge by the ignorant opponents of his theory of colours. Here certainly, where it was not a question of calculation and measurement upon hypothetical data, but of direct knowledge by the understanding of causes and effects, this reproach was so utterly absurd and inappropriate, that by making it they have exposed their entire want of judgment, just as much as by the rest of their ridiculous arguments. The fact that up to the present day, nearly half a century after the appearance of Goethe's theory of colours, even in Germany the Newtonian fallacies still have undisturbed possession of the professorial chair, and men continue to speak quite seriously of the seven homogeneous rays of light and their different refrangibility, will some day be numbered among the great intellectual peculiarities of men generally, and especially of Germans. From the same cause as we have referred to above, may be explained the equally well-known fact that, conversely, admirable mathematicians have very little susceptibility for works of fine art. This is very naïvely expressed in the well-known anecdote of the French mathematician, who, after having read Racine's “Iphigenia,” shrugged his shoulders and asked, Qu'est ce que cela prouve? Further, as quick comprehension of relations in accordance with the laws of causality and motivation is what specially constitutes prudence or sagacity, a prudent man, so far as and while he is so, will not be a genius, and a man of genius, so far as and while he is so, will not be a prudent man. Lastly, perceptive knowledge generally, [pg 246] in the province of which the Idea always lies, is directly opposed to rational or abstract knowledge, which is guided by the principle of the ground of knowing. It is also well known that we seldom find great genius united with pre-eminent reasonableness; on the contrary, persons of genius are often subject to violent emotions and irrational passions. But the ground of this is not weakness of reason, but partly unwonted energy of that whole phenomenon of will—the man of genius—which expresses itself through the violence of all his acts of will, and partly preponderance of the knowledge of perception through the senses and understanding over abstract knowledge, producing a decided tendency to the perceptible, the exceedingly lively impressions of which so far outshine colourless concepts, that they take their place in the guidance of action, which consequently becomes irrational. Accordingly the impression of the present moment is very strong with such persons, and carries them away into unconsidered action, violent emotions and passions. Moreover, since, in general, the knowledge of persons of genius has to some extent freed itself from the service of will, they will not in conversation think so much of the person they are addressing as of the thing they are speaking about, which is vividly present to them; and therefore they are likely to judge or narrate things too objectively for their own interests; they will not pass over in silence what would more prudently be concealed, and so forth. Finally, they are given to soliloquising, and in general may exhibit certain weaknesses which are actually akin to madness. It has often been remarked that there is a side at which genius and madness touch, and even pass over into each other, and indeed poetical inspiration has been called a kind of madness: amabilis insania, Horace calls it (Od. iii. 4), and Wieland in the introduction to “Oberon” speaks of it as “amiable madness.” Even Aristotle, as quoted by Seneca (De Tranq. Animi, 15, 16), is reported to have [pg 247] said: Nullum magnum ingenium sine mixtura dementiæ fuit. Plato expresses it in the figure of the dark cave, referred to above (De Rep. 7), when he says: “Those who, outside the cave, have seen the true sunlight and the things that have true being (Ideas), cannot afterwards see properly down in the cave, because their eyes are not accustomed to the darkness; they cannot distinguish the shadows, and are jeered at for their mistakes by those who have never left the cave and its shadows.” In the “Phædrus” also (p. 317), he distinctly says that there can be no true poet without a certain madness; in fact, (p. 327), that every one appears mad who recognises the eternal Ideas in fleeting things. Cicero also quotes: Negat enim sine furore, Democritus, quemquam poetam magnum esse posse; quod idem dicit Plato (De Divin., i. 37). And, lastly, Pope says—

Since the knowledge related to genius, or the knowledge of Ideas, doesn't follow the principle of sufficient reason, on the other hand, the knowledge that does follow this principle is what gives us wisdom and rationality in life and creates the sciences. Therefore, people of genius struggle with the shortcomings that arise from neglecting this latter type of knowledge. However, what I say in this context is limited to the extent and time that they are involved in the specific type of knowledge unique to genius; and this isn't the case at every moment of their lives, as the significant but spontaneous effort required to understand Ideas free from will must inevitably wear off, leading to long periods where people of genius are in much the same situation as regular people, both in terms of advantages and shortcomings. Because of this, acts of genius have always been viewed as inspiration, as the name suggests, an act of a superhuman entity separate from the individual, which only takes hold of them periodically. The reluctance of geniuses to focus their attention on the content of the principle of sufficient reason first appears, concerning the ground of being, as a dislike for mathematics; since its approach is founded on the most universal forms of the phenomenon of space and time, which are just modes of the principle of sufficient reason, and therefore directly contradicts that method of thought which seeks only the content of the phenomenon, the Idea that expresses itself free from all relations. The logical method of mathematics is also opposed to genius, as it does not satisfy but rather hinders true insight, presenting merely a sequence of conclusions based on the principle of [pg 245] the ground of knowing. The mental capability that it relies on the most is memory, since it requires recalling all the earlier propositions referenced. Experience has also shown that individuals with great artistic genius often lack a talent for mathematics; no one has ever excelled at both. Alfieri noted that he could never grasp the fourth proposition of Euclid. Goethe was frequently criticized by ignorant critics of his color theory for not knowing mathematics. In this case, where it was not about calculation and measurement based on hypothetical data but rather about direct understanding of causes and effects, this criticism was so utterly absurd and inappropriate that those who made it revealed their complete lack of judgment, just as much as with their other ridiculous arguments. The fact that, even today, nearly fifty years after Goethe's color theory was published, in Germany, the Newtonian misconceptions still hold sway in academia, and people continue to seriously discuss the seven homogeneous rays of light and their different refrangibility, will someday be counted among the great intellectual oddities of humankind, especially Germans. The same reason can explain the well-known observation that outstanding mathematicians often lack appreciation for fine art. This is aptly illustrated by the famous story of the French mathematician who, after reading Racine's “Iphigenia,” shrugged his shoulders and asked, “What does this prove?” Furthermore, since quick comprehension of relationships according to the laws of causality and motivation particularly defines wisdom or sagacity, a prudent person, as long as they are prudent, won't be a genius, and a genius, as long as they are in that state, won't be a prudent person. Finally, perceptive knowledge generally, [pg 246] in the domain where the Idea always resides, is directly opposed to rational or abstract knowledge, which is guided by the principle of the ground of knowing. It is also well-known that we rarely find great genius combined with exceptional reasonableness; on the contrary, truly creative individuals often experience intense emotions and irrational passions. However, this is not due to a weakness of reason, but partly to the unusual energy of the entire phenomenon of will—the genius—which manifests through the intensity of all their willful acts, and partly to the dominance of knowledge gained through sensory perception and understanding over abstract knowledge, leading to a strong inclination towards the tangible, whose exceptionally vivid impressions overshadow bland concepts so much that they take precedence in guiding action, causing it to become irrational. Consequently, the influence of the present moment is very strong for such individuals, driving them toward unconsidered actions, intense emotions, and passions. Moreover, since the knowledge of genius tends to detach itself from the service of will, they often don't focus on the person they are speaking to in conversation but rather on the topic at hand, which is vividly present to them; thus, they may judge or narrate things too objectively for their own interests; they won't shy away from mentioning things that would be more prudent to keep quiet about, and so forth. Lastly, they often talk to themselves and may exhibit certain eccentricities that resemble madness. It has often been observed that there is a point at which genius and madness intersect, even transforming into one another, and indeed poetic inspiration has been described as a form of madness: lovable madness, as Horace puts it (Od. iii. 4), and Wieland in the introduction to “Oberon” refers to it as “friendly craziness.” Even Aristotle, as cited by Seneca (De Tranq. Animi, 15, 16), reportedly said: There has been no great genius without a touch of madness.. Plato illustrates this in the analogy of the dark cave mentioned earlier (De Rep. 7), when he states: “People who have experienced genuine sunlight and the true essence of things (Ideas) outside the cave can’t see well inside the cave afterward because their eyes aren’t adjusted to the darkness; they struggle to differentiate between the shadows, and those who have never left the cave ridicule them for their mistakes.” In the "Phædrus" (p. 317), he explicitly states that there can be no true poet without a certain madness; in fact, (p. 327) he claims that anyone who recognizes eternal Ideas in fleeting things appears insane. Cicero also quotes: Democritus argues that no one can be a great poet without passion; Plato makes the same point. (De Divin., i. 37). And finally, Pope states—

Great minds and madness are certainly closely connected,
And thin walls define their limits.

Especially instructive in this respect is Goethe's “Torquato Tasso,” in which he shows us not only the suffering, the martyrdom of genius as such, but also how it constantly passes into madness. Finally, the fact of the direct connection of genius and madness is established by the biographies of great men of genius, such as Rousseau, Byron, and Alfieri, and by anecdotes from the lives of others. On the other hand, I must mention that, by a diligent search in lunatic asylums, I have found individual cases of patients who were unquestionably endowed with great talents, and whose genius distinctly appeared through their madness, which, however, had completely gained the upper hand. Now this cannot be ascribed to chance, for on the one hand the number of mad persons is relatively very small, and on the other hand a person of genius is a phenomenon which is rare beyond all ordinary estimation, and only appears in nature as the greatest exception. It will be sufficient to convince us of this if we compare the [pg 248] number of really great men of genius that the whole of civilised Europe has produced, both in ancient and modern times, with the two hundred and fifty millions who are always living in Europe, and who change entirely every thirty years. In estimating the number of men of outstanding genius, we must of course only count those who have produced works which have retained through all time an enduring value for mankind. I shall not refrain from mentioning, that I have known some persons of decided, though not remarkable, mental superiority, who also showed a slight trace of insanity. It might seem from this that every advance of intellect beyond the ordinary measure, as an abnormal development, disposes to madness. In the meantime, however, I will explain as briefly as possible my view of the purely intellectual ground of the relation between genius and madness, for this will certainly assist the explanation of the real nature of genius, that is to say, of that mental endowment which alone can produce genuine works of art. But this necessitates a brief explanation of madness itself.50

Especially instructive in this regard is Goethe's "Torquato Tasso," where he illustrates not only the suffering and martyrdom of genius but also how it often leads to madness. Ultimately, the connection between genius and madness is highlighted by the biographies of extraordinary figures like Rousseau, Byron, and Alfieri, along with anecdotes from the lives of others. However, I should point out that through extensive research in mental health facilities, I've found individual cases of patients who undoubtedly possessed remarkable talents, with their genius clearly evident despite their madness having taken over completely. This cannot be attributed to chance; the number of mentally ill individuals is relatively small, and a person of genius is an exceptionally rare phenomenon. It’s important to consider this when we compare the [pg 248] number of truly great geniuses produced throughout the history of civilized Europe, both ancient and modern, against the two hundred and fifty million people living in Europe, who change completely every thirty years. When assessing the number of outstanding geniuses, we should only include those who have created works that have enduring value for humanity. I should also note that I’ve encountered some individuals with clear, though not exceptional, intellectual abilities who also displayed slight signs of insanity. This might suggest that any intellectual advancement beyond the ordinary can predispose one to madness. In the meantime, I will explain my perspective on the intellectual basis of the relationship between genius and madness, as this will certainly help clarify the true nature of genius, which is the mental capability required to create genuine works of art. But this requires a brief explanation of madness itself.50

A clear and complete insight into the nature of madness, a correct and distinct conception of what constitutes the difference between the sane and the insane, has, as far as I know, not as yet been found. Neither reason nor understanding can be denied to madmen, for they talk and understand, and often draw very accurate conclusions; they also, as a rule, perceive what is present quite correctly, and apprehend the connection between cause and effect. Visions, like the phantasies of delirium, are no ordinary symptom of madness: delirium falsifies perception, madness the thoughts. For the most part, madmen do not err in the knowledge of what is immediately present; their raving always relates to what is absent and past, and only through these to their connection with what is present. Therefore it seems to me that [pg 249] their malady specially concerns the memory; not indeed that memory fails them entirely, for many of them know a great deal by heart, and sometimes recognise persons whom they have not seen for a long time; but rather that the thread of memory is broken, the continuity of its connection destroyed, and no uniformly connected recollection of the past is possible. Particular scenes of the past are known correctly, just like the particular present; but there are gaps in their recollection which they fill up with fictions, and these are either always the same, in which case they become fixed ideas, and the madness that results is called monomania or melancholy; or they are always different, momentary fancies, and then it is called folly, fatuitas. This is why it is so difficult to find out their former life from lunatics when they enter an asylum. The true and the false are always mixed up in their memory. Although the immediate present is correctly known, it becomes falsified through its fictitious connection with an imaginary past; they therefore regard themselves and others as identical with persons who exist only in their imaginary past; they do not recognise some of their acquaintances at all, and thus while they perceive correctly what is actually present, they have only false conceptions of its relations to what is absent. If the madness reaches a high degree, there is complete absence of memory, so that the madman is quite incapable of any reference to what is absent or past, and is only determined by the caprice of the moment in connection with the fictions which, in his mind, fill the past. In such a case, we are never for a moment safe from violence or murder, unless we constantly make the madman aware of the presence of superior force. The knowledge of the madman has this in common with that of the brute, both are confined to the present. What distinguishes them is that the brute has really no idea of the past as such, though the past acts upon it through the medium of custom, so that, for example, the dog [pg 250] recognises its former master even after years, that is to say, it receives the wonted impression at the sight of him; but of the time that has passed since it saw him it has no recollection. The madman, on the other hand, always carries about in his reason an abstract past, but it is a false past, which exists only for him, and that either constantly, or only for the moment. The influence of this false past prevents the use of the true knowledge of the present which the brute is able to make. The fact that violent mental suffering or unexpected and terrible calamities should often produce madness, I explain in the following manner. All such suffering is as an actual event confined to the present. It is thus merely transitory, and is consequently never excessively heavy; it only becomes unendurably great when it is lasting pain; but as such it exists only in thought, and therefore lies in the memory. If now such a sorrow, such painful knowledge or reflection, is so bitter that it becomes altogether unbearable, and the individual is prostrated under it, then, terrified Nature seizes upon madness as the last resource of life; the mind so fearfully tortured at once destroys the thread of its memory, fills up the gaps with fictions, and thus seeks refuge in madness from the mental suffering that exceeds its strength, just as we cut off a mortified limb and replace it with a wooden one. The distracted Ajax, King Lear, and Ophelia may be taken as examples; for the creations of true genius, to which alone we can refer here, as universally known, are equal in truth to real persons; besides, in this case, frequent actual experience shows the same thing. A faint analogy of this kind of transition from pain to madness is to be found in the way in which all of us often seek, as it were mechanically, to drive away a painful thought that suddenly occurs to us by some loud exclamation or quick movement—to turn ourselves from it, to distract our minds by force.

A clear and complete understanding of what madness really is, and a clear idea of the difference between the sane and the insane, hasn’t been discovered yet, as far as I know. We can't deny that those who are mad have reason and understanding; they can talk, comprehend, and often make very accurate conclusions. Generally, they perceive what's happening around them quite accurately and grasp the connection between cause and effect. Hallucinations and the fantasies of delirium aren’t ordinary signs of madness; delirium distorts perception, while madness distorts thoughts. Most of the time, people with madness don’t mistake what is immediately show; their ramblings usually relate to what is missing and past, and only through these do they connect to what is present. Therefore, it seems to me that [pg 249] their illness primarily involves memory; not that their memory is completely gone—many of them can recite a lot from memory and even recognize people they haven’t seen in a long time—but rather that the continuity of their memory is disrupted, making it impossible to have a consistent recollection of the past. They remember specific scenes from the past accurately, just like they do with specific present moments, but there are gaps in their memory that they fill with fictions, which can either be constant and become fixed ideas—leading to forms of madness called monomania or melancholy—or they can vary, being temporary whims, in which case it’s called folly, foolishness. This is why it’s so hard to piece together the past of those who enter an asylum. Their memories always mix the true and the false. While they perceive the immediate present accurately, it gets distorted through its fictitious connection to an imagined past; therefore, they see themselves and others as identical to people who only exist in their imagined past. They may not recognize some acquaintances at all, so while they accurately perceive what is actually present, they hold only false ideas about its connections to what isn’t present. If the madness becomes severe, there can be a complete loss of memory, so that the mad person cannot reference what is absent or past, and is only guided by the whims of the moment in relation to the fictions that fill their mind's past. In such cases, we are never completely safe from violence or murder unless we continuously remind the mad person of the presence of superior force. The mad person’s knowledge shares this characteristic with that of a brute; both are limited to the present. What sets them apart is that the brute has no real concept of the past as such, although it is affected by past experiences through routine— for example, a dog [pg 250] may recognize its former owner even after many years, meaning it experiences the usual reaction upon seeing them, but it has no recollection of the time that has passed since their last meeting. In contrast, the mad person carries an abstract concept of the past, but it’s a false past that only exists for them, either consistently or just for the moment. The influence of this false past hampers their ability to utilize the true knowledge of the present that the brute can. The fact that severe mental suffering or sudden, terrible events can often lead to madness can be explained this way. All such suffering is confined to the present moment. It's thus only temporary, and cannot be excessively overwhelming; it only becomes unbearable when it lasts for a long time, but as such, it exists only in thought and belongs to the memory. If a sorrow, painful knowledge, or reflection becomes so bitter that it becomes unbearable, leaving the individual overwhelmed, Nature reacts by turning to chaos as a last resort for survival; the mind, in its desperate torment, immediately disrupts its thread of memory, fills in the gaps with fictions, and seeks refuge in madness to escape the mental suffering that exceeds its capacity, much like we would amputate a gangrenous limb and replace it with a wooden one. Distraught figures like Ajax, King Lear, and Ophelia can be considered examples; for the creations of true genius, which we can reference here due to their universal recognition, are as authentic as real people; furthermore, frequent real-life experiences show the same thing. A subtle analogy for this transition from pain to madness can be found in how we often try to mechanically drive away a sudden painful thought with a loud exclamation or quick movement—to divert ourselves from it, to forcibly distract our minds.

We see, from what has been said, that the madman has [pg 251] a true knowledge of what is actually present, and also of certain particulars of the past, but that he mistakes the connection, the relations, and therefore falls into error and talks nonsense. Now this is exactly the point at which he comes into contact with the man of genius; for he also leaves out of sight the knowledge of the connection of things, since he neglects that knowledge of relations which conforms to the principle of sufficient reason, in order to see in things only their Ideas, and to seek to comprehend their true nature, which manifests itself to perception, and in regard to which one thing represents its whole species, in which way, as Goethe says, one case is valid for a thousand. The particular object of his contemplation, or the present which is perceived by him with extraordinary vividness, appear in so strong a light that the other links of the chain to which they belong are at once thrown into the shade, and this gives rise to phenomena which have long been recognised as resembling those of madness. That which in particular given things exists only incompletely and weakened by modifications, is raised by the man of genius, through his way of contemplating it, to the Idea of the thing, to completeness: he therefore sees everywhere extremes, and therefore his own action tends to extremes; he cannot hit the mean, he lacks soberness, and the result is what we have said. He knows the Ideas completely but not the individuals. Therefore it has been said that a poet may know mankind deeply and thoroughly, and may yet have a very imperfect knowledge of men. He is easily deceived, and is a tool in the hands of the crafty.

We see, from what has been said, that the madman has [pg 251] a true understanding of what is actually happening, and also some details of the past, but he misinterprets the connections and relationships, leading him to make mistakes and speak nonsense. This is precisely where he intersects with the genius, who also overlooks the knowledge of connections by ignoring the understanding of relationships that aligns with the principle of sufficient reason, in order to focus solely on the Ideas of things and to comprehend their true nature as it is perceived. In this perspective, one thing can represent its entire category, which, as Goethe puts it, means one example can apply to a thousand. The specific object he contemplates, or the present moment he perceives with extraordinary clarity, shines so brightly that the other links in the chain it belongs to are instantly obscured, giving rise to phenomena that have long been recognized as similar to madness. What exists in particular things, often incomplete and diminished by modifications, is elevated by the genius through his way of seeing to the Idea of the thing, achieving completeness: thus, he sees extremes everywhere, and his actions tend toward extremes; he struggles to find a balance, lacks moderation, and this results in what we have described. He knows the Ideas thoroughly but not the individuals. That’s why it has been said that a poet can understand humanity deeply yet still have a very limited grasp of individual people. He is easily misled and becomes a tool for the cunning.

§ 37. Genius, then, consists, according to our explanation, in the capacity for knowing, independently of the principle of sufficient reason, not individual things, which have their existence only in their relations, but the Ideas of such things, and of being oneself the correlative of the Idea, and thus no longer an individual, but the pure subject of knowledge. Yet this faculty must exist in all [pg 252] men in a smaller and different degree; for if not, they would be just as incapable of enjoying works of art as of producing them; they would have no susceptibility for the beautiful or the sublime; indeed, these words could have no meaning for them. We must therefore assume that there exists in all men this power of knowing the Ideas in things, and consequently of transcending their personality for the moment, unless indeed there are some men who are capable of no æsthetic pleasure at all. The man of genius excels ordinary men only by possessing this kind of knowledge in a far higher degree and more continuously. Thus, while under its influence he retains the presence of mind which is necessary to enable him to repeat in a voluntary and intentional work what he has learned in this manner; and this repetition is the work of art. Through this he communicates to others the Idea he has grasped. This Idea remains unchanged and the same, so that æsthetic pleasure is one and the same whether it is called forth by a work of art or directly by the contemplation of nature and life. The work of art is only a means of facilitating the knowledge in which this pleasure consists. That the Idea comes to us more easily from the work of art than directly from nature and the real world, arises from the fact that the artist, who knew only the Idea, no longer the actual, has reproduced in his work the pure Idea, has abstracted it from the actual, omitting all disturbing accidents. The artist lets us see the world through his eyes. That he has these eyes, that he knows the inner nature of things apart from all their relations, is the gift of genius, is inborn; but that he is able to lend us this gift, to let us see with his eyes, is acquired, and is the technical side of art. Therefore, after the account which I have given in the preceding pages of the inner nature of æsthetical knowledge in its most general outlines, the following more exact philosophical treatment of the beautiful and the sublime will explain them both, in nature and in art, without separating [pg 253] them further. First of all we shall consider what takes place in a man when he is affected by the beautiful and the sublime; whether he derives this emotion directly from nature, from life, or partakes of it only through the medium of art, does not make any essential, but merely an external, difference.

§ 37. Genius, then, consists, according to our explanation, in the ability to know, independently of the principle of sufficient reason, not just individual things that exist only in relation to one another, but the Ideas of those things, and of being oneself the counterpart of the Idea, and thus no longer an individual, but the pure subject of knowledge. Yet this ability must exist in all [pg 252] people to a lesser and different extent; for if it didn't, they would be just as incapable of enjoying artworks as they would be of creating them; they would have no sensitivity to the beautiful or the sublime; indeed, these terms would hold no meaning for them. We must then assume that this power to know the Ideas in things exists in all people, and consequently, they can transcend their personal experience for the moment, unless, of course, some individuals are entirely incapable of any aesthetic pleasure. A person of genius surpasses ordinary people simply by having this type of knowledge to a much higher degree and more consistently. Thus, while under its influence, he maintains the presence of mind necessary to reproduce in a voluntary and intentional work what he has learned in this way; and this reproduction is the work of art. Through this work, he communicates to others the Idea he has grasped. This Idea remains unchanged and the same, so that aesthetic pleasure is consistent whether it is triggered by a work of art or directly through the contemplation of nature and life. The work of art is merely a means to facilitate the understanding in which this pleasure lies. The fact that the Idea comes to us more readily from the artwork than directly from nature and the real world is because the artist, who understood only the Idea and not the actual, has reproduced the pure Idea in his work, abstracting it from reality by removing all distracting elements. The artist enables us to see the world through his perspective. That he has this perspective, that he knows the inner nature of things apart from all their relations, is a gift of genius, something innate; however, his ability to share this gift and allow us to see with his perspective is acquired and represents the technical aspect of art. Therefore, following the account I've provided in the previous pages regarding the inner nature of aesthetic knowledge in its broadest terms, the subsequent more precise philosophical exploration of the beautiful and the sublime will clarify them both in nature and in art without further separation. First, we will examine what happens to a person when they are touched by the beautiful and the sublime; whether this emotion comes directly from nature, from life, or is only experienced through the medium of art does not constitute any essential difference, merely an external one.

§ 38. In the æsthetical mode of contemplation we have found two inseparable constituent parts—the knowledge of the object, not as individual thing but as Platonic Idea, that is, as the enduring form of this whole species of things; and the self-consciousness of the knowing person, not as individual, but as pure will-less subject of knowledge. The condition under which both these constituent parts appear always united was found to be the abandonment of the method of knowing which is bound to the principle of sufficient reason, and which, on the other hand, is the only kind of knowledge that is of value for the service of the will and also for science. Moreover, we shall see that the pleasure which is produced by the contemplation of the beautiful arises from these two constituent parts, sometimes more from the one, sometimes more from the other, according to what the object of the æsthetical contemplation may be.

§ 38. In the aesthetic way of thinking, we have identified two unbreakable parts—the understanding of the object, not as an individual thing but as a Platonic Idea, meaning the lasting form of this entire category of things; and the self-awareness of the person knowing, not as an individual, but as a purely passive subject of knowledge. The condition under which these two parts always appear together is the letting go of the method of knowing that is tied to the principle of sufficient reason, which is also the only type of knowledge valuable for serving the will and for science. Additionally, we will see that the enjoyment generated by contemplating the beautiful comes from these two parts, sometimes leaning more toward one, sometimes more toward the other, depending on the subject of the aesthetic contemplation.

All willing arises from want, therefore from deficiency, and therefore from suffering. The satisfaction of a wish ends it; yet for one wish that is satisfied there remain at least ten which are denied. Further, the desire lasts long, the demands are infinite; the satisfaction is short and scantily measured out. But even the final satisfaction is itself only apparent; every satisfied wish at once makes room for a new one; both are illusions; the one is known to be so, the other not yet. No attained object of desire can give lasting satisfaction, but merely a fleeting gratification; it is like the alms thrown to the beggar, that keeps him alive to-day that his misery may be prolonged till the morrow. Therefore, so long as our consciousness is filled by our will, so long as we are [pg 254] given up to the throng of desires with their constant hopes and fears, so long as we are the subject of willing, we can never have lasting happiness nor peace. It is essentially all the same whether we pursue or flee, fear injury or seek enjoyment; the care for the constant demands of the will, in whatever form it may be, continually occupies and sways the consciousness; but without peace no true well-being is possible. The subject of willing is thus constantly stretched on the revolving wheel of Ixion, pours water into the sieve of the Danaids, is the ever-longing Tantalus.

All ready comes from want, which comes from lack, and therefore from suffering. When a wish is fulfilled, it ends; yet for every wish that is satisfied, there are at least ten that are not. Additionally, desires last a long time, while demands are infinite; satisfaction is brief and only given in small amounts. Even the ultimate satisfaction is merely an illusion; every fulfilled wish creates space for a new one; both are illusions; one is known to be so, while the other is not yet recognized. No achieved desire can provide lasting happiness, only temporary gratification; it’s like giving alms to a beggar, which keeps him alive today just so that his suffering can continue tomorrow. So, as long as our awareness is consumed by our will, as long as we are [pg 254] caught up in the crowd of desires with their endless hopes and fears, as long as we are subjects of our will, we can never attain lasting happiness or peace. It doesn’t really matter whether we chase or run away, fear harm or seek pleasure; the burden of constant demands of the will, in any form, keeps our minds occupied and agitated; but without peace, true well-being is impossible. The subject of willing is thus forever caught on Ixion's spinning wheel, pouring water into the Danaids' sieve, and remains the eternally desiring Tantalus.

But when some external cause or inward disposition lifts us suddenly out of the endless stream of willing, delivers knowledge from the slavery of the will, the attention is no longer directed to the motives of willing, but comprehends things free from their relation to the will, and thus observes them without personal interest, without subjectivity, purely objectively, gives itself entirely up to them so far as they are ideas, but not in so far as they are motives. Then all at once the peace which we were always seeking, but which always fled from us on the former path of the desires, comes to us of its own accord, and it is well with us. It is the painless state which Epicurus prized as the highest good and as the state of the gods; for we are for the moment set free from the miserable striving of the will; we keep the Sabbath of the penal servitude of willing; the wheel of Ixion stands still.

But when some external factor or internal feeling suddenly pulls us out of the endless cycle of wanting, freeing knowledge from the constraints of desire, our attention is no longer focused on the reasons for wanting. Instead, we see things without their connection to our desires, observing them without personal bias, without subjectivity, purely objectively. We immerse ourselves in them as ideas, but not as motives. Then, suddenly, the peace we’ve always been searching for—yet always escapes us on the previous path of desire—comes to us effortlessly, and we feel content. This is the pain-free state that Epicurus valued as the highest good and the condition of the gods; for, in that moment, we are liberated from the miserable struggle of wanting; we enjoy a break from the burdens of desire; the wheel of Ixion stands still.

But this is just the state which I described above as necessary for the knowledge of the Idea, as pure contemplation, as sinking oneself in perception, losing oneself in the object, forgetting all individuality, surrendering that kind of knowledge which follows the principle of sufficient reason, and comprehends only relations; the state by means of which at once and inseparably the perceived particular thing is raised to the Idea of its whole species, and the knowing individual to the pure subject of will-less [pg 255] knowledge, and as such they are both taken out of the stream of time and all other relations. It is then all one whether we see the sun set from the prison or from the palace.

But this is just the state I mentioned earlier as essential for understanding the Idea, as pure contemplation, where you immerse yourself in perception, lose yourself in the object, forget all individuality, and let go of the kind of knowledge that follows the principle of sufficient reason and only understands relationships. In this state, the specific thing we perceive is simultaneously elevated to the Idea of its entire species, and the knowing individual becomes the pure subject of will-less knowledge. In this way, both are removed from the flow of time and all other relationships. It doesn’t matter whether we watch the sun set from a prison or a palace.

Inward disposition, the predominance of knowing over willing, can produce this state under any circumstances. This is shown by those admirable Dutch artists who directed this purely objective perception to the most insignificant objects, and established a lasting monument of their objectivity and spiritual peace in their pictures of still life, which the æsthetic beholder does not look on without emotion; for they present to him the peaceful, still, frame of mind of the artist, free from will, which was needed to contemplate such insignificant things so objectively, to observe them so attentively, and to repeat this perception so intelligently; and as the picture enables the onlooker to participate in this state, his emotion is often increased by the contrast between it and the unquiet frame of mind, disturbed by vehement willing, in which he finds himself. In the same spirit, landscape-painters, and particularly Ruisdael, have often painted very insignificant country scenes, which produce the same effect even more agreeably.

Inward disposition, where knowing takes precedence over willing, can lead to this state in any situation. This is illustrated by those remarkable Dutch artists who focused their purely objective view on the most trivial subjects, creating a lasting testament to their objectivity and inner peace in their paintings of still life. The aesthetic viewer can't help but feel something; these works present the calm, tranquil mindset of the artist—unclouded by desire—who could take such an objective look at ordinary things, observe them so closely, and convey this perception with such intelligence. As the artwork allows the viewer to share in this state, their feelings are often heightened by the contrast between that peace and their own restless mindset, which is disrupted by strong desires. Similarly, landscape painters, especially Ruisdael, have frequently depicted very simple rural scenes, producing an even more pleasing effect.

All this is accomplished by the inner power of an artistic nature alone; but that purely objective disposition is facilitated and assisted from without by suitable objects, by the abundance of natural beauty which invites contemplation, and even presses itself upon us. Whenever it discloses itself suddenly to our view, it almost always succeeds in delivering us, though it may be only for a moment, from subjectivity, from the slavery of the will, and in raising us to the state of pure knowing. This is why the man who is tormented by passion, or want, or care, is so suddenly revived, cheered, and restored by a single free glance into nature: the storm of passion, the pressure of desire and fear, and all the miseries of willing are then at once, and in a marvellous manner, [pg 256] calmed and appeased. For at the moment at which, freed from the will, we give ourselves up to pure will-less knowing, we pass into a world from which everything is absent that influenced our will and moved us so violently through it. This freeing of knowledge lifts us as wholly and entirely away from all that, as do sleep and dreams; happiness and unhappiness have disappeared; we are no longer individual; the individual is forgotten; we are only pure subject of knowledge; we are only that one eye of the world which looks out from all knowing creatures, but which can become perfectly free from the service of will in man alone. Thus all difference of individuality so entirely disappears, that it is all the same whether the perceiving eye belongs to a mighty king or to a wretched beggar; for neither joy nor complaining can pass that boundary with us. So near us always lies a sphere in which we escape from all our misery; but who has the strength to continue long in it? As soon as any single relation to our will, to our person, even of these objects of our pure contemplation, comes again into consciousness, the magic is at an end; we fall back into the knowledge which is governed by the principle of sufficient reason; we know no longer the Idea, but the particular thing, the link of a chain to which we also belong, and we are again abandoned to all our woe. Most men remain almost always at this standpoint because they entirely lack objectivity, i.e., genius. Therefore they have no pleasure in being alone with nature; they need company, or at least a book. For their knowledge remains subject to their will; they seek, therefore, in objects, only some relation to their will, and whenever they see anything that has no such relation, there sounds within them, like a ground bass in music, the constant inconsolable cry, “It is of no use to me;” thus in solitude the most beautiful surroundings have for them a desolate, dark, strange, and hostile appearance.

All of this is achieved solely by the inner strength of an artistic nature; however, that purely objective mindset is supported from the outside by suitable objects and the abundance of natural beauty that invites contemplation and even presents itself to us. Whenever it suddenly reveals itself to us, it often succeeds in momentarily freeing us from subjectivity, from the shackles of desire, and elevating us to a state of pure awareness. This is why a person tormented by passion, desire, or worry often feels instantly revived, uplifted, and restored by a single glance at nature: the storm of passion, the weight of desire and fear, and all the struggles of wanting are immediately calmed and soothed. At the moment we free ourselves from desire and give in to pure, will-less awareness, we enter a realm where everything that influenced our wants and stirred us so strongly is missing. This liberation of knowledge lifts us completely away from all that, just like sleep and dreams do; happiness and unhappiness vanish; we no longer see ourselves as individuals; the individual is forgotten; we become just the pure subject of knowledge; we are just that one eye of the world looking out from all sentient beings, but which can be entirely separate from the service of desire in humans alone. Thus the differences in individuality fade away so completely that it doesn’t matter whether the perceiving eye belongs to a powerful king or a miserable beggar; neither joy nor sorrow can cross that boundary with us. There is always a sphere close to us where we can escape all our suffering; but who has the strength to stay there for long? As soon as any connection to our desires or our identity regarding these objects of pure contemplation comes back into awareness, the magic ends; we revert to knowledge governed by the principle of sufficient reason; we no longer grasp the Idea, but the specific thing, a link in the chain to which we also belong, and we are once again left to our misery. Most people remain stuck at this level because they completely lack objectivity, i.e. genius. Therefore, they find no joy in being alone with nature; they need company or, at least, a book. Their understanding remains tied to their desires; they only seek to relate to objects in ways that satisfy their wants, and whenever they encounter anything without that connection, they hear within themselves, like a continuous background theme in music, the constant, inconsolable lament, "It's not useful to me;" thus, in solitude, the most beautiful surroundings appear desolate, dark, strange, and hostile to them.

Lastly, it is this blessedness of will-less perception [pg 257] which casts an enchanting glamour over the past and distant, and presents them to us in so fair a light by means of self-deception. For as we think of days long gone by, days in which we lived in a distant place, it is only the objects which our fancy recalls, not the subject of will, which bore about with it then its incurable sorrows just as it bears them now; but they are forgotten, because since then they have often given place to others. Now, objective perception acts with regard to what is remembered just as it would in what is present, if we let it have influence over us, if we surrendered ourselves to it free from will. Hence it arises that, especially when we are more than ordinarily disturbed by some want, the remembrance of past and distant scenes suddenly flits across our minds like a lost paradise. The fancy recalls only what was objective, not what was individually subjective, and we imagine that that objective stood before us then just as pure and undisturbed by any relation to the will as its image stands in our fancy now; while in reality the relation of the objects to our will gave us pain then just as it does now. We can deliver ourselves from all suffering just as well through present objects as through distant ones whenever we raise ourselves to a purely objective contemplation of them, and so are able to bring about the illusion that only the objects are present and not we ourselves. Then, as the pure subject of knowledge, freed from the miserable self, we become entirely one with these objects, and, for the moment, our wants are as foreign to us as they are to them. The world as idea alone remains, and the world as will has disappeared.

Lastly, it is this blessedness of will-less perception [pg 257] that casts a captivating glow over the past and distant, presenting them to us in such a beautiful light through self-deception. When we think of days long gone, days spent in a distant place, it’s only the things our imagination brings back, not the will, that carried its endless sorrows back then just as it does now. Those sorrows are forgotten because they have often been replaced by others since then. Now, objective perception works with what we remember just as it does with what is present, if we allow it to influence us and we let ourselves be free of will. This is why, especially when we feel strongly troubled by some lack, memories of past and distant scenes suddenly float into our minds like a lost paradise. Our imagination recalls only what was objective, not what was individually subjective, and we picture that objective as being just as pure and unaffected by any connection to will as its image appears in our mind now; while in truth, the connection of those objects to our will caused us pain then just as it does now. We can free ourselves from all suffering just as easily through present objects as through distant ones whenever we elevate ourselves to a purely objective contemplation of them, creating the illusion that only the objects are present, not us. In that moment, as the pure subject of knowledge, liberated from the wretched self, we become completely one with these objects, and for a brief time, our desires feel as distant to us as they do to them. Only the world as an idea remains, and the world as will has vanished.

In all these reflections it has been my object to bring out clearly the nature and the scope of the subjective element in æsthetic pleasure; the deliverance of knowledge from the service of the will, the forgetting of self as an individual, and the raising of the consciousness to the pure will-less, timeless, subject of knowledge, independent [pg 258] of all relations. With this subjective side of æsthetic contemplation, there must always appear as its necessary correlative the objective side, the intuitive comprehension of the Platonic Idea. But before we turn to the closer consideration of this, and to the achievements of art in relation to it, it is better that we should pause for a little at the subjective side of æsthetic pleasure, in order to complete our treatment of this by explaining the impression of the sublime which depends altogether upon it, and arises from a modification of it. After that we shall complete our investigation of æsthetic pleasure by considering its objective side.

In all these reflections, my goal has been to clearly express the nature and extent of the subjective aspect of aesthetic pleasure; freeing knowledge from serving the will, forgetting oneself as an individual, and elevating consciousness to the pure will-less, timeless subject of knowledge, independent of all relations. With this subjective aspect of aesthetic contemplation, there must always be its necessary counterpart, the objective side, which is the intuitive understanding of the Platonic Idea. But before we delve deeper into this and explore how art relates to it, it’s better to take a moment to focus on the subjective side of aesthetic pleasure. This will help us explain the impression of the awesome, which entirely depends on it and arises from a modification of it. After that, we will complete our examination of aesthetic pleasure by looking at its objective side.

But we must first add the following remarks to what has been said. Light is the pleasantest and most gladdening of things; it has become the symbol of all that is good and salutary. In all religions it symbolises salvation, while darkness symbolises damnation. Ormuzd dwells in the purest light, Ahrimines in eternal night. Dante's Paradise would look very much like Vauxhall in London, for all the blessed spirits appear as points of light and arrange themselves in regular figures. The very absence of light makes us sad; its return cheers us. Colours excite directly a keen delight, which reaches its highest degree when they are transparent. All this depends entirely upon the fact that light is the correlative and condition of the most perfect kind of knowledge of perception, the only knowledge which does not in any way affect the will. For sight, unlike the affections of the other senses, cannot, in itself, directly and through its sensuous effect, make the sensation of the special organ agreeable or disagreeable; that is, it has no immediate connection with the will. Such a quality can only belong to the perception which arises in the understanding, and then it lies in the relation of the object to the will. In the case of hearing this is to some extent otherwise; sounds can give pain directly, and they may also be sensuously agreeable, directly and without regard to [pg 259] harmony or melody. Touch, as one with the feeling of the whole body, is still more subordinated to this direct influence upon the will; and yet there is such a thing as a sensation of touch which is neither painful nor pleasant. But smells are always either agreeable or disagreeable, and tastes still more so. Thus the last two senses are most closely related to the will, and therefore they are always the most ignoble, and have been called by Kant the subjective senses. The pleasure which we experience from light is in fact only the pleasure which arises from the objective possibility of the purest and fullest perceptive knowledge, and as such it may be traced to the fact that pure knowledge, freed and delivered from all will, is in the highest degree pleasant, and of itself constitutes a large part of æsthetic enjoyment. Again, we must refer to this view of light the incredible beauty which we associate with the reflection of objects in water. That lightest, quickest, finest species of the action of bodies upon each other, that to which we owe by far the completest and purest of our perceptions, the action of reflected rays of light, is here brought clearly before our eyes, distinct and perfect, in cause and in effect, and indeed in its entirety, hence the æsthetic delight it gives us, which, in the most important aspect, is entirely based on the subjective ground of æsthetic pleasure, and is delight in pure knowing and its method.

But we must first add a few comments to what has been discussed. Light is the most pleasant and uplifting of things; it has become a symbol of everything good and beneficial. In all religions, it represents salvation, while darkness symbolizes damnation. Ormuzd resides in pure light, and Ahriman in eternal darkness. Dante's Paradise would look a lot like Vauxhall in London, as all the blessed spirits appear as points of light, arranging themselves in organized patterns. The absence of light makes us feel sad; its return brings us joy. Colors directly excite a sharp delight, reaching their peak when they are transparent. All this depends on the fact that light is essential for the clearest kind of knowledge and perception, the only form of knowledge that doesn’t influence the will. Unlike the emotions tied to the other senses, sight cannot, in itself, directly create a pleasant or unpleasant feeling in its sensory effect; it doesn't have an immediate link to the will. Such a quality can only belong to the understanding that results from perception, which then relates to the will. With hearing, it's somewhat different; sounds can cause pain directly and can also be pleasurable without considering harmony or melody. Touch, being a sensation we feel throughout the whole body, is even more influenced by this direct connection to the will; yet, there are sensations of touch that are neither painful nor pleasant. However, smells are always either pleasant or unpleasant, and tastes even more so. Thus, the last two senses are most closely linked to the will, which is why they are considered the most basic, referred to by Kant as the subjective senses. The pleasure we feel from light is actually just the pleasure that comes from the objective possibility of the purest and fullest perceptive knowledge, and it can be traced back to the idea that pure knowledge, free from any will, is extremely enjoyable and constitutes a significant part of aesthetic pleasure. Additionally, we should connect this view of light to the incredible beauty we associate with the reflection of objects in water. That lightest, quickest, and finest form of interaction between bodies, which gives us the most complete and pure perceptions—the action of reflected rays of light—becomes clearly visible, distinct and perfect, in both cause and effect, revealing its entirety. Hence, the aesthetic delight it provides, which, from the most important standpoint, is entirely rooted in the subjective basis of aesthetic pleasure and the joy of pure knowing and its method.

§ 39. All these reflections are intended to bring out the subjective part of æsthetic pleasure; that is to say, that pleasure so far as it consists simply of delight in perceptive knowledge as such, in opposition to will. And as directly connected with this, there naturally follows the explanation of that disposition or frame of mind which has been called the sense of the sublime.

§ 39. All these reflections aim to highlight the personal aspect of aesthetic pleasure; specifically, the enjoyment that comes from simply appreciating knowledge as it is, contrasting with desire. Along with this, it naturally leads to explaining the mindset that's referred to as the sense of the amazing.

We have already remarked above that the transition to the state of pure perception takes place most easily when the objects bend themselves to it, that is, when by their manifold and yet definite and distinct form they easily [pg 260] become representatives of their Ideas, in which beauty, in the objective sense, consists. This quality belongs pre-eminently to natural beauty, which thus affords even to the most insensible at least a fleeting æsthetic satisfaction: indeed it is so remarkable how especially the vegetable world invites æsthetic observation, and, as it were, presses itself upon it, that one might say, that these advances are connected with the fact that these organisms, unlike the bodies of animals, are not themselves immediate objects of knowledge, and therefore require the assistance of a foreign intelligent individual in order to rise out of the world of blind will and enter the world of idea, and that thus they long, as it were, for this entrance, that they may attain at least indirectly what is denied them directly. But I leave this suggestion which I have hazarded, and which borders perhaps upon extravagance, entirely undecided, for only a very intimate and devoted consideration of nature can raise or justify it.51 As long as that which raises us from the knowledge of mere relations subject to the will, to æsthetic contemplation, and thereby exalts us to the position of the subject of knowledge free from will, is this fittingness of nature, this significance and distinctness of its forms, on account of which the Ideas individualised in them readily present themselves to us; so long is it merely beauty that affects us and the sense of the beautiful that is excited. But if these very objects whose significant forms invite us to pure contemplation, have a hostile relation to the human will in general, as it exhibits itself in its objectivity, the human body, if they are opposed to it, so that it is menaced by the irresistible predominance of their power, or sinks into insignificance before their immeasurable [pg 261] greatness; if, nevertheless, the beholder does not direct his attention to this eminently hostile relation to his will, but, although perceiving and recognising it, turns consciously away from it, forcibly detaches himself from his will and its relations, and, giving himself up entirely to knowledge, quietly contemplates those very objects that are so terrible to the will, comprehends only their Idea, which is foreign to all relation, so that he lingers gladly over its contemplation, and is thereby raised above himself, his person, his will, and all will:—in that case he is filled with the sense of the sublime, he is in the state of spiritual exaltation, and therefore the object producing such a state is called sublime. Thus what distinguishes the sense of the sublime from that of the beautiful is this: in the case of the beautiful, pure knowledge has gained the upper hand without a struggle, for the beauty of the object, i.e., that property which facilitates the knowledge of its Idea, has removed from consciousness without resistance, and therefore imperceptibly, the will and the knowledge of relations which is subject to it, so that what is left is the pure subject of knowledge without even a remembrance of will. On the other hand, in the case of the sublime that state of pure knowledge is only attained by a conscious and forcible breaking away from the relations of the same object to the will, which are recognised as unfavourable, by a free and conscious transcending of the will and the knowledge related to it.

We already mentioned earlier that the shift to a state of pure perception happens most easily when objects align with it; that is, when their diverse yet clear and distinct forms represent their Ideas, where beauty, in an objective sense, resides. This characteristic is especially true for natural beauty, which provides even the least sensitive individuals with at least a brief aesthetic pleasure. It's particularly noteworthy how much the plant kingdom invites aesthetic observation and almost pushes itself into it. One might say that this connection exists because these organisms, unlike animals, aren't immediate objects of knowledge and thus require a thoughtful observer's assistance to rise from the realm of blind will into the realm of Ideas. They seem to long for this entrance so they can at least indirectly achieve what they cannot obtain directly. However, I will leave this thought, which may border on exaggeration, unresolved here, as only a deep and committed study of nature can validate or clarify it. As long as what elevates us from mere knowledge of relationships influenced by will to aesthetic contemplation—thereby lifting us to the position of knowledge free from will—is the suitability of nature and the clarity and significance of its forms, which allow the individualized Ideas to readily present themselves, it is merely beauty that moves us, awakening the sense of the gorgeous. Yet, if these very objects with their meaningful forms that invite pure contemplation have a negative relationship with the human will, as seen in its objectivity—the human body—if they stand opposed to it, to the point where the human will feels threatened by their overwhelming power or becomes insignificant next to their immeasurable [pg 261] greatness; if, in spite of this, the viewer does not focus on this strongly adversarial relationship to his will, but consciously turns away from it, forcibly detaching himself from his will and its concerns, and fully dedicates himself to knowledge, quietly reflecting on those very objects that are so daunting to the will, grasping only their Idea, which is alien to any relationship, so that he delights in that contemplation and is thus elevated above himself, his identity, his will, and all will:—in this case, he experiences the sense of the awesome, achieving a state of spiritual uplift, and thus the object that induces this state is referred to as amazing. The distinction between the sense of the sublime and that of the beautiful lies in this: in the case of beauty, pure knowledge effortlessly prevails, as the object's beauty, i.e. that quality which aids in understanding its Idea, has smoothly removed the will and the relational knowledge influenced by it from consciousness, leaving only the pure subject of knowledge without any trace of will. Conversely, in the case of the sublime, the state of pure knowledge is achieved only through a conscious and forceful breaking away from the negative relationships of the same object to the will, recognizing them as unfavorable, and a free, conscious transcending of the will and its related knowledge.

This exaltation must not only be consciously won, but also consciously retained, and it is therefore accompanied by a constant remembrance of will; yet not of a single particular volition, such as fear or desire, but of human volition in general, so far as it is universally expressed in its objectivity the human body. If a single real act of will were to come into consciousness, through actual personal pressure and danger from the object, then the individual will thus actually influenced would at once [pg 262] gain the upper hand, the peace of contemplation would become impossible, the impression of the sublime would be lost, because it yields to the anxiety, in which the effort of the individual to right itself has sunk every other thought. A few examples will help very much to elucidate this theory of the æsthetic sublime and remove all doubt with regard to it; at the same time they will bring out the different degrees of this sense of the sublime. It is in the main identical with that of the beautiful, with pure will-less knowing, and the knowledge, that necessarily accompanies it of Ideas out of all relation determined by the principle of sufficient reason, and it is distinguished from the sense of the beautiful only by the additional quality that it rises above the known hostile relation of the object contemplated to the will in general. Thus there come to be various degrees of the sublime, and transitions from the beautiful to the sublime, according as this additional quality is strong, bold, urgent, near, or weak, distant, and merely indicated. I think it is more in keeping with the plan of my treatise, first to give examples of these transitions, and of the weaker degrees of the impression of the sublime, although persons whose æsthetical susceptibility in general is not very great, and whose imagination is not very lively, will only understand the examples given later of the higher and more distinct grades of that impression; and they should therefore confine themselves to these, and pass over the examples of the very weak degrees of the sublime that are to be given first.

This exaltation must not only be consciously achieved but also consciously maintained. It requires a constant awareness of will; however, it's not just about a specific desire, like fear or longing, but about human will as a whole, as it is universally expressed through the human body. If a real act of will were to come into awareness due to direct personal pressure and danger from the object, then the individual will being affected would immediately take control, making the state of contemplation impossible. The feeling of the sublime would be lost because it would give way to anxiety, where the individual's struggle to regain balance overwhelms all other thoughts. A few examples will greatly clarify this theory of the aesthetic sublime and eliminate any doubts about it; at the same time, they will highlight the different degrees of this sense of the sublime. Essentially, it is similar to the experience of beauty, involving pure will-less knowledge, and the understanding that naturally accompanies it of ideas beyond any relation defined by the principle of sufficient reason. It differentiates from the experience of beauty primarily by this additional quality that transcends the known adversarial relationship between the object observed and will in general. This leads to various levels of the sublime, with shifts from beauty to the sublime, based on how strong, bold, urgent, close, or weak, distant, and merely suggested this additional quality is. I believe it fits better with the structure of my treatise to first provide examples of these transitions and the weaker impressions of the sublime, even though individuals with generally low aesthetic sensitivity and less vivid imagination will only grasp the later examples of the higher and clearer levels of that impression. Therefore, they should focus on these and skip the examples of the very weak degrees of the sublime that will be presented first.

As man is at once impetuous and blind striving of will (whose pole or focus lies in the genital organs), and eternal, free, serene subject of pure knowing (whose pole is the brain); so, corresponding to this antithesis, the sun is both the source of light, the condition of the most perfect kind of knowledge, and therefore of the most delightful of things—and the source of warmth, the first condition of life, i.e., of all phenomena of will in its higher grades. [pg 263] Therefore, what warmth is for the will, light is for knowledge. Light is the largest gem in the crown of beauty, and has the most marked influence on the knowledge of every beautiful object. Its presence is an indispensable condition of beauty; its favourable disposition increases the beauty of the most beautiful. Architectural beauty more than any other object is enhanced by favourable light, though even the most insignificant things become through its influence most beautiful. If, in the dead of winter, when all nature is frozen and stiff, we see the rays of the setting sun reflected by masses of stone, illuminating without warming, and thus favourable only to the purest kind of knowledge, not to the will; the contemplation of the beautiful effect of the light upon these masses lifts us, as does all beauty, into a state of pure knowing. But, in this case, a certain transcending of the interests of the will is needed to enable us to rise into the state of pure knowing, because there is a faint recollection of the lack of warmth from these rays, that is, an absence of the principle of life; there is a slight challenge to persist in pure knowing, and to refrain from all willing, and therefore it is an example of a transition from the sense of the beautiful to that of the sublime. It is the faintest trace of the sublime in the beautiful; and beauty itself is indeed present only in a slight degree. The following is almost as weak an example.

As humans are both impulsive and blindly driven by desire (centered in the genital organs) and also eternal, free, and calm observers of pure knowledge (centered in the brain), so correspondingly, the sun serves as both the source of light, which is essential for the highest form of knowledge and thus the most pleasurable experiences, and the source of warmth, which is the fundamental requirement for life, i.e., for all higher manifestations of desire. [pg 263] Therefore, just as warmth is vital for desire, light is crucial for knowledge. Light is the most precious gem in the crown of beauty and has a significant effect on our understanding of every beautiful thing. Its presence is essential for beauty, and when it is seen favorably, it enhances even the most beautiful things. Architectural beauty, more than any other, benefits greatly from favorable light, though even the simplest objects become incredibly beautiful in its glow. If, during the harsh winter, when everything is frozen, we see the rays of the setting sun reflecting off stones, illuminating without giving warmth, and thus only promoting the purest form of knowledge rather than desire, the beautiful effect of the light on these stones elevates us, like all beauty does, into a state of pure knowing. However, in this instance, we must rise above our desires to achieve this pure state of knowing, as the faint memory of the lack of warmth from those rays—a lack of life's essence—creates a slight challenge to remain in pure knowledge and resist all desires. Therefore, this represents a shift from the awareness of beauty to the experience of the sublime. It is the faintest trace of the sublime within the beautiful, and beauty itself is present only to a minor extent. The following example is similarly weak.

Let us imagine ourselves transported to a very lonely place, with unbroken horizon, under a cloudless sky, trees and plants in the perfectly motionless air, no animals, no men, no running water, the deepest silence. Such surroundings are, as it were, a call to seriousness and contemplation, apart from all will and its cravings; but this is just what imparts to such a scene of desolate stillness a touch of the sublime. For, because it affords no object, either favourable or unfavourable, for the will which is constantly in need of striving and attaining, [pg 264] there only remains the state of pure contemplation, and whoever is incapable of this, is ignominiously abandoned to the vacancy of unoccupied will, and the misery of ennui. So far it is a test of our intellectual worth, of which, generally speaking, the degree of our power of enduring solitude, or our love of it, is a good criterion. The scene we have sketched affords us, then, an example of the sublime in a low degree, for in it, with the state of pure knowing in its peace and all-sufficiency, there is mingled, by way of contrast, the recollection of the dependence and poverty of the will which stands in need of constant action. This is the species of the sublime for which the sight of the boundless prairies of the interior of North America is celebrated.

Let’s picture ourselves in a really isolated place, with an endless horizon, beneath a clear sky, trees and plants in completely still air, no animals, no people, no flowing water, just the deepest silence. Such a setting invites seriousness and contemplation, away from all desires and cravings; this is exactly what gives a scene of desolate stillness a hint of the sublime. Because it offers no object—either positive or negative—for the will that is always seeking to strive and achieve, [pg 264] only pure contemplation remains, and anyone who can't manage this is shamefully left to the emptiness of an unoccupied will and the struggle of boredom. Thus, it serves as a measure of our intellectual worth, where, in general, the degree to which we can endure solitude, or even enjoy it, is a good indicator. The scene we’ve described provides us with an example of the sublime in a mild form, as it combines the state of pure knowing in its peace and self-sufficiency with the contrasting reminder of the dependence and emptiness of the will that needs constant action. This is the kind of sublime that the endless prairies of central North America are famous for.

But let us suppose such a scene, stripped also of vegetation, and showing only naked rocks; then from the entire absence of that organic life which is necessary for existence, the will at once becomes uneasy, the desert assumes a terrible aspect, our mood becomes more tragic; the elevation to the sphere of pure knowing takes place with a more decided tearing of ourselves away from the interests of the will; and because we persist in continuing in the state of pure knowing, the sense of the sublime distinctly appears.

But let's imagine a scene stripped of all vegetation, revealing only bare rocks; then, because there's a total lack of the organic life necessary for existence, the will suddenly feels restless, the desert looks frightening, and our mood turns darker; the rise to a state of pure awareness happens with a more pronounced detachment from the interests of the will; and as we continue to stay in this state of pure awareness, the sense of the sublime becomes clear.

The following situation may occasion this feeling in a still higher degree: Nature convulsed by a storm; the sky darkened by black threatening thunder-clouds; stupendous, naked, overhanging cliffs, completely shutting out the view; rushing, foaming torrents; absolute desert; the wail of the wind sweeping through the clefts of the rocks. Our dependence, our strife with hostile nature, our will broken in the conflict, now appears visibly before our eyes. Yet, so long as the personal pressure does not gain the upper hand, but we continue in æsthetic contemplation, the pure subject of knowing gazes unshaken and unconcerned through that strife of nature, through that picture of the broken will, and quietly comprehends [pg 265] the Ideas even of those objects which are threatening and terrible to the will. In this contrast lies the sense of the sublime.

The following situation may lead to this feeling even more intensely: Nature in turmoil from a storm; the sky darkened by ominous black thunderclouds; huge, bare cliffs looming overhead, completely blocking the view; rushing, foaming torrents; a complete wasteland; the sound of the wind howling through the cracks in the rocks. Our dependence, our struggle against a hostile environment, our will shattered in the fight, becomes clearly visible before us. However, as long as the personal pressure doesn’t take control and we remain in aesthetic contemplation, the pure act of knowing observes, unshaken and unconcerned, through that chaotic nature and that image of a broken will, and quietly understands the ideas even of those objects that are threatening and terrifying to the will. In this contrast lies the essence of the sublime.

But the impression becomes still stronger, if, when we have before our eyes, on a large scale, the battle of the raging elements, in such a scene we are prevented from hearing the sound of our own voice by the noise of a falling stream; or, if we are abroad in the storm of tempestuous seas, where the mountainous waves rise and fall, dash themselves furiously against steep cliffs, and toss their spray high into the air; the storm howls, the sea boils, the lightning flashes from black clouds, and the peals of thunder drown the voice of storm and sea. Then, in the undismayed beholder, the two-fold nature of his consciousness reaches the highest degree of distinctness. He perceives himself, on the one hand, as an individual, as the frail phenomenon of will, which the slightest touch of these forces can utterly destroy, helpless against powerful nature, dependent, the victim of chance, a vanishing nothing in the presence of stupendous might; and, on the other hand, as the eternal, peaceful, knowing subject, the condition of the object, and, therefore, the supporter of this whole world; the terrific strife of nature only his idea; the subject itself free and apart from all desires and necessities, in the quiet comprehension of the Ideas. This is the complete impression of the sublime. Here he obtains a glimpse of a power beyond all comparison superior to the individual, threatening it with annihilation.

But the impression becomes even stronger when we witness, on a large scale, the battle of the raging elements. In such a scene, we might struggle to hear our own voice over the noise of a rushing stream; or if we’re out in the stormy seas, where massive waves rise and fall, crashing violently against steep cliffs and spraying water high into the air. The storm howls, the sea boils, lightning flashes from dark clouds, and the thunder drowns out the sounds of the storm and sea. In the eyes of a fearless observer, the dual nature of their consciousness becomes incredibly clear. They see themselves as an individual, a fragile being that can be completely destroyed by the slightest touch of these forces—helpless against powerful nature, a victim of chance, a fleeting nothing in the face of such immense power. At the same time, they recognize themselves as the eternal, peaceful, understanding subject, the foundation of the object, and thus the supporter of the entire world. The terrifying struggle of nature is merely an idea to them; the subject itself remains free and separate from all desires and needs, calmly grasping the Ideas. This is the complete impression of the sublime. Here they catch a glimpse of a power that is incomparably greater than the individual, a power that threatens to annihilate it.

The impression of the sublime may be produced in quite another way, by presenting a mere immensity in space and time; its immeasurable greatness dwindles the individual to nothing. Adhering to Kant's nomenclature and his accurate division, we may call the first kind the dynamical, and the second the mathematical sublime, although we entirely dissent from his explanation of the inner nature of the impression, and can allow no share [pg 266] in it either to moral reflections, or to hypostases from scholastic philosophy.

The feeling of the sublime can also come from experiencing sheer vastness in space and time; its endless enormity makes the individual feel insignificant. Following Kant's terminology and his precise categorization, we can refer to the first type as the dynamical sublime and the second as the mathematical sublime, even though we completely disagree with his interpretation of the essence of the impression, and we do not attribute any aspect of it to moral thoughts or concepts from scholastic philosophy.

If we lose ourselves in the contemplation of the infinite greatness of the universe in space and time, meditate on the thousands of years that are past or to come, or if the heavens at night actually bring before our eyes innumerable worlds and so force upon our consciousness the immensity of the universe, we feel ourselves dwindle to nothing; as individuals, as living bodies, as transient phenomena of will, we feel ourselves pass away and vanish into nothing like drops in the ocean. But at once there rises against this ghost of our own nothingness, against such lying impossibility, the immediate consciousness that all these worlds exist only as our idea, only as modifications of the eternal subject of pure knowing, which we find ourselves to be as soon as we forget our individuality, and which is the necessary supporter of all worlds and all times the condition of their possibility. The vastness of the world which disquieted us before, rests now in us; our dependence upon it is annulled by its dependence upon us. All this, however, does not come at once into reflection, but shows itself merely as the felt consciousness that in some sense or other (which philosophy alone can explain) we are one with the world, and therefore not oppressed, but exalted by its immensity. It is the felt consciousness of this that the Upanishads of the Vedas repeatedly express in such a multitude of different ways; very admirably in the saying already quoted: Hæ omnes creaturæ in totum ego sum, et præter me aliud ens non est (Oupnek'hat, vol. i. p. 122.) It is the transcending of our own individuality, the sense of the sublime.

If we get lost in thinking about the infinite vastness of the universe in space and time, reflect on the thousands of years that have passed or are yet to come, or if the night sky actually shows us countless worlds and forces us to confront the enormity of the universe, we feel ourselves shrink to nothing; as individuals, as living beings, as fleeting phenomena of will, we feel ourselves fade away and disappear like drops in the ocean. However, immediately standing against this ghost of our own nothingness, against such deceptive impossibility, is the awareness that all these worlds exist only as our ideas, only as variations of the eternal subject of pure knowing, which we realize ourselves to be as soon as we set aside our individuality. This is the essential basis for all worlds and all times, the condition for their existence. The vastness of the world that previously unsettled us now rests within us; our dependence on it is negated by its dependence on us. All of this, however, doesn't come to light all at once but reveals itself as an intuitive awareness that in some way (which only philosophy can clarify) we are one with the world, and thus not weighed down, but uplifted by its immensity. This felt awareness is what the Upanishads of the Vedas repeatedly express in countless different ways; very well captured in the saying already quoted: Hey, all beings, I am everything, and besides me, there is nothing else that exists (Oupnek'hat, vol. i. p. 122.) It is the transcendence of our own individuality, the sense of the sublime.

We receive this impression of the mathematical-sublime, quite directly, by means of a space which is small indeed as compared with the world, but which has become directly perceptible to us, and affects us with its whole extent in all its three dimensions, so as to make our own [pg 267] body seem almost infinitely small. An empty space can never be thus perceived, and therefore never an open space, but only space that is directly perceptible in all its dimensions by means of the limits which enclose it; thus for example a very high, vast dome, like that of St. Peter's at Rome, or St. Paul's in London. The sense of the sublime here arises through the consciousness of the vanishing nothingness of our own body in the presence of a vastness which, from another point of view, itself exists only in our idea, and of which we are as knowing subject, the supporter. Thus here as everywhere it arises from the contrast between the insignificance and dependence of ourselves as individuals, as phenomena of will, and the consciousness of ourselves as pure subject of knowing. Even the vault of the starry heaven produces this if it is contemplated without reflection; but just in the same way as the vault of stone, and only by its apparent, not its real extent. Some objects of our perception excite in us the feeling of the sublime because, not only on account of their spatial vastness, but also of their great age, that is, their temporal duration, we feel ourselves dwarfed to insignificance in their presence, and yet revel in the pleasure of contemplating them: of this kind are very high mountains, the Egyptian pyramids, and colossal ruins of great antiquity.

We get this impression of the mathematical sublime directly from a space that feels small compared to the world but is still tangible and impacts us in all three dimensions, making our own body seem almost infinitely tiny. An empty space can't be perceived this way, nor can an open space, only space that we can perceive in all its dimensions, defined by the limits that enclose it. For instance, think of a very high, vast dome like St. Peter's in Rome or St. Paul's in London. The feeling of the sublime comes from realizing how insignificant our own body is in the face of a vastness that, from another perspective, exists only in our minds, and of which we are aware and support as knowing subjects. This contrast between our own insignificance and dependence as individuals, as expressions of will, and our awareness of ourselves as pure subjects of knowledge creates the feeling of the sublime. Even the starry sky can evoke this feeling when we observe it without overthinking it, just like we do with a stone vault, and only based on its apparent, not its actual extent. Some things we perceive trigger the feeling of the sublime not just because of their vastness but also due to their immense age, making us feel small and insignificant in their presence while enjoying the pleasure of contemplating them. Examples include very tall mountains, the Egyptian pyramids, and massive ruins from ancient times.

Our explanation of the sublime applies also to the ethical, to what is called the sublime character. Such a character arises from this, that the will is not excited by objects which are well calculated to excite it, but that knowledge retains the upper hand in their presence. A man of sublime character will accordingly consider men in a purely objective way, and not with reference to the relations which they might have to his will; he will, for example, observe their faults, even their hatred and injustice to himself, without being himself excited to hatred; he will behold their happiness without envy; he will recognise their good qualities without desiring any [pg 268] closer relations with them; he will perceive the beauty of women, but he will not desire them. His personal happiness or unhappiness will not greatly affect him, he will rather be as Hamlet describes Horatio:—

Our explanation of the sublime also relates to ethics, particularly what’s known as sublime character. This kind of character develops when the will isn't influenced by things that usually trigger it, but instead knowledge maintains control in those situations. A person with a sublime character will view others in a purely objective manner, without considering how they might relate to his own desires; for instance, he will see their faults, even their hatred and injustice towards him, without being stirred to hatred himself; he will observe their happiness without feeling envious; he will acknowledge their good qualities without wanting closer ties with them; he will notice the beauty of women but won’t crave them. His personal happiness or unhappiness won’t significantly impact him; he will be more like how Hamlet describes Horatio:—

“... for you have been,
As one who experiences all pain yet feels nothing;
A man who's faced life's ups and downs and its rewards
Hast taken with equal thanks &c. (A. 3. Sc. 2.)

For in the course of his own life and its misfortunes, he will consider less his individual lot than that of humanity in general, and will therefore conduct himself in its regard, rather as knowing than as suffering.

For in the course of his life and its misfortunes, he will think less about his own situation and more about humanity as a whole, and will act accordingly, being more aware than merely feeling pain.

§ 40. Opposites throw light upon each other, and therefore the remark may be in place here, that the proper opposite of the sublime is something which would not at the first glance be recognised, as such: the charming or attractive. By this, however, I understand, that which excites the will by presenting to it directly its fulfilment, its satisfaction. We saw that the feeling of the sublime arises from the fact, that something entirely unfavourable to the will, becomes the object of pure contemplation, so that such contemplation can only be maintained by persistently turning away from the will, and transcending its interests; this constitutes the sublimity of the character. The charming or attractive, on the contrary, draws the beholder away from the pure contemplation which is demanded by all apprehension of the beautiful, because it necessarily excites this will, by objects which directly appeal to it, and thus he no longer remains pure subject of knowing, but becomes the needy and dependent subject of will. That every beautiful thing which is bright or cheering should be called charming, is the result of a too general concept, which arises from a want of accurate discrimination, and which I must entirely set aside, and indeed condemn. But in the sense of the word which has been given and explained, I [pg 269] find only two species of the charming or attractive in the province of art, and both of them are unworthy of it. The one species, a very low one, is found in Dutch paintings of still life, when they err by representing articles of food, which by their deceptive likeness necessarily excite the appetite for the things they represent, and this is just an excitement of the will, which puts an end to all æsthetic contemplation of the object. Painted fruit is yet admissible, because we may regard it as the further development of the flower, and as a beautiful product of nature in form and colour, without being obliged to think of it as eatable; but unfortunately we often find, represented with deceptive naturalness, prepared and served dishes, oysters, herrings, crabs, bread and butter, beer, wine, and so forth, which is altogether to be condemned. In historical painting and in sculpture the charming consists in naked figures, whose position, drapery, and general treatment are calculated to excite the passions of the beholder, and thus pure æsthetical contemplation is at once annihilated, and the aim of art is defeated. This mistake corresponds exactly to that which we have just censured in the Dutch paintings. The ancients are almost always free from this fault in their representations of beauty and complete nakedness of form, because the artist himself created them in a purely objective spirit, filled with ideal beauty, not in the spirit of subjective, and base sensuality. The charming is thus everywhere to be avoided in art.

§ 40. Opposites shed light on each other, and so it's worth mentioning here that the proper opposite of the sublime isn't immediately obvious: the charming or appealing. By this, I mean what engages the will by presenting it directly with its fulfillment, its satisfaction. We noted that the feeling of the sublime comes from the fact that something completely contrary to the will becomes the focus of pure contemplation. This contemplation can only persist by consistently diverting attention away from the will and surpassing its interests; this defines the character's sublimity. The charming or attractive, on the other hand, distracts the viewer from the pure contemplation required for appreciating beauty because it inevitably stirs the will with objects that appeal to it directly. As a result, the viewer no longer remains a pure knower but transforms into a needy, dependent subject of will. The tendency to label every bright or uplifting thing as charming is the result of a too broad concept that arises from a lack of precise differentiation, which I must firmly reject and indeed condemn. However, in the sense of the word we've discussed, I [pg 269] identify only two types of the charming or attractive in the realm of art, neither of which is worthy of it. One type, a very low one, is represented in Dutch still-life paintings when they depict food items that, through their deceptive likeness, inevitably provoke a craving for the things they represent, leading to an excitement of the will that disrupts any aesthetic contemplation of the object. Painted fruit is acceptable because it can be seen as a further development of the flower and a beautiful product of nature in form and color, without forcing us to think of it as edible. However, we often come across dishes presented with deceptive naturalness—like oysters, herring, crabs, bread and butter, beer, wine, and so on—which absolutely should be condemned. In historical painting and sculpture, the charming appears in naked figures whose poses, drapery, and overall treatment are designed to stimulate the viewer's passions, swiftly destroying pure aesthetic contemplation and undermining the purpose of art. This error mirrors the one we just criticized in Dutch paintings. The ancients are almost always free from this flaw in their depictions of beauty and complete nakedness of form because the artists created them with a purely objective spirit, infused with ideal beauty, rather than through a subjective and base sensuality. The charming should therefore be avoided in art.

There is also a negative species of the charming or exciting which is even more reprehensible than the positive form which has been discussed; this is the disgusting or the loathsome. It arouses the will of the beholder, just as what is properly speaking charming, and therefore disturbs pure æsthetic contemplation. But it is an active aversion and opposition which is excited by it; it arouses the will by presenting to it objects which it abhors. Therefore it has always been recognised that it is [pg 270] altogether inadmissible in art, where even what is ugly, when it is not disgusting, is allowable in its proper place, as we shall see later.

There is also a negative version of charm or excitement that is even more objectionable than the positive form we've discussed; this is the disgusting or loathsome. It triggers the will of the observer, just like what is truly charming, and therefore disrupts pure aesthetic appreciation. However, it creates an active aversion and resistance; it stimulates the will by presenting objects that it finds repulsive. Therefore, it has always been recognized that it is [pg 270] completely unacceptable in art, where even what is ugly, as long as it's not disgusting, can be acceptable in its right context, as we will see later.

§ 41. The course of the discussion has made it necessary to insert at this point the treatment of the sublime, though we have only half done with the beautiful, as we have considered its subjective side only. For it was merely a special modification of this subjective side that distinguished the beautiful from the sublime. This difference was found to depend upon whether the state of pure will-less knowing, which is presupposed and demanded by all æsthetic contemplation, was reached without opposition, by the mere disappearance of the will from consciousness, because the object invited and drew us towards it; or whether it was only attained through the free, conscious transcending of the will, to which the object contemplated had an unfavourable and even hostile relation, which would destroy contemplation altogether, if we were to give ourselves up to it. This is the distinction between the beautiful and the sublime. In the object they are not essentially different, for in every case the object of æsthetical contemplation is not the individual thing, but the Idea in it which is striving to reveal itself; that is to say, adequate objectivity of will at a particular grade. Its necessary correlative, independent, like itself of the principle of sufficient reason, is the pure subject of knowing; just as the correlative of the particular thing is the knowing individual, both of which lie within the province of the principle of sufficient reason.

§ 41. The course of the discussion has made it necessary to include a discussion of the sublime here, even though we are only halfway through understanding the beautiful, as we have only looked at its subjective aspect so far. The distinction between the beautiful and the sublime is essentially a particular variation of this subjective aspect. This difference depends on whether the state of pure will-less knowing, which is necessary for all aesthetic contemplation, is achieved without resistance, simply by the will fading from consciousness because the object draws us in, or if it is reached through the free, conscious overcoming of the will, where the object being contemplated poses a negative and even hostile relationship, threatening to completely disrupt the contemplation if we surrender to it. This is the key difference between the beautiful and the sublime. In the object itself, they aren’t fundamentally different because, in every case, the object of aesthetic contemplation isn't the individual thing, but the Idea within it that is striving to reveal itself; in other words, the sufficient objectivity of will at a certain level. Its necessary counterpart, also independent and aligned with the principle of sufficient reason, is the pure subject of knowing; just as the counterpart of the individual thing is the knowing individual, both of which fall under the principle of sufficient reason.

When we say that a thing is beautiful, we thereby assert that it is an object of our æsthetic contemplation, and this has a double meaning; on the one hand it means that the sight of the thing makes us objective, that is to say, that in contemplating it we are no longer conscious of ourselves as individuals, but as pure will-less subjects of knowledge; and on the other hand it means that we recognise in the object, not the particular thing, [pg 271] but an Idea; and this can only happen, so far as our contemplation of it is not subordinated to the principle of sufficient reason, does not follow the relation of the object to anything outside it (which is always ultimately connected with relations to our own will), but rests in the object itself. For the Idea and the pure subject of knowledge always appear at once in consciousness as necessary correlatives, and on their appearance all distinction of time vanishes, for they are both entirely foreign to the principle of sufficient reason in all its forms, and lie outside the relations which are imposed by it; they may be compared to the rainbow and the sun, which have no part in the constant movement and succession of the falling drops. Therefore, if, for example, I contemplate a tree æsthetically, i.e., with artistic eyes, and thus recognise, not it, but its Idea, it becomes at once of no consequence whether it is this tree or its predecessor which flourished a thousand years ago, and whether the observer is this individual or any other that lived anywhere and at any time; the particular thing and the knowing individual are abolished with the principle of sufficient reason, and there remains nothing but the Idea and the pure subject of knowing, which together constitute the adequate objectivity of will at this grade. And the Idea dispenses not only with time, but also with space, for the Idea proper is not this special form which appears before me but its expression, its pure significance, its inner being, which discloses itself to me and appeals to me, and which may be quite the same though the spatial relations of its form be very different.

When we say that something is gorgeous, we mean that it is something for us to appreciate aesthetically, and this has a double meaning. On one hand, it means that observing the thing makes us goal; we no longer see ourselves as individuals, but as pure observers of knowledge. On the other hand, it means that we see in the object not just its specific qualities, [pg 271] but rather an Idea. This recognition occurs only if our appreciation is not bound by the principle of sufficient reason, meaning it doesn't rely on the object's relation to anything outside itself (which is always ultimately tied to our own desires), but instead focuses on the object itself. The Idea and the pure observer of knowledge are always simultaneously present in consciousness as necessary counterparts, and when they appear, the distinction of time fades, as they exist independently of the principle of sufficient reason and its imposed relationships. They can be likened to a rainbow and the sun, which remain unaffected by the constant movement and changes of the falling drops. Therefore, if I look at a tree aesthetically, i.e., with an artistic perspective, seeing not the tree itself but its Idea, it doesn't matter if it's this tree or its predecessor from a thousand years ago, and it doesn't matter whether the observer is this individual or someone else from anywhere or any time. The specific object and the observer are transcended along with the principle of sufficient reason, leaving only the Idea and the pure observer of knowledge, which together form the complete objectivity of will at this level. And the Idea transcends not just time but also space because the true Idea is not the particular form that appears before me but its expression, its pure meaning, its essence, which reveals itself to me and resonates with me, and it can be the same even if the spatial conditions of its form are very different.

Since, on the one hand, every given thing may be observed in a. purely objective manner and apart from all relations; and since, on the other hand, the will manifests itself in everything at some grade of its objectivity, so that everything is the expression of an Idea; it follows that everything is also beautiful. That even the most insignificant things admit of pure objective and [pg 272] will-less contemplation, and thus prove that they are beautiful, is shown by what was said above in this reference about the Dutch pictures of still-life (§ 38). But one thing is more beautiful than another, because it makes this pure objective contemplation easier, it lends itself to it, and, so to speak, even compels it, and then we call it very beautiful. This is the case sometimes because, as an individual thing, it expresses in its purity the Idea of its species by the very distinct, clearly defined, and significant relation of its parts, and also fully reveals that Idea through the completeness of all the possible expressions of its species united in it, so that it makes the transition from the individual thing to the Idea, and therefore also the condition of pure contemplation, very easy for the beholder. Sometimes this possession of special beauty in an object lies in the fact that the Idea itself which appeals to us in it is a high grade of the objectivity of will, and therefore very significant and expressive. Therefore it is that man is more beautiful than all other objects, and the revelation of his nature is the highest aim of art. Human form and expression are the most important objects of plastic art, and human action the most important object of poetry. Yet each thing has its own peculiar beauty, not only every organism which expresses itself in the unity of an individual being, but also everything unorganised and formless, and even every manufactured article. For all these reveal the Ideas through which the will objectifies itself at its lowest grades, they give, as it were, the deepest resounding bass-notes of nature. Gravity, rigidity, fluidity, light, and so forth, are the Ideas which express themselves in rocks, in buildings, in waters. Landscape-gardening or architecture can do no more than assist them to unfold their qualities distinctly, fully, and variously; they can only give them the opportunity of expressing themselves purely, so that they lend themselves to æsthetic contemplation and make it easier. [pg 273] Inferior buildings or ill-favoured localities, on the contrary, which nature has neglected or art has spoiled, perform this task in a very slight degree or not at all; yet even from them these universal, fundamental Ideas of nature cannot altogether disappear. To the careful observer they present themselves here also, and even bad buildings and the like are capable of being æsthetically considered; the Ideas of the most universal properties of their materials are still recognisable in them, only the artificial form which has been given them does not assist but hinders æsthetic contemplation. Manufactured articles also serve to express Ideas, only it is not the Idea of the manufactured article which speaks in them, but the Idea of the material to which this artificial form has been given. This may be very conveniently expressed in two words, in the language of the schoolmen, thus,—the manufactured article expresses the Idea of its forma substantialis, but not that of its forma accidentalis; the latter leads to no Idea, but only to a human conception of which it is the result. It is needless to say that by manufactured article no work of plastic art is meant. The schoolmen understand, in fact, by forma substantialis that which I call the grade of the objectification of will in a thing. We shall return immediately, when we treat of architecture, to the Idea of the material. Our view, then, cannot be reconciled with that of Plato if he is of opinion that a table or a chair express the Idea of a table or a chair (De Rep., x., pp. 284, 285, et Parmen., p. 79, ed. Bip.), but we say that they express the Ideas which are already expressed in their mere material as such. According to Aristotle (Metap. xi., chap. 3), however, Plato himself only maintained Ideas of natural objects: ὁ Πλατων εφη, ὁτι ειδη εστιν ὁποσα φυσει (Plato dixit, quod ideæ eorum sunt, quæ natura sunt), and in chap. 5 he says that, according to the Platonists, there are no Ideas of house and ring. In any case, Plato's earliest disciples, as Alcinous informs us (Introductio [pg 274]in Platonicam Philosophiam, chap. 9), denied that there were any ideas of manufactured articles. He says: Ὁριζονται δε την ιδεαν, παραδειγμα των κατα φυσιν αιωνιον. Ουτε γαρ τοις πλειστοις των απο Πλατωνος αρεσκει, των τεχνικων ειναι ιδεας, οἱον ασπιδος η λυρας, ουτε μην των παρα φυσιν, οἱον πυρετου και χολερας, ουτε των κατα μερος, οἱον Σωκρατους και Πλατωνος, αλλ᾽ ουτε των ευτελων τινος, οἱον ρυπου και καρφους, ουτε των προς τι, οἱον μειζονος και ὑπερεχοντος; ειναι γαρ τας ιδεας νοησεις θεου αιωνιους τε και αυτοτελεις (Definiunt autem ideam exemplar æternum eorum, quæ secundum naturam existunt. Nam plurimis ex iis, qui Platonem secuti sunt, minime placuit, arte factorum ideas esse, ut clypei atque lyræ; neque rursus eorum, quæ prætor naturam, ut febris et choleræ, neque particularium, ceu Socratis et Platonis; neque etiam rerum vilium, veluti sordium et festucæ; neque relationum, ut majoris et excedentis: esse namque ideas intellectiones dei æternas, ac seipsis perfectas). We may take this opportunity of mentioning another point in which our doctrine of Ideas differs very much from that of Plato. He teaches (De Rep., x., p. 288) that the object which art tries to express, the ideal of painting and poetry, is not the Idea but the particular thing. Our whole exposition hitherto has maintained exactly the opposite, and Plato's opinion is the less likely to lead us astray, inasmuch as it is the source of one of the greatest and best known errors of this great man, his depreciation and rejection of art, and especially poetry; he directly connects his false judgment in reference to this with the passage quoted.

Since, on one hand, everything can be viewed in a completely objective way and separately from all relationships; and since, on the other hand, the will reveals itself in everything at some level of objectivity, so that everything embodies an Idea; it follows that everything is also beautiful. Even the tiniest things allow for pure objective and [pg 272] will-less contemplation, proving their beauty, as shown earlier with the Dutch still-life paintings (§ 38). However, some things are more beautiful than others because they make pure objective contemplation easier, they invite it, and almost compel it, which is why we consider them very beautiful. This can occur when an individual thing distinctly and clearly expresses the Idea of its kind through the well-defined and significant relationships of its parts, and fully reveals that Idea by bringing together all possible expressions of its kind, making the transition from the individual thing to the Idea, and therefore the condition for pure contemplation, very easy for the viewer. Sometimes, an object's special beauty stems from the fact that the Idea itself represented in it is a high level of the objectivity of will, hence very significant and expressive. That's why the human form is more beautiful than all other objects, and revealing its nature is the highest goal of art. Human form and expression are the key subjects of visual art, and human actions are the main focus of poetry. Nevertheless, every object has its own unique beauty, not just every organism expressing itself within the unity of an individual being, but also everything unorganized and formless, even every manufactured item. All of these express the Ideas through which the will objectifies itself at its lowest levels, providing, in a way, the deepest baselines of nature. Gravity, rigidity, fluidity, light, and so on, are the Ideas represented in rocks, buildings, and waters. Landscape architecture or architecture can only help these qualities unfold clearly, completely, and in diverse ways; they can merely allow them to express themselves purely, making it easier for aesthetic contemplation. [pg 273] Poor buildings or unattractive locations that nature has overlooked or art has ruined fulfill this role only to a minimal extent or not at all; however, even from these, the universal and fundamental Ideas of nature cannot completely vanish. To a careful observer, they present themselves here as well, and even poorly designed buildings can be considered aesthetically; the Ideas of their most universal properties are still identifiable in them, although the artificial form imposed on them does not aid but rather obstructs aesthetic contemplation. Manufactured items also serve to express Ideas, but it’s not the Idea of the manufactured item that speaks through them, but the Idea of the material to which this artificial form has been given. This can be conveniently summed up in two words from scholastic terminology: the manufactured item expresses the Idea of its substantial form, but not that of its accidental form; the latter leads to no Idea, only to a human concept that results from it. It should be noted that by manufactured item, no work of visual art is implied. The scholastics actually understand substantial form as that which I refer to as the level of the objectification of will in a thing. We will return shortly, when discussing architecture, to the Idea of the material. Our view cannot align with that of Plato if he believes that a table or a chair expresses the Idea of a table or a chair (De Rep., x., pp. 284, 285, et Parmen., p. 79, ed. Bip.), but we claim that they express the Ideas that are already conveyed in their mere material as such. According to Aristotle (Metap. xi., chap. 3), however, Plato himself only held that there were Ideas of natural objects: ὁ Πλατων εφη, ὁτι ειδη εστιν ὁποσα φυσει (Plato said that their ideas are what nature is), and in chap. 5, he states that, according to the Platonists, there are no Ideas for houses or rings. In any case, Plato's earliest disciples, as Alcinous informs us (Introduction [pg 274]in Platonicam Philosophiam, chap. 9), rejected the idea that there are concepts for manufactured objects. He says: Ὁριζονται δε την ιδεαν, παραδειγμα των κατα φυσιν αιωνιον. Also, many of those who followed Plato do not agree that there are ideas for artificial items like a shield or a lyre, nor for natural things like fever and bile, nor for specific individuals, such as Socrates and Plato, nor even for trivial items like dirt and nails, nor for relations like greater and exceeding. For ideas are divine perceptions that are eternal and self-sufficient (Definiunt autem ideam exemplar æternum eorum, quæ secundum naturam existunt. Nam plurimis ex iis, qui Platonem secuti sunt, minime placuit, arte factorum ideas esse, ut clypei atque lyræ; neque rursus eorum, quæ prætor naturam, ut febris et choleræ, neque particularium, ceu Socratis et Platonis; neque etiam rerum vilium, veluti sordium et festucæ; neque relationum, ut majoris et excedentis: esse namque ideas intellectiones dei æternas, ac sepsis perfectas). We can take this opportunity to point out another important difference between our theory of Ideas and Plato's. He argues (De Rep., x., p. 288) that what art seeks to convey, the ideal in painting and poetry, is not the Idea but the actual thing. Our entire discussion up to now has maintained the exact opposite, and Plato's perspective is more likely to confuse us, as it is the source of one of the most significant and well-known mistakes of this great thinker, which is his underappreciation and rejection of art, especially poetry; he directly links his flawed opinion on this to the passage mentioned earlier.

§ 42. I return to the exposition of the æsthetic impression. The knowledge of the beautiful always supposes at once and inseparably the pure knowing subject and the known Idea as object. Yet the source of æsthetic satisfaction will sometimes lie more in the comprehension of the known Idea, sometimes more in the blessedness and spiritual peace of the pure knowing subject [pg 275] freed from all willing, and therefore from all individuality, and the pain that proceeds from it. And, indeed, this predominance of one or the other constituent part of æsthetic feeling will depend upon whether the intuitively grasped Idea is a higher or a lower grade of the objectivity of will. Thus in æsthetic contemplation (in the real, or through the medium of art) of the beauty of nature in the inorganic and vegetable worlds, or in works of architecture, the pleasure of pure will-less knowing will predominate, because the Ideas which are here apprehended are only low grades of the objectivity of will, and are therefore not manifestations of deep significance and rich content. On the other hand, if animals and man are the objects of æsthetic contemplation or representation, the pleasure will consist rather in the comprehension of these Ideas, which are the most distinct revelation of will; for they exhibit the greatest multiplicity of forms, the greatest richness and deep significance of phenomena, and reveal to us most completely the nature of will, whether in its violence, its terribleness, its satisfaction or its aberration (the latter in tragic situations), or finally in its change and self-surrender, which is the peculiar theme of christian painting; as the Idea of the will enlightened by full knowledge is the object of historical painting in general, and of the drama. We shall now go through the fine arts one by one, and this will give completeness and distinctness to the theory of the beautiful which we have advanced.

§ 42. I return to discussing the aesthetic impression. Understanding beauty always involves both the pure knowing subject and the Idea as the object in a connected way. However, the source of aesthetic satisfaction can sometimes come more from understanding the Idea and sometimes more from the bliss and spiritual peace of the pure knowing subject, free from all desires and therefore from any individuality and the pain that comes with it. The emphasis on one aspect or the other of aesthetic feeling will depend on whether the intuitively grasped Idea represents a higher or lower level of the objectivity of will. In aesthetic contemplation (either in reality or through art) of the beauty found in nature’s inorganic and plant worlds, or in architecture, the pleasure of pure, desire-free knowledge will dominate, since the Ideas perceived here are only low levels of the objectivity of will and thus do not show deep significance or rich meaning. Conversely, when animals and humans are the focus of aesthetic contemplation or representation, the pleasure will arise more from understanding these Ideas, which are the clearest expressions of will; they show the greatest variety of forms, the richest and most meaningful phenomena, and reveal to us most fully the essence of will, whether in its force, its terror, its satisfaction or its deviation (the last in tragic contexts), or ultimately in its transformation and self-surrender, which is a central theme in Christian art; since the Idea of will, illuminated by complete knowledge, is the focus of historical painting in general and of drama. We will now explore the fine arts one by one, which will provide completeness and clarity to the theory of beauty we've presented.

§ 43. Matter as such cannot be the expression of an Idea. For, as we found in the first book, it is throughout nothing but causality: its being consists in its casual action. But causality is a form of the principle of sufficient reason; knowledge of the Idea, on the other hand, absolutely excludes the content of that principle. We also found, in the second book, that matter is the common substratum of all particular phenomena of the Ideas, and consequently is the connecting link between [pg 276] the Idea and the phenomenon, or the particular thing. Accordingly for both of these reasons it is impossible that matter can for itself express any Idea. This is confirmed a posteriori by the fact that it is impossible to have a perceptible idea of matter as such, but only an abstract conception; in the former, i.e., in perceptible ideas are exhibited only the forms and qualities of which matter is the supporter, and in all of which Ideas reveal themselves. This corresponds also with the fact, that causality (the whole essence of matter) cannot for itself be presented perceptibly, but is merely a definite casual connection. On the other hand, every phenomenon of an Idea, because as such it has entered the form of the principle of sufficient reason, or the principium individuationis, must exhibit itself in matter, as one of its qualities. So far then matter is, as we have said, the connecting link between the Idea and the principium individuationis, which is the form of knowledge of the individual, or the principle of sufficient reason. Plato is therefore perfectly right in his enumeration, for after the Idea and the phenomenon, which include all other things in the world, he gives matter only, as a third thing which is different from both (Timaus, p. 345). The individual, as a phenomenon of the Idea, is always matter. Every quality of matter is also the phenomenon of an Idea, and as such it may always be an object of æsthetic contemplation, i.e., the Idea expressed in it may always be recognised. This holds good of even the most universal qualities of matter, without which it never appears, and which are the weakest objectivity of will. Such are gravity, cohesion, rigidity, fluidity, sensitiveness to light, and so forth.

§ 43. Matter, as it is, cannot express an Idea. As we established in the first book, it is entirely about causality: its existence is defined by its causal actions. However, causality is a form of the principle of sufficient reason; knowing the Idea, on the other hand, completely excludes the content of that principle. We also found in the second book that matter serves as the common foundation for all specific phenomena of the Ideas, thus acting as the connection between [pg 276] the Idea and the phenomenon, or the specific thing. For these reasons, it is impossible for matter to express any Idea on its own. This is further supported after the fact by the fact that we cannot have a tangible idea of matter itself, only an abstract concept; in perceptible ideas, i.e., we only showcase the forms and qualities supported by matter, in which Ideas reveal themselves. This aligns with the fact that causality (the essence of matter) cannot be presented perceptibly, but is simply a specific causal connection. On the other hand, every event of an Idea, since it has taken on the form of the principle of sufficient reason, or the principium individuationis, must manifest in matter as one of its qualities. Therefore, matter acts as the connecting link between the Idea and the principle of individuality, the form of knowledge for the individual, or the principle of sufficient reason. Plato is entirely correct in his classification; after discussing the Idea and the phenomenon, which encompass all other things in the world, he considers matter as a third entity that is distinct from both (Timaus, p. 345). The individual, as a phenomenon of the Idea, is always matter. Every quality of matter is also a phenomenon of an Idea, and as such, it can always be an object of aesthetic contemplation; i.e., the Idea expressed within it can always be recognized. This holds true even for the most universal qualities of matter, which are essential for its appearance and represent the most basic objectivity of will. These include gravity, cohesion, rigidity, fluidity, sensitivity to light, and so on.

If now we consider architecture simply as a fine art and apart from its application to useful ends, in which it serves the will and not pure knowledge, and therefore ceases to be art in our sense; we can assign to it no other aim than that of bringing to greater distinctness [pg 277] some of those ideas, which are the lowest grades of the objectivity of will; such as gravity, cohesion, rigidity, hardness, those universal qualities of stone, those first, simplest, most inarticulate manifestations of will; the bass notes of nature; and after these light, which in many respects is their opposite. Even at these low grades of the objectivity of will we see its nature revealing itself in discord; for properly speaking the conflict between gravity and rigidity is the sole æsthetic material of architecture; its problem is to make this conflict appear with perfect distinctness in a multitude of different ways. It solves it by depriving these indestructible forces of the shortest way to their satisfaction, and conducting them to it by a circuitous route, so that the conflict is lengthened and the inexhaustible efforts of both forces become visible in many different ways. The whole mass of the building, if left to its original tendency, would exhibit a mere heap or clump, bound as closely as possible to the earth, to which gravity, the form in which the will appears here, continually presses, while rigidity, also objectivity of will, resists. But this very tendency, this effort, is hindered by architecture from obtaining direct satisfaction, and only allowed to reach it indirectly and by roundabout ways. The roof, for example, can only press the earth through columns, the arch must support itself, and can only satisfy its tendency towards the earth through the medium of the pillars, and so forth. But just by these enforced digressions, just by these restrictions, the forces which reside in the crude mass of stone unfold themselves in the most distinct and multifarious ways; and the purely æsthetic aim of architecture can go no further than this. Therefore the beauty, at any rate, of a building lies in the obvious adaptation of every part, not to the outward arbitrary end of man (so far the work belongs to practical architecture), but directly to the stability of the whole, to which the position, dimensions, and form of every part must have so [pg 278] necessary a relation that, where it is possible, if any one part were taken away, the whole would fall to pieces. For just because each part bears just as much as it conveniently can, and each is supported just where it requires to be and just to the necessary extent, this opposition unfolds itself, this conflict between rigidity and gravity, which constitutes the life, the manifestation of will, in the stone, becomes completely visible, and these lowest grades of the objectivity of will reveal themselves distinctly. In the same way the form of each part must not be determined arbitrarily, but by its end, and its relation to the whole. The column is the simplest form of support, determined simply by its end: the twisted column is tasteless; the four-cornered pillar is in fact not so simple as the round column, though it happens that it is easier to make it. The forms also of frieze, rafter, roof, and dome are entirely determined by their immediate end, and explain themselves from it. The decoration of capitals, &c., belongs to sculpture, not to architecture, which admits it merely as extraneous ornament, and could dispense with it. According to what has been said, it is absolutely necessary, in order to understand the æsthetic satisfaction afforded by a work of architecture, to have immediate knowledge through perception of its matter as regards its weight, rigidity, and cohesion, and our pleasure in such a work would suddenly be very much diminished by the discovery that the material used was pumice-stone; for then it would appear to us as a kind of sham building. We would be affected in almost the same way if we were told that it was made of wood, when we had supposed it to be of stone, just because this alters and destroys the relation between rigidity and gravity, and consequently the significance and necessity of all the parts, for these natural forces reveal themselves in a far weaker degree in a wooden building. Therefore no real work of architecture as a fine art can be made of wood, although it assumes all forms so easily; this can only be [pg 279] explained by our theory. If we were distinctly told that a building, the sight of which gave us pleasure, was made of different kinds of material of very unequal weight and consistency, but not distinguishable to the eye, the whole building would become as utterly incapable of affording us pleasure as a poem in an unknown language. All this proves that architecture does not affect us mathematically, but also dynamically, and that what speaks to us through it, is not mere form and symmetry, but rather those fundamental forces of nature, those first Ideas, those lowest grades of the objectivity of will. The regularity of the building and its parts is partly produced by the direct adaptation of each member to the stability of the whole, partly it serves to facilitate the survey and comprehension of the whole, and finally, regular figures to some extent enhance the beauty because they reveal the constitution of space as such. But all this is of subordinate value and necessity, and by no means the chief concern; indeed, symmetry is not invariably demanded, as ruins are still beautiful.

If we think about architecture just as a fine art, separate from its practical use, where it serves the will rather than pure knowledge—therefore it stops being art in our sense—we can say its only purpose is to clarify some basic ideas that represent the simplest aspects of the will's objectivity, like gravity, cohesion, rigidity, and hardness—universal qualities of stone that present the most rudimentary expressions of will; the foundational elements of nature; and, on the other hand, light. Even at these basic levels of will's objectivity, we see its nature expressing conflict; the struggle between gravity and rigidity is the only aesthetic material of architecture. Its challenge is to highlight this struggle in various distinct ways. It achieves this by preventing these unyielding forces from quickly reaching their goals, guiding them through a longer path so that their ongoing efforts become apparent in many forms. If the building’s mass followed its natural inclination, it would be a mere pile clinging tightly to the ground, which gravity—as the expression of will here—continuously pulls downward, while rigidity, another aspect of the will, resists. However, architecture interferes with this tendency, preventing direct fulfillment and allowing it to be achieved only through indirect means. For example, a roof can press down on the earth only through columns; an arch must support itself and can only achieve its downward pull via the pillars, and so on. Through these enforced diversions and limitations, the forces contained within the solid stone are expressed in diverse and clear ways, and the aesthetic goal of architecture can't go beyond this. Therefore, the beauty of a building resides in the clear connection of each part, not to some arbitrary human goal (which would place it in practical architecture), but directly to the overall stability, to which every part’s position, size, and shape must relate in such a necessary way that, if one part were removed, the whole would collapse. Because each part bears as much weight as it can handle, and each is supported precisely where it needs support, this opposition unfolds—the conflict between rigidity and gravity—which represents the life and manifestation of will in the stone, becomes fully visible, and these basic aspects of the will's objectivity are clearly revealed. Similarly, the shape of each part shouldn't be decided randomly but must be based on its purpose and its relation to the whole. A column is the simplest support, determined only by its purpose: a twisted column is unattractive; a square pillar, while easier to make, is actually more complex than a round column. The shapes of friezes, rafters, roofs, and domes are all determined by their direct purpose and are explained by it. The decoration of capitals, etc., belongs to sculpture, not architecture, which only accepts it as added ornamentation and could do without it. As stated, to truly understand the aesthetic enjoyment brought by a work of architecture, one must immediately perceive its material in terms of weight, rigidity, and cohesion; our pleasure in such a structure would significantly decrease if we discovered it was made of pumice stone, as it would feel like a mere imitation. We would react similarly if we learned it was made of wood while thinking it was made of stone, since this changes and weakens the balance between rigidity and gravity, and therefore the relevance and necessity of all the parts—these natural forces are much less apparent in a wooden structure. Consequently, no genuine architectural work as a fine art can be made of wood, despite its ability to take many forms; this can only be [pg 279] explained by our theory. If we were clearly told that a building, which we found beautiful, was constructed from various materials of very different weights and consistencies, though not visually distinguishable, the whole structure would lose its ability to please us as completely as a poem in an unknown language. All of this shows that architecture influences us not just mathematically but also dynamically, and what resonates with us through it is not merely form and symmetry, but those fundamental forces of nature, those first Ideas, those basic levels of the will’s objectivity. The order of the building and its parts comes partly from each component's direct contribution to the overall stability, partly to make the entire structure easier to view and understand, and finally, regular shapes somewhat enhance the beauty because they reveal the essence of space itself. However, all of this is of lesser importance and necessity; indeed, symmetry isn’t always required, as ruins can still be beautiful.

Works of architecture have further quite a special relation to light; they gain a double beauty in the full sunshine, with the blue sky as a background, and again they have quite a different effect by moonlight. Therefore, when a beautiful work of architecture is to be erected, special attention is always paid to the effects of the light and to the climate. The reason of all this is, indeed, principally that all the parts and their relations are only made clearly visible by a bright, strong light; but besides this I am of opinion that it is the function of architecture to reveal the nature of light just as it reveals that of things so opposite to it as gravity and rigidity. For the light is intercepted, confined, and reflected by the great opaque, sharply outlined, and variously formed masses of stone, and thus it unfolds its nature and qualities in the purest and clearest way, to the great pleasure of the beholders, for light is the [pg 280] most joy-giving of things, as the condition and the objective correlative of the most perfect kind of knowledge of perception.

Works of architecture have a unique relationship with light; they become more beautiful in bright sunlight against a blue sky, and they create a different atmosphere under moonlight. So, when designing a stunning piece of architecture, careful consideration is given to how light interacts with it and the surrounding climate. This is mainly because strong, bright light makes all the elements and their relationships more visible. Additionally, I believe architecture's role is to showcase the nature of light, just as it does with contrasting elements like gravity and rigidity. Light is blocked, contained, and reflected by large, solid, sharply outlined, and differently shaped stone masses, allowing its nature and qualities to unfold in the most pure and clear way, which greatly pleases the viewers. Light is the most uplifting of things, serving as both a condition and the objective counterpart to the highest level of perception knowledge.

Now, because the Ideas which architecture brings to clear perception, are the lowest grades of the objectivity of will, and consequently their objective significance, which architecture reveals to us, is comparatively small; the æsthetic pleasure of looking at a beautiful building in a good light will lie, not so much in the comprehension of the Idea, as in the subjective correlative which accompanies this comprehension; it will consist pre-eminently in the fact that the beholder, set free from the kind of knowledge that belongs to the individual, and which serves the will and follows the principle of sufficient reason, is raised to that of the pure subject of knowing free from will. It will consist then principally in pure contemplation itself, free from all the suffering of will and of individuality. In this respect the opposite of architecture, and the other extreme of the series of the fine arts, is the drama, which brings to knowledge the most significant Ideas. Therefore in the æsthetic pleasure afforded by the drama the objective side is throughout predominant.

Now, because the ideas that architecture presents to us are the simplest forms of will's objectivity, the objective meaning that architecture reveals is relatively small. The aesthetic pleasure of admiring a beautiful building in good light comes not so much from understanding the idea itself, but from the personal feelings that accompany that understanding. It mainly lies in the fact that the viewer is liberated from the type of knowledge that pertains to the individual, which serves the will and adheres to the principle of sufficient reason. Instead, they are elevated to a state of pure awareness that is free from will. Therefore, the pleasure comes primarily from pure contemplation itself, away from all the struggles of will and individuality. In this regard, the opposite of architecture, and the other extreme in the fine arts, is drama, which conveys the most significant ideas. Consequently, in the aesthetic pleasure derived from drama, the objective aspect is consistently dominant.

Architecture has this distinction from plastic art and poetry: it does not give us a copy but the thing itself. It does not repeat, as they do, the known Idea, so that the artist lends his eyes to the beholder, but in it the artist merely presents the object to the beholder, and facilitates for him the comprehension of the Idea by bringing the actual, individual object to a distinct and complete expression of its nature.

Architecture is different from visual arts and poetry: it doesn't just give us a representation but the real thing itself. Unlike these other forms, which reflect a familiar concept through the artist's perspective, architecture simply presents the object to the viewer and helps them understand the idea by showcasing the actual, unique object in a clear and complete way.

Unlike the works of the other arts, those of architecture are very seldom executed for purely æsthetic ends. These are generally subordinated to other useful ends which are foreign to art itself. Thus the great merit of the architect consists in achieving and attaining the pure æsthetic ends, in spite of their subordination to other [pg 281] ends which are foreign to them. This he does by cleverly adapting them in a variety of ways to the arbitrary ends in view, and by rightly judging which form of æsthetical architectonic beauty is compatible and may be associated with a temple, which with a palace, which with a prison, and so forth. The more a harsh climate increases these demands of necessity and utility, determines them definitely, and prescribes them more inevitably, the less free play has beauty in architecture. In the mild climate of India, Egypt, Greece, and Rome, where the demands of necessity were fewer and less definite, architecture could follow its æsthetic ends with the greatest freedom. But under a northern sky this was sorely hindered. Here, when caissons, pointed roofs and towers were what was demanded, architecture could only unfold its own beauty within very narrow limits, and therefore it was obliged to make amends by resorting all the more to the borrowed ornaments of sculpture, as is seen in Gothic architecture.

Unlike other art forms, architecture is rarely created solely for aesthetic purposes. Instead, it often serves other practical functions that are unrelated to art itself. The true skill of an architect lies in achieving pure aesthetic goals, despite their subordination to these other non-artistic purposes. This is done by cleverly adapting architectural elements in various ways to meet these practical needs and by accurately determining which forms of aesthetic beauty are suitable for different structures, like temples, palaces, or prisons. The harsher the climate, the more these practical demands dictate design, limiting the freedom of beauty in architecture. In the milder climates of India, Egypt, Greece, and Rome, where practical needs were less pressing, architecture could pursue aesthetic goals more freely. However, under a northern sky, this freedom was significantly restricted. In such environments, when features like caissons, pointed roofs, and towers were required, architecture could only express its beauty within very tight constraints, prompting a greater reliance on decorative elements borrowed from sculpture, as seen in Gothic architecture.

We thus see that architecture is greatly restricted by the demands of necessity and utility; but on the other hand it has in them a very powerful support, for, on account of the magnitude and costliness of its works, and the narrow sphere of its æsthetic effect, it could not continue to exist merely as a fine art, if it had not also, as a useful and necessary profession, a firm and honourable place among the occupations of men. It is the want of this that prevents another art from taking its place beside architecture as a sister art, although in an æsthetical point of view it is quite properly to be classed along with it as its counterpart; I mean artistic arrangements of water. For what architecture accomplishes for the Idea of gravity when it appears in connection with that of rigidity, hydraulics accomplishes for the same Idea, when it is connected with fluidity, i.e., formlessness, the greatest mobility and transparency. Leaping waterfalls foaming and tumbling over rocks, [pg 282] cataracts dispersed into floating spray, springs gushing up as high columns of water, and clear reflecting lakes, reveal the Ideas of fluid and heavy matter, in precisely the same way as the works of architecture unfold the Ideas of rigid matter. Artistic hydraulics, however, obtains no support from practical hydraulics, for, as a rule, their ends cannot be combined; yet, in exceptional cases, this happens; for example, in the Cascata di Trevi at Rome.52

We can see that architecture is largely limited by the needs of practicality and function; however, these very needs also provide strong support, because due to the size and expense of its structures, and the limited range of its aesthetic impact, architecture couldn't survive solely as a fine art. It also holds an important and respected position as a valuable and necessary profession among human activities. This lack of necessity is what stops another art form from standing alongside architecture as a sister art, even though aesthetically it rightly belongs with it as its counterpart; I'm referring to artistic water arrangements. Just as architecture represents the idea of weight when it relates to rigidity, hydraulic designs express the same idea when connected to fluidity—meaning formlessness, high mobility, and transparency. Waterfalls cascading and crashing over rocks, rapids turning into mist, springs bursting forth in high jets, and clear reflective lakes showcase the ideas of both fluid and heavy materials, just as architectural works express the ideas of solid materials. However, artistic hydraulics doesn't benefit from practical hydraulics, as their purposes usually can't be aligned; still, there are rare instances where they do come together, like in the Trevi Fountain in Rome.

§ 44. What the two arts we have spoken of accomplish for these lowest grades of the objectivity of will, is performed for the higher grades of vegetable nature by artistic horticulture. The landscape beauty of a scene consists, for the most part, in the multiplicity of natural objects which are present in it, and then in the fact that they are clearly separated, appear distinctly, and yet exhibit a fitting connection and alternation. These two conditions are assisted and promoted by landscape-gardening, but it has by no means such a mastery over its material as architecture, and therefore its effect is limited. The beauty with which it is concerned belongs almost exclusively to nature; it has done little for it; and, on the other hand, it can do little against unfavourable nature, and when nature works, not for it, but against it, its achievements are small.

§ 44. What the two arts we mentioned do for the lowest levels of will's objectivity, artistic horticulture achieves for the higher levels of plant life. The beauty of a landscape largely comes from the variety of natural elements present and how they are clearly defined, distinct, yet still connected and alternating in a harmonious way. Landscape gardening helps to enhance these two aspects, but it doesn't have the same control over its materials as architecture does, so its impact is more limited. The beauty it focuses on is mostly natural; it contributes little to it, and conversely, it struggles to combat unfavorable natural conditions. When nature is not on its side, its results are minimal.

The vegetable world offers itself everywhere for æsthetic enjoyment without the medium of art; but so far as it is an object of art, it belongs principally to landscape-painting; to the province of which all the rest of unconscious nature also belongs. In paintings of still life, and of mere architecture, ruins, interiors of churches, &c., the subjective side of æsthetic pleasure is predominant, i.e., our satisfaction does not lie principally in the direct comprehension of the represented Ideas, but rather in the subjective correlative of this comprehension, pure, will-less knowing. For, because the painter lets us see these [pg 283] things through his eyes, we at once receive a sympathetic and reflected sense of the deep spiritual peace and absolute silence of the will, which were necessary in order to enter with knowledge so entirely into these lifeless objects, and comprehend them with such love, i.e., in this case with such a degree of objectivity. The effect of landscape-painting proper is indeed, as a whole, of this kind; but because the Ideas expressed are more distinct and significant, as higher grades of the objectivity of will, the objective side of æsthetic pleasure already comes more to the front and assumes as much importance as the subjective side. Pure knowing as such is no longer the paramount consideration, for we are equally affected by the known Platonic Idea, the world as idea at an important grade of the objectification of will.

The vegetable world is everywhere available for aesthetic enjoyment without the need for art; however, when it comes to being an object of art, it primarily relates to landscape painting, which encompasses all other forms of unconscious nature as well. In still life paintings, and in mere architecture, ruins, interiors of churches, etc., the subjective aspect of aesthetic pleasure takes precedence. Our enjoyment does not mainly stem from directly understanding the represented ideas but rather from the subjective response to this understanding, which is a pure, will-less awareness. Since the painter shows us these things through their perspective, we immediately experience a sympathetic and reflective sense of deep spiritual peace and complete stillness of the will, which is essential to fully comprehend these lifeless objects with such affection, or in this case, with such a high degree of objectivity. The overall effect of proper landscape painting is indeed of this sort; however, because the ideas expressed are clearer and more significant, representing higher levels of the objectivity of the will, the objective aspect of aesthetic pleasure starts to emerge more prominently and becomes as important as the subjective aspect. Pure knowing is no longer the main focus, as we are equally influenced by the known Platonic idea, the world as an idea at a significant level of the objectification of the will.

But a far higher grade is revealed by animal painting and sculpture. Of the latter we have some important antique remains; for example, horses at Venice, on Monte Cavallo, and on the Elgin Marbles, also at Florence in bronze and marble; the ancient boar, howling wolves, the lions in the arsenal at Venice, also in the Vatican a whole room almost filled with ancient animals, &c. In these representations the objective side of æsthetic pleasure obtains a marked predominance over the subjective. The peace of the subject which knows these Ideas, which has silenced its own will, is indeed present, as it is in all æsthetic contemplation; but its effect is not felt, for we are occupied with the restlessness and impetuosity of the will represented. It is that very will, which constitutes our own nature, that here appears to us in forms, in which its manifestation is not, as in us, controlled and tempered by intellect, but exhibits itself in stronger traits, and with a distinctness that borders on the grotesque and monstrous. For this very reason there is no concealment; it is free, naïve, open as the day, and this is the cause of our interest in animals. The characteristics of species appeared already in the representation [pg 284] of plants, but showed itself only in the forms; here it becomes much more distinct, and expresses itself not only in the form, but in the action, position, and mien, yet always merely as the character of the species, not of the individual. This knowledge of the Ideas of higher grades, which in painting we receive through extraneous means, we may gain directly by the pure contemplative perception of plants, and observation of beasts, and indeed of the latter in their free, natural, and unrestrained state. The objective contemplation of their manifold and marvellous forms, and of their actions and behaviour, is an instructive lesson from the great book of nature, it is a deciphering of the true signatura rerum.53 We see in them the manifold grades and modes of the manifestation of will, which in all beings of one and the same grade, wills always in the same way, which objectifies itself as life, as existence in such endless variety, and such different forms, which are all adaptations to the different external circumstances, and may be compared to many variations on the same theme. But if we had to communicate to the observer, for reflection, and in a word, the explanation of their inner nature, it would be best to make use of that Sanscrit formula which occurs so often in the sacred books of the Hindoos, and is called Mahavakya, i.e., the great word: Tat twam asi,” which means, “this living thing art thou.”

But a much higher quality is shown in animal painting and sculpture. We have some significant ancient examples; for instance, horses in Venice, at Monte Cavallo, and on the Elgin Marbles; also in Florence in bronze and marble, like the ancient boar, howling wolves, and the lions in the arsenal at Venice. In the Vatican, there’s an entire room nearly filled with ancient animals, etc. In these depictions, the objective side of aesthetic pleasure clearly outweighs the subjective. The peace of the subject that understands these Ideas and has subdued its own will is indeed present, just like in any aesthetic contemplation; however, its effect isn't felt because we are focused on the restlessness and intensity of the depicted will. It is that same will, which is part of our nature, that shows up to us in forms where its expression isn't, like in us, controlled and softened by intellect, but stands out with stronger features and a distinctness that approaches the grotesque and monstrous. This is why there is no concealment; it is free, naïve, and as open as day, which explains our interest in animals. The characteristics of species were already evident in plant representations, but only in form; here, it becomes much clearer and expresses itself not just in form but also in action, position, and demeanor, always representing the nature of the species, not the individual. This understanding of the Ideas at higher levels, which we get in painting through external means, can be obtained directly through pure contemplative observation of plants and animals, particularly the latter in their free, natural, and unrestrained state. The objective contemplation of their diverse and amazing forms, as well as their actions and behaviors, is an enlightening lesson from the great book of nature; it is a decoding of the true signature of things.53 We see in them the various grades and ways the will manifests, which in all beings of the same grade, wills consistently, objectifying itself as life, as existence in a seemingly endless variety and different forms—all adaptations to various external circumstances, comparable to many variations on the same theme. But if we had to communicate to the observer, for reflection and in a nutshell, the explanation of their inner nature, it would be best to use that Sanskrit phrase often found in the sacred books of the Hindus, called Mahavakya, i.e., the great word: You are that,” which means, “you are this living thing.”

§ 45. The great problem of historical painting and sculpture is to express directly and for perception the Idea in which the will reaches the highest grade of its objectification. The objective side of the pleasure afforded by the beautiful is here always predominant, [pg 285] and the subjective side has retired into the background. It is further to be observed that at the next grade below this, animal painting, the characteristic is entirely one with the beautiful; the most characteristic lion, wolf, horse, sheep, or ox, was always the most beautiful also. The reason of this is that animals have only the character of their species, no individual character. In the representation of men the character of the species is separated from that of the individual; the former is now called beauty (entirely in the objective sense), but the latter retains the name, character, or expression, and the new difficulty arises of representing both, at once and completely, in the same individual.

§ 45. The major challenge of historical painting and sculpture is to convey directly and perceptively the Idea where the will achieves the highest level of its expression. The objective aspect of the pleasure derived from beauty is always dominant here, [pg 285] while the subjective aspect takes a back seat. It's also important to note that at the next level down, animal painting, the characteristic aligns completely with beauty; the most representative lion, wolf, horse, sheep, or ox is invariably the most beautiful as well. This is because animals embody only the traits of their species, lacking individual character. In depicting humans, the traits of the species are distinguished from those of the individual; the former is termed beauty (entirely in an objective sense), while the latter keeps the names of character or expression, creating the new challenge of representing both simultaneously and thoroughly in the same individual.

Human beauty is an objective expression, which means the fullest objectification of will at the highest grade at which it is knowable, the Idea of man in general, completely expressed in the sensible form. But however much the objective side of the beautiful appears here, the subjective side still always accompanies it. And just because no object transports us so quickly into pure æsthetic contemplation, as the most beautiful human countenance and form, at the sight of which we are instantly filled with unspeakable satisfaction, and raised above ourselves and all that troubles us; this is only possible because this most distinct and purest knowledge of will raises us most easily and quickly to the state of pure knowing, in which our personality, our will with its constant pain, disappears, so long as the pure æsthetic pleasure lasts. Therefore it is that Goethe says: “No evil can touch him who looks on human beauty; he feels himself at one with himself and with the world.” That a beautiful human form is produced by nature must be explained in this way. At this its highest grade the will objectifies itself in an individual; and therefore through circumstances and its own power it completely overcomes all the hindrances and opposition which the phenomena of the lower grades present to it. Such are the forces [pg 286] of nature, from which the will must always first extort and win back the matter that belongs to all its manifestations. Further, the phenomenon of will at its higher grades always has multiplicity in its form. Even the tree is only a systematic aggregate of innumerably repeated sprouting fibres. This combination assumes greater complexity in higher forms, and the human body is an exceedingly complex system of different parts, each of which has a peculiar life of its own, vita propria, subordinate to the whole. Now that all these parts are in the proper fashion subordinate to the whole, and co-ordinate to each other, that they all work together harmoniously for the expression of the whole, nothing superfluous, nothing restricted; all these are the rare conditions, whose result is beauty, the completely expressed character of the species. So is it in nature. But how in art? One would suppose that art achieved the beautiful by imitating nature. But how is the artist to recognise the perfect work which is to be imitated, and distinguish it from the failures, if he does not anticipate the beautiful before experience? And besides this, has nature ever produced a human being perfectly beautiful in all his parts? It has accordingly been thought that the artist must seek out the beautiful parts, distributed among a number of different human beings, and out of them construct a beautiful whole; a perverse and foolish opinion. For it will be asked, how is he to know that just these forms and not others are beautiful? We also see what kind of success attended the efforts of the old German painters to achieve the beautiful by imitating nature. Observe their naked figures. No knowledge of the beautiful is possible purely a posteriori, and from mere experience; it is always, at least in part, a priori, although quite different in kind, from the forms of the principle of sufficient reason, of which we are conscious a priori. These concern the universal form of phenomena as such, as it constitutes the possibility [pg 287] of knowledge in general, the universal how of all phenomena, and from this knowledge proceed mathematics and pure natural science. But this other kind of knowledge a priori, which makes it possible to express the beautiful, concerns, not the form but the content of phenomena, not the how but the what of the phenomenon. That we all recognise human beauty when we see it, but that in the true artist this takes place with such clearness that he shows it as he has never seen it, and surpasses nature in his representation; this is only possible because we ourselves are the will whose adequate objectification at its highest grade is here to be judged and discovered. Thus alone have we in fact an anticipation of that which nature (which is just the will that constitutes our own being) strives to express. And in the true genius this anticipation is accompanied by so great a degree of intelligence that he recognises the Idea in the particular thing, and thus, as it were, understands the half-uttered speech of nature, and articulates clearly what she only stammered forth. He expresses in the hard marble that beauty of form which in a thousand attempts she failed to produce, he presents it to nature, saying, as it were, to her, “That is what you wanted to say!” And whoever is able to judge replies, “Yes, that is it.” Only in this way was it possible for the genius of the Greeks to find the type of human beauty and establish it as a canon for the school of sculpture; and only by virtue of such an anticipation is it possible for all of us to recognise beauty, when it has actually been achieved by nature in the particular case. This anticipation is the Ideal. It is the Idea so far as it is known a priori, at least half, and it becomes practical for art, because it corresponds to and completes what is given a posteriori through nature. The possibility of such an anticipation of the beautiful a priori in the artist, and of its recognition a posteriori by the critic, lies in the fact that the artist and the critic are themselves the “in-itself” of nature, the [pg 288] will which objectifies itself. For, as Empedocles said, like can only be known by like: only nature can understand itself: only nature can fathom itself: but only spirit also can understand spirit.54

Human beauty is an objective expression, meaning it’s the fullest realization of will at the highest level of understanding, representing the Idea of humanity completely manifested in a tangible form. However much the objective side of beauty is emphasized here, the subjective side is always present as well. And since no object can transport us into a pure aesthetic experience quite like a beautiful human face and body, which fill us instantly with indescribable satisfaction and elevate us above ourselves and our troubles, this is only possible because this clear and pure understanding of will lifts us swiftly to a state of pure knowing, where our personality, our will with its constant turmoil, fades away for as long as the pure aesthetic pleasure lasts. This is why Goethe says: “No evil can reach someone who appreciates human beauty; they feel connected to themselves and the world.” The fact that a beautiful human figure is a creation of nature can be explained this way. At this highest level, the will makes itself known through an individual; thus, it overcomes all challenges and resistance that the phenomena of lower levels present. These are the forces [pg 286] of nature, from which the will must always first extract and reclaim the matter needed for all its expressions. Furthermore, phenomena of will at these higher levels always exhibit complexity in their form. Even a tree is just a systematic grouping of countless repeated budding fibers. This combination becomes even more intricate in higher forms, and the human body is an extremely complex system of different parts, each with its unique life, personal life, subordinate to the whole. As long as all these parts are properly subordinate to the whole and coordinated with each other, working together harmoniously for the expression of the entirety, nothing excessive, nothing limited; these are the rare conditions leading to beauty, the fully expressed character of the species. This is how it is in nature. But how about in art? One might think that art achieves beauty by mimicking nature. But how can an artist identify the perfect work to imitate and distinguish it from failures, unless they have a notion of beauty before their experience? Besides, has nature ever created a perfectly beautiful human being in all aspects? Thus, it has been suggested that artists should find beautiful parts among various individuals and combine them to create a beautiful whole; a misguided and foolish view. For the question arises: how can the artist know that these specific forms, rather than others, are beautiful? We also see the kind of results that old German painters had when they tried to achieve beauty by imitating nature. Look at their naked figures. Genuine knowledge of beauty cannot come solely after the fact, from mere experience; it is always partially before the fact, but quite different in nature, from the forms of the principle of sufficient reason, of which we are aware before the fact. These pertain to the universal form of phenomena as such, as it underpins the possibility [pg 287] of knowledge in general, the universal how of all phenomena, from which mathematics and pure natural science emerge. But this other kind of knowledge beforehand, which allows the expression of beauty, concerns not the form but the content of phenomena, not the how but the what of the phenomenon. We all recognize human beauty when we see it, but in a true artist, this recognition is so clear that they present it as it has never been seen, surpassing nature in their depiction; this is only possible because we're the will whose complete realization at its highest form can be judged and recognized here. This is how we anticipate what nature (which is the will that forms our own being) aims to express. And in true genius, this anticipation is accompanied by such a degree of insight that they can recognize the Idea within the specific thing, and thus, as it were, understand the unfinished expression of nature, articulating clearly what she only stammered. They express in solid marble that beauty of form which nature failed to produce in a thousand attempts, presenting it to nature as if to say, "That's what you wanted to say!" And anyone who is capable of judgment responds, "Yes, that's it." Only in this way could the genius of the Greeks identify the standard of human beauty and establish it as a benchmark for the sculpture school; and it is only through such an anticipation that we can all recognize beauty when it has genuinely been realized by nature in a specific instance. This anticipation is the Perfect. It is the Concept as far as it is understood beforehand, at least partially, and it becomes applicable for art because it aligns with and completes what is provided after the fact through nature. The potential for such an prior anticipation of beauty in the artist, and for its recognition after the fact by the critic, lies in the fact that both the artist and the critic are themselves the “in itself” of nature, the [pg 288] will expressing itself. As Empedocles said, like can only be understood by like: only nature can understand itself: only nature can comprehend itself: but only spirit can also understand spirit.

The opinion, which is absurd, although expressed by the Socrates of Xenophon (Stobæi Floril, vol. ii. p. 384) that the Greeks discovered the established ideal of human beauty empirically, by collecting particular beautiful parts, uncovering and noting here a knee, there an arm, has an exact parallel in the art of poetry. The view is entertained, that Shakespeare, for example, observed, and then gave forth from his own experience of life, the innumerable variety of the characters in his dramas, so true, so sustained, so profoundly worked out. The impossibility and absurdity of such an assumption need not be dwelt upon. It is obvious that the man of genius produces the works of poetic art by means of an anticipation of what is characteristic, just as he produces the works of plastic and pictorial art by means of a prophetic anticipation of the beautiful; yet both require experience as a pattern or model, for thus alone can that which is dimly known a priori be called into clear consciousness, and an intelligent representation of it becomes possible.

The idea, which is ridiculous, even though it's stated by the Socrates of Xenophon (Stobæi Floril, vol. ii. p. 384), that the Greeks figured out the standard of human beauty by piecing together specific attractive features—pointing out a knee here, an arm there—has a direct parallel in poetry. Some believe that Shakespeare, for example, observed and then expressed from his own life experiences the countless variety of characters in his plays, which are so authentic, so well-developed, and so deeply crafted. It's unnecessary to elaborate on the impossibility and absurdity of such a belief. It's clear that a genius creates works of poetic art through an anticipation of what is characteristic, just as he creates visual art through a prophetic sense of beauty. Yet, both require experience as a reference point since only then can what is vaguely understood beforehand be brought into clear awareness, allowing for an intelligent representation of it.

Human beauty was explained above as the fullest objectification of will at the highest grade at which it is knowable. It expresses itself through the form; and this lies in space alone, and has no necessary connection with time, as, for example, motion has. Thus far then we may say: the adequate objectification of will through a merely spatial phenomenon is beauty, in the objective sense. A plant is nothing but such a merely spatial [pg 289] phenomenon of will; for no motion, and consequently no relation to time (regarded apart from its development), belongs to the expression of its nature; its mere form expresses its whole being and displays it openly. But brutes and men require, further, for the full revelation of the will which is manifested in them, a series of actions, and thus the manifestation in them takes on a direct relation to time. All this has already been explained in the preceding book; it is related to what we are considering at present in the following way. As the merely spatial manifestation of will can objectify it fully or defectively at each definite grade,—and it is this which constitutes beauty or ugliness,—so the temporal objectification of will, i.e., the action, and indeed the direct action, the movement, may correspond to the will, which objectifies itself in it, purely and fully without foreign admixture, without superfluity, without defect, only expressing exactly the act of will determined in each case;—or the converse of all this may occur. In the first case the movement is made with grace, in the second case without it. Thus as beauty is the adequate representation of will generally, through its merely spatial manifestation; grace is the adequate representation of will through its temporal manifestation, that is to say, the perfectly accurate and fitting expression of each act of will, through the movement and position which objectify it. Since movement and position presuppose the body, Winckelmann's expression is very true and suitable, when he says, “Grace is the proper relation of the acting person to the action” (Works, vol. i. p. 258). It is thus evident that beauty may be attributed to a plant, but no grace, unless in a figurative sense; but to brutes and men, both beauty and grace. Grace consists, according to what has been said, in every movement being performed, and every position assumed, in the easiest, most appropriate and convenient way, and therefore being the pure, adequate expression of its intention, or of [pg 290] the act of will, without any superfluity, which exhibits itself as aimless, meaningless bustle, or as wooden stiffness. Grace presupposes as its condition a true proportion of all the limbs, and a symmetrical, harmonious figure; for complete ease and evident appropriateness of all positions and movements are only possible by means of these. Grace is therefore never without a certain degree of beauty of person. The two, complete and united, are the most distinct manifestation of will at the highest grade of its objectification.

Human beauty has been explained as the fullest expression of will at the highest level at which it can be understood. It shows itself through form; this exists solely in space and isn't necessarily tied to time, unlike motion. So, we can state that the complete expression of will through a purely spatial phenomenon is beauty, in an objective sense. A plant is simply such a spatial phenomenon of will because it has no motion, and therefore no connection to time (when considered separate from its growth); its mere form expresses its entire being and reveals it openly. However, animals and humans additionally require a series of actions to fully reveal the will manifested in them, making their expression inherently related to time. All of this has already been discussed in the previous book; it connects to our current consideration in the following manner. Just as the purely spatial manifestation of will can fully or partially express it at each distinct level—which defines beauty or ugliness—the temporal expression of will, that is, action, particularly direct action or movement, can correspond with the will that expresses itself within it, either purely and fully without any foreign interference, excess, or defect, perfectly embodying the specific act of will in each case, or the opposite can occur. In the first scenario, the movement is performed with grace; in the second, it's without grace. Thus, while beauty is the adequate representation of will generally through its purely spatial manifestation, grace is the adequate representation of will through its temporal manifestation, meaning the perfectly accurate and suitable expression of each act of will, through the movement and position that embody it. Since movement and position require a body, Winckelmann's statement, "Grace is the proper relation of the acting person to the action," is quite true and fitting (Works, vol. i. p. 258). It becomes clear that beauty can be attributed to a plant, but not grace, except in a figurative sense; whereas both beauty and grace can be attributed to animals and humans. Grace, as has been said, is about every movement being done and every position being taken in the easiest, most fitting way, thus being the pure and adequate expression of its intention, or the act of will, without any excess, which appears aimless or meaningless, or as stiff and wooden. For grace to exist, there must be a true proportion of all the limbs and a symmetrical, harmonious figure; complete ease and evident suitability in all positions and movements are only possible through these. Therefore, grace is never devoid of a certain degree of physical beauty. Together, beauty and grace represent the clearest manifestation of will at the highest level of its expression.

It was mentioned above that in order rightly to portray man, it is necessary to separate the character of the species from that of the individual, so that to a certain extent every man expresses an Idea peculiar to himself, as was said in the last book. Therefore the arts whose aim is the representation of the Idea of man, have as their problem, not only beauty, the character of the species, but also the character of the individual, which is called, par excellence, character. But this is only the case in so far as this character is to be regarded, not as something accidental and quite peculiar to the man as a single individual, but as a side of the Idea of humanity which is specially apparent in this individual, and the representation of which is therefore of assistance in revealing this Idea. Thus the character, although as such it is individual, must yet be Ideal, that is, its significance in relation to the Idea of humanity generally (the objectifying of which it assists in its own way) must be comprehended and expressed with special prominence. Apart from this the representation is a portrait, a copy of the individual as such, with all his accidental qualities. And even the portrait ought to be, as Winckelmann says, the ideal of the individual.

It was mentioned above that to accurately depict a person, we need to distinguish between the traits of the species and those of the individual. In this way, each person expresses a unique idea specific to themselves, as stated in the previous book. Therefore, the arts aiming to represent the idea of humanity must address not only beauty, representing the species, but also the traits of the individual, which can be referred to as, the best, character. However, this only holds true if we see this character not as an accidental feature unique to the individual, but as a facet of the idea of humanity that is particularly evident in this person, and its representation helps to reveal this idea. Thus, while the character is individual, it should also be ideal, meaning its significance in relation to the larger idea of humanity (which it helps to objectify in its own way) must be clearly understood and expressed. Without this, the representation is merely a portrait, a copy of the individual with all their incidental traits. Even the portrait should be, as Winckelmann says, the ideal of the individual.

That character which is to be ideally comprehended, as the prominence of a special side of the Idea of humanity, expresses itself visibly, partly through permanent physiognomy and bodily form, partly through passing [pg 291] emotion and passion, the reciprocal modification of knowing and willing by each other, which is all exhibited in the mien and movements. Since the individual always belongs to humanity, and, on the other hand, humanity always reveals itself in the individual with what is indeed peculiar ideal significance, beauty must not be destroyed by character nor character by beauty. For if the character of the species is annulled by that of the individual, the result is caricature; and if the character of the individual is annulled by that of the species, the result is an absence of meaning. Therefore the representation which aims at beauty, as sculpture principally does, will yet always modify this (the character of the species), in some respect, by the individual character, and will always express the Idea of man in a definite individual manner, giving prominence to a special side of it. For the human individual as such has to a certain extent the dignity of a special Idea, and it is essential to the Idea of man that it should express itself in individuals of special significance. Therefore we find in the works of the ancients, that the beauty distinctly comprehended by them, is not expressed in one form, but in many forms of different character. It is always apprehended, as it were, from a different side, and expressed in one way in Apollo, in another way in Bacchus, in another in Hercules, in another in Antinous; indeed the characteristic may limit the beautiful, and finally extend even to hideousness, in the drunken Silenus, in the Faun, &c. If the characteristic goes so far as actually to annul the character of the species, if it extends to the unnatural, it becomes caricature. But we can far less afford to allow grace to be interfered with by what is characteristic than even beauty, for graceful position and movement are demanded for the expression of the character also; but yet it must be achieved in the way which is most fitting, appropriate, and easy for the person. This will be observed, not only by the sculptor and the painter, but [pg 292] also by every good actor; otherwise caricature will appear here also as grimace or distortion.

That character that we need to understand ideally, representing a specific aspect of the concept of humanity, shows itself in two ways: through a person's lasting facial features and body shape, and also through fleeting emotions and passions. This interplay of awareness and desire is all seen in a person's demeanor and movements. Since every individual is part of humanity, and simultaneously, humanity expresses itself through each individual uniquely, beauty shouldn’t be diminished by character, nor should character be diminished by beauty. If the essence of the species is overridden by the individual, it results in a caricature; if the individual essence is overridden by the species, it ends up meaningless. Thus, representations that focus on beauty, as sculpture generally does, will still adapt this (the species’ essence) to some degree by the individual character, and will always convey the concept of humanity in a specific individual way, highlighting a particular aspect of it. The human individual, to some extent, embodies the dignity of a specific idea, and it's crucial for the concept of humanity that it be expressed through individuals of unique importance. This is why in the works of the ancients, the beauty they clearly recognized is not shown in just one form, but in many forms of varying character. It is always understood from different perspectives, expressed one way in Apollo, another in Bacchus, another in Hercules, and yet another in Antinous; indeed, the distinctive qualities can limit beauty, and could even lead to ugliness in figures like the drunken Silenus or the Faun, etc. If the distinctive features go so far as to completely erase the essence of the species, venturing into the unnatural, it becomes a caricature. However, we can afford even less for grace to be disrupted by distinctive features than we can for beauty, because graceful posture and movement are necessary for conveying character as well; but this must be achieved in the most suitable, fitting, and natural way for the individual. This will be noticed not only by the sculptor and the painter but [pg 292] also by any skilled actor; otherwise, caricature will manifest here too, appearing as grimace or distortion.

In sculpture, beauty and grace are the principal concern. The special character of the mind, appearing in emotion, passion, alternations of knowing and willing, which can only be represented by the expression of the countenance and the gestures, is the peculiar sphere of painting. For although eyes and colour, which lie outside the province of sculpture, contribute much to beauty, they are yet far more essential to character. Further, beauty unfolds itself more completely when it is contemplated from various points of view; but the expression, the character, can only be completely comprehended from one point of view.

In sculpture, beauty and grace are the main focus. The unique aspects of the mind, shown through emotions, passions, and the ups and downs of knowing and wanting, can only be captured by expressions on the face and gestures, which are the specific domain of artwork. While the eyes and color, elements outside the realm of sculpture, significantly add to beauty, they are even more crucial for character. Additionally, beauty is revealed more fully when viewed from different angles; however, expression and character can only be fully understood from one perspective.

Because beauty is obviously the chief aim of sculpture, Lessing tried to explain the fact that the Laocoon does not cry out, by saying that crying out is incompatible with beauty. The Laocoon formed for Lessing the theme, or at least the text of a work of his own, and both before and after him a great deal has been written on the subject. I may therefore be allowed to express my views about it in passing, although so special a discussion does not properly belong to the scheme of this work, which is throughout concerned with what is general.

Because beauty is clearly the main goal of sculpture, Lessing attempted to explain why the Laocoon doesn't shout by claiming that crying out contradicts beauty. For Lessing, the Laocoon became a central theme, or at least the inspiration, for his own work, and many have written about it both before and after him. So, I hope to share my thoughts on it briefly, even though this specific discussion doesn't fully fit into the overall focus of this work, which is centered on general principles.

§ 46. That Laocoon, in the celebrated group, does not cry out is obvious, and the universal and ever-renewed surprise at this must be occasioned by the fact that any of us would cry out if we were in his place. And nature demands that it should be so; for in the case of the acutest physical pain, and the sudden seizure by the greatest bodily fear, all reflection, that might have inculcated silent endurance, is entirely expelled from consciousness, and nature relieves itself by crying out, thus expressing both the pain and the fear, summoning the deliverer and terrifying the assailer. Thus Winckelmann missed the expression of crying out; but as he wished to justify the artist he turned Laocoon into a Stoic, who considered it beneath his dignity to cry out [pg 293] secundum naturam, but added to his pain the useless constraint of suppressing all utterance of it. Winckelmann therefore sees in him “the tried spirit of a great man, who writhes in agony, and yet seeks to suppress the utterance of his feeling, and to lock it up in himself. He does not break forth into loud cries, as in Virgil, but only anxious sighs escape him,” &c. (Works, vol. vii. p. 98, and at greater length in vol. vi. p. 104). Now Lessing criticised this opinion of Winckelmann's in his Laocoon, and improved it in the way mentioned above. In place of the psychological he gave the purely æsthetic reason that beauty, the principle of ancient art, does not admit of the expression of crying out. Another argument which he added to this, that a merely passing state incapable of duration ought not to be represented in motionless works of art, has a hundred examples of most excellent figures against it, which are fixed in merely transitory movements, dancing, wrestling, catching, &c. Indeed Goethe, in the essay on the Laocoon, which opens the Propylaen (p. 8), holds that the choice of such a merely fleeting movement is absolutely necessary. In our own day Hirt (Horen, 1797, tenth St.) finally decided the point, deducing everything from the highest truth of expression, that Laocoon does not cry out, because he can no longer do so, as he is at the point of death from choking. Lastly, Fernow (“Römische Studien,” vol. i. p. 246) expounded and weighed all these opinions; he added, however, no new one of his own, but combined these three eclectically.

§ 46. It’s clear that Laocoon, in the famous sculpture group, doesn’t cry out, and the constant surprise about this likely stems from the fact that any of us would scream if we were in his position. Nature demands it; during the most intense physical pain or the sudden onset of extreme fear, any thoughts that might encourage us to endure in silence completely vanish from our minds, and nature asserts itself by crying out, expressing both pain and fear, calling for help and scaring off the attacker. Winckelmann overlooked this expression of a cry; however, in an effort to defend the artist, he portrayed Laocoon as a Stoic who thought it was beneath him to call out [pg 293] according to nature, but he added unnecessary suffering by forcing himself to suppress any expression of it. Winckelmann thus sees in him “the tested spirit of a great man, who is in pain, yet tries to hide his feelings and keep them inside. He doesn't burst into loud cries like in Virgil, but only anxious sighs come out.” &c. (Works, vol. vii. p. 98, and in more detail in vol. vi. p. 104). Lessing criticized Winckelmann’s view in his Laocoon and improved upon it as mentioned above. Instead of a psychological explanation, he offered the purely aesthetic reason that beauty, the guiding principle of ancient art, doesn’t allow for expressions of a cry. He added another argument, stating that a fleeting experience that cannot last shouldn’t be depicted in static artworks, but there are hundreds of excellent examples of figures captured in temporary actions like dancing, wrestling, and catching. Indeed, Goethe, in his essay on the Laocoon that appears in the Propylaen (p. 8), argues that the choice of such a fleeting movement is absolutely essential. In our time, Hirt (Horen, 1797, tenth St.) ultimately settled the matter, concluding from the highest truth of expression that Laocoon doesn’t cry out because he is unable to do so, being on the brink of death from choking. Finally, Fernow ("Roman Studies," vol. i. p. 246) explored and assessed all these opinions; however, he did not contribute any new ideas of his own but rather combined these three eclectically.

I cannot but wonder that such thoughtful and acute men should laboriously bring far-fetched and insufficient reasons, should resort to psychological and physiological arguments, to explain a matter the reason of which lies so near at hand, and is obvious at once to the unprejudiced; and especially I wonder that Lessing, who came so near the true explanation, should yet have entirely missed the real point.

I can't help but wonder why such intelligent and insightful people would go through great lengths to provide convoluted and weak arguments, turning to psychological and physiological reasoning, to explain something whose cause is so obvious and clear to anyone without bias; and I'm particularly surprised that Lessing, who almost grasped the true explanation, completely overlooked the main point.

[pg 294]

Before all psychological and physiological inquiries as to whether Laocoon would cry out in his position or not (and I certainly affirm that he would), it must be decided as regards the group in question, that crying out ought not to be expressed in it, for the simple reason that its expression lies quite outside the province of sculpture. A shrieking Laocoon could not be produced in marble, but only a figure with the mouth open vainly endeavouring to shriek; a Laocoon whose voice has stuck in his throat, vox faucibus haesit. The essence of shrieking, and consequently its effect upon the onlooker, lies entirely in sound; not in the distortion of the mouth. This phenomenon, which necessarily accompanies shrieking, derives motive and justification only from the sound produced by means of it; then it is permissible and indeed necessary, as characteristic of the action, even though it interferes with beauty. But in plastic art, to which the representation of shrieking is quite foreign and impossible, it would be actual folly to represent the medium of violent shrieking, the distorted mouth, which would disturb all the features and the remainder of the expression; for thus at the sacrifice of many other things the means would be represented, while its end, the shrieking itself, and its effect upon our feelings, would be left out. Nay more, there would be produced the spectacle of a continuous effort without effect, which is always ridiculous, and may really be compared to what happened when some one for a joke stopped the horn of a night watchman with wax while he was asleep, and then awoke him with the cry of fire, and amused himself by watching his vain endeavours to blow the horn. When, on the other hand, the expression of shrieking lies in the province of poetic or histrionic art, it is quite admissible, because it helps to express the truth, i.e., the complete expression of the Idea. Thus it is with poetry, which claims the assistance of the imagination of the reader, in order to enable it to represent things perceptibly. [pg 295] Therefore Virgil makes Laocoon cry out like the bellowing of an ox that has broken loose after being struck by the axe; and Homer (Il. xx. 48-53) makes Mars and Minerva shriek horribly, without derogating from their divine dignity or beauty. The same with acting; Laocoon on the stage would certainly have to shriek. Sophocles makes Philoctetus cry out, and, on the ancient stage at any rate, he must actually have done so. As a case in point, I remember having seen in London the great actor Kemble play in a piece called Pizarro, translated from the German. He took the part of the American, a half-savage, but of very noble character. When he was wounded he cried out loudly and wildly, which had a great and admirable effect, for it was exceedingly characteristic and therefore assisted the truth of the representation very much. On the other hand, a painted or sculptured model of a man shrieking, would be much more absurd than the painted music which is censured in Goethe's Propylaen. For shrieking does far more injury to the expression and beauty of the whole than music, which at the most only occupies the hands and arms, and is to be looked upon as an occupation characteristic of the person; indeed thus far it may quite rightly be painted, as long as it demands no violent movement of the body, or distortion of the mouth: for example, St. Cecilia at the organ, Raphael's violin-player in the Sciarra Gallery at Rome, and others. Since then, on account of the limits of the art, the pain of Laocoon must not be expressed by shrieking, the artist was obliged to employ every other expression of pain; this he has done in the most perfect manner, as is ably described by Winckelmann (Works, vol. vi. p. 104), whose admirable account thus retains its full value and truth, as soon as we abstract from the stoical view which underlies it.55

Before any psychological or physiological discussions about whether Laocoon would scream in his situation (and I firmly believe he would), it must be established regarding the group in question that screaming should not be depicted in it, simply because its expression falls completely outside the realm of sculpture. A screaming Laocoon could not be represented in marble, but only a figure with its mouth open, struggling to scream; a Laocoon whose voice has caught in his throat, voice stuck in the throat. The essence of screaming, and therefore its impact on the observer, is entirely in sound, not in the contortion of the mouth. This phenomenon, which must accompany screaming, derives its motivation and justification solely from the sound produced; thus, it is acceptable and indeed necessary, as characteristic of the action, even if it disrupts beauty. However, in plastic art, where the representation of screaming is completely foreign and impossible, it would be sheer foolishness to depict the medium of violent screaming, the distorted mouth, which would disrupt all the features and the rest of the expression. By doing so, many other elements would be sacrificed while the end, the screaming itself, and its effect on our feelings would be omitted. Furthermore, it would create the spectacle of a continuous struggle that leads nowhere, which is always ridiculous, akin to the incident when someone jokingly stopped a night watchman's horn with wax while he was asleep, then woke him with the cry of fire, amusing himself by watching his futile attempts to blow the horn. On the other hand, when the expression of screaming falls within the scope of poetic or dramatic art, it becomes quite acceptable, as it helps convey the truth, i.e., the complete expression of the Idea. This is similar in poetry, which relies on the reader's imagination to represent things clearly. [pg 295] Therefore, Virgil depicts Laocoon screaming like a bellowing ox that has broken free after being struck with an axe; and Homer (Il. xx. 48-53) makes Mars and Minerva scream horribly, without undermining their divine dignity or beauty. The same applies to acting; Laocoon on stage would certainly have to scream. Sophocles has Philoctetus cry out, and in ancient theater, he must have done so. For instance, I recall seeing the great actor Kemble perform in a play called Pizarro, translated from German. He played the role of an American, a half-savage but of very noble character. When he was wounded, he cried out loudly and wildly, which created a significant and admirable effect because it was exceedingly characteristic and thus greatly contributed to the truth of the representation. Conversely, a painted or sculpted figure of a man screaming would be far more absurd than the painted music criticized in Goethe's Propylaen. For screaming does much more harm to the expression and beauty of the whole than music, which at most only involves the hands and arms and can be seen as a characteristic occupation of the person; indeed, it can be painted correctly as long as it does not demand violent body movement or contortion of the mouth: for example, St. Cecilia at the organ, Raphael's violin player in the Sciarra Gallery in Rome, and others. Since, because of the limitations of the art, Laocoon's pain should not be expressed through screaming, the artist had to use every other expression of pain; he has done this in the most perfect manner, as noted by Winckelmann (Works, vol. vi. p. 104), whose excellent account retains its full value and truth once we set aside the stoical perspective that underlies it.55

[pg 296]

§ 47. Because beauty accompanied with grace is the principal object of sculpture, it loves nakedness, and allows clothing only so far as it does not conceal the form. It makes use of drapery, not as a covering, but as a means of exhibiting the form, a method of exposition that gives much exercise to the understanding, for it can only arrive at a perception of the cause, the form of the body, through the only directly given effect, the drapery. Thus to a certain extent drapery is in sculpture what fore-shortening is in painting. Both are suggestions, yet not symbolical, but such that, if they are successful, they force the understanding directly to perceive what is suggested, just as if it were actually given.

§ 47. Because beauty combined with grace is the main focus of sculpture, it embraces nudity and only permits clothing to the extent that it doesn't hide the form. Drapery is used not as a cover, but as a way to showcase the form, which challenges our understanding since we can only grasp the cause—the shape of the body—through the visible effect, the drapery. In this sense, drapery in sculpture is similar to foreshortening in painting. Both are hints, not symbols, but if done right, they compel the understanding to perceive what’s suggested as if it were actually presented.

I may be allowed, in passing, to insert here a comparison that is very pertinent to the arts we are discussing. It is this: as the beautiful bodily form is seen to the greatest advantage when clothed in the lightest way, or indeed without any clothing at all, and therefore a very handsome man, if he had also taste and the courage to follow it, would go about almost naked, clothed only after the manner of the ancients; so every one who possesses a beautiful and rich mind will always express himself in the most natural, direct, and simple way, concerned, if it be possible, to communicate his thoughts to others, and thus relieve the loneliness that he must feel in such a world as this. And conversely, poverty of mind, confusion, and perversity of thought, will clothe itself in the most far-fetched expressions and the obscurest forms of speech, in order to wrap up in difficult and pompous phraseology small, trifling, insipid, or commonplace thoughts; like a man who has lost the majesty of beauty, and trying to make up for the deficiency by means of clothing, seeks to hide the insignificance or ugliness of his person under barbaric finery, tinsel, feathers, ruffles, cuffs, and mantles. Many an author, if compelled to translate his pompous and [pg 297] obscure book into its little clear content, would be as utterly spoilt as this man if he had to go naked.

I might be allowed to drop in a comparison that’s really relevant to the arts we’re discussing. Here it is: just like a beautiful body looks best when it's dressed lightly, or even without any clothes at all, a very handsome man—if he has the taste and the courage to show it—would walk around almost naked, dressed only like the ancients did. Similarly, anyone with a rich and beautiful mind will always express themselves in the most natural, straightforward, and simple way, hoping, if possible, to share their thoughts with others and alleviate the loneliness that comes with living in such a world. On the flip side, a lack of mental depth, confusion, and twisted thinking will wrap itself in the most convoluted expressions and the most obscure forms of speech, trying to disguise trivial, bland, or ordinary thoughts with complicated and pretentious language. It’s like someone who has lost their beauty and tries to compensate for it with ostentatious clothing, attempting to mask their insignificance or unattractiveness with elaborate fabrics, glitter, feathers, frills, cuffs, and capes. Many authors, if forced to boil their pompous and obscure book down to its clear essence, would be as utterly exposed as that man if he had to go naked.

§ 48. Historical painting has for its principal object, besides beauty and grace, character. By character we mean generally, the representation of will at the highest grade of its objectification, when the individual, as giving prominence to a particular side of the Idea of humanity, has special significance, and shows this not merely by his form, but makes it visible in his bearing and occupation, by action of every kind, and the modifications of knowing and willing that occasion and accompany it. The Idea of man must be exhibited in these circumstances, and therefore the unfolding of its many-sidedness must be brought before our eyes by means of representative individuals, and these individuals can only be made visible in their significance through various scenes, events, and actions. This is the endless problem of the historical painter, and he solves it by placing before us scenes of life of every kind, of greater or less significance. No individual and no action can be without significance; in all and through all the Idea of man unfolds itself more and more. Therefore no event of human life is excluded from the sphere of painting. It is thus a great injustice to the excellent painters of the Dutch school, to prize merely their technical skill, and to look down upon them in other respects, because, for the most part, they represent objects of common life, whereas it is assumed that only the events of the history of the world, or the incidents of biblical story, have significance. We ought first to bethink ourselves that the inward significance of an action is quite different from its outward significance, and that these are often separated from each other. The outward significance is the importance of an action in relation to its result for and in the actual world; thus according to the principle of sufficient reason. The inward significance is the depth of the insight into the Idea of man which it reveals, in that it brings [pg 298] to light sides of that Idea which rarely appear, by making individuals who assert themselves distinctly and decidedly, disclose their peculiar characteristics by means of appropriately arranged circumstances. Only the inward significance concerns art; the outward belongs to history. They are both completely independent of each other; they may appear together, but may each appear alone. An action which is of the highest significance for history may in inward significance be a very ordinary and common one; and conversely, a scene of ordinary daily life may be of great inward significance, if human individuals, and the inmost recesses of human action and will, appear in it in a clear and distinct light. Further, the outward and the inward significance of a scene may be equal and yet very different. Thus, for example, it is all the same, as far as inward significance is concerned, whether ministers discuss the fate of countries and nations over a map, or boors wrangle in a beer-house over cards and dice, just as it is all the same whether we play chess with golden or wooden pieces. But apart from this, the scenes and events that make up the life of so many millions of men, their actions, their sorrows, their joys, are on that account important enough to be the object of art, and by their rich variety they must afford material enough for unfolding the many-sided Idea of man. Indeed the very transitoriness of the moment which art has fixed in such a picture (now called genre-painting) excites a slight and peculiar sensation; for to fix the fleeting, ever-changing world in the enduring picture of a single event, which yet represents the whole, is an achievement of the art of painting by which it seems to bring time itself to a standstill, for it raises the individual to the Idea of its species. Finally, the historical and outwardly significant subjects of painting have often the disadvantage that just what is significant in them cannot be presented to perception, but must be arrived at by thought. In this respect the nominal [pg 299] significance of the picture must be distinguished from its real significance. The former is the outward significance, which, however, can only be reached as a conception; the latter is that side of the Idea of man which is made visible to the onlooker in the picture. For example, Moses found by the Egyptian princess is the nominal significance of a painting; it represents a moment of the greatest importance in history; the real significance, on the other hand, that which is really given to the onlooker, is a foundling child rescued from its floating cradle by a great lady, an incident which may have happened more than once. The costume alone can here indicate the particular historical case to the learned; but the costume is only of importance to the nominal significance, and is a matter of indifference to the real significance; for the latter knows only the human being as such, not the arbitrary forms. Subjects taken from history have no advantage over those which are taken from mere possibility, and which are therefore to be called, not individual, but merely general. For what is peculiarly significant in the former is not the individual, not the particular event as such, but the universal in it, the side of the Idea of humanity which expresses itself through it. But, on the other hand, definite historical subjects are not on this account to be rejected, only the really artistic view of such subjects, both in the painter and in the beholder, is never directed to the individual particulars in them, which properly constitute the historical, but to the universal which expresses itself in them, to the Idea. And only those historical subjects are to be chosen the chief point of which can actually be represented, and not merely arrived at by thought, otherwise the nominal significance is too remote from the real; what is merely thought in connection with the picture becomes of most importance, and interferes with what is perceived. If even on the stage it is not right that the chief incident of the plot should take place behind the [pg 300] scenes (as in French tragedies), it is clearly a far greater fault in a picture. Historical subjects are distinctly disadvantageous only when they confine the painter to a field which has not been chosen for artistic but for other reasons, and especially when this field is poor in picturesque and significant objects—if, for example, it is the history of a small, isolated, capricious, hierarchical (i.e., ruled by error), obscure people, like the Jews, despised by the great contemporary nations of the East and the West. Since the wandering of the tribes lies between us and all ancient nations, as the change of the bed of the ocean lies between the earth's surface as it is to-day and as it was when those organisations existed which we only know from fossil remains, it is to be regarded generally as a great misfortune that the people whose culture was to be the principal basis of our own were not the Indians or the Greeks, or even the Romans, but these very Jews. But it was especially a great misfortune for the Italian painters of genius in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries that, in the narrow sphere to which they were arbitrarily driven for the choice of subjects, they were obliged to have recourse to miserable beings of every kind. For the New Testament, as regards its historical part, is almost more unsuitable for painting than the Old, and the subsequent history of martyrs and doctors of the church is a very unfortunate subject. Yet of the pictures, whose subject is the history or mythology of Judaism and Christianity, we must carefully distinguish those in which the peculiar, i.e., the ethical spirit of Christianity is revealed for perception, by the representation of men who are full of this spirit. These representations are in fact the highest and most admirable achievements of the art of painting; and only the greatest masters of this art succeeded in this, particularly Raphael and Correggio, and especially in their earlier pictures. Pictures of this kind are not properly to be classed as historical: for, as a rule, they represent no event, no action; but are merely groups of [pg 301] saints, with the Saviour himself, often still a child, with His mother, angels, &c. In their countenances, and especially in the eyes, we see the expression, the reflection, of the completest knowledge, that which is not directed to particular things, but has fully grasped the Ideas, and thus the whole nature of the world and life. And this knowledge in them, reacting upon the will, does not, like other knowledge, convey motives to it, but on the contrary has become a quieter of all will, from which proceeded the complete resignation, which is the innermost spirit of Christianity, as of the Indian philosophy; the surrender of all volition, conversion, the suppression of will, and with it of the whole inner being of this world, that is to say, salvation. Thus these masters of art, worthy of eternal praise, expressed perceptibly in their works the highest wisdom. And this is the summit of all art. It has followed the will in its adequate objectivity, the Ideas, through all its grades, in which it is affected and its nature unfolded in so many ways, first by causes, then by stimuli, and finally by motives. And now art ends with the representation of the free self-suppression of will, by means of the great peace which it gains from the perfect knowledge of its own nature.56

§ 48. Historical art primarily aims to convey not just beauty and elegance, but also character. By character, we mean the portrayal of will at its highest expression. When an individual highlights a specific aspect of the concept of humanity, they hold particular significance, and this is not just shown through their appearance but also through their demeanor and actions, along with the changes in thought and intention that accompany them. The concept of humanity must be displayed in these contexts, and thus its multifaceted nature must be revealed through representative individuals. These individuals can only be fully understood in their significance through various scenes, events, and actions. This represents the ongoing challenge for historical painters, who address it by presenting diverse life scenes of varying importance. Every individual and every action must hold significance; in all cases and through every detail, the concept of humanity unfolds further. Therefore, no aspect of human life is excluded from the domain of painting. It is unjust to judge the remarkable Dutch painters solely by their technical skills and to dismiss them otherwise just because they often depict everyday subjects, while assuming that only significant historical or biblical events matter. We should first acknowledge that the internal significance of an action is quite different from its external significance and that these often exist separately. The external significance refers to an action's importance concerning its effects in the real world, according to the principle of sufficient reason. The internal significance reflects the depth of insight into the concept of humanity that it reveals, bringing to light aspects of that concept that are rarely seen by allowing individuals who stand out to showcase their unique traits through suitably arranged circumstances. Only the internal significance is relevant to art; the external pertains to history. They are completely independent; they may appear together or independently. An action that holds the utmost historical significance might possess only ordinary internal significance, and conversely, a scene from daily life can carry great internal significance if human beings and the deepest aspects of their actions and intentions are clearly presented. Furthermore, the external and internal significance of a scene can be equal yet vastly different. For instance, it doesn't matter whether ministers debate the fate of nations over a map or peasants argue at a tavern over cards and dice; it's the same in terms of internal significance, just as it doesn't matter if we play chess with gold or wooden pieces. Apart from that, the events and experiences that shape the lives of countless people—their actions, their sorrows, their joys—are significant enough to warrant artistic exploration. Their rich variety provides ample material for unfolding the multifaceted concept of humanity. Indeed, the very transience of the moment captured in such a painting (now referred to as genre-painting) creates a unique sensation; fixing the ever-changing world in a lasting image of a single event that encapsulates the whole is an artistic achievement that seemingly stops time, elevating the individual to the concept of their species. Ultimately, the historical and externally significant subjects of painting often face the drawback that the most important aspects cannot be easily perceived but must be understood through thought. In this context, the nominal [pg 298] significance of the image must be differentiated from its real significance. The former is the external significance, which can only be grasped conceptually; the latter concerns the aspects of the concept of humanity that the viewer can see in the image. For example, the scene of Moses being discovered by the Egyptian princess represents a moment of great historical significance; however, the real significance conveyed to the viewer captures a foundling child rescued from a floating cradle by a noblewoman, a situation that may have occurred more than once. The attire can indicate the specific historical context to those knowledgeable about it, yet it is only relevant to the nominal significance and is irrelevant to the real significance, which regards the human being as such, not their arbitrary forms. Historical subjects do not have an advantage over those derived from mere possibilities, which should be considered general rather than individual. The true significance in the former lies not in the individual or the particular event itself, but in the universal aspect of it, the facet of the concept of humanity that it expresses. However, specific historical subjects should not be dismissed; rather, the genuinely artistic perspective of such subjects, both in the painter and the viewer, should focus on the universal expression rather than individual particulars that define the historical. Only those historical subjects should be selected where the main focus can be clearly represented rather than merely thought about; otherwise, the nominal significance can drift too far from the real, making what is thought of more important than what is actually perceived. If it's not acceptable on stage for the main incident of the plot to occur offstage (as in French tragedies), then it is an even greater fault for a painting. Historical subjects become distinctly disadvantageous only when they bind the painter to a realm chosen for reasons other than artistic merit, especially if this area lacks picturesque and significant elements—for instance, if it explores the history of a small, isolated, whimsical, and hierarchical (i.e., ruled by error), obscure people like the Jews, who were despised by the great contemporary nations of the East and West. Since the migrations of tribes exist between us and all ancient cultures, just as the changing oceanbed separates the current surface of the Earth from its past when those civilizations thrived, it is generally seen as a significant misfortune that the culture that would primarily influence our own was not that of the Indians, Greeks, or even Romans, but rather these very Jews. It was particularly unfortunate for the brilliant Italian painters of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries that, constrained by the limited subject matter they were forced to choose from, they had to resort to representing dreary beings of all sorts. The New Testament, concerning its historical content, is almost less suitable for painting than the Old Testament, and the subsequent narratives of martyrs and church fathers present poorly as subjects. However, we must carefully distinguish between paintings that depict the history or mythology of Judaism and Christianity, especially those that reveal the unique, i.e. ethical spirit of Christianity through portrayals of individuals embodying this spirit. These representations truly stand as the highest and most admirable achievements of painting; only the greatest masters of the art, particularly Raphael and Correggio, excelled in this, especially in their earlier works. Such paintings should not truly be classified as historical: generally, they do not illustrate specific events or actions, but instead feature groups of [pg 301] saints, with the Savior himself, often depicted as a child, alongside His mother, angels, etc. In their expressions, particularly in their eyes, we observe the embodiment of the deepest understanding—not focused on specific things but grasping the Ideas, thus encompassing the entirety of existence and life. This understanding within them, while influencing their will, does not, like conventional knowledge, provide motivations, but rather acts as a serene for all will, resulting in complete resignation—the innermost spirit of Christianity, akin to Indian philosophy; a surrender of all volition, conversion, the suppression of desire, and consequently the entire inner essence of this world, representing salvation. In this way, these eternally praised masters expressed the highest wisdom perceptibly through their works. And this marks the pinnacle of all art. It has traced the will through its adequate expression, the Ideas, across all its stages, illustrating its transformations and revelations in numerous ways—first through causes, then through stimuli, and finally through motives. Now, art culminates in representing the voluntary self-restraint of the will, achieved through the great peace it finds in the complete understanding of its own nature.56

§ 49. The truth which lies at the foundation of all that we have hitherto said about art, is that the object of art, the representation of which is the aim of the artist, and the knowledge of which must therefore precede his work as its germ and source, is an Idea in Plato's sense, and never anything else; not the particular thing, the object of common apprehension, and not the concept, the object of rational thought and of science. Although the Idea and the concept have something in common, because both represent as unity a multiplicity of real things; yet the great difference between them has no doubt been made clear and evident enough by what we have said [pg 302] about concepts in the first book, and about Ideas in this book. I by no means wish to assert, however, that Plato really distinctly comprehended this difference; indeed many of his examples of Ideas, and his discussions of them, are applicable only to concepts. Meanwhile we leave this question alone and go on our own way, glad when we come upon traces of any great and noble mind, yet not following his footsteps but our own aim. The concept is abstract, discursive, undetermined within its own sphere, only determined by its limits, attainable and comprehensible by him who has only reason, communicable by words without any other assistance, entirely exhausted by its definition. The Idea on the contrary, although defined as the adequate representative of the concept, is always object of perception, and although representing an infinite number of particular things, is yet thoroughly determined. It is never known by the individual as such, but only by him who has raised himself above all willing and all individuality to the pure subject of knowing. Thus it is only attainable by the man of genius, and by him who, for the most part through the assistance of the works of genius, has reached an exalted frame of mind, by increasing his power of pure knowing. It is therefore not absolutely but only conditionally communicable, because the Idea, comprehended and repeated in the work of art, appeals to every one only according to the measure of his own intellectual worth. So that just the most excellent works of every art, the noblest productions of genius, must always remain sealed books to the dull majority of men, inaccessible to them, separated from them by a wide gulf, just as the society of princes is inaccessible to the common people. It is true that even the dullest of them accept on authority recognisedly great works, lest otherwise they should argue their own incompetence; but they wait in silence, always ready to express their condemnation, as soon as they are allowed to hope that they may do so without being left [pg 303] to stand alone; and then their long-restrained hatred against all that is great and beautiful, and against the authors of it, gladly relieves itself; for such things never appealed to them, and for that very reason were humiliating to them. For as a rule a man must have worth in himself in order to recognise it and believe in it willingly and freely in others. On this rests the necessity of modesty in all merit, and the disproportionately loud praise of this virtue, which alone of all its sisters is always included in the eulogy of every one who ventures to praise any distinguished man, in order to appease and quiet the wrath of the unworthy. What then is modesty but hypocritical humility, by means of which, in a world swelling with base envy, a man seeks to obtain pardon for excellences and merits from those who have none? For whoever attributes to himself no merits, because he actually has none, is not modest but merely honest.

§ 49. The truth at the core of everything we've discussed about art is that the goal of art, which the artist aims to represent, and the understanding of which must come before their work as its seed and source, is an Idea in the Platonic sense, and never anything else; not a specific thing, the object of common understanding, nor the concept, the subject of rational thought and science. While the Idea and the concept share some common ground, since both depict a unity derived from a variety of real things, the significant difference between them has been made clear by what we've discussed [pg 302] about concepts in the first book and about Ideas in this book. However, I do not claim that Plato fully grasped this distinction; in fact, many of his examples of Ideas and discussions surrounding them are only relevant to concepts. For now, we'll set this question aside and continue on our own path, appreciating the insights of great and noble minds, yet not following in their footsteps but rather pursuing our own goals. The idea is abstract, discursive, and unclear within its own sphere, only defined by its boundaries, obtainable and understandable by someone with only reason, expressible in words without any additional help, and completely defined by its definition. The Concept, on the other hand, even though defined as the accurate representative of the concept, is always a matter of perception, and while it represents an infinite number of specific things, it is still fully determined. It is never known by an individual as such but only by someone who has transcended all desires and individuality to the pure subject of knowledge. Therefore, it can only be grasped by a person of genius, and by those who, often through the influence of the works of genius, have achieved an elevated state of mind by enhancing their capacity for pure knowing. Thus, it’s not absolutely but only conditionally shareable, because the Idea, understood and reflected in the artwork, resonates with each person only according to their own intellectual capacity. Consequently, the highest achievements in every art form, the finest creations of genius, must remain sealed from the dull majority, inaccessible to them, separated by a vast chasm, just as the circle of princes is unreachable for the common folk. Indeed, even the dullest individuals accept renowned works on authority, fearing that otherwise they would expose their own inadequacies; yet they remain silent, always poised to voice their disapproval when they feel they can do so without standing alone; and then their long-suppressed hostility towards all that is great and beautiful, and towards its creators, is freely released; for such works never resonated with them, and for that very reason, they found them humiliating. Generally, a person must have value within themselves to recognize and willingly believe in it in others. This highlights the necessity of modesty in all worth, and the disproportionately loud praise of this virtue, which alone among all its counterparts is consistently present in the praises of anyone who dares to commend a distinguished individual, in order to appease and calm the anger of the undeserving. So what is modesty but a form of hypocritical humility, through which, in a world rife with petty envy, a person seeks forgiveness for their excellence and merits from those who possess none? For anyone who claims not to have any merits, because in fact they don’t, is not modest but simply honest.

The Idea is the unity that falls into multiplicity on account of the temporal and spatial form of our intuitive apprehension; the concept, on the contrary, is the unity reconstructed out of multiplicity by the abstraction of our reason; the latter may be defined as unitas post rem, the former as unitas ante rem. Finally, we may express the distinction between the Idea and the concept, by a comparison, thus: the concept is like a dead receptacle, in which, whatever has been put, actually lies side by side, but out of which no more can be taken (by analytical judgment) than was put in (by synthetical reflection); the (Platonic) Idea, on the other hand, develops, in him who has comprehended it, ideas which are new as regards the concept of the same name; it resembles a living organism, developing itself and possessed of the power of reproduction, which brings forth what was not put into it.

The Concept is the unity that breaks down into many parts due to the way we perceive things over time and in space; the idea, on the other hand, is the unity formed from many parts by our reasoning process. The latter can be defined as unity after the matter, while the former can be referred to as unity before the matter. Ultimately, we can clarify the difference between the Idea and the concept by comparing them: the idea is like a lifeless container where everything that has been added sits next to each other, but nothing more can be extracted (through analytical judgment) than what was initially added (through synthetic reflection); the (Platonic) Concept, in contrast, generates new ideas within those who understand it that go beyond the original concept; it is like a living organism, continuously developing and capable of generating new ideas that were not initially included.

It follows from all that has been said, that the concept, useful as it is in life, and serviceable, necessary and productive as it is in science, is yet always barren [pg 304] and unfruitful in art. The comprehended Idea, on the contrary, is the true and only source of every work of art. In its powerful originality it is only derived from life itself, from nature, from the world, and that only by the true genius, or by him whose momentary inspiration reaches the point of genius. Genuine and immortal works of art spring only from such direct apprehension. Just because the Idea is and remains object of perception, the artist is not conscious in the abstract of the intention and aim of his work; not a concept, but an Idea floats before his mind; therefore he can give no justification of what he does. He works, as people say, from pure feeling, and unconsciously, indeed instinctively. On the contrary, imitators, mannerists, imitatores, servum pecus, start, in art, from the concept; they observe what pleases and affects us in true works of art; understand it clearly, fix it in a concept, and thus abstractly, and then imitate it, openly or disguisedly, with dexterity and intentionally. They suck their nourishment, like parasite plants, from the works of others, and like polypi, they become the colour of their food. We might carry comparison further, and say that they are like machines which mince fine and mingle together whatever is put into them, but can never digest it, so that the different constituent parts may always be found again if they are sought out and separated from the mixture; the man of genius alone resembles the organised, assimilating, transforming and reproducing body. For he is indeed educated and cultured by his predecessors and their works; but he is really fructified only by life and the world directly, through the impression of what he perceives; therefore the highest culture never interferes with his originality. All imitators, all mannerists, apprehend in concepts the nature of representative works of art; but concepts can never impart inner life to a work. The age, i.e., the dull multitude of every time, knows only concepts, and sticks to them, and therefore receives [pg 305] mannered works of art with ready and loud applause: but after a few years these works become insipid, because the spirit of the age, i.e., the prevailing concepts, in which alone they could take root, have changed. Only true works of art, which are drawn directly from nature and life, have eternal youth and enduring power, like nature and life themselves. For they belong to no age, but to humanity, and as on that account they are coldly received by their own age, to which they disdain to link themselves closely, and because indirectly and negatively they expose the existing errors, they are slowly and unwillingly recognised; on the other hand, they cannot grow old, but appear to us ever fresh and new down to the latest ages. Then they are no longer exposed to neglect and ignorance, for they are crowned and sanctioned by the praise of the few men capable of judging, who appear singly and rarely in the course of ages,57 and give in their votes, whose slowly growing number constitutes the authority, which alone is the judgment-seat we mean when we appeal to posterity. It is these successively appearing individuals, for the mass of posterity will always be and remain just as perverse and dull as the mass of contemporaries always was and always is. We read the complaints of great men in every century about the customs of their age. They always sound as if they referred to our own age, for the race is always the same. At every time and in every art, mannerisms have taken the place of the spirit, which was always the possession of a few individuals, but mannerisms are just the old cast-off garments of the last manifestation of the spirit that existed and was recognised. From all this it appears that, as a rule, the praise of posterity can only be gained at the cost of the praise of one's contemporaries, and vice versa.58

It follows from everything that has been said, that while the concept is useful in life and essential, necessary, and productive in science, it is always barren and unfruitful in art. The clear Idea, on the other hand, is the true and only source of every work of art. Its powerful originality comes solely from life itself, from nature, and from the world, specifically through true genius or by someone whose momentary inspiration reaches that level of genius. Genuine and timeless works of art arise only from such direct understanding. Since the Idea remains an object of perception, the artist is not consciously aware, in the abstract, of the intention and aim of their work; not a concept, but an Idea is what floats before their mind; therefore, they can't justify what they do. They work, as people say, from pure feeling, and unconsciously, even instinctively. In contrast, imitators, mannerists, begin in art from the concept; they observe what pleases and affects us in true works of art; they clearly understand it, fix it in a concept, and then abstractly imitate it, either openly or disguisedly, with skill and intention. They draw their nourishment, like parasite plants, from the works of others, and like polypi, they take on the color of their source. We could further compare them to machines that chop up and mix whatever is put into them but can never truly digest it, allowing the different parts to always be found again if sought out and separated from the mixture; only the genius resembles an organized, assimilating, transforming, and reproducing entity. For they are educated and shaped by their predecessors and their works, but they are truly inspired solely by life and the world directly through the impressions of their perceptions; thus, their highest culture never interferes with their originality. All imitators and mannerists understand the nature of representative works of art through concepts, but concepts can never give inner life to a work. The age, or the dull multitude of every time, only knows concepts and clings to them, which is why it applauds mannered works of art readily and loudly; however, after a few years, these works become bland because the spirit of the age, meaning the prevailing concepts that allowed them to take root, has changed. Only true works of art, which draw directly from nature and life, possess eternal youth and lasting power, much like nature and life themselves. They belong to no specific age, but to all humanity, and because of this, they are often coldly received by their own time, as they refuse to connect closely, and because they indirectly and negatively expose existing errors, they are slowly and reluctantly recognized; on the other hand, they don't age but seem forever fresh and new throughout the ages. Then they are no longer subjected to neglect and ignorance, as they are honored and validated by the praise of the few capable judges, who appear sporadically throughout time, giving their opinions, whose gradually increasing numbers form the authority that we refer to when we appeal to posterity. It is these individuals appearing over time for the mass of posterity will always remain just as misguided and dull as the masses of contemporaries always have. Great individuals in every century have lamented the customs of their time. Their complaints always sound as if they could apply to our own age, for the human race remains fundamentally the same. At all times and in every art, mannerisms have replaced the spirit, which has always belonged to a select few, while mannerisms are merely the old discarded garments of the last expressions of the spirit that existed and were recognized. From all this, it becomes clear that, as a rule, the praise of posterity can only be achieved at the expense of the praise of one's contemporaries, and vice versa.

§ 50. If the aim of all art is the communication of the comprehended Idea, which through the mind of the artist [pg 306] appears in such a form that it is purged and isolated from all that is foreign to it, and may now be grasped by the man of weaker comprehension and no productive faculty; if further, it is forbidden in art to start from the concept, we shall not be able to consent to the intentional and avowed employment of a work of art for the expression of a concept; this is the case in the Allegory. An allegory is a work of art which means something different from what it represents. But the object of perception, and consequently also the Idea, expresses itself directly and completely, and does not require the medium of something else which implies or indicates it. Thus, that which in this way is indicated and represented by something entirely different, because it cannot itself be made object of perception, is always a concept. Therefore through the allegory a conception has always to be signified, and consequently the mind of the beholder has to be drawn away from the expressed perceptible idea to one which is entirely different, abstract and not perceptible, and which lies quite outside the work of art. The picture or statue is intended to accomplish here what is accomplished far more fully by a book. Now, what we hold is the end of art, representation of a perceivable, comprehensible Idea, is not here the end. No great completeness in the work of art is demanded for what is aimed at here. It is only necessary that we should see what the thing is meant to be, for, as soon as this has been discovered, the end is reached, and the mind is now led away to quite a different kind of idea to an abstract conception, which is the end that was in view. Allegories in plastic and pictorial art are, therefore, nothing but hieroglyphics; the artistic value which they may have as perceptible representations, belongs to them not as allegories, but otherwise. That the “Night” of Correggio, the “Genius of Fame” of Hannibal Caracci, and the “Hours” of Poussin, are very beautiful pictures, is to be separated altogether from the fact that they are [pg 307] allegories. As allegories they do not accomplish more than a legend, indeed rather less. We are here again reminded of the distinction drawn above between the real and the nominal significance of a picture. The nominal is here the allegorical as such, for example, the “Genius of Fame.” The real is what is actually represented, in this case a beautiful winged youth, surrounded by beautiful boys; this expresses an Idea. But this real significance affects us only so long as we forget the nominal, allegorical significance; if we think of the latter, we forsake the perception, and the mind is occupied with an abstract conception; but the transition from the Idea to the conception is always a fall. Indeed, that nominal significance, that allegorical intention, often injures the real significance, the perceptible truth. For example, the unnatural light in the “Night” of Correggio, which, though beautifully executed, has yet a merely allegorical motive, and is really impossible. If then an allegorical picture has artistic value, it is quite separate from and independent of what it accomplishes as allegory. Such a work of art serves two ends at once, the expression of a conception and the expression of an Idea. Only the latter can be an end of art; the other is a foreign end, the trifling amusement of making a picture also do service as a legend, as a hieroglyphic, invented for the pleasure of those to whom the true nature of art can never appeal. It is the same thing as when a work of art is also a useful implement of some kind, in which case it also serves two ends; for example, a statue which is at the same time a candelabrum or a caryatide; or a bas-relief, which is also the shield of Achilles. True lovers of art will allow neither the one nor the other. It is true that an allegorical picture may, because of this quality, produce a vivid impression upon the feelings; but when this is the case, a legend would under the same circumstances produce the same effect. For example, if the desire of fame were firmly and lastingly [pg 308] rooted in the heart of a man, because he regarded it as his rightful possession, which is only withheld from him so long as he has not produced the charter of his ownership; and if the Genius of Fame, with his laurel crown, were to appear to such a man, his whole mind would be excited, and his powers called into activity; but the same effect would be produced if he were suddenly to see the word “fame,” in large distinct letters on the wall. Or if a man has made known a truth, which is of importance either as a maxim for practical life, or as insight for science, but it has not been believed; an allegorical picture representing time as it lifts the veil, and discloses the naked figure of Truth, will affect him powerfully; but the same effect would be produced by the legend: Le temps découvre la vérité. For what really produces the effect here is the abstract thought, not the object of perception.

§ 50. If the goal of all art is to communicate the understood Idea that comes through the mind of the artist [pg 306] in a form that is clear and free from unrelated elements, so that it can be grasped by someone with a less developed understanding or no creative ability; and if, furthermore, starting from the concept is not allowed in art, then we cannot accept the deliberate and open use of a work of art to express a concept; this is what happens in Allegory. An allegory is a work of art that signifies something different from what it visually represents. However, the object of perception, and thus the Idea, is expressed directly and completely, without needing the medium of something else that implies or suggests it. Therefore, what is indicated and represented by something entirely different, because it cannot be made the object of perception, is always a concept. Hence, through allegory, a specific idea is always meant to be signified, leading the viewer's mind away from the expressed tangible idea to one that is different, abstract, and not perceptible, lying beyond the work of art. The picture or statue aims to achieve what is more fully accomplished by a book. What we see as the purpose of art—the representation of a perceivable, understandable Idea—is not the goal here. There's no high level of completeness expected from the work of art for what is being pursued. We simply need to recognize what the thing is intended to be, and once that is established, the goal is reached, and the mind is redirected to a completely different kind of idea—an abstract conception—which was the original intent. Therefore, allegories in visual and sculptural art are nothing but hieroglyphics; their artistic value, as perceivable representations, belongs not to them as allegories, but in another context. The beauty of Correggio's "Evening", Hannibal Caracci's “Fame's Genius”, and Poussin's “Man Hours” should be considered entirely separate from their status as [pg 307] allegories. As allegories, they achieve no more than a traditional narrative; in fact, they achieve even less. We are again reminded of the distinction made earlier between the real and the nominal significance of a picture. The nominal refers here to the allegorical aspect itself, like the “Genius of Fame.” The real significance is what is actually depicted—in this case, a beautiful winged youth surrounded by lovely boys; this conveys an Idea. However, this real significance only impacts us as long as we overlook the nominal, allegorical significance; if we focus on the latter, we abandon perception, and our minds become occupied with an abstract idea; moving from the Idea to the concept represents a decline. Indeed, that nominal significance, that allegorical intent, often diminishes the real significance, the perceptible truth. For instance, the unnatural lighting in Correggio's "Nighttime", which, while beautifully rendered, is merely allegorical and is therefore unrealistic. If an allegorical picture possesses artistic value, it exists entirely separate from its function as an allegory. Such a work of art serves two purposes at once: expressing a concept and expressing an Idea. Only the latter should be an aim of art; the former is an irrelevant goal, a trivial amusement of making a picture also serve as a narrative, a hieroglyph created for the delight of those who cannot appreciate the true essence of art. It's akin to a work of art that also serves as some sort of functional device, like a statue that functions both as a candelabrum or a caryatide; or a bas-relief that doubles as Achilles' shield. True art lovers will reject both scenarios. While an allegorical picture may, due to this quality, evoke a strong emotional response, such an effect could similarly be generated by a traditional narrative. For example, if a person's desire for fame was deeply embedded in their heart because they saw it as their rightful possession, withheld only until they produced proof of ownership; and if the Genius of Fame, crowned with laurel, were to appear before such a person, their entire being would be energized, and their capabilities would be stimulated; yet the same response could arise if they suddenly saw the word "celebrity," in large, clear letters on a wall. Or if someone had revealed a truth important for practical living or scientific insight, but it hasn’t been acknowledged; an allegorical picture showing time lifting the veil to reveal the bare figure of Truth would profoundly affect them; yet the same impact could come from the phrase: "Time reveals the truth." Because what genuinely produces the effect here is the abstract thought, not the object of perception.

If then, in accordance with what has been said, allegory in plastic and pictorial art is a mistaken effort, serving an end which is entirely foreign to art, it becomes quite unbearable when it leads so far astray that the representation of forced and violently introduced subtilties degenerates into absurdity. Such, for example, is a tortoise, to represent feminine seclusion; the downward glance of Nemesis into the drapery of her bosom, signifying that she can see into what is hidden; the explanation of Bellori that Hannibal Carracci represents voluptuousness clothed in a yellow robe, because he wishes to indicate that her lovers soon fade and become yellow as straw. If there is absolutely no connection between the representation and the conception signified by it, founded on subsumption under the concept, or association of Ideas; but the signs and the things signified are combined in a purely conventional manner, by positive, accidentally introduced laws; then I call this degenerate kind of allegory Symbolism. Thus the rose is the symbol of secrecy, the laurel is the symbol of fame, the palm is [pg 309] the symbol of peace, the scallop-shell is the symbol of pilgrimage, the cross is the symbol of the Christian religion. To this class also belongs all significance of mere colour, as yellow is the colour of falseness, and blue is the colour of fidelity. Such symbols may often be of use in life, but their value is foreign to art. They are simply to be regarded as hieroglyphics, or like Chinese word-writing, and really belong to the same class as armorial bearings, the bush that indicates a public-house, the key of the chamberlain, or the leather of the mountaineer. If, finally, certain historical or mythical persons, or personified conceptions, are represented by certain fixed symbols, these are properly called emblems. Such are the beasts of the Evangelist, the owl of Minerva, the apple of Paris, the Anchor of Hope, &c. For the most part, however, we understand by emblems those simple allegorical representations explained by a motto, which are meant to express a moral truth, and of which large collections have been made by J. Camerarius, Alciatus, and others. They form the transition to poetical allegory, of which we shall have more to say later. Greek sculpture devotes itself to the perception, and therefore it is æsthetical; Indian sculpture devotes itself to the conception, and therefore it is merely symbolical.

If, therefore, based on what has been discussed, allegory in sculpture and visual art is a misguided attempt that serves a purpose completely unrelated to art, it becomes unbearable when it strays so far off course that forced and absurd representations come into play. For instance, a tortoise representing feminine seclusion; the way Nemesis looks down into the folds of her clothing, implying that she sees what is hidden; or Bellori's explanation that Hannibal Carracci depicts voluptuousness in a yellow robe to suggest that her lovers soon fade and turn as dull as straw. If there is absolutely no link between the representation and the idea it symbolizes, lacking a basis in a shared concept or associative ideas, and if the signs and the things they signify are merely combined in a conventional way, through random, added rules, then I refer to this degraded form of allegory as Symbolism. Thus, the rose symbolizes secrecy, the laurel signifies fame, the palm represents peace, the scallop shell symbolizes pilgrimage, and the cross represents the Christian religion. This category also includes the significance of color alone, such as yellow representing deceit and blue symbolizing loyalty. While these symbols can often be useful in life, their value does not pertain to art. They should be seen as hieroglyphics or like Chinese characters in writing, and they belong to the same category as crests, signs indicating a tavern, the chamberlain's key, or the leather worn by mountain dwellers. Finally, if certain historical or mythical figures, or personified ideas, are depicted by certain established symbols, these are correctly referred to as logos. Examples include the creatures of the Evangelist, the owl of Minerva, the apple of Paris, the Anchor of Hope, etc. However, we generally understand emblems as simple allegorical representations that are explained by a motto meant to express a moral truth, with extensive collections made by J. Camerarius, Alciatus, and others. They bridge the gap to poetic allegory, which we will discuss further later. Greek sculpture focuses on perception, and for that reason, it is aesthetic vibe; Indian sculpture focuses on concept, and as a result, it is simply symbolic.

This conclusion in regard to allegory, which is founded on our consideration of the nature of art and quite consistent with it, is directly opposed to the opinion of Winckelmann, who, far from explaining allegory, as we do, as something quite foreign to the end of art, and often interfering with it, always speaks in favour of it, and indeed (Works, vol. i. p. 55) places the highest aim of art in the “representation of universal conceptions, and non-sensuous things.” We leave it to every one to adhere to whichever view he pleases. Only the truth became very clear to me from these and similar views of Winckelmann connected with his peculiar metaphysic of the beautiful, that one may have the greatest susceptibility [pg 310] for artistic beauty, and the soundest judgment in regard to it, without being able to give an abstract and strictly philosophical justification of the nature of the beautiful; just as one may be very noble and virtuous, and may have a tender conscience, which decides with perfect accuracy in particular cases, without on that account being in a position to investigate and explain in the abstract the ethical significance of action.

This conclusion about allegory, which is based on our understanding of art and aligns with it, directly contradicts Winckelmann's view. Unlike our perspective that sees allegory as something unrelated to the true purpose of art—and often a hindrance to it—Winckelmann consistently supports it. In fact, he (Works, vol. i. p. 55) claims that the highest goal of art is the "representation of universal ideas and non-physical things." We leave it up to everyone to choose whichever viewpoint they prefer. However, what became very clear to me from these and similar views of Winckelmann, linked to his unique metaphysics of the beautiful, is that someone can have a strong sensitivity [pg 310] to artistic beauty and a solid judgment about it, without being able to provide an abstract and strictly philosophical explanation of what beauty is; just as one can be very noble and virtuous, with a sensitive conscience that accurately judges specific situations, yet still be unable to abstractly investigate and explain the ethical significance of actions.

Allegory has an entirely different relation to poetry from that which it has to plastic and pictorial art, and although it is to be rejected in the latter, it is not only permissible, but very serviceable to the former. For in plastic and pictorial art it leads away from what is perceptibly given, the proper object of all art, to abstract thoughts; but in poetry the relation is reversed; for here what is directly given in words is the concept, and the first aim is to lead from this to the object of perception, the representation of which must be undertaken by the imagination of the hearer. If in plastic and pictorial art we are led from what is immediately given to something else, this must always be a conception, because here only the abstract cannot be given directly; but a conception must never be the source, and its communication must never be the end of a work of art. In poetry, on the contrary, the conception is the material, the immediately given, and therefore we may very well leave it, in order to call up perceptions which are quite different, and in which the end is reached. Many a conception or abstract thought may be quite indispensable to the connection of a poem, which is yet, in itself and directly, quite incapable of being perceived; and then it is often made perceptible by means of some example which is subsumed under it. This takes place in every trope, every metaphor, simile, parable, and allegory, all of which differ only in the length and completeness of their expression. Therefore, in the arts which employ language as their medium, similes and allegories are of striking effect. How beautifully Cervantes [pg 311] says of sleep in order to express the fact that it frees us from all spiritual and bodily suffering, “It is a mantle that covers all mankind.” How beautifully Kleist expresses allegorically the thought that philosophers and men of science enlighten mankind, in the line, “Those whose midnight lamp lights the world.” How strongly and sensuously Homer describes the harmful Ate when he says: “She has tender feet, for she walks not on the hard earth, but treads on the heads of men” (Il. xix. 91.) How forcibly we are struck by Menenius Agrippa's fable of the belly and the limbs, addressed to the people of Rome when they seceded. How beautifully Plato's figure of the Cave, at the beginning of the seventh book of the “Republic” to which we have already referred, expresses a very abstract philosophical dogma. The fable of Persephone is also to be regarded as a deeply significant allegory of philosophical tendency, for she became subject to the nether world by tasting a pomegranate. This becomes peculiarly enlightening from Goethe's treatment of the fable, as an episode in the Triumph der Empfindsamkeit, which is beyond all praise. Three detailed allegorical works are known to me, one, open and avowed, is the incomparable “Criticon” of Balthasar Gracian. It consists of a great rich web of connected and highly ingenious allegories, that serve here as the fair clothing of moral truths, to which he thus imparts the most perceptible form, and astonishes us by the richness of his invention. The two others are concealed allegories, “Don Quixote” and “Gulliver's Travels.” The first is an allegory of the life of every man, who will not, like others, be careful, merely for his own welfare, but follows some objective, ideal end, which has taken possession of his thoughts and will; and certainly, in this world, he has then a strange appearance. In the case of Gulliver we have only to take everything physical as spiritual or intellectual, in order to see what the “satirical rogue,” as Hamlet would call him, meant by it. Such, then, in the [pg 312] poetical allegory, the conception is always the given, which it tries to make perceptible by means of a picture; it may sometimes be expressed or assisted by a painted picture. Such a picture will not be regarded as a work of art, but only as a significant symbol, and it makes no claim to pictorial, but only to poetical worth. Such is that beautiful allegorical vignette of Lavater's, which must be so heartening to every defender of truth: a hand holding a light is stung by a wasp, while gnats are burning themselves in the flame above; underneath is the motto:

Allegory has a completely different relationship with poetry compared to its relationship with visual arts. While it is best avoided in visual arts, it is not only allowed but also quite useful in poetry. In visual arts, allegory diverts attention from what is directly observable—the true focus of all art—to abstract ideas. In poetry, however, the situation is reversed. Here, the words themselves present the concept, and the primary goal is to take that concept and connect it to something that can be perceived, which relies on the listener's imagination to visualize. In visual arts, if we are led away from what we directly see to something else, it must be a concept, since only the abstract cannot be represented directly. However, a concept should never be the source of inspiration, nor should its communication be the goal of a work of art. In poetry, on the other hand, the concept is the material that is immediately presented, allowing us to explore entirely different perceptions, achieving the intended outcome. Many abstract ideas are essential for a poem's coherence, even if they aren't directly perceivable. Often, these ideas become perceptible through examples that fall under them. This happens in every trope: metaphor, simile, parable, and allegory, all of which vary in how thoroughly they express their ideas. Thus, in arts that use language as their medium, similes and allegories are strikingly effective. How beautifully Cervantes describes sleep to illustrate how it frees us from all mental and physical suffering, saying, “It is a mantle that covers all mankind.” How beautifully Kleist captures the idea that philosophers and scientists illuminate humanity with the line, “Those whose midnight lamp lights the world.” How vividly Homer portrays the destructive Ate when he notes: “She has tender feet, for she walks not on the hard earth, but treads on the heads of men” (Il. xix. 91). We are powerfully impacted by Menenius Agrippa's fable of the belly and the limbs addressed to the Roman people during their secession. Plato's image of the Cave at the beginning of the seventh book of the “Republic,” which we have already mentioned, beautifully conveys a highly abstract philosophical idea. The fable of Persephone also serves as a profoundly significant allegory of philosophical insight, where she becomes ensnared in the underworld by tasting a pomegranate. This becomes especially enlightening in Goethe's interpretation of the fable as part of the “Triumph der Empfindsamkeit,” which is commendable. I know three detailed allegorical works: one is the exceptional “Criticon” by Balthasar Gracian, an intricate tapestry of interconnected and clever allegories that present moral truths in the most noticeable form, astonishing us with its inventiveness. The other two are concealed allegories, “Don Quixote” and “Gulliver's Travels.” The first is an allegory of any person's life, who, unlike others, is not merely focused on their own well-being but pursues some ideal goal that has captured their thoughts and will, appearing quite strange in the world. For “Gulliver,” we only need to interpret everything physical as spiritual or intellectual to grasp what the “satirical rogue,” as Hamlet would call him, intended. Thus, in poetical allegory, the concept is always the immediate focus that seeks to become perceptible through imagery; it may sometimes be expressed through or enhanced by a visual representation. Such a representation won’t be considered a work of art but merely a significant symbol, making no claim to visual value, but only to poetic worth. Such is the beautiful allegorical vignette by Lavater, which must inspire every truth defender: a hand holding a light gets stung by a wasp, while gnats are burning themselves in the flame above; underneath is the motto:

“And even though it burns the wings of the gnats,”
Destroys their heads and all their little brains,
Light is still light;
And even though I am stung by the angriest wasp,
I'm not going to let this slide.

To this class also belongs the gravestone with the burnt-out, smoking candle, and the inscription—

To this class also belongs the gravestone with the burnt-out, smoking candle, and the inscription—

When it’s revealed, it becomes clear
Whether the candle was made of tallow or wax.

Finally, of this kind is an old German genealogical tree, in which the last representative of a very ancient family thus expresses his determination to live his life to the end in abstinence and perfect chastity, and therefore to let his race die out; he represents himself at the root of the high-branching tree cutting it over himself with shears. In general all those symbols referred to above, commonly called emblems, which might also be defined as short painted fables with obvious morals, belong to this class. Allegories of this kind are always to be regarded as belonging to poetry, not to painting, and as justified thereby; moreover, the pictorial execution is here always a matter of secondary importance, and no more is demanded of it than that it shall represent the thing so that we can recognise it. But in poetry, as in plastic art, the allegory passes into the symbol if there is merely [pg 313] an arbitrary connection between what it presented to perception and the abstract significance of it. For as all symbolism rests, at bottom, on an agreement, the symbol has this among other disadvantages, that in time its meaning is forgotten, and then it is dumb. Who would guess why the fish is a symbol of Christianity if he did not know? Only a Champollion; for it is entirely a phonetic hieroglyphic. Therefore, as a poetical allegory, the Revelation of John stands much in the same position as the reliefs with Magnus Deus sol Mithra, which are still constantly being explained.

Finally, there’s an old German family tree where the last member of a very ancient lineage expresses his intention to live his life completely in abstinence and perfect chastity, thereby allowing his family line to die out. He depicts himself at the base of the sprawling tree, pruning it with shears. In general, all the symbols mentioned earlier, commonly referred to as emblems, can also be described as short painted fables with clear morals, and they belong to this category. Allegories like this should always be viewed as part of poetry rather than painting, which gives them justification; moreover, the artistic execution here is always of secondary importance, and all that is required is that it represents the subject clearly enough for us to recognize it. However, in poetry, as in visual art, the allegory becomes a symbol if there is only an arbitrary connection between what is presented and its abstract meaning. Since all symbolism is essentially based on mutual agreement, one of the drawbacks of symbols is that over time their meanings can be forgotten, rendering them meaningless. Who would understand why a fish is a symbol of Christianity if they didn’t already know? Only an expert like Champollion could decipher it, as it is entirely a phonetic hieroglyph. Thus, as a poetic allegory, the Revelation of John is in a similar position to the reliefs with Magnus Deus sol Mithra, which are still frequently interpreted.

§ 51. If now, with the exposition which has been given of art in general, we turn from plastic and pictorial art to poetry, we shall have no doubt that its aim also is the revelation of the Ideas, the grades of the objectification of will, and the communication of them to the hearer with the distinctness and vividness with which the poetical sense comprehends them. Ideas are essentially perceptible; if, therefore, in poetry only abstract conceptions are directly communicated through words, it is yet clearly the intention to make the hearer perceive the Ideas of life in the representatives of these conceptions, and this can only take place through the assistance of his own imagination. But in order to set the imagination to work for the accomplishment of this end, the abstract conceptions, which are the immediate material of poetry as of dry prose, must be so arranged that their spheres intersect each other in such a way that none of them can remain in its abstract universality; but, instead of it, a perceptible representative appears to the imagination; and this is always further modified by the words of the poet according to what his intention may be. As the chemist obtains solid precipitates by combining perfectly clear and transparent fluids; the poet understands how to precipitate, as it were, the concrete, the individual, the perceptible idea, out of the abstract and transparent universality of the concepts by the manner in which he [pg 314] combines them. For the Idea can only be known by perception; and knowledge of the Idea is the end of art. The skill of a master, in poetry as in chemistry, enables us always to obtain the precise precipitate we intended. This end is assisted by the numerous epithets in poetry, by means of which the universality of every concept is narrowed more and more till we reach the perceptible. Homer attaches to almost every substantive an adjective, whose concept intersects and considerably diminishes the sphere of the concept of the substantive, which is thus brought so much the nearer to perception: for example—

§ 51. If now, with the explanation we've given about art in general, we shift our focus from visual arts to poetry, it’s clear that its goal is also to reveal Ideas, the different levels of how will is expressed, and to communicate these to the listener with the clarity and vividness that the poetic sense can grasp. Ideas are fundamentally perceptible; so, even if poetry communicates only abstract concepts through words, it aims to help the listener perceive the Ideas of life through the representations of these concepts, which can only happen with the listener's own imagination. To engage the imagination effectively, the abstract concepts that serve as the immediate material for both poetry and dry prose need to be arranged in a way that their areas overlap, ensuring none remain in their abstract generality. Instead, a clear representation comes forth to the imagination, which is further shaped by the poet’s words based on their intent. Just as a chemist produces solid precipitates by mixing perfectly clear and transparent liquids, the poet knows how to bring forth the concrete, the individual, the tangible idea from the abstract and transparent generalities of concepts through the way he combines them. An Idea can only be understood through perception, and knowing the Idea is the purpose of art. A master’s skill in poetry, much like in chemistry, allows us to achieve the exact result we aimed for. This goal is supported by the many adjectives in poetry, which gradually narrow the universality of each concept until we reach something perceptible. Homer adds an adjective to almost every noun, with each descriptor intersecting and significantly reducing the scope of the noun's concept, thus bringing it closer to perception; for example—

Then the bright light of the sun fell upon the Ocean,
"They pull the dark night over the fruitful land."
Below is a short piece of text (5 words or fewer). Modernize it into contemporary English if there's enough context, but do not add or omit any information. If context is insufficient, return it unchanged. Do not add commentary, and do not modify any placeholders. If you see placeholders of the form __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_x__, you must keep them exactly as-is so they can be replaced with links.The brilliant light of the sun truly sets in the magnificent ocean,
"Drawing the dark night over the nourishing land.")

And—

And—

Where soft breezes from the clear sky whisper,
The myrtles still stand, the laurel tall,Sure! Please provide the text you would like modernized.

calls up before the imagination by means of a few concepts the whole delight of a southern clime.

brings to mind the entire joy of a southern climate through just a few ideas.

Rhythm and rhyme are quite peculiar aids to poetry. I can give no other explanation of their incredibly powerful effect than that our faculties of perception have received from time, to which they are essentially bound, some quality on account of which we inwardly follow, and, as it were, consent to each regularly recurring sound. In this way rhythm and rhyme are partly a means of holding our attention, because we willingly follow the poem read, and partly they produce in us a blind consent to what is read prior to any judgment, and this gives the poem a certain emphatic power of convincing independent of all reasons.

Rhythm and rhyme are unique tools in poetry. I can’t explain their incredibly powerful effect any better than to say that our senses have developed over time, which has given them a quality that makes us instinctively follow and almost agree with each recurring sound. In this way, rhythm and rhyme help grab our attention because we willingly engage with the poem being read, and they also create a kind of unthinking agreement with what we hear before we even judge it. This gives the poem a strong ability to persuade, independent of any reasoning.

From the general nature of the material, that is, the concepts, which poetry uses to communicate the Ideas, the extent of its province is very great. The whole of [pg 315] nature, the Ideas of all grades, can be represented by means of it, for it proceeds according to the Idea it has to impart, so that its representations are sometimes descriptive, sometimes narrative, and sometimes directly dramatic. If, in the representation of the lower grades of the objectivity of will, plastic and pictorial art generally surpass it, because lifeless nature, and even brute nature, reveals almost its whole being in a single well-chosen moment; man, on the contrary, so far as he does not express himself by the mere form and expression of his person, but through a series of actions and the accompanying thoughts and emotions, is the principal object of poetry, in which no other art can compete with it, for here the progress or movement which cannot be represented in plastic or pictorial art just suits its purpose.

From the overall nature of the material, meaning the concepts that poetry uses to convey ideas, its scope is very broad. All aspects of nature, the ideas of all levels, can be depicted through it, as it operates based on the idea it aims to communicate. Its representations can be descriptive, narrative, or directly dramatic. While, in representing the lower levels of the will's objectivity, plastic and pictorial art often excel, because lifeless nature and even basic nature reveal almost their entirety in a single well-chosen moment, humans, on the other hand, express themselves not just through their form and expression but through a series of actions along with their thoughts and emotions. This makes humans the main focus of poetry, where no other art can match its effectiveness, as the progression or movement, which cannot be captured in plastic or pictorial art, is perfectly suited to its purpose.

The revelation of the Idea, which is the highest grade of the objectivity of will, the representation of man in the connected series of his efforts and actions, is thus the great problem of poetry. It is true that both experience and history teach us to know man; yet oftener men than man, i.e., they give us empirical notes of the behaviour of men to each other, from which we may frame rules for our own conduct, oftener than they afford us deep glimpses of the inner nature of man. The latter function, however, is by no means entirely denied them; but as often as it is the nature of mankind itself that discloses itself to us in history or in our own experience, we have comprehended our experience, and the historian has comprehended history, with artistic eyes, poetically, i.e., according to the Idea, not the phenomenon, in its inner nature, not in its relations. Our own experience is the indispensable condition of understanding poetry as of understanding history; for it is, so to speak, the dictionary of the language that both speak. But history is related to poetry as portrait-painting is related to historical painting; the one gives us the true in the individual, the other the true in the universal; the one has the [pg 316] truth of the phenomenon, and can therefore verify it from the phenomenal, the other has the truth of the Idea, which can be found in no particular phenomenon, but yet speaks to us from them all. The poet from deliberate choice represents significant characters in significant situations; the historian takes both as they come. Indeed, he must regard and select the circumstances and the persons, not with reference to their inward and true significance, which expresses the Idea, but according to the outward, apparent, and relatively important significance with regard to the connection and the consequences. He must consider nothing in and for itself in its essential character and expression, but must look at everything in its relations, in its connection, in its influence upon what follows, and especially upon its own age. Therefore he will not overlook an action of a king, though of little significance, and in itself quite common, because it has results and influence. And, on the other hand, actions of the highest significance of particular and very eminent individuals are not to be recorded by him if they have no consequences. For his treatment follows the principle of sufficient reason, and apprehends the phenomenon, of which this principle is the form. But the poet comprehends the Idea, the inner nature of man apart from all relations, outside all time, the adequate objectivity of the thing-in-itself, at its highest grade. Even in that method of treatment which is necessary for the historian, the inner nature and significance of the phenomena, the kernel of all these shells, can never be entirely lost. He who seeks for it, at any rate, may find it and recognise it. Yet that which is significant in itself, not in its relations, the real unfolding of the Idea, will be found far more accurately and distinctly in poetry than in history, and, therefore, however paradoxical it may sound, far more really genuine inner truth is to be attributed to poetry than to history. For the historian must accurately follow the particular event according to [pg 317] life, as it develops itself in time in the manifold tangled chains of causes and effects. It is, however, impossible that he can have all the data for this; he cannot have seen all and discovered all. He is forsaken at every moment by the original of his picture, or a false one substitutes itself for it, and this so constantly that I think I may assume that in all history the false outweighs the true. The poet, on the contrary, has comprehended the Idea of man from some definite side which is to be represented; thus it is the nature of his own self that objectifies itself in it for him. His knowledge, as we explained above when speaking of sculpture, is half a priori; his ideal stands before his mind firm, distinct, brightly illuminated, and cannot forsake him; therefore he shows us, in the mirror of his mind, the Idea pure and distinct, and his delineation of it down to the minutest particular is true as life itself.59 The great ancient historians are, therefore, in those particulars in which their data fail them, for example, in the speeches of their heroes—poets; indeed their whole manner of handling their material approaches [pg 318] to the epic. But this gives their representations unity, and enables them to retain inner truth, even when outward truth was not accessible, or indeed was falsified. And as we compared history to portrait-painting, in contradistinction to poetry, which corresponds to historical painting, we find that Winckelmann's maxim, that the portrait ought to be the ideal of the individual, was followed by the ancient historians, for they represent the individual in such a way as to bring out that side of the Idea of man which is expressed in it. Modern historians, on the contrary, with few exceptions, give us in general only “a dust-bin and a lumber-room, and at the most a chronicle of the principal political events.” Therefore, whoever desires to know man in his inner nature, identical in all its phenomena and developments, to know him according to the Idea, will find that the works of the great, immortal poet present a far truer, more distinct picture, than the historians can ever give. For even the best of the historians are, as poets, far from the first; and moreover their hands are tied. In this aspect the relation between the historian and the poet may be illustrated by the following comparison. The mere, pure historian, who works only according to data, is like a man, who without any knowledge of mathematics, has investigated the relations of certain figures, which he has accidentally found, by measuring them; and the problem thus empirically solved is affected of course by all the errors of the drawn figure. The poet, on the other hand, is like the mathematician, who constructs these relations a priori in pure perception, and expresses them not as they actually are in the drawn figure, but as they are in the Idea, which the drawing is intended to render for the senses. Therefore Schiller says:—

The revelation of the Idea, which represents the highest level of the objectivity of will, and the portrayal of humanity through the connected series of efforts and actions is the great challenge of poetry. It's true that both experience and history help us understand people; however, we often get insights about people rather than the individual, that is, they provide empirical observations of how people interact with each other, which we can use to create rules for our own behavior, more frequently than they offer profound insights into the inner nature of humankind. This deeper understanding isn't entirely absent; but whenever the essence of humanity reveals itself through history or personal experience, we've grasped our experiences, and historians have understood history with artistic vision, poetically, that is, in accordance with the Idea, not the phenomenon, focusing on inner truths rather than relationships. Our own experiences are essential for understanding both poetry and history; they essentially serve as the dictionary for the language both forms speak. Nonetheless, history is to poetry what portrait painting is to historical painting; the former presents the truth in the individual, while the latter reveals the truth in the universal. Portrait painting captures the truth of the phenomenon and can verify it through the observable, while poetry expresses the truth of the Idea, which is found beyond any specific phenomenon but resonates through them all. The poet purposefully depicts significant characters in significant situations, while the historian takes events as they occur. In fact, the historian must evaluate and select events and individuals not based on their inner and true significance that expresses the Idea, but according to their outward, apparent, and relatively important significance in terms of context and consequences. He should not consider anything in isolation regarding its fundamental character and expression but must view everything in its relationships, in its connections, in its impact on what follows, and especially on its own time. Therefore, he won't ignore a king's action, even if it's minor and quite typical, as long as it leads to significant results. Conversely, actions of great importance by particular influential figures will not be recorded if they have no consequences. The historian's approach adheres to the principle of sufficient reason, which defines the phenomenon. However, the poet captures the Idea, the inner essence of humanity, independent of relationships, beyond all time, and presents the most accurate and profound representation of the thing-in-itself at its highest level. Even in the methods employed by historians, the inner essence and significance of phenomena—the core amidst all these layers—can never be completely lost. Those who seek it can find and recognize it. Yet, what is significant in itself, not in its relationships, the true unfolding of the Idea, is often found more accurately and distinctly in poetry than in history. Thus, although it may sound paradoxical, poetry is attributed with a more genuine inner truth than history. The historian must closely follow the particular event as it unfolds over time through complex chains of cause and effect. However, it is impossible for him to have access to all the necessary data; he cannot witness everything or discover every fact. He is continually separated from the true essence of the events he depicts, or a misleading version of those events substitutes for reality, and this occurs so frequently that I believe the false elements in history surpass the true ones. In contrast, the poet has understood the Idea of humanity from a specific angle, which he aims to portray; thus, his own nature is expressed within it. His understanding, as we discussed earlier in connection with sculpture, is partially a priori; his ideal is vividly present in his mind, firm and bright, and it cannot abandon him. Therefore, he reflects for us the pure and distinct Idea in the mirror of his imagination, and his representation of it, down to the smallest detail, is true to life itself. The great ancient historians are, in the aspects where their sources are lacking, such as in the speeches of their heroes—poets. Indeed, their methods of handling material verge on the epic. But this approach gives their accounts a sense of unity and allows them to retain an inner truth, even when external truth is beyond reach or has been distorted. Just as we likened history to portrait painting, we can say that poetry corresponds to historical painting. Winckelmann's principle that a portrait should embody the ideal of the individual was observed by ancient historians, who depicted individuals in ways that highlighted aspects of the Idea of humanity. Modern historians, however, with few exceptions, generally present to us “a collection of random notes and a chronicle of major political events.” Therefore, anyone who wishes to understand humanity in its inner nature, consistent across all phenomena and developments, according to the Idea, will discover that the works of the great immortal poet offer a far truer and clearer picture than historians could ever provide. For even the best historians, like poets, lag far behind, and moreover, their hands are constrained. In this regard, we can illustrate the relationship between the historian and the poet through the following analogy. The pure historian, who relies solely on data, is akin to a person who, without any knowledge of mathematics, has examined the relationships of certain figures he has stumbled upon by measuring them; thus, the problem he empirically addresses is inevitably influenced by all the inaccuracies of the drawn figure. In contrast, the poet resembles a mathematician who constructs these relationships a priori based on pure perception and expresses them not as they physically exist in the drawn figure, but as they are represented in the Idea, which the drawing is meant to convey to the senses. Therefore, as Schiller states:—

What has never happened anywhere,
That alone never gets old.
[pg 319]

Indeed I must attribute greater value to biographies, and especially to autobiographies, in relation to the knowledge of the nature of man, than to history proper, at least as it is commonly handled. Partly because in the former the data can be collected more accurately and completely than in the latter; partly, because in history proper, it is not so much men as nations and heroes that act, and the individuals who do appear, seem so far off, surrounded with such pomp and circumstance, clothed in the stiff robes of state, or heavy, inflexible armour, that it is really hard through all this to recognise the human movements. On the other hand, the life of the individual when described with truth, in a narrow sphere, shows the conduct of men in all its forms and subtilties, the excellence, the virtue, and even holiness of a few, the perversity, meanness, and knavery of most, the dissolute profligacy of some. Besides, in the only aspect we are considering here, that of the inner significance of the phenomenal, it is quite the same whether the objects with which the action is concerned, are, relatively considered, trifling or important, farm-houses or kingdoms: for all these things in themselves are without significance, and obtain it only in so far as the will is moved by them. The motive has significance only through its relation to the will, while the relation which it has as a thing to other things like itself, does not concern us here. As a circle of one inch in diameter, and a circle of forty million miles in diameter, have precisely the same geometrical properties, so are the events and the history of a village and a kingdom essentially the same; and we may study and learn to know mankind as well in the one as in the other. It is also a mistake to suppose that autobiographies are full of deceit and dissimulation. On the contrary, lying (though always possible) is perhaps more difficult there than elsewhere. Dissimulation is easiest in mere conversation; indeed, though it may sound paradoxical, it is really more [pg 320] difficult even in a letter. For in the case of a letter the writer is alone, and looks into himself, and not out on the world, so that what is strange and distant does not easily approach him; and he has not the test of the impression made upon another before his eyes. But the receiver of the letter peruses it quietly in a mood unknown to the writer, reads it repeatedly and at different times, and thus easily finds out the concealed intention. We also get to know an author as a man most easily from his books, because all these circumstances act here still more strongly and permanently. And in an autobiography it is so difficult to dissimulate, that perhaps there does not exist a single one that is not, as a whole, more true, than any history that ever was written. The man who writes his own life surveys it as a whole, the particular becomes small, the near becomes distant, the distant becomes near again, the motives that influenced him shrink; he seats himself at the confessional, and has done so of his own free will; the spirit of lying does not so easily take hold of him here, for there is also in every man an inclination to truth which has first to be overcome whenever he lies, and which here has taken up a specially strong position. The relation between biography and the history of nations may be made clear for perception by means of the following comparison: History shows us mankind as a view from a high mountain shows us nature; we see much at a time, wide stretches, great masses, but nothing is distinct nor recognisable in all the details of its own peculiar nature. On the other hand, the representation of the life of the individual shows us the man, as we see nature if we go about among her trees, plants, rocks, and waters. But in landscape-painting, in which the artist lets us look at nature with his eyes, the knowledge of the Ideas, and the condition of pure will-less knowing, which is demanded by these, is made much easier for us; and, in the same way, poetry is far superior both to [pg 321] history and biography, in the representation of the Ideas which may be looked for in all three. For here also genius holds up to us the magic glass, in which all that is essential and significant appears before us collected and placed in the clearest light, and what is accidental and foreign is left out.60

I definitely value biographies, especially autobiographies, more than traditional history when it comes to understanding human nature. This is partly because autobiographies provide more accurate and complete information than history typically does. In history, it’s often more about nations and heroes than about individual people, and the ones who do appear seem so distant, surrounded by grandeur, dressed in formal attire or heavy armor, that it's hard to see their human actions. In contrast, when an individual's life is described truthfully in a focused way, it reveals all kinds of human behavior—goodness, virtue, and even holiness in some, and the corruption, pettiness, and dishonesty in most, along with the indulgence of a few. Furthermore, in the context we’re discussing here—considering the inner significance of appearances—it doesn’t matter whether the events involve seemingly trivial matters like farmhouses or important ones like kingdoms; they hold significance only because of the will they engage. The motive gains significance through its connection to the will, and its relationship to other similar objects isn’t what we’re focusing on here. Just as a small circle and a massive circle share the same geometric properties, a village’s events can be studied just as fruitfully as those of a kingdom. It's also a misconception that autobiographies are deceptive. In fact, while lying is always possible, it might be even harder to do in this kind of writing. It’s easier to be dishonest in casual conversation; paradoxically, it can even be more difficult in letters. When writing a letter, the writer is alone, reflecting inward rather than outward, making it hard for distant subjects to seem relevant, and they aren't facing the impact of their words on the reader. The recipient reads the letter in a mood unknown to the writer, often several times and at different times, which makes hidden intentions easier to detect. We also get to know authors best through their books, as these factors are intensified in written works. In an autobiography, it's so hard to disguise the truth that likely no autobiography is less truthful overall than any history ever written. The person writing their own life story sees it in totality; the specifics fade, close things feel distant, and far things become close again, with the motives that drove them becoming smaller. They take a seat at the confessional willingly; the urge to lie doesn’t easily grip them here, as everyone has an inherent pull toward truth that must be overcome when they lie, and this pull is particularly strong in autobiography. The relationship between biography and national history can be illustrated through this analogy: History shows humanity in a broad overview, like a view from a mountain—showing vast landscapes and great swathes, yet lacking in distinctness and detail. Meanwhile, the depiction of an individual’s life is closer to how we perceive nature when walking among trees, plants, rocks, and water. In landscape paintings, where the artist presents nature from their perspective, understanding the underlying ideas becomes easier. Similarly, poetry excels at conveying ideas more effectively than both history and biography. Here, genius offers us a magical lens through which the essential and significant aspects are brought to light, while the incidental and irrelevant are left out.

The representation of the Idea of man, which is the work of the poet, may be performed, so that what is represented is also the representer. This is the case in lyrical poetry, in songs, properly so called, in which the poet only perceives vividly his own state and describes it. Thus a certain subjectivity is essential to this kind of poetry from the nature of its object. Again, what is to be represented may be entirely different from him who represents it, as is the case in all other kinds of poetry, in which the poet more or less conceals himself behind his representation, and at last disappears altogether. In the ballad the poet still expresses to some extent his own state through the tone and proportion of the whole; therefore, though much more objective than the lyric, it has yet something subjective. This becomes less in the idyll, still less in the romantic poem, almost entirely disappears in the true epic, and even to the last vestige in the drama, which is the most objective and, in more than one respect, the completest and most difficult form of poetry. The lyrical form of poetry is consequently the easiest, and although art, as a whole, belongs only to the true man of genius, who so rarely appears, even a man who is not in general very remarkable may produce a beautiful song if, by actual strong excitement from without, some inspiration raises his mental powers; for all that is required for this is a lively perception of his own state at a moment of emotional excitement. This is proved by the existence of many single songs by individuals who have otherwise remained unknown; especially the German national songs, of which we have an exquisite collection [pg 322] in the “Wunderhorn;” and also by innumerable love-songs and other songs of the people in all languages;—for to seize the mood of a moment and embody it in a song is the whole achievement of this kind of poetry. Yet in the lyrics of true poets the inner nature of all mankind is reflected, and all that millions of past, present, and future men have found, or will find, in the same situations, which are constantly recurring, finds its exact expression in them. And because these situations, by constant recurrence, are permanent as man himself and always call up the same sensations, the lyrical productions of genuine poets remain through thousands of years true, powerful, and fresh. But if the poet is always the universal man, then all that has ever moved a human heart, all that human nature in any situation has ever produced from itself, all that dwells and broods in any human breast—is his theme and his material, and also all the rest of nature. Therefore the poet may just as well sing of voluptuousness as of mysticism, be Anacreon or Angelus Silesius, write tragedies or comedies, represent the sublime or the common mind—according to humour or vocation. And no one has the right to prescribe to the poet what he ought to be—noble and sublime, moral, pious, Christian, one thing or another, still less to reproach him because he is one thing and not another. He is the mirror of mankind, and brings to its consciousness what it feels and does.

The representation of the idea of man, which is the poet's work, can be done in a way that what is represented also reflects the one representing. This happens in lyrical poetry, specifically in songs, where the poet vividly perceives and describes his own emotional state. Thus, a level of subjectivity is fundamental to this type of poetry due to the nature of its subject. On the other hand, what is represented can be completely different from the one representing it, as seen in other poetry forms, where the poet conceals themselves behind their representation and eventually disappears altogether. In ballads, the poet still expresses some of their own state through the overall tone and balance; therefore, while they are much more objective than in lyrical poetry, there remains a degree of subjectivity. This subjectivity decreases in idylls, further in romantic poems, nearly vanishes in true epics, and is almost completely absent in dramas, which are the most objective and, in many ways, the most complete and challenging form of poetry. Consequently, lyrical poetry is the easiest to write, and even though true artistic genius is rare, a person who isn't particularly remarkable can still create a beautiful song if external excitement inspires their mental state. All that is needed is a vivid perception of their feelings at a moment of emotional intensity. This is demonstrated by the many individual songs created by people who otherwise remain unknown, especially the exquisite collection of German national songs in the "Wunderhorn," along with countless love songs and folk songs in every language; capturing the essence of a moment and expressing it in song is the core accomplishment of this type of poetry. However, in the lyrics of true poets, the inner nature of humanity is revealed, reflecting what countless past, present, and future individuals have experienced or will experience in recurring situations. Because these situations are permanently tied to human existence and consistently evoke the same feelings, the lyrical works of genuine poets remain true, impactful, and fresh over thousands of years. If the poet embodies universal humanity, then everything that has ever touched the human heart, everything that human nature has produced in various situations, and everything that resides in any human soul becomes their theme and material, including all of nature. Therefore, the poet can just as easily write about pleasure as about mysticism, be Anacreon or Angelus Silesius, pen tragedies or comedies, depict the sublime or the commonplace—depending on their mood or calling. No one has the authority to dictate what the poet should be—noble and sublime, moral, pious, Christian, or anything else, nor to criticize them for being one thing rather than another. The poet serves as a mirror to humanity, bringing to light what people feel and do.

If we now consider more closely the nature of the lyric proper, and select as examples exquisite and pure models, not those that approach in any way to some other form of poetry, such as the ballad, the elegy, the hymn, the epigram, &c., we shall find that the peculiar nature of the lyric, in the narrowest sense, is this: It is the subject of will, i.e., his own volition, which the consciousness of the singer feels; often as a released and satisfied desire (joy), but still oftener as a restricted desire (grief), always as an emotion, a passion, a moved frame of mind. [pg 323] Besides this, however, and along with it, by the sight of surrounding nature, the singer becomes conscious of himself as the subject of pure, will-less knowing, whose unbroken blissful peace now appears, in contrast to the stress of desire which is always restricted and always needy. The feeling of this contrast, this alternation, is really what the lyric as a whole expresses, and what principally constitutes the lyrical state of mind. In it pure knowing comes to us, as it were, to deliver us from desire and its stain; we follow, but only for an instant; desire, the remembrance of our own personal ends, tears us anew from peaceful contemplation; yet ever again the next beautiful surrounding in which the pure will-less knowledge presents itself to us, allures us away from desire. Therefore, in the lyric and the lyrical mood, desire (the personal interest of the ends), and pure perception of the surrounding presented, are wonderfully mingled with each other; connections between them are sought for and imagined; the subjective disposition, the affection of the will, imparts its own hue to the perceived surrounding, and conversely, the surroundings communicate the reflex of their colour to the will. The true lyric is the expression of the whole of this mingled and divided state of mind. In order to make clear by examples this abstract analysis of a frame of mind that is very far from all abstraction, any of the immortal songs of Goethe may be taken. As specially adapted for this end I shall recommend only a few: “The Shepherd's Lament,” “Welcome and Farewell,” “To the Moon,” “On the Lake,” “Autumn;” also the songs in the “Wunderhorn” are excellent examples; particularly the one which begins, “O Bremen, I must now leave thee.” As a comical and happy parody of the lyrical character a song of Voss strikes me as remarkable. It describes the feeling of a drunk plumber falling from a tower, who observes in passing that the clock on the tower is at half-past eleven, a remark which is quite foreign to his condition, and thus [pg 324] belongs to knowledge free from will. Whoever accepts the view that has been expressed of the lyrical frame of mind, will also allow, that it is the sensuous and poetical knowledge of the principle which I established in my essay on the Principle of Sufficient Reason, and have also referred to in this work, that the identity of the subject of knowing with that of willing may be called the miracle κατ᾽ εξοχην; so that the poetical effect of the lyric rests finally on the truth of that principle. In the course of life these two subjects, or, in popular language, head and heart, are ever becoming further apart; men are always separating more between their subjective feeling and their objective knowledge. In the child the two are still entirely blended together; it scarcely knows how to distinguish itself from its surroundings, it is at one with them. In the young man all perception chiefly affects feeling and mood, and even mingles with it, as Byron very beautifully expresses—

If we now take a closer look at the nature of lyrics, and choose some exquisite and pure examples, avoiding those that resemble other forms of poetry like ballads, elegies, hymns, or epigrams, we will find that the unique essence of lyrics, in the strictest sense, is this: It is the subject of will, that is, the singer's own desire and feelings; often experienced as a fulfilled and joyful longing, but more commonly as a constrained desire (grief), always as an emotion, a passion, a stirred state of mind. [pg 323] Besides this, the singer also becomes aware of himself in the presence of nature, experiencing a state of pure, will-less understanding, where unbroken blissful peace contrasts with the constant stress of desire that is always limited and needy. This feeling of contrast and alternation is what the lyric fundamentally conveys, and it is what primarily shapes the lyrical state of mind. In this space, pure understanding seems to come to us, delivering us from desire and its burdens; we follow this for just a moment; however, desire, the memory of personal goals, pulls us away from this peaceful reflection; yet again, the next beautiful scene where pure will-less knowledge shows itself tempts us away from desire. Therefore, in lyrics and the lyrical mood, desire (personal interests) and pure perception of the surrounding environment are beautifully intertwined; connections between them are explored and imagined; the subjective disposition, the feelings of the will, color the perception of the surroundings, and conversely, the surroundings impart their hues to the will. True lyricism expresses the entirety of this mixed and divided state of mind. To clarify this abstract analysis with examples that are far from abstract, any of Goethe's timeless songs can be selected. For this purpose, I will recommend just a few: “The Shepherd's Lament,” "Hello and Goodbye," “To the Moon,” "At the Lake," "Fall;" the songs in the "Wunderhorn" are also excellent examples; particularly the one that starts with "O Bremen, I have to leave you now." A comical and happy parody of the lyrical character is found in a song by Voss. It describes the feelings of a drunk plumber falling from a tower, who casually notices that the clock on the tower reads half-past eleven, a comment that is completely out of touch with his situation, thus [pg 324] belongs to knowledge free from will. Anyone who agrees with this perspective on the lyrical mindset will also recognize that it refers to the sensory and poetic understanding of the principle I discussed in my essay on the Principle of Sufficient Reason, which I have also mentioned in this work. This principle states that the identity of the subject of knowledge with that of will can be called the miracle par excellence; thus, the poetic effect of lyrics ultimately rests on the truth of that principle. Throughout life, these two subjects, or in simpler terms, mind and heart, tend to drift further apart; people increasingly separate their subjective feelings from their objective knowledge. In children, these two aspects are still completely intertwined; they hardly distinguish themselves from their surroundings; they are one with them. In young adults, perception primarily affects feelings and moods, blending with them, as Byron beautifully expresses—

I don't just exist for myself; I grow and change
Part of that surrounding me; and to me
High mountains are an experience.

This is why the youth clings so closely to the perceptible and outward side of things; this is why he is only fit for lyrical poetry, and only the full-grown man is capable of the drama. The old man we can think of as at the most an epic poet, like Ossian, and Homer, for narration is characteristic of old age.

This is why young people focus so much on the visible and external aspects of things; this is why they are only suited for lyrical poetry, while only grown adults can handle drama. We can think of old men as primarily epic poets, like Ossian and Homer, since storytelling is typical of old age.

In the more objective kinds of poetry, especially in the romance, the epic, and the drama, the end, the revelation of the Idea of man, is principally attained by two means, by true and profound representation of significant characters, and by the invention of pregnant situations in which they disclose themselves. For as it is incumbent upon the chemist not only to exhibit the simple elements, pure and genuine, and their principal compounds, but also to expose them to the influence of such reagents as will [pg 325] clearly and strikingly bring out their peculiar qualities, so is it incumbent on the poet not only to present to us significant characters truly and faithfully as nature itself; but, in order that we may get to know them, he must place them in those situations in which their peculiar qualities will fully unfold themselves, and appear distinctly in sharp outline; situations which are therefore called significant. In real life, and in history, situations of this kind are rarely brought about by chance, and they stand alone, lost and concealed in the multitude of those which are insignificant. The complete significance of the situations ought to distinguish the romance, the epic, and the drama from real life as completely as the arrangement and selection of significant characters. In both, however, absolute truth is a necessary condition of their effect, and want of unity in the characters, contradiction either of themselves or of the nature of humanity in general, as well as impossibility, or very great improbability in the events, even in mere accessories, offend just as much in poetry as badly drawn figures, false perspective, or wrong lighting in painting. For both in poetry and painting we demand the faithful mirror of life, of man, of the world, only made more clear by the representation, and more significant by the arrangement. For there is only one end of all the arts, the representation of the Ideas; and their essential difference lies simply in the different grades of the objectification of will to which the Ideas that are to be represented belong. This also determines the material of the representation. Thus the arts which are most widely separated may yet throw light on each other. For example, in order to comprehend fully the Ideas of water it is not sufficient to see it in the quiet pond or in the evenly-flowing stream; but these Ideas disclose themselves fully only when the water appears under all circumstances and exposed to all kinds of obstacles. The effects of the varied circumstances and obstacles give it the opportunity of fully [pg 326] exhibiting all its qualities. This is why we find it beautiful when it tumbles, rushes, and foams, or leaps into the air, or falls in a cataract of spray; or, lastly, if artificially confined it springs up in a fountain. Thus showing itself different under different circumstances, it yet always faithfully asserts its character; it is just as natural to it to spout up as to lie in glassy stillness; it is as ready for the one as for the other as soon as the circumstances appear. Now, what the engineer achieves with the fluid matter of water, the architect achieves with the rigid matter of stone, and just this the epic or dramatic poet achieves with the Idea of man. Unfolding and rendering distinct the Idea expressing itself in the object of every art, the Idea of the will which objectifies itself at each grade, is the common end of all the arts. The life of man, as it shows itself for the most part in the real world, is like the water, as it is generally seen in the pond and the river; but in the epic, the romance, the tragedy, selected characters are placed in those circumstances in which all their special qualities unfold themselves, the depths of the human heart are revealed, and become visible in extraordinary and very significant actions. Thus poetry objectifies the Idea of man, an Idea which has the peculiarity of expressing itself in highly individual characters.

In more objective forms of poetry, especially romance, epic, and drama, the conclusion, or the revelation of the nature of humanity, is mainly achieved through two means: a true and deep representation of significant characters and the creation of impactful situations that reveal their true selves. Just as a chemist must not only show the pure elements and their main compounds but also expose them to various reagents that clearly highlight their unique qualities, a poet must not only portray important characters accurately and faithfully as they are in nature, but also place them in situations where their distinctive traits can fully emerge and be clearly defined; these situations are termed significant. In real life and history, such situations rarely occur by chance and often appear alone, lost among many trivial ones. The total significance of these situations should set romance, epic, and drama apart from real life just as the careful arrangement and selection of significant characters do. However, in both, absolute truth is essential for their impact, and a lack of unity in characters, contradictions within themselves or against human nature, or events that are impossible or highly unlikely, even in minor details, are as offensive in poetry as poorly drawn figures, false perspective, or bad lighting in painting. In both poetry and painting, we expect an accurate reflection of life, humanity, and the world, but one that is clearer and more meaningful due to the representation and arrangement. Ultimately, all arts have the same goal: to represent Ideas, and their fundamental differences lie simply in the varying degrees of the objectification of will that those Ideas represent. This variance also determines the material of the representation. Thus, widely different arts can shed light on one another. For instance, to fully understand the Ideas of water, it's not enough to see it in a calm pond or a gently flowing stream; these Ideas are only fully revealed when water encounters various conditions and obstacles. The effects of these diverse circumstances allow it to showcase all its qualities. This is why we find it beautiful when water tumbles, rushes, foams, leaps into the air, or falls in a cascading spray; or when it's artificially controlled and shoots up in a fountain. Even as it changes with different conditions, it remains true to its character; it can both surge upward and lie still on the surface with equal ease whenever the conditions arise. What an engineer accomplishes with the fluidity of water, an architect does with the solidity of stone, and what an epic or dramatic poet accomplishes with the concept of humanity. By unfolding and clarifying the Idea expressed in the subject of every art, which is the Idea of will manifesting at each level, is the common aim of all arts. Human life, as it typically appears in the real world, resembles water as generally seen in a pond or river; however, in epic, romance, and tragedy, selected characters are placed in situations where all their unique qualities emerge, revealing the depths of the human heart in extraordinary and meaningful actions. Thus, poetry embodies the Idea of humanity, an Idea that uniquely expresses itself through highly individual characters.

Tragedy is to be regarded, and is recognised as the summit of poetical art, both on account of the greatness of its effect and the difficulty of its achievement. It is very significant for our whole system, and well worthy of observation, that the end of this highest poetical achievement is the representation of the terrible side of life. The unspeakable pain, the wail of humanity, the triumph of evil, the scornful mastery of chance, and the irretrievable fall of the just and innocent, is here presented to us; and in this lies a significant hint of the nature of the world and of existence. It is the strife of will with itself, which here, completely unfolded at the [pg 327] highest grade of its objectivity, comes into fearful prominence. It becomes visible in the suffering of men, which is now introduced, partly through chance and error, which appear as the rulers of the world, personified as fate, on account of their insidiousness, which even reaches the appearance of design; partly it proceeds from man himself, through the self-mortifying efforts of a few, through the wickedness and perversity of most. It is one and the same will that lives and appears in them all, but whose phenomena fight against each other and destroy each other. In one individual it appears powerfully, in another more weakly; in one more subject to reason, and softened by the light of knowledge, in another less so, till at last, in some single case, this knowledge, purified and heightened by suffering itself, reaches the point at which the phenomenon, the veil of Mâya, no longer deceives it. It sees through the form of the phenomenon, the principium individuationis. The egoism which rests on this perishes with it, so that now the motives that were so powerful before have lost their might, and instead of them the complete knowledge of the nature of the world, which has a quieting effect on the will, produces resignation, the surrender not merely of life, but of the very will to live. Thus we see in tragedies the noblest men, after long conflict and suffering, at last renounce the ends they have so keenly followed, and all the pleasures of life for ever, or else freely and joyfully surrender life itself. So is it with the steadfast prince of Calderon; with Gretchen in “Faust;” with Hamlet, whom his friend Horatio would willingly follow, but is bade remain a while, and in this harsh world draw his breath in pain, to tell the story of Hamlet, and clear his memory; so also is it with the Maid of Orleans, the Bride of Messina; they all die purified by suffering, i.e., after the will to live which was formerly in them is dead. In the “Mohammed” of Voltaire this is actually expressed in the concluding [pg 328] words which the dying Palmira addresses to Mohammad: “The world is for tyrants: live!” On the other hand, the demand for so-called poetical justice rests on entire misconception of the nature of tragedy, and, indeed, of the nature of the world itself. It boldly appears in all its dulness in the criticisms which Dr. Samuel Johnson made on particular plays of Shakespeare, for he very naïvely laments its entire absence. And its absence is certainly obvious, for in what has Ophelia, Desdemona, or Cordelia offended? But only the dull, optimistic, Protestant-rationalistic, or peculiarly Jewish view of life will make the demand for poetical justice, and find satisfaction in it. The true sense of tragedy is the deeper insight, that it is not his own individual sins that the hero atones for, but original sin, i.e., the crime of existence itself:

Tragedy is considered the peak of poetic art, both because of its powerful impact and the difficulty of creating it. It's important for our entire system and worth noting that the culmination of this highest artistic achievement is the portrayal of life's dark side. The unbearable pain, the cry of humanity, the victory of evil, the mocking control of chance, and the irreversible downfall of the just and innocent are all presented here; and within this lies a significant hint about the nature of the world and existence. It’s the struggle of will against itself, which, fully revealed at the [pg 327] highest level of its objectivity, becomes strikingly evident. This struggle is visible in the suffering of people, which is introduced partly through chance and error, presenting themselves as the rulers of the world, personified as fate due to their deceptive nature, which can appear purposeful; and partly it stems from humanity itself, through the self-destructive efforts of a few and the wickedness and corruption of most. It’s one and the same will that exists and manifests in all of them, but whose expressions clash and annihilate each other. In one person it shows powerfully, in another more feebly; in one it's more reasonable, softened by the light of knowledge, while in another it’s less so, until ultimately, in some cases, this knowledge, refined and deepened by suffering itself, reaches a point where the phenomenon, the veil of Mâya, ceases to deceive it. It sees through the form of the phenomenon, the principle of individuation. The egoism based on this perishes with it, so the motives that were once so powerful lose their strength, and instead, the complete understanding of the nature of the world, which has a soothing effect on the will, brings about resignation, yielding not just of life, but of the very will to live. Thus, in tragedies, we see the noblest people, after long struggles and suffering, finally renounce the goals they pursued so passionately, and all life's pleasures for good, or they freely and joyfully give up life itself. This is true for the steadfast prince in Calderon's work; for Gretchen in "Faust" for Hamlet, whom his friend Horatio would gladly follow, but is urged to stay a while and in this harsh world draw his breath in pain, to tell Hamlet’s story and preserve his memory; the same goes for the Maid of Orleans, the Bride of Messina; they all die purified by suffering, i.e., after the will to live that was once within them is dead. In Voltaire's “Mohammad”, this is expressed in the final [pg 328] words Palmira addresses to Mohammad: "The world belongs to tyrants: live on!" On the other hand, the demand for so-called poetic justice is based on a complete misunderstanding of the nature of tragedy, and indeed, of the nature of the world itself. It appears boldly in all its ignorance in the criticisms Dr. Samuel Johnson made of specific Shakespeare plays, as he naïvely laments its total absence. And its absence is definitely clear; for how have Ophelia, Desdemona, or Cordelia offended? Only a dull, optimistic, Protestant-rationalistic, or uniquely Jewish perspective on life would demand poetic justice and find satisfaction in it. The true essence of tragedy offers a deeper understanding that it is not the hero's individual sins he atones for, but original sin, i.e., the crime of existence itself:

“Then the major crime”
Del hombre es haber nacido;
Below is a short piece of text (5 words or fewer). Modernize it into contemporary English if there's enough context, but do not add or omit any information. If context is insufficient, return it unchanged. Do not add commentary, and do not modify any placeholders. If you see placeholders of the form __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_x__, you must keep them exactly as-is so they can be replaced with links.For the biggest crime of humanity
Is that he was born;It seems there was no short piece of text provided. Please provide the text you want me to modernize.

as Calderon exactly expresses it.

as Calderon perfectly puts it.

I shall allow myself only one remark, more closely concerning the treatment of tragedy. The representation of a great misfortune is alone essential to tragedy. But the many different ways in which this is introduced by the poet may be brought under three specific conceptions. It may happen by means of a character of extraordinary wickedness, touching the utmost limits of possibility, who becomes the author of the misfortune; examples of this kind are Richard III., Iago in “Othello,” Shylock in “The Merchant of Venice,” Franz Moor, Phædra of Euripides, Creon in the “Antigone,” &c., &c. Secondly, it may happen through blind fate, i.e., chance and error; a true pattern of this kind is the Œdipus Rex of Sophocles, the “Trachiniæ” also; and in general most of the tragedies of the ancients belong [pg 329] to this class. Among modern tragedies, “Romeo and Juliet,” “Tancred” by Voltaire, and “The Bride of Messina,” are examples. Lastly, the misfortune may be brought about by the mere position of the dramatis personæ with regard to each other, through their relations; so that there is no need either for a tremendous error or an unheard-of accident, nor yet for a character whose wickedness reaches the limits of human possibility; but characters of ordinary morality, under circumstances such as often occur, are so situated with regard to each other that their position compels them, knowingly and with their eyes open, to do each other the greatest injury, without any one of them being entirely in the wrong. This last kind of tragedy seems to me far to surpass the other two, for it shows us the greatest misfortune, not as an exception, not as something occasioned by rare circumstances or monstrous characters, but as arising easily and of itself out of the actions and characters of men, indeed almost as essential to them, and thus brings it terribly near to us. In the other two kinds we may look on the prodigious fate and the horrible wickedness as terrible powers which certainly threaten us, but only from afar, which we may very well escape without taking refuge in renunciation. But in the last kind of tragedy we see that those powers which destroy happiness and life are such that their path to us also is open at every moment; we see the greatest sufferings brought about by entanglements that our fate might also partake of, and through actions that perhaps we also are capable of performing, and so could not complain of injustice; then shuddering we feel ourselves already in the midst of hell. This last kind of tragedy is also the most difficult of achievement; for the greatest effect has to be produced in it with the least use of means and causes of movement, merely through the position and distribution of the characters; therefore even in many of the best tragedies this difficulty is [pg 330] evaded. Yet one tragedy may be referred to as a perfect model of this kind, a tragedy which in other respects is far surpassed by more than one work of the same great master; it is “Clavigo.” “Hamlet” belongs to a certain extent to this class, as far as the relation of Hamlet to Laertes and Ophelia is concerned. “Wallenstein” has also this excellence. “Faust” belongs entirely to this class, if we regard the events connected with Gretchen and her brother as the principal action; also the “Cid” of Corneille, only that it lacks the tragic conclusion, while on the contrary the analogous relation of Max to Thecla has it.61

I’ll make just one comment regarding the treatment of tragedy. The portrayal of a significant misfortune is the core element of tragedy. However, the various ways the poet introduces this can be grouped into three main types. First, it may involve a character with extreme wickedness, pushing the limits of what’s possible, who becomes the cause of the misfortune. Examples of this include Richard III, Iago in “Othello,” Shylock in "The Merchant of Venice," Franz Moor, Phaedra by Euripides, Creon in "Antigone" and so on. Secondly, it may occur through blind fate, i.e., through chance and error; a true example of this is Sophocles’ Œdipus Rex, as well as the “Trachiniæ,” and in general, most ancient tragedies fall into this category. Among modern tragedies, "Romeo and Juliet" “Tancred” by Voltaire, and “The Bride of Messina,” serve as examples. Lastly, the misfortune can result simply from the relationships between the cast of characters; there’s no need for a major blunder or an extraordinary accident, nor for a character whose wickedness is beyond human limits. Instead, ordinary characters, in situations that commonly arise, may find themselves in positions that lead them to inflict great harm on one another, all while none of them is entirely to blame. This last type of tragedy seems to me to surpass the other two because it presents the greatest misfortune not as an exception or something caused by rare circumstances or monstrous characters, but as something that can easily arise from human actions and traits, almost as if it's essential to who we are, making it feel very close to us. In the other two types, we may perceive the enormous fate and the horrific wickedness as terrifying forces threatening us from a distance, forces we could potentially evade without resorting to renunciation. However, in this last type of tragedy, we see that the powers that destroy happiness and life are always within reach; we witness immense suffering caused by situations we could also find ourselves in, through actions we might also take, so we can’t just claim injustice. Instead, we shudder as we recognize we’re already in the midst of hell. This final type of tragedy is also the most challenging to create since it must deliver the strongest impact with the least use of means and motivations, relying solely on the positioning and dynamics of the characters; therefore, even in many of the finest tragedies, this challenge is often sidestepped. Yet one tragedy can be seen as a perfect model of this type, although it may be surpassed in other respects by several works of the same great master; that tragedy is “Clavigo.” "Hamlet" belongs to this category to some extent, particularly concerning the relationship between Hamlet, Laertes, and Ophelia. "Wallenstein" also exhibits this quality. "Faust" falls entirely into this category when we consider the events related to Gretchen and her brother as the main action; similarly, Corneille’s “Cid” has this quality, though it lacks a tragic ending, while conversely, Max’s analogous relationship to Thecla does include one. 61

§ 52. Now that we have considered all the fine arts in the general way that is suitable to our point of view, beginning with architecture, the peculiar end of which is to elucidate the objectification of will at the lowest grades of its visibility, in which it shows itself as the dumb unconscious tendency of the mass in accordance with laws, and yet already reveals a breach of the unity of will with itself in a conflict between gravity and rigidity—and ending with the consideration of tragedy, which presents to us at the highest grades of the objectification of will this very conflict with itself in terrible magnitude and distinctness; we find that there is still another fine art which has been excluded from our consideration, and had to be excluded, for in the systematic connection of our exposition there was no fitting place for it—I mean music. It stands alone, quite cut off from all the other arts. In it we do not recognise the copy or repetition of any Idea of existence in the world. Yet it is such a great and exceedingly noble art, its effect on the inmost nature of man is so powerful, and it is so entirely and deeply understood by him in his inmost consciousness as a perfectly universal language, the distinctness of which surpasses even that of the perceptible world itself, that we certainly have more to [pg 331] look for in it than an exercitum arithmeticæ occultum nescientis se numerare animi,62 which Leibnitz called it. Yet he was perfectly right, as he considered only its immediate external significance, its form. But if it were nothing more, the satisfaction which it affords would be like that which we feel when a sum in arithmetic comes out right, and could not be that intense pleasure with which we see the deepest recesses of our nature find utterance. From our standpoint, therefore, at which the æsthetic effect is the criterion, we must attribute to music a far more serious and deep significance, connected with the inmost nature of the world and our own self, and in reference to which the arithmetical proportions, to which it may be reduced, are related, not as the thing signified, but merely as the sign. That in some sense music must be related to the world as the representation to the thing represented, as the copy to the original, we may conclude from the analogy of the other arts, all of which possess this character, and affect us on the whole in the same way as it does, only that the effect of music is stronger, quicker, more necessary and infallible. Further, its representative relation to the world must be very deep, absolutely true, and strikingly accurate, because it is instantly understood by every one, and has the appearance of a certain infallibility, because its form may be reduced to perfectly definite rules expressed in numbers, from which it cannot free itself without entirely ceasing to be music. Yet the point of comparison between music and the world, the respect in which it stands to the world in the relation of a copy or repetition, is very obscure. Men have practised music in all ages without being able to account for this; content to understand it directly, they renounce all claim to an abstract conception of this direct understanding itself.

§ 52. Now that we have looked at all the fine arts in a way that aligns with our perspective, starting with architecture, which aims to clarify the expression of will at its most basic visible forms, appearing as the mute, unconscious drive of the mass according to laws, yet already shows a conflict between gravity and rigidity that breaks the unity of will with itself—and concluding with tragedy, which presents this very conflict at the highest levels of will's expression in an intense and clear manner; we realize there’s one more fine art we haven’t discussed, one that had to be left out because there was no suitable place for it in our systematic approach—I mean music. It stands apart, completely separated from the other arts. In music, we don’t find a representation or repetition of any idea of existence in the world. Yet it is a profoundly noble art, its impact on the deepest nature of humans is incredibly strong, and it is fully and deeply understood in our innermost consciousness as a truly universal language, its clarity surpassing even that of the tangible world. Thus, we certainly can expect more from it than an the hidden exercise of arithmetic in a mind that does not know how to count,62 as Leibnitz referred to it. He was absolutely correct in considering only its immediate external significance, its form. But if it were merely that, the satisfaction it gives would be like when an arithmetic sum adds up correctly, and it could not provide the intense pleasure we experience when the deepest parts of our nature express themselves. From our perspective, where aesthetic effect is the benchmark, we must assign a much more serious and profound significance to music, related to the innermost nature of the world and our own selves. In this regard, the arithmetic proportions it can be simplified to are related not as the thing represented but merely as the representation. In some sense, music must connect to the world like a representation to the represented, like a copy to the original, which we can infer from the analogy of other arts, each of which shares this characteristic and affects us similarly, except that the impact of music is stronger, quicker, more essential, and undeniable. Moreover, its representative relationship with the world must be very profound, absolutely true, and strikingly precise because it is immediately understood by everyone, appearing somewhat infallible since its form can be distilled into clearly defined rules expressed in numbers, from which it cannot diverge without ceasing to be music entirely. However, the way music relates to the world as a copy or repetition is quite obscure. People have practiced music throughout the ages without being able to explain this; satisfied with direct understanding, they forfeit any claim to an abstract concept of this direct understanding itself.

I gave my mind entirely up to the impression of music [pg 332] in all its forms, and then returned to reflection and the system of thought expressed in the present work, and thus I arrived at an explanation of the inner nature of music and of the nature of its imitative relation to the world—which from analogy had necessarily to be presupposed—an explanation which is quite sufficient for myself, and satisfactory to my investigation, and which will doubtless be equally evident to any one who has followed me thus far and has agreed with my view of the world. Yet I recognise the fact that it is essentially impossible to prove this explanation, for it assumes and establishes a relation of music, as idea, to that which from its nature can never be idea, and music will have to be regarded as the copy of an original which can never itself be directly presented as idea. I can therefore do no more than state here, at the conclusion of this third book, which has been principally devoted to the consideration of the arts, the explanation of the marvellous art of music which satisfies myself, and I must leave the acceptance or denial of my view to the effect produced upon each of my readers both by music itself and by the whole system of thought communicated in this work. Moreover, I regard it as necessary, in order to be able to assent with full conviction to the exposition of the significance of music I am about to give, that one should often listen to music with constant reflection upon my theory concerning it, and for this again it is necessary to be very familiar with the whole of my system of thought.

I completely immersed myself in the experience of music in all its forms, then returned to reflect on the ideas expressed in this work. Through that, I found an explanation for the inner nature of music and its imitative connection to the world, which I had to assume based on analogy. This explanation satisfies me and supports my investigation, and it will likely be clear to anyone who has followed my thoughts so far and agrees with my worldview. However, I acknowledge that it's essentially impossible to prove this explanation, as it relies on a relationship between music, as an idea, and something that can never truly be just an idea. Music must be seen as a copy of an original that can never be directly represented as an idea. Therefore, as I conclude this third book, which primarily deals with the arts, I present the explanation of the incredible art of music that makes sense to me. I leave it up to each reader to accept or reject my perspective based on their own experiences with music and the entire system of thought shared in this work. Furthermore, I believe it’s important to listen to music while reflecting on my theory about it, and for that, one needs to be very familiar with my overall ideas.

The (Platonic) Ideas are the adequate objectification of will. To excite or suggest the knowledge of these by means of the representation of particular things (for works of art themselves are always representations of particular things) is the end of all the other arts, which can only be attained by a corresponding change in the knowing subject. Thus all these arts objectify the will indirectly only by means of the Ideas; and since our world is nothing but the manifestation of the Ideas in [pg 333] multiplicity, though their entrance into the principium individuationis (the form of the knowledge possible for the individual as such), music also, since it passes over the Ideas, is entirely independent of the phenomenal world, ignores it altogether, could to a certain extent exist if there was no world at all, which cannot be said of the other arts. Music is as direct an objectification and copy of the whole will as the world itself, nay, even as the Ideas, whose multiplied manifestation constitutes the world of individual things. Music is thus by no means like the other arts, the copy of the Ideas, but the copy of the will itself, whose objectivity the Ideas are. This is why the effect of music is so much more powerful and penetrating than that of the other arts, for they speak only of shadows, but it speaks of the thing itself. Since, however, it is the same will which objectifies itself both in the Ideas and in music, though in quite different ways, there must be, not indeed a direct likeness, but yet a parallel, an analogy, between music and the Ideas whose manifestation in multiplicity and incompleteness is the visible world. The establishing of this analogy will facilitate, as an illustration, the understanding of this exposition, which is so difficult on account of the obscurity of the subject.

The (Platonic) Ideas are the proper expression of will. The goal of all other arts is to evoke or suggest the knowledge of these Ideas through representations of specific things (since artworks themselves are representations of specific things). To achieve this, a corresponding change must occur in the perceiving subject. Thus, these arts only indirectly express the will through the Ideas. Our world is merely the manifestation of the Ideas in [pg 333] multiplicity, and although they enter into the principle of individuation (the form of knowledge possible for the individual), music, which transcends the Ideas, is entirely independent of the phenomenal world, disregarding it altogether. To some extent, music could exist even without a world, which cannot be said for the other arts. Music is as direct a representation and reflection of the entire will as the world itself, indeed, even as the Ideas, whose numerous manifestations make up the world of individual things. Thus, music is not just a reflection of the Ideas like other arts, but the reflection of the will itself, of which the Ideas are objective representations. This is why music's impact is so much stronger and more profound than that of other arts; they only talk about shadows, while music speaks of the essence. However, because it is the same will that expresses itself in both the Ideas and in music, albeit in very different ways, there must be, not a direct similarity, but rather a parallel, an analogy, between music and the Ideas whose manifestation in multiplicity and incompleteness forms the visible world. Establishing this analogy will help illustrate and clarify this exposition, which is quite challenging due to the subject's complexity.

I recognise in the deepest tones of harmony, in the bass, the lowest grades of the objectification of will, unorganised nature, the mass of the planet. It is well known that all the high notes which are easily sounded, and die away more quickly, are produced by the vibration in their vicinity of the deep bass-notes. When, also, the low notes sound, the high notes always sound faintly, and it is a law of harmony that only those high notes may accompany a bass-note which actually already sound along with it of themselves (its sons harmoniques) on account of its vibration. This is analogous to the fact that the whole of the bodies and organisations of nature must be regarded as having come into existence through gradual development out of the mass of the planet; this [pg 334] is both their supporter and their source, and the same relation subsists between the high notes and the bass. There is a limit of depth, below which no sound is audible. This corresponds to the fact that no matter can be perceived without form and quality, i.e., without the manifestation of a force which cannot be further explained, in which an Idea expresses itself, and, more generally, that no matter can be entirely without will. Thus, as a certain pitch is inseparable from the note as such, so a certain grade of the manifestation of will is inseparable from matter. Bass is thus, for us, in harmony what unorganised nature, the crudest mass, upon which all rests, and from which everything originates and develops, is in the world. Now, further, in the whole of the complemental parts which make up the harmony between the bass and the leading voice singing the melody, I recognise the whole gradation of the Ideas in which the will objectifies itself. Those nearer to the bass are the lower of these grades, the still unorganised, but yet manifold phenomenal things; the higher represent to me the world of plants and beasts. The definite intervals of the scale are parallel to the definite grades of the objectification of will, the definite species in nature. The departure from the arithmetical correctness of the intervals, through some temperament, or produced by the key selected, is analogous to the departure of the individual from the type of the species. Indeed, even the impure discords, which give no definite interval, may be compared to the monstrous abortions produced by beasts of two species, or by man and beast. But to all these bass and complemental parts which make up the harmony there is wanting that connected progress which belongs only to the high voice singing the melody, and it alone moves quickly and lightly in modulations and runs, while all these others have only a slower movement without a connection in each part for itself. The deep bass moves most slowly, the representative of the crudest mass. Its [pg 335] rising and falling occurs only by large intervals, in thirds, fourths, fifths, never by one tone, unless it is a base inverted by double counterpoint. This slow movement is also physically essential to it; a quick run or shake in the low notes cannot even be imagined. The higher complemental parts, which are parallel to animal life, move more quickly, but yet without melodious connection and significant progress. The disconnected course of all the complemental parts, and their regulation by definite laws, is analogous to the fact that in the whole irrational world, from the crystal to the most perfect animal, no being has a connected consciousness of its own which would make its life into a significant whole, and none experiences a succession of mental developments, none perfects itself by culture, but everything exists always in the same way according to its kind, determined by fixed law. Lastly, in the melody, in the high, singing, principal voice leading the whole and progressing with unrestrained freedom, in the unbroken significant connection of one thought from beginning to end representing a whole, I recognise the highest grade of the objectification of will, the intellectual life and effort of man. As he alone, because endowed with reason, constantly looks before and after on the path of his actual life and its innumerable possibilities, and so achieves a course of life which is intellectual, and therefore connected as a whole; corresponding to this, I say, the melody has significant intentional connection from beginning to end. It records, therefore, the history of the intellectually enlightened will. This will expresses itself in the actual world as the series of its deeds; but melody says more, it records the most secret history of this intellectually-enlightened will, pictures every excitement, every effort, every movement of it, all that which the reason collects under the wide and negative concept of feeling, and which it cannot apprehend further through its abstract concepts. Therefore it has always been said that music [pg 336] is the language of feeling and of passion, as words are the language of reason. Plato explains it as ἡ των μελων κινησις μεμιμημενη, εν τοις παθημασιν ὁταν ψυχη γινηται (melodiarum motus, animi affectus imitans), De Leg. vii.; and also Aristotle says: δια τι οἱ ρυθμοι και τα μελη, φωνη ουσα, ηθεσιν εοικε (cur numeri musici et modi, qui voces sunt, moribus similes sese exhibent?): Probl. c. 19.

I recognize in the deepest tones of harmony, in the bass, the most basic forms of the manifestation of will, unorganized nature, the mass of the planet. It’s well-known that all the high notes, which are easily produced and fade quickly, come from the vibrations of the deep bass notes nearby. When the low notes play, the high notes can always be heard faintly, and it’s a rule of harmony that only those high notes that already resonate with the bass note can accompany it because of its vibration. This is similar to the fact that all the bodies and organizations of nature should be viewed as having developed gradually from the mass of the planet; this is both their support and source, and the same relationship exists between the high notes and the bass. There is a limit to depth beyond which no sound can be heard. This aligns with the idea that no matter can be perceived without form and quality, meaning, without the manifestation of a force that cannot be further explained, in which an Idea expresses itself, and, generally, that no matter can be completely devoid of will. Just as a certain pitch is inseparable from the note itself, a certain level of the manifestation of will is inseparable from matter. Therefore, for us, bass in harmony is like unorganized nature, the crude mass upon which everything rests and from which everything originates and develops. Furthermore, in all the complementary parts that create the harmony between the bass and the main voice singing the melody, I see the complete range of Ideas in which the will manifests itself. Those closer to the bass are the lower of these levels, still unorganized but diverse phenomenal things; the higher ones represent the world of plants and animals. The specific intervals of the scale correspond to the specific levels of the objectification of will and the specific species in nature. The departure from the mathematical accuracy of the intervals, through some temperament or caused by the chosen key, parallels the individual’s deviation from the type of the species. Indeed, even the impure dissonances, which do not provide a definite interval, can be likened to the monstrous hybrids produced by animals of two species, or by man and beast. However, all these bass and complementary parts that form the harmony lack the connected progression that belongs only to the high voice singing the melody; it alone moves quickly and lightly through modulations and runs, whereas all these others have only a slower movement without a connection in each part itself. The deep bass moves the slowest, representing the crudest mass. Its rising and falling happen only in large intervals, in thirds, fourths, fifths, never by a single tone, unless it’s a base inverted by double counterpoint. This slow movement is physically essential to it; one cannot even imagine a quick run or shake in the low notes. The higher complementary parts, which parallel animal life, move more swiftly but still lack melodious connection and significant progression. The disconnected course of all the complementary parts and their regulation by specific laws is akin to the fact that in the whole irrational world, from crystals to the most advanced animals, no being has a connected consciousness of its own that would make its life a meaningful whole, and none experiences a succession of mental developments, none perfects itself through growth, but everything exists in the same way according to its kind, determined by fixed law. Finally, in the melody, in the high, singing, principal voice leading everything and progressing with unrestrained freedom, in the unbroken meaningful connection of one thought from start to finish representing a whole, I recognize the highest level of the objectification of will, the intellectual life and effort of man. As he alone, because he has reason, constantly looks ahead and behind on the path of his actual life and its countless possibilities, he creates a life course that is intellectual and thus connected as a whole; correspondingly, I say, the melody has significant intentional connection from beginning to end. It thus chronicles the history of the intellectually enlightened will. This will expresses itself in the actual world as the series of its actions; but melody conveys more; it captures the most intimate history of this intellectually enlightened will, depicting every excitement, every effort, every movement of it, all that which reason collects under the broad and abstract concept of feeling, which it cannot further grasp through its abstract concepts. Therefore, it has always been said that music is the language of feeling and passion, just as words are the language of reason. Plato explains it as ἡ των μελων κινησις μεμιμημενη, εν τοις παθημασιν ὁταν ψυχη γινηται (melodiarum motus, animi affectus imitans), De Leg. vii.; and Aristotle also says: δια τι οἱ ρυθμοι και τα μελη, φωνη ουσα, ηθεσιν εοικε (cur numeri musici et modi, qui voces sunt, moribus similes sese exhibent?): Probl. c. 19.

Now the nature of man consists in this, that his will strives, is satisfied and strives anew, and so on for ever. Indeed, his happiness and well-being consist simply in the quick transition from wish to satisfaction, and from satisfaction to a new wish. For the absence of satisfaction is suffering, the empty longing for a new wish, languor, ennui. And corresponding to this the nature of melody is a constant digression and deviation from the key-note in a thousand ways, not only to the harmonious intervals to the third and dominant, but to every tone, to the dissonant sevenths and to the superfluous degrees; yet there always follows a constant return to the key-note. In all these deviations melody expresses the multifarious efforts of will, but always its satisfaction also by the final return to an harmonious interval, and still more, to the key-note. The composition of melody, the disclosure in it of all the deepest secrets of human willing and feeling, is the work of genius, whose action, which is more apparent here than anywhere else, lies far from all reflection and conscious intention, and may be called an inspiration. The conception is here, as everywhere in art, unfruitful. The composer reveals the inner nature of the world, and expresses the deepest wisdom in a language which his reason does not understand; as a person under the influence of mesmerism tells things of which he has no conception when he awakes. Therefore in the composer, more than in any other artist, the man is entirely separated and distinct from the artist. Even in the explanation of this wonderful art, the concept shows its poverty [pg 337] and limitation. I shall try, however, to complete our analogy. As quick transition from wish to satisfaction, and from satisfaction to a new wish, is happiness and well-being, so quick melodies without great deviations are cheerful; slow melodies, striking painful discords, and only winding back through many bars to the keynote are, as analogous to the delayed and hardly won satisfaction, sad. The delay of the new excitement of will, languor, could have no other expression than the sustained keynote, the effect of which would soon be unbearable; very monotonous and unmeaning melodies approach this effect. The short intelligible subjects of quick dance-music seem to speak only of easily attained common pleasure. On the other hand, the Allegro maestoso, in elaborate movements, long passages, and wide deviations, signifies a greater, nobler effort towards a more distant end, and its final attainment. The Adagio speaks of the pain of a great and noble effort which despises all trifling happiness. But how wonderful is the effect of the minor and major! How astounding that the change of half a tone, the entrance of a minor third instead of a major, at once and inevitably forces upon us an anxious painful feeling, from which again we are just as instantaneously delivered by the major. The Adagio lengthens in the minor the expression of the keenest pain, and becomes even a convulsive wail. Dance-music in the minor seems to indicate the failure of that trifling happiness which we ought rather to despise, seems to speak of the attainment of a lower end with toil and trouble. The inexhaustibleness of possible melodies corresponds to the inexhaustibleness of Nature in difference of individuals, physiognomies, and courses of life. The transition from one key to an entirely different one, since it altogether breaks the connection with what went before, is like death, for the individual ends in it; but the will which appeared in this individual lives after him as before him, appearing in other [pg 338] individuals, whose consciousness, however, has no connection with his.

Now, the essence of being human is that our will constantly desires, finds satisfaction, and then desires again, in an endless cycle. Our happiness and well-being are simply rooted in the quick shift from desire to satisfaction, and then from satisfaction to a new desire. The absence of satisfaction brings suffering: a painful longing for something new, fatigue, boredom. Similarly, the nature of melody involves constant digression and deviation from the main note in countless ways, not just moving to harmonious intervals like the third and dominant, but to every note, including dissonant sevenths and unnecessary degrees; yet it always returns to the main note. In these deviations, melody expresses the various efforts of the will, but also its eventual satisfaction through the final return to a harmonious interval, and even more, to the main note. The creation of melody, revealing all the deepest secrets of human will and feeling, is the work of genius, whose actions, clearer here than anywhere else, are far from conscious thought and intention, and can be called inspiration. The concept here, as in all art, is limited. The composer uncovers the inner nature of the world and conveys profound wisdom in a language that his reason does not comprehend; like a person under hypnosis who shares insights that make no sense once they awaken. Thus, in the composer, more than in any other artist, the individual is completely separated from the artist. Even when explaining this extraordinary art, concepts show their shortcomings [pg 337]. However, I will attempt to build on our analogy. Just as the quick transition from desire to satisfaction, and from satisfaction to a new desire, is happiness, quick melodies with few deviations are cheerful; slow melodies, which feature painful dissonances and meander back through many measures to the main note, reflect the delay and struggle for satisfaction, thus being sad. The delay in new desires creates a sense of lethargy, which can only be expressed through a sustained main note, resulting in an effect that can quickly become unbearable; very monotonous and meaningless melodies approach this feeling. The short, clear themes of lively dance music seem to convey only easily achieved, common pleasures. In contrast, the Fast and majestic, with its elaborate movements, long passages, and wide deviations, signals a greater, nobler effort towards a more distant goal, and the joy in achieving it. The Adagio communicates the agony of a great and noble effort that dismisses trivial happiness. But how remarkable is the impact of the minor and major! It’s astonishing that just shifting by a half tone, introducing a minor third instead of a major one, instantly evokes a sense of painful anxiety, which is just as quickly alleviated by the major. The Slow movement prolongs the expression of deep pain in the minor and evolves into a convulsive wail. Minor dance music seems to signify the failure of a trivial happiness we should actually scorn, reflecting the struggle to achieve a lesser goal. The endless possibilities of melodies match the boundlessness of Nature in the differences among individuals, looks, and life paths. The transition from one key to an entirely different one, breaking off all ties to what came before, feels like death, as the individual ends with it; yet the will that emerged in this individual continues to live on, appearing in different [pg 338] individuals whose consciousness, however, has no link to his.

But it must never be forgotten, in the investigation of all these analogies I have pointed out, that music has no direct, but merely an indirect relation to them, for it never expresses the phenomenon, but only the inner nature, the in-itself of all phenomena, the will itself. It does not therefore express this or that particular and definite joy, this or that sorrow, or pain, or horror, or delight, or merriment, or peace of mind; but joy, sorrow, pain, horror, delight, merriment, peace of mind themselves, to a certain extent in the abstract, their essential nature, without accessories, and therefore without their motives. Yet we completely understand them in this extracted quintessence. Hence it arises that our imagination is so easily excited by music, and now seeks to give form to that invisible yet actively moved spirit-world which speaks to us directly, and clothe it with flesh and blood, i.e., to embody it in an analogous example. This is the origin of the song with words, and finally of the opera, the text of which should therefore never forsake that subordinate position in order to make itself the chief thing and the music a mere means of expressing it, which is a great misconception and a piece of utter perversity; for music always expresses only the quintessence of life and its events, never these themselves, and therefore their differences do not always affect it. It is precisely this universality, which belongs exclusively to it, together with the greatest determinateness, that gives music the high worth which it has as the panacea for all our woes. Thus, if music is too closely united to the words, and tries to form itself according to the events, it is striving to speak a language which is not its own. No one has kept so free from this mistake as Rossini; therefore his music speaks its own language so distinctly and purely that it requires no words, and produces its full effect when rendered by instruments alone.

But it must never be forgotten, in the investigation of all these analogies I've pointed out, that music has no direct, but only an indirect relationship to them. It doesn’t express specific phenomena; instead, it conveys the inner essence, the in-itself of all phenomena, the will itself. Therefore, it doesn’t express this or that particular joy, sorrow, pain, horror, delight, merriment, or peace of mind; but rather joy, sorrow, pain, horror, delight, merriment, peace of mind themselves, to a certain extent in the abstract—their essential nature, without any extras, and therefore without their motives. Yet we completely understand them in this extracted essence. This is why our imagination is so easily stirred by music, seeking to give form to that invisible yet actively moving spirit-world that speaks to us directly, and to give it flesh and blood, i.e., to embody it in an analogous example. This is the origin of the song with words, and ultimately of the opera, whose text should never take the lead and reduce the music to just a means of expression, which is a significant misunderstanding and a complete distortion; because music always expresses only the essence of life and its events, never the events themselves, and thus their differences do not always influence it. It is precisely this universality, which belongs solely to music, along with the greatest specificity, that gives music its high worth as a remedy for all our sorrows. So, if music is too closely tied to the words and tries to shape itself according to the events, it is attempting to speak a language that isn’t its own. No one has avoided this mistake quite like Rossini; his music speaks its own language so clearly and purely that it requires no words and achieves its full effect when performed with instruments alone.

[pg 339]

According to all this, we may regard the phenomenal world, or nature, and music as two different expressions of the same thing, which is therefore itself the only medium of their analogy, so that a knowledge of it is demanded in order to understand that analogy. Music, therefore, if regarded as an expression of the world, is in the highest degree a universal language, which is related indeed to the universality of concepts, much as they are related to the particular things. Its universality, however, is by no means that empty universality of abstraction, but quite of a different kind, and is united with thorough and distinct definiteness. In this respect it resembles geometrical figures and numbers, which are the universal forms of all possible objects of experience and applicable to them all a priori, and yet are not abstract but perceptible and thoroughly determined. All possible efforts, excitements, and manifestations of will, all that goes on in the heart of man and that reason includes in the wide, negative concept of feeling, may be expressed by the infinite number of possible melodies, but always in the universal, in the mere form, without the material, always according to the thing-in-itself, not the phenomenon, the inmost soul, as it were, of the phenomenon, without the body. This deep relation which music has to the true nature of all things also explains the fact that suitable music played to any scene, action, event, or surrounding seems to disclose to us its most secret meaning, and appears as the most accurate and distinct commentary upon it. This is so truly the case, that whoever gives himself up entirely to the impression of a symphony, seems to see all the possible events of life and the world take place in himself, yet if he reflects, he can find no likeness between the music and the things that passed before his mind. For, as we have said, music is distinguished from all the other arts by the fact that it is not a copy of the phenomenon, or, more accurately, the adequate objectivity of will, but is the direct copy of the [pg 340] will itself, and therefore exhibits itself as the metaphysical to everything physical in the world, and as the thing-in-itself to every phenomenon. We might, therefore, just as well call the world embodied music as embodied will; and this is the reason why music makes every picture, and indeed every scene of real life and of the world, at once appear with higher significance, certainly all the more in proportion as its melody is analogous to the inner spirit of the given phenomenon. It rests upon this that we are able to set a poem to music as a song, or a perceptible representation as a pantomime, or both as an opera. Such particular pictures of human life, set to the universal language of music, are never bound to it or correspond to it with stringent necessity; but they stand to it only in the relation of an example chosen at will to a general concept. In the determinateness of the real, they represent that which music expresses in the universality of mere form. For melodies are to a certain extent, like general concepts, an abstraction from the actual. This actual world, then, the world of particular things, affords the object of perception, the special and individual, the particular case, both to the universality of the concepts and to the universality of the melodies. But these two universalities are in a certain respect opposed to each other; for the concepts contain particulars only as the first forms abstracted from perception, as it were, the separated shell of things; thus they are, strictly speaking, abstracta; music, on the other hand, gives the inmost kernel which precedes all forms, or the heart of things. This relation may be very well expressed in the language of the schoolmen by saying the concepts are the universalia post rem, but music gives the universalia ante rem, and the real world the universalia in re. To the universal significance of a melody to which a poem has been set, it is quite possible to set other equally arbitrarily selected examples of the universal expressed in this poem corresponding to the significance of the melody in the [pg 341] same degree. This is why the same composition is suitable to many verses; and this is also what makes the vaudeville possible. But that in general a relation is possible between a composition and a perceptible representation rests, as we have said, upon the fact that both are simply different expressions of the same inner being of the world. When now, in the particular case, such a relation is actually given, that is to say, when the composer has been able to express in the universal language of music the emotions of will which constitute the heart of an event, then the melody of the song, the music of the opera, is expressive. But the analogy discovered by the composer between the two must have proceeded from the direct knowledge of the nature of the world unknown to his reason, and must not be an imitation produced with conscious intention by means of conceptions, otherwise the music does not express the inner nature of the will itself, but merely gives an inadequate imitation of its phenomenon. All specially imitative music does this; for example, “The Seasons,” by Haydn; also many passages of his “Creation,” in which phenomena of the external world are directly imitated; also all battle-pieces. Such music is entirely to be rejected.

Based on all of this, we can view the phenomenal world, or nature, and music as two different expressions of the same essence, which serves as the sole medium for their connection. Thus, understanding this essence is necessary to comprehend that connection. Music, when seen as an expression of the world, is a universal language that relates to the universality of concepts, just as concepts relate to specific things. However, its universality is far from being an empty abstraction; it is of a different nature and is closely tied to distinct clarity. In this sense, it is similar to geometric figures and numbers, which are universal forms applicable to all possible experiences and are not abstract but are perceivable and precisely defined. All possible efforts, emotions, and expressions of will—everything that happens in the human heart that reason classifies under the broad notion of feeling—can be conveyed through the infinite possibilities of melodies, but always in a universal form, without specific material, according to the essence of the thing itself, rather than the phenomenon, capturing the innermost essence of the phenomenon without its physical body. This profound relationship that music has with the true nature of everything also explains why fitting music played alongside any scene, action, event, or environment seems to reveal its deepest meaning and acts as the most accurate commentary on it. This is so true that anyone who fully immerses themselves in the experience of a symphony feels as if they are witnessing all possible life events unfolding within them, yet upon reflection, they may find no direct similarity between the music and the thoughts in their mind. As mentioned, music is distinct from other arts because it is not a replica of the phenomenon, or more precisely, the adequate objectivity of will; rather, it is the direct representation of will itself, manifesting as the metaphysical essence of everything physical in the world, and as the essence itself to every phenomenon. Thus, we could equally refer to the world as embodied music as much as embodied will; and this explains why music imbues every artwork and each scene of real life with greater significance, especially in proportion to how closely its melody reflects the inner spirit of the given phenomenon. This is the basis for our ability to set poetry to music as songs, present tangible representations as pantomimes, or combine both as operas. Such specific representations of human life, expressed through the universal language of music, are not strictly bound to it or necessarily aligned with it; they exist in the relationship of a chosen example to a general concept. In the specificity of the real, they illustrate what music conveys in the universality of mere form. Melodies are somewhat like general concepts, an abstraction from actuality. This actual world, the realm of specific things, provides the objects of perception—special and individual instances—both to the universality of concepts and the universality of melodies. However, these two universalities are, in some respects, opposed; concepts contain specifics only as initial forms abstracted from perception, as if they were the separated shell of things; thus, they are, strictly speaking, abstract. In contrast, music reveals the innermost essence that precedes all forms, the heart of things. This relationship can be articulated in the language of scholars by stating that concepts are the *universalia post rem*, while music provides the *universalia ante rem*, and the real world offers the *universalia in re*. To the universal significance of a melody set to a poem, it is completely possible to assign other equally arbitrarily selected examples of the universality expressed in that poem, mirroring the significance of the melody. This is why the same composition can be applied to various verses, making the *vaudeville* possible. Nevertheless, the general relationship between a composition and a tangible representation relies, as previously mentioned, on the fact that both are simply different expressions of the same inner essence of the world. When, in a specific instance, such a relationship exists—meaning that the composer has successfully expressed in the universal language of music the emotions that embody a critical event—then the melody of the song, the music of the opera, is truly expressive. However, the analogy that the composer discovers must stem from a direct understanding of the world's nature beyond his consciousness and should not be a deliberate imitation crafted with intent through concepts; otherwise, the music fails to express the inner nature of the will and only presents an inadequate imitation of its phenomenon. All specifically imitative music falls into this category; for example, "The Seasons," by Haydn; and many passages of his "Creation," which directly imitate aspects of the external world; as well as all battle pieces. Such music should be entirely rejected.

The unutterable depth of all music by virtue of which it floats through our consciousness as the vision of a paradise firmly believed in yet ever distant from us, and by which also it is so fully understood and yet so inexplicable, rests on the fact that it restores to us all the emotions of our inmost nature, but entirely without reality and far removed from their pain. So also the seriousness which is essential to it, which excludes the absurd from its direct and peculiar province, is to be explained by the fact that its object is not the idea, with reference to which alone deception and absurdity are possible; but its object is directly the will, and this is essentially the most serious of all things, for it is that on which all depends. How rich in content and full of [pg 342] significance the language of music is, we see from the repetitions, as well as the Da capo, the like of which would be unbearable in works composed in a language of words, but in music are very appropriate and beneficial, for, in order to comprehend it fully, we must hear it twice.

The incredible depth of all music allows it to flow through our minds like a vision of a paradise that we firmly believe in but is always out of reach. It’s fully understood yet also inexplicable because it brings back all the emotions of our deepest selves, completely free from reality and far removed from their pain. The seriousness that is fundamental to music, which keeps absurdity out of its direct and unique area, is explained by the fact that its focus is not on ideas—where deception and absurdity can occur—but directly on the will, which is fundamentally the most serious of all things since everything depends on it. The richness and significance of the language of music is evident in its repetitions and the From the beginning, which would be unbearable in works crafted in words but are entirely fitting and beneficial in music, as we need to hear it twice to fully understand it.

In the whole of this exposition of music I have been trying to bring out clearly that it expresses in a perfectly universal language, in a homogeneous material, mere tones, and with the greatest determinateness and truth, the inner nature, the in-itself of the world, which we think under the concept of will, because will is its most distinct manifestation. Further, according to my view and contention, philosophy is nothing but a complete and accurate repetition or expression of the nature of the world in very general concepts, for only in such is it possible to get a view of that whole nature which will everywhere be adequate and applicable. Thus, whoever has followed me and entered into my mode of thought, will not think it so very paradoxical if I say, that supposing it were possible to give a perfectly accurate, complete explanation of music, extending even to particulars, that is to say, a detailed repetition in concepts of what it expresses, this would also be a sufficient repetition and explanation of the world in concepts, or at least entirely parallel to such an explanation, and thus it would be the true philosophy. Consequently the saying of Leibnitz quoted above, which is quite accurate from a lower standpoint, may be parodied in the following way to suit our higher view of music: Musica est exercitium metaphysices occultum nescientis se philosophari animi; for scire, to know, always means to have fixed in abstract concepts. But further, on account of the truth of the saying of Leibnitz, which is confirmed in various ways, music, regarded apart from its æsthetic or inner significance, and looked at merely externally and purely empirically, is simply the means of comprehending directly and in the concrete [pg 343] large numbers and complex relations of numbers, which otherwise we could only know indirectly by fixing them in concepts. Therefore by the union of these two very different but correct views of music we may arrive at a conception of the possibility of a philosophy of number, such as that of Pythagoras and of the Chinese in Y-King, and then interpret in this sense the saying of the Pythagoreans which Sextus Empiricus quotes (adv. Math., L. vii.): τῳ αριθμῳ δε τα παντ᾽ επεοικεν (numero cuncta assimilantur). And if, finally, we apply this view to the interpretation of harmony and melody given above, we shall find that a mere moral philosophy without an explanation of Nature, such as Socrates wanted to introduce, is precisely analogous to a mere melody without harmony, which Rousseau exclusively desired; and, in opposition to this mere physics and metaphysics without ethics, will correspond to mere harmony without melody. Allow me to add to these cursory observations a few more remarks concerning the analogy of music with the phenomenal world. We found in the second book that the highest grade of the objectification of will, man, could not appear alone and isolated, but presupposed the grades below him, as these again presupposed the grades lower still. In the same way music, which directly objectifies the will, just as the world does, is complete only in full harmony. In order to achieve its full effect, the high leading voice of the melody requires the accompaniment of all the other voices, even to the lowest bass, which is to be regarded as the origin of all. The melody itself enters as an integral part into the harmony, as the harmony enters into it, and only thus, in the full harmonious whole, music expresses what it aims at expressing. Thus also the one will outside of time finds its full objectification only in the complete union of all the steps which reveal its nature in the innumerable ascending grades of distinctness. The following analogy is also very remarkable. We have seen in the preceding book that notwithstanding [pg 344] the self-adaptation of all the phenomena of will to each other as regards their species, which constitutes their teleological aspect, there yet remains an unceasing conflict between those phenomena as individuals, which is visible at every grade, and makes the world a constant battle-field of all those manifestations of one and the same will, whose inner contradiction with itself becomes visible through it. In music also there is something corresponding to this. A complete, pure, harmonious system of tones is not only physically but arithmetically impossible. The numbers themselves by which the tones are expressed have inextricable irrationality. There is no scale in which, when it is counted, every fifth will be related to the keynote as 2 to 3, every major third as 4 to 5, every minor third as 5 to 6, and so on. For if they are correctly related to the keynote, they can no longer be so to each other; because, for example, the fifth must be the minor third to the third, &c. For the notes of the scale may be compared to actors who must play now one part, now another. Therefore a perfectly accurate system of music cannot even be thought, far less worked out; and on this account all possible music deviates from perfect purity; it can only conceal the discords essential to it by dividing them among all the notes, i.e., by temperament. On this see Chladni's “Akustik,” § 30, and his “Kurze Uebersicht der Schall- und Klanglehre.”63

In this discussion of music, I've been trying to clearly show that it conveys, in a completely universal way, using only simple tones, the true essence of the world, which we interpret through the concept of will, as will is its most distinct expression. Additionally, I believe that philosophy is simply a thorough and precise expression of the nature of the world in very general terms, as only through such terms can we gain an adequate and applicable understanding of the whole nature. Therefore, anyone who has followed my line of thought will not find it too surprising if I say that, if it were possible to provide a completely accurate and detailed explanation of music—essentially a thorough conceptual repetition of what it expresses—this would also serve as a sufficient explanation of the world through concepts, or at least be entirely parallel to such an explanation, embodying true philosophy. Consequently, Leibniz's statement quoted above, which is accurate from a more basic viewpoint, can be rephrased to fit our elevated understanding of music: Music is the exercise of a metaphysics that the soul, unaware of itself, philosophizes about.; for scire, to know, always means to define in abstract concepts. Furthermore, because of the truth of Leibniz's saying, which is confirmed in various ways, music, when considered without its aesthetic or deeper meaning, and viewed purely externally and empirically, is simply a means to directly understand large numbers and complex relationships of numbers, which would otherwise only be understood indirectly through conceptualization. By combining these two correct but distinct views of music, we can arrive at a concept of a philosophy of number, like that of Pythagoras and the Chinese in Y-King, and interpret in this way the statement from the Pythagoreans that Sextus Empiricus quotes (adv. Math., L. vii.): τῳ αριθμῳ δε τα παντ᾽ επεοικεν (numbers equal everything). If we then apply this perspective to the interpretation of harmony and melody mentioned earlier, we'll discover that a mere moral philosophy, lacking a natural explanation, like what Socrates aimed to promote, is analogous to a melody without harmony, which Rousseau exclusively desired; and, in contrast to a basic physics and metaphysics devoid of ethics, it would correspond to mere harmony without melody. Allow me to add a few more remarks regarding the analogy between music and the phenomenal world. We observed in the second book that the highest level of the manifestation of will, humanity, cannot exist in isolation but depends on the lower levels, which in turn depend on those even lower. Similarly, music, which directly embodies the will just as the world does, is only complete in full harmony. To fully achieve its effect, the high leading voice of the melody needs the accompaniment of all the other voices, even the lowest bass, which can be seen as the source of all. The melody itself is an integral part of the harmony, just as the harmony is a part of it, and only then, in complete harmony, does music convey what it intends to express. Likewise, the one will beyond time finds its fullest expression only in the complete unity of all the aspects that reveal its nature in countless ascending levels of clarity. The following analogy is also quite striking. In the previous book, we noted that despite the self-adaptation of all the phenomena of will concerning their types, which makes up their teleological perspective, there remains a constant conflict among those phenomena as individual phenomena, which is visible at every level and turns the world into a constant battleground of those manifestations of the same will, whose inner contradiction is made apparent through this. Music also reflects something similar. A complete, pure, harmonious tonal system is not only physically impossible but mathematically impossible as well. The very numbers used to express the tones have inextricable irrationality. There is no scale where every fifth note relates to the keynote as 2 to 3, every major third as 4 to 5, every minor third as 5 to 6, and so on. If those notes are correctly related to the keynote, they can no longer relate to each other in the same way; for instance, the fifth must be the minor third to the third, etc. The notes of the scale can be compared to actors who must play different roles at different times. Therefore, a perfectly accurate system of music is impossible to conceive, let alone develop; and because of this, all possible music deviates from perfect purity; it can only mask the inherent dissonances by distributing them among all the notes, i.e., through temperament. For more on this, see Chladni's “Acoustic,” § 30, and his "Brief Overview of Sound and Acoustic Theory."63

I might still have something to say about the way in which music is perceived, namely, in and through time alone, with absolute exclusion of space, and also apart from the influence of the knowledge of causality, thus without understanding; for the tones make the æsthetic impression as effect, and without obliging us to go back to their causes, as in the case of perception. I do not wish, however, to lengthen this discussion, as I have perhaps already gone too much into detail with regard to [pg 345] some things in this Third Book, or have dwelt too much on particulars. But my aim made it necessary, and it will be the less disapproved if the importance and high worth of art, which is seldom sufficiently recognised, be kept in mind. For if, according to our view, the whole visible world is just the objectification, the mirror, of the will, conducting it to knowledge of itself, and, indeed, as we shall soon see, to the possibility of its deliverance; and if, at the same time, the world as idea, if we regard it in isolation, and, freeing ourselves from all volition, allow it alone to take possession of our consciousness, is the most joy-giving and the only innocent side of life; we must regard art as the higher ascent, the more complete development of all this, for it achieves essentially just what is achieved by the visible world itself, only with greater concentration, more perfectly, with intention and intelligence, and therefore may be called, in the full significance of the word, the flower of life. If the whole world as idea is only the visibility of will, the work of art is to render this visibility more distinct. It is the camera obscura which shows the objects more purely, and enables us to survey them and comprehend them better. It is the play within the play, the stage upon the stage in “Hamlet.”

I might still have something to say about how music is experienced, specifically as it exists in time alone, completely disregarding space, and also separate from the understanding of cause and effect, so without comprehension; because the sounds create an aesthetic impact as an effect, without requiring us to think back to their origins, unlike perception. However, I don’t want to prolong this discussion, as I may have already delved too deeply into some aspects in this Third Book or focused too much on specifics. But my purpose made this necessary, and it will be less criticized if we keep in mind the importance and value of art, which is often not sufficiently acknowledged. For if, as we see it, the entire visible world is merely the manifestation, the reflection, of the will, guiding it to self-knowledge, and indeed, as we will soon explore, to the chance of its liberation; and if, at the same time, the world as an idea, when we consider it separately, and remove all desire, allows it to fully engage our consciousness, represents the most joyful and the only innocent aspect of life; we must view art as the higher elevation, the more complete evolution of all this, as it essentially achieves what the visible world does, only with more focus, greater perfection, and intention, and thus can rightly be called, in the full sense of the word, the ultimate expression of life. If the entire world as an idea is merely the visibility of will, the artwork aims to make this visibility clearer. It is the pinhole camera that reveals the objects more purely and allows us to look at them and understand them better. It is the play within a play, the stage on a stage in "Hamlet"

The pleasure we receive from all beauty, the consolation which art affords, the enthusiasm of the artist, which enables him to forget the cares of life,—the latter an advantage of the man of genius over other men, which alone repays him for the suffering that increases in proportion to the clearness of consciousness, and for the desert loneliness among men of a different race,—all this rests on the fact that the in-itself of life, the will, existence itself, is, as we shall see farther on, a constant sorrow, partly miserable, partly terrible; while, on the contrary, as idea alone, purely contemplated, or copied by art, free from pain, it presents to us a drama full of significance. This purely knowable side of the world, [pg 346] and the copy of it in any art, is the element of the artist. He is chained to the contemplation of the play, the objectification of will; he remains beside it, does not get tired of contemplating it and representing it in copies; and meanwhile he bears himself the cost of the production of that play, i.e., he himself is the will which objectifies itself, and remains in constant suffering. That pure, true, and deep knowledge of the inner nature of the world becomes now for him an end in itself: he stops there. Therefore it does not become to him a quieter of the will, as, we shall see in the next book, it does in the case of the saint who has attained to resignation; it does not deliver him for ever from life, but only at moments, and is therefore not for him a path out of life, but only an occasional consolation in it, till his power, increased by this contemplation and at last tired of the play, lays hold on the real. The St. Cecilia of Raphael may be regarded as a representation of this transition. To the real, then, we now turn in the following book.

The joy we get from beauty, the comfort that art provides, and the artist's passion, which helps them forget life's troubles—this is what sets the genius apart from others, and it's what makes enduring their suffering worthwhile, even as that suffering grows with greater awareness and as they experience isolation among those who don’t understand them. All of this is based on the idea that life itself, the will, is, as we will explore further, a constant source of sorrow—partly miserable and partly terrifying. Yet, when viewed purely as an idea or captured through art, free from pain, it reveals a meaningful drama. This aspect of the world, [pg 346] and its artistic representations, is the artist's realm. They are bound to observe this play, the manifestation of will; they don't tire of contemplating it and creating representations of it. However, they also bear the burden of producing that play, i.e., they are the will that manifests and persists in ongoing suffering. For them, this pure, deep understanding of the world's true nature becomes an end in itself: they become stuck there. Unlike the saint, who finds lasting peace through resignation, this knowledge doesn't free the artist from life forever; it only provides temporary solace, until their energy, fueled by this contemplation, finally seeks the real. Raphael's St. Cecilia can be seen as a depiction of this shift. Now, we turn to the real in the next book.

[pg 347]

Fourth Book. The World as Will.

Second Aspect: The Assertion and Denial of the Will to Live When Self-Consciousness Has Been Achieved.

When knowledge came together, love emerged from the midst.Oupnek'hat,
Anquetil Duperron Studio, vol. 2, p. 216.
[pg 349]

§ 53. The last part of our work presents itself as the most serious, for it relates to the action of men, the matter which concerns every one directly and can be foreign or indifferent to none. It is indeed so characteristic of the nature of man to relate everything else to action, that in every systematic investigation he will always treat the part that has to do with action as the result or outcome of the whole work, so far, at least, as it interests him, and will therefore give his most serious attention to this part, even if to no other. In this respect the following part of our work would, in ordinary language, be called practical philosophy, in opposition to the theoretical, which has occupied us hitherto. But, in my opinion, all philosophy is theoretical, because it is essential to it that it should retain a purely contemplative attitude, and should investigate, not prescribe. To become, on the contrary, practical, to guide conduct, to transform character, are old claims, which with fuller insight it ought finally to give up. For here, where the worth or worthlessness of an existence, where salvation or damnation are in question, the dead conceptions of philosophy do not decide the matter, but the inmost nature of man himself, the Dæmon that guides him and that has not chosen him, but been chosen by him, as Plato would say; his intelligible character, as Kant expresses himself. Virtue cannot be taught any more than genius; indeed, for it the concept is just as unfruitful as it is in art, and in both cases can only be used as [pg 350] an instrument. It would, therefore, be just as absurd to expect that our moral systems and ethics will produce virtuous, noble, and holy men, as that our æsthetics will produce poets, painters, and musicians.

§ 53. The last part of our work is the most serious because it deals with human action, a topic that directly affects everyone and can't be ignored by anyone. It's truly in human nature to connect everything to action, so in any systematic study, the part related to action is often seen as the result or outcome of the entire work, at least in terms of personal interest. Thus, this section tends to receive the greatest attention, even if no other part does. In common language, this part of our work might be called practical philosophy, as opposed to the theoretical discussions we've had so far. However, I believe all philosophy is theoretical because it must maintain a purely reflective stance and focus on investigation rather than prescription. To become truly practical, to influence behavior, or to change character, are outdated ideas that it should ultimately abandon with greater understanding. In matters of existence's value or worthlessness, and issues of salvation or damnation, it's not the rigid concepts of philosophy that determine outcomes but the deepest nature of humanity itself, the inner spirit that guides a person and is not chosen by him but by what he has chosen, as Plato might put it; or his intelligible character, in Kant's terms. Virtue can't be taught any more than genius can; in fact, for virtue, the concept is as unproductive as it is in art and can only serve as a tool in both cases. Therefore, it would be just as ridiculous to expect our moral frameworks and ethics to produce virtuous, noble, and holy individuals as it would be to think our aesthetics could create poets, painters, and musicians.

Philosophy can never do more than interpret and explain what is given. It can only bring to distinct abstract knowledge of the reason the nature of the world which in the concrete, that is, as feeling, expresses itself comprehensibly to every one. This, however, it does in every possible reference and from every point of view. Now, as this attempt has been made from other points of view in the three preceding books with the generality that is proper to philosophy, in this book the action of men will be considered in the same way; and this side of the world might, indeed, be considered the most important of all, not only subjectively, as I remarked above, but also objectively. In considering it I shall faithfully adhere to the method I have hitherto followed, and shall support myself by presupposing all that has already been advanced. There is, indeed, just one thought which forms the content of this whole work. I have endeavoured to work it out in all other spheres, and I shall now do so with regard to human action. I shall then have done all that is in my power to communicate it as fully as possible.

Philosophy can only interpret and explain what already exists. It can provide a clear abstract understanding of the nature of the world, which is expressed in a way that everyone can comprehend through their feelings. It does this from every possible angle and perspective. While this has been approached from different viewpoints in the three previous books with the general approach that philosophy requires, this book will consider human actions in the same way; this aspect of the world might actually be the most crucial of all, both from a subjective perspective, as I mentioned earlier, and also from an objective one. In discussing this, I will stick to the method I've used so far and build on everything that has already been covered. There is, indeed, one main idea that underlies this entire work. I have tried to explore it in all other areas, and now I will do so regarding human actions. By this, I hope to convey as much as possible.

The given point of view, and the method of treatment announced, are themselves sufficient to indicate that in this ethical book no precepts, no doctrine of duty must be looked for; still less will a general moral principle be given, an universal receipt, as it were, for the production of all the virtues. Neither shall we talk of an absolute ought,” for this contains a contradiction, as is explained in the Appendix; nor yet of a law of freedom,” which is in the same position. In general, we shall not speak at all of “ought,” for this is how one speaks to children and to nations still in their childhood, but not to those who have appropriated all the culture of a full-grown [pg 351] age. It is a palpable contradiction to call the will free, and yet to prescribe laws for it according to which it ought to will. “Ought to will!”—wooden iron! But it follows from the point of view of our system that the will is not only free, but almighty. From it proceeds not only its action, but also its world; and as the will is, so does its action and its world become. Both are the self-knowledge of the will and nothing more. The will determines itself, and at the same time both its action and its world; for besides it there is nothing, and these are the will itself. Only thus is the will truly autonomous, and from every other point of view it is heteronomous. Our philosophical endeavours can only extend to exhibiting and explaining the action of men in its inner nature and content, the various and even opposite maxims, whose living expression it is. This we shall do in connection with the preceding portion of our work, and in precisely the same way as we have hitherto explained the other phenomena of the world, and have sought to bring their inmost nature to distinct abstract knowledge. Our philosophy will maintain the same immanency in the case of action, as in all that we have hitherto considered. Notwithstanding Kant's great doctrine, it will not attempt to use the forms of the phenomenon, the universal expression of which is the principle of sufficient reason, as a leaping-pole to jump over the phenomenon itself, which alone gives meaning to these forms, and land in the boundless sphere of empty fictions. But this actual world of experience, in which we are, and which is in us, remains both the material and the limits of our consideration: a world which is so rich in content that even the most searching investigation of which the human mind is capable could not exhaust it. Since then the real world of experience will never fail to afford material and reality to our ethical investigations, any more than to those we have already conducted, nothing will be less needful than to take refuge in negative conceptions [pg 352] void of content, and then somehow or other make even ourselves believe that we are saying something when we speak with lifted eyebrows of “absolutes,” “infinites,” “supersensibles,” and whatever other mere negations of this sort there may be (ουδεν εστι, η το της στερησεως ονομα, μετα αμυδρας επινοιας—nihil est, nisi negationis nomen, cum obscura notione.—Jul. or. 5), instead of which it would be shorter to say at once cloud-cuckoo-town (νεφελοκοκκυγια): we shall not require to serve up covered empty dishes of this kind. Finally, we shall not in this book, any more than in those which have preceded it, narrate histories and give them out as philosophy. For we are of opinion that whoever supposes that the inner nature of the world can in any way, however plausibly disguised, be historically comprehended, is infinitely far from a philosophical knowledge of the world. Yet this is what is supposed whenever a “becoming,” or a “having become,” or an “about to become” enters into a theory of the nature of the world, whenever an earlier or a later has the least place in it; and in this way a beginning and an end of the world, and the path it pursues between them, is, either openly or disguisedly, both sought for and found, and the individual who philosophises even recognises his own position on that path. Such historical philosophising in most cases produces a cosmogony which admits of many varieties, or else a system of emanations, a doctrine of successive disengagements from one being; or, finally, driven in despair from fruitless efforts upon these paths to the last path of all, it takes refuge in the converse doctrine of a constant becoming, springing up, arising, coming to light out of darkness, out of the hidden ground source or groundlessness, or whatever other nonsense of this sort there may be, which is most shortly disposed of with the remark that at the present moment a whole eternity, i.e., an endless time, has already passed, so that everything that can or ought to become must have already done so. For all such historical philosophy, whatever [pg 353] airs it may give itself, regards time just as if Kant had never lived, as a quality of the thing-in-itself, and thus stops at that which Kant calls the phenomenon in opposition to the thing-in-itself; which Plato calls the becoming and never being, in opposition to the being and never becoming; and which, finally, is called in the Indian philosophy the web of Mâya. It is just the knowledge which belongs to the principle of sufficient reason, with which no one can penetrate to the inner nature of things, but endlessly pursues phenomena, moving without end or aim, like a squirrel in its wheel, till, tired out at last, he stops at some point or other arbitrarily chosen, and now desires to extort respect for it from others also. The genuine philosophical consideration of the world, i.e., the consideration that affords us a knowledge of its inner nature, and so leads us beyond the phenomenon, is precisely that method which does not concern itself with the whence, the whither, and the why of the world, but always and everywhere demands only the what; the method which considers things not according to any relation, not as becoming and passing away, in short, not according to one of the four forms of the principle of sufficient reason; but, on the contrary, just that which remains when all that belongs to the form of knowledge proper to that principle has been abstracted, the inner nature of the world, which always appears unchanged in all the relations, but is itself never subject to them, and has the Ideas of the world as its object or material. From such knowledge as this proceeds philosophy, like art, and also, as we shall see in this book, that disposition of mind which alone leads to true holiness and to deliverance from the world.

The perspective and approach outlined here make it clear that this ethical book won’t contain rules or a doctrine of duty; there won’t even be a broad moral principle or a universal guide for achieving all virtues. We won’t discuss an “absolute must,” since that concept is contradictory, as explained in the Appendix; nor will we mention a “law of freedom,” because that concept faces the same issue. Generally, we won’t use the term "should," since that’s language suited for children and nations in their infancy, not for those who have embraced all the knowledge of an adult [pg 351] society. It’s a clear contradiction to describe the will as free while also imposing laws that dictate how it should will. "Should do it!"—that’s nonsensical! According to our perspective, the will is not only free but also all-powerful. Its actions and its world arise from it; as the will is, so are its actions and its world shaped. Both reflect the will’s self-awareness, and nothing more. The will defines itself and simultaneously determines both its actions and its world; since nothing exists outside it, these are the will itself. Only this way is the will genuinely autonomous; from every other perspective, it is heteronomous. Our philosophical work can only show and explain human actions in their inner nature and content, including the diverse and even conflicting principles they embody. We'll do this in connection with the earlier parts of our work, just as we have previously explained other phenomena in the world, aiming to uncover their core essence in clear, abstract terms. Our philosophy will uphold the same immediacy regarding actions as we have with all previously considered matters. Despite Kant's significant ideas, it won’t try to leap from the forms of phenomena—whose universal expression is the principle of sufficient reason—into the empty realm of baseless fictions, as those phenomena alone give meaning to these forms. Instead, this actual world of experience, in which we are situated and which exists within us, will remain both the foundation and the limits of our inquiry: a world so rich in content that even the most intense investigation human minds can conduct could never fully exhaust it. Therefore, since the real world of experience will always provide material and substance for our ethical explorations, as it has for our past inquiries, there’s no need to take refuge in negative concepts [pg 352] that lack substance, and then pretend we’re making meaningful statements when we speak with raised eyebrows about “absolutes,” “infinities,” “supersensitives,” and other similar mere negations (ουδεν εστι, η το της στερησεως ονομα, μετα αμυδρας επινοιας—nothing exists, except for the name of negation, with an obscure concept.—Jul. or. 5), it would be more straightforward to refer to it all as cloud-cuckoo-land (νεφελοκοκκυγια): we won’t need to serve up empty platters like that. Lastly, in this book, just as in the previous ones, we won't tell stories and pass them off as philosophy. We believe that anyone who thinks they can grasp the world’s inner nature in any way, no matter how cleverly disguised, through historical comprehension, is profoundly mistaken about the philosophy of the world. Yet this misunderstanding arises whenever a "becoming," or a "becoming," or an “about to become” is included in a theory of the world’s nature, or when an earlier or later phase is considered at all; thus, a beginning and end of the world, along with the journey between them, is sought after and found, whether openly or covertly, allowing the philosopher to position themselves along this path. Such historical thinking usually leads to various forms of cosmogony or a system of emanations, or a theory of stages of release from one being; or, ultimately, driven away from futile attempts on these paths, it seeks refuge in the idea of constant becoming, emerging from darkness, or hidden sources, or whatever other nonsense might be, all of which can be dismissed with the remark that an entire eternity, i.e., an endless period, has already elapsed, meaning everything that could or should be has likely already happened. For all such historical philosophy, regardless of how sophisticated it may appear, treats time as if Kant had never existed, viewing it as a quality of the thing-in-itself, thus remaining at the point Kant describes as the phenomenon, in contrast to the thing-in-itself; which Plato refers to as becoming and never being, as opposed to the being that is never becoming; and which is ultimately identified in Indian philosophy as the web of Mâya. This knowledge is bound to the principle of sufficient reason, which fails to penetrate the essence of things and instead endlessly chases phenomena, moving aimlessly, like a hamster on a wheel, until finally tiring and arbitrarily settling on some random point, expecting respect for it from others as well. Genuine philosophical reflection on the world, i.e., the inquiry that provides insight into its true nature and transcends the phenomenon, focuses on the what, rather than the whence, whither, and why of the world. This method looks at things not in any relational context, not through the lens of becoming and fading away, and not in terms of any of the four forms of the principle of sufficient reason; it instead seeks what remains after all those aspects of knowledge specific to that principle are stripped away: the world’s inner essence, which remains unchanged across all relationships, yet is never subject to them, having the Ideas of the world as its object or material. From this kind of understanding, philosophy emerges, akin to art, and, as we will see in this book, offers the mindset that alone leads to true holiness and liberation from the world.

§ 54. The first three books will, it is hoped, have conveyed the distinct and certain knowledge that the world as idea is the complete mirror of the will, in which it knows itself in ascending grades of distinctness [pg 354] and completeness, the highest of which is man, whose nature, however, receives its complete expression only through the whole connected series of his actions. The self-conscious connection of these actions is made possible by reason, which enables a man constantly to survey the whole in the abstract.

§ 54. The first three books should have provided a clear understanding that the world as an idea is a complete reflection of the will, allowing it to recognize itself in increasingly clear ways [pg 354] and completeness, with the highest expression being man, whose nature is fully revealed only through the entire sequence of his actions. The conscious connection of these actions is facilitated by reason, which allows a person to constantly view the whole in an abstract way.

The will, which, considered purely in itself, is without knowledge, and is merely a blind incessant impulse, as we see it appear in unorganised and vegetable nature and their laws, and also in the vegetative part of our own life, receives through the addition of the world as idea, which is developed in subjection to it, the knowledge of its own willing and of what it is that it wills. And this is nothing else than the world as idea, life, precisely as it exists. Therefore we called the phenomenal world the mirror of the will, its objectivity. And since what the will wills is always life, just because life is nothing but the representation of that willing for the idea, it is all one and a mere pleonism if, instead of simply saying “the will,” we say “the will to live.”

The will, when looked at on its own, lacks knowledge and is just a blind, constant drive, similar to what we observe in unorganized and plant life and their laws, as well as in the vegetative part of our own existence. Through the addition of the world as an idea, which develops in alignment with it, the will gains awareness of what it wants and what it represents. This is simply the world as an idea, life, exactly as it is. That's why we refer to the phenomenal world as the reflection of the will, its objectivity. Since what the will desires is always life—because life is just the representation of that desire for the idea—it's redundant to say “the will” instead of “the will to live.”

Will is the thing-in-itself, the inner content, the essence of the world. Life, the visible world, the phenomenon, is only the mirror of the will. Therefore life accompanies the will as inseparably as the shadow accompanies the body; and if will exists, so will life, the world, exist. Life is, therefore, assured to the will to live; and so long as we are filled with the will to live we need have no fear for our existence, even in the presence of death. It is true we see the individual come into being and pass away; but the individual is only phenomenal, exists only for the knowledge which is bound to the principle of sufficient reason, to the principio individuationis. Certainly, for this kind of knowledge, the individual receives his life as a gift, rises out of nothing, then suffers the loss of this gift through death, and returns again to nothing. But we desire to consider life [pg 355] philosophically, i.e., according to its Ideas, and in this sphere we shall find that neither the will, the thing-in-itself in all phenomena, nor the subject of knowing, that which perceives all phenomena, is affected at all by birth or by death. Birth and death belong merely to the phenomenon of will, thus to life; and it is essential to this to exhibit itself in individuals which come into being and pass away, as fleeting phenomena appearing in the form of time—phenomena of that which in itself knows no time, but must exhibit itself precisely in the way we have said, in order to objectify its peculiar nature. Birth and death belong in like manner to life, and hold the balance as reciprocal conditions of each other, or, if one likes the expression, as poles of the whole phenomenon of life. The wisest of all mythologies, the Indian, expresses this by giving to the very god that symbolises destruction, death (as Brahma, the most sinful and the lowest god of the Trimurti, symbolises generation, coming into being, and Vishnu maintaining or preserving), by giving, I say, to Siva as an attribute not only the necklace of skulls, but also the lingam, the symbol of generation, which appears here as the counterpart of death, thus signifying that generation and death are essentially correlatives, which reciprocally neutralise and annul each other. It was precisely the same sentiment that led the Greeks and Romans to adorn their costly sarcophagi, just as we see them now, with feasts, dances, marriages, the chase, fights of wild beasts, bacchanalians, &c.; thus with representations of the full ardour of life, which they place before us not only in such revels and sports, but also in sensual groups, and even go so far as to represent the sexual intercourse of satyrs and goats. Clearly the aim was to point in the most impressive manner away from the death of the mourned individual to the immortal life of nature, and thus to indicate, though without abstract knowledge, that the whole of nature is the phenomenon and also the fulfilment of the will to live. The form of [pg 356] this phenomenon is time, space, and causality, and by means of these individuation, which carries with it that the individual must come into being and pass away. But this no more affects the will to live, of whose manifestation the individual is, as it were, only a particular example or specimen, than the death of an individual injures the whole of nature. For it is not the individual, but only the species that Nature cares for, and for the preservation of which she so earnestly strives, providing for it with the utmost prodigality through the vast surplus of the seed and the great strength of the fructifying impulse. The individual, on the contrary, neither has nor can have any value for Nature, for her kingdom is infinite time and infinite space, and in these infinite multiplicity of possible individuals. Therefore she is always ready to let the individual fall, and hence it is not only exposed to destruction in a thousand ways by the most insignificant accident, but originally destined for it, and conducted towards it by Nature herself from the moment it has served its end of maintaining the species. Thus Nature naïvely expresses the great truth that only the Ideas, not the individuals, have, properly speaking, reality, i.e., are complete objectivity of the will. Now, since man is Nature itself, and indeed Nature at the highest grade of its self-consciousness, but Nature is only the objectified will to live, the man who has comprehended and retained this point of view may well console himself, when contemplating his own death and that of his friends, by turning his eyes to the immortal life of Nature, which he himself is. This is the significance of Siva with the lingam, and of those ancient sarcophagi with their pictures of glowing life, which say to the mourning beholder, Natura non contristatur.

Will is the thing-in-itself, the inner content, the essence of the world. Life, the visible world, the phenomenon, is just the reflection of the will. Therefore, life is linked to the will as closely as a shadow is linked to a body; and if will exists, then life, the world, exists too. Life is, thus, guaranteed to the will to live; and as long as we are filled with the will to live, we don't need to fear our existence, even in the face of death. It's true that we see individuals come into existence and pass away; but the individual is merely phenomenal, existing only for the knowledge that is tied to the principle of sufficient reason, to the principle of individuation. Certainly, for this type of knowledge, the individual receives his life as a gift, emerging from nothing, then suffering the loss of this gift through death, and returning once again to nothing. However, we want to look at life [pg 355] philosophically, i.e., in terms of its Ideas, and in this realm we will find that neither the will, the thing-in-itself in all phenomena, nor the subject of knowing, that which perceives all phenomena, is affected by birth or by death. Birth and death merely belong to the phenomenon of will, thus to life; and it is essential for life to manifest itself in individuals that come into being and pass away, as transient phenomena appearing in the form of time—phenomena of that which inherently knows no time, but must present itself exactly as we have described, in order to embody its unique nature. Birth and death similarly belong to life, and they maintain balance as reciprocal conditions of each other, or, if you prefer the term, as poles of the entire phenomenon of life. The wisest of all mythologies, the Indian, articulates this by assigning to the very god that represents destruction, death (as Brahma, the most sinful and the lowest god of the Trimurti, represents generation, coming into being, and Vishnu maintains or preserves), by giving, I say, to Siva not only the necklace of skulls but also the lingam, the symbol of generation, which shows here as the counterpart of death, thus indicating that generation and death are fundamentally correlated, mutually neutralizing and negating each other. This same sentiment inspired the Greeks and Romans to decorate their ornate sarcophagi, as we can see, with feasts, dances, marriages, hunting, wild beast fights, bacchanals, etc.; thus with representations of the full passion of life, which they display not only in such revelries and sports but also in sensual groups, even going so far as to show the sexual intercourse of satyrs and goats. Clearly, the purpose was to compellingly draw attention away from the death of the deceased to the immortal life of nature, thereby indicating, albeit without abstract knowledge, that the entirety of nature is the phenomenon and also the fulfillment of the will to live. The form of [pg 356] this phenomenon is time, space, and causality, and through these, individuation occurs, which entails that the individual must come into being and pass away. But this does not affect the will to live, of which the individual is, so to speak, just a particular example or specimen, any more than the death of an individual harms the whole of nature. Because it is not the individual, but only the species that Nature cares for, and for which she strives so earnestly, providing for it abundantly through the enormous surplus of seeds and the great vigor of the fructifying impulse. The individual, on the other hand, neither has nor can possess any true value for Nature, as her kingdom spans infinite time and infinite space, and within that, an infinite multiplicity of potential individuals. Therefore she is always willing to let the individual perish, and that's why it is not only exposed to destruction in countless ways through the most trivial accident, but is originally destined for it, and led to it by Nature herself from the moment it has fulfilled its role in preserving the species. Thus Nature straightforwardly expresses the profound truth that only the Ideas, not the individuals, have true reality, i.e., they are the complete objectivity of the will. Now, since man is Nature itself, and indeed Nature at its highest level of self-awareness, but Nature is only the objectified will to live, a person who has grasped and retained this perspective can indeed find comfort when contemplating his own death and that of his friends by turning his gaze toward the immortal life of Nature, of which he himself is a part. This is the meaning of Siva with the lingam, and of those ancient sarcophagi adorned with their vibrant life scenes, which convey to the mourning observer, Nature isn't saddened.

That generation and death are to be regarded as something belonging to life, and essential to this phenomenon of the will, arises also from the fact that they both exhibit themselves merely as higher powers of the expression [pg 357] of that in which all the rest of life consists. This is through and through nothing else than the constant change of matter in the fixed permanence of form; and this is what constitutes the transitoriness of the individual and the permanence of the species. Constant nourishment and renewal differ from generation only in degree, and constant excretion differs only in degree from death. The first shows itself most simply and distinctly in the plant. The plant is throughout a constant recurrence of the same impulse of its simplest fibre, which groups itself into leaf and branch. It is a systematic aggregate of similar plants supporting each other, whose constant reproduction is its single impulse. It ascends to the full satisfaction of this tendency through the grades of its metamorphosis, finally to the blossom and fruit, that compendium of its existence and effort in which it now attains, by a short way, to that which is its single aim, and at a stroke produces a thousand-fold what, up till then, it effected only in the particular case—the repetition of itself. Its earlier growth and development stands in the same relation to its fruit as writing stands to printing. With the animal it is clearly quite the same. The process of nourishing is a constant reproduction; the process of reproduction is a higher power of nourishing. The pleasure which accompanies the act of procreation is a higher power of the agreeableness of the sense of life. On the other hand, excretion, the constant exhalation and throwing off of matter, is the same as that which, at a higher power, death, is the contrary of generation. And if here we are always content to retain the form without lamenting the discarded matter, we ought to bear ourselves in the same way if in death the same thing happens, in a higher degree and to the whole, as takes place daily and hourly in a partial manner in excretion: if we are indifferent to the one, we ought not to shrink from the other. Therefore, from this point of view, it appears just as perverse to desire [pg 358] the continuance of an individuality which will be replaced by other individuals as to desire the permanence of matter which will be replaced by other matter. It appears just as foolish to embalm the body as it would be carefully to preserve its excrement. As to the individual consciousness which is bound to the individual body, it is absolutely interrupted every day by sleep. Deep sleep is, while it lasts, in no way different from death, into which, in fact, it often passes continuously, as in the case of freezing to death. It differs only with regard to the future, the awaking. Death is a sleep in which individuality is forgotten; everything else wakes again, or rather never slept.64

That generation and death should be seen as part of life and essential to the concept of will also comes from the fact that they both reveal themselves as higher expressions of what encompasses all of life. This is fundamentally just the ongoing change of matter within the stable form; this is what defines the fleeting nature of individuals and the permanence of species. Continuous nourishment and renewal differ from generation only in intensity, just as constant waste removal differs only in intensity from death. Nourishment is most clearly and simply illustrated in plants. The plant represents a continuous repetition of the same fundamental drive of its simplest structure, which organizes itself into leaves and branches. It acts as a systematic collective of similar plants that support one another, whose ongoing reproduction is its singular motivation. It reaches full expression of this drive through the stages of its transformation, culminating in the flower and fruit, which encapsulates its existence and effort, allowing it to quickly achieve its primary goal by producing countless duplicates of itself, something it previously accomplished only in specific cases. Its earlier growth and development relate to its fruit in the same way writing relates to printing. The same is true for animals. The nourishing process is a constant act of reproduction; the act of reproduction is a more complex form of nourishing. The pleasure associated with procreation is a heightened expression of the enjoyment of life. Meanwhile, excretion—constantly expelling and shedding matter—is the same as what, at a higher level, death represents as the opposite of generation. If we can accept the form while letting go of the discarded matter, we should apply the same attitude when it comes to death, which occurs on a larger scale, just as we experience daily and hourly through excretion. If we are indifferent to one, we should not shy away from the other. Thus, from this perspective, it seems just as unreasonable to wish for the continuation of an individuality that will be replaced by others as it is to desire the permanence of matter that will be substituted by other matter. It is just as pointless to preserve a body as it would be to carefully keep its waste. Regarding individual consciousness tied to a specific body, it experiences a complete interruption every day through sleep. Deep sleep is, during its duration, no different from death, into which it often transitions seamlessly, as seen with freezing to death. The only difference lies in what happens next, waking up. Death is a sleep in which individuality is forgotten; everything else can awaken again or, more accurately, never truly slept.

Above all things, we must distinctly recognise that the form of the phenomenon of will, the form of life or reality, is really only the present, not the future nor the past. The latter are only in the conception, exist only in the connection of knowledge, so far as it follows the principle of sufficient reason. No man has ever lived in the past, and none will live in the future; the present alone is the form of all life, and is its sure possession which can never be taken from it. The present always exists, together with its content. Both remain fixed without wavering, like the rainbow on the waterfall. For life is firm and certain in the will, and the present is firm and certain in life. Certainly, if we reflect on [pg 359] the thousands of years that are past, of the millions of men who lived in them, we ask, What were they? what has become of them? But, on the other hand, we need only recall our own past life and renew its scenes vividly in our imagination, and then ask again, What was all this? what has become of it? As it is with it, so is it with the life of those millions. Or should we suppose that the past could receive a new existence because it has been sealed by death? Our own past, the most recent part of it, and even yesterday, is now no more than an empty dream of the fancy, and such is the past of all those millions. What was? What is? The will, of which life is the mirror, and knowledge free from will, which beholds it clearly in that mirror. Whoever has not yet recognised this, or will not recognise it, must add to the question asked above as to the fate of past generations of men this question also: Why he, the questioner, is so fortunate as to be conscious of this costly, fleeting, and only real present, while those hundreds of generations of men, even the heroes and philosophers of those ages, have sunk into the night of the past, and have thus become nothing; but he, his insignificant ego, actually exists? or more shortly, though somewhat strangely: Why this now, his now, is just now and was not long ago? Since he asks such strange questions, he regards his existence and his time as independent of each other, and the former as projected into the latter. He assumes indeed two nows—one which belongs to the object, the other which belongs to the subject, and marvels at the happy accident of their coincidence. But in truth, only the point of contact of the object, the form of which is time, with the subject, which has no mode of the principle of sufficient reason as its form, constitutes the present, as is shown in the essay on the principle of sufficient reason. Now all object is the will so far as it has become idea, and the subject is the necessary correlative of the object. But real objects are only in the [pg 360] present; the past and the future contain only conceptions and fancies, therefore the present is the essential form of the phenomenon of the will, and inseparable from it. The present alone is that which always exists and remains immovable. That which, empirically apprehended, is the most transitory of all, presents itself to the metaphysical vision, which sees beyond the forms of empirical perception, as that which alone endures, the nunc stans of the schoolmen. The source and the supporter of its content is the will to live or the thing-in-itself,—which we are. That which constantly becomes and passes away, in that it has either already been or is still to be, belongs to the phenomenon as such on account of its forms, which make coming into being and passing away possible. Accordingly, we must think:—Quid fuit?Quod est. Quid erit?Quod fuit; and take it in the strict meaning of the words; thus understand not simile but idem. For life is certain to the will, and the present is certain to life. Thus it is that every one can say, “I am once for all lord of the present, and through all eternity it will accompany me as my shadow: therefore I do not wonder where it has come from, and how it happens that it is exactly now.” We might compare time to a constantly revolving sphere; the half that was always sinking would be the past, that which was always rising would be the future; but the indivisible point at the top, where the tangent touches, would be the extensionless present. As the tangent does not revolve with the sphere, neither does the present, the point of contact of the object, the form of which is time, with the subject, which has no form, because it does not belong to the knowable, but is the condition of all that is knowable. Or, time is like an unceasing stream, and the present a rock on which the stream breaks itself, but does not carry away with it. The will, as thing-in-itself, is just as little subordinate to the principle of sufficient reason [pg 361] as the subject of knowledge, which, finally, in a certain regard is the will itself or its expression. And as life, its own phenomenon, is assured to the will, so is the present, the single form of real life. Therefore we have not to investigate the past before life, nor the future after death: we have rather to know the present, the one form in which the will manifests itself.65 It will not escape from the will, but neither will the will escape from it. If, therefore, life as it is satisfies, whoever affirms it in every way may regard it with confidence as endless, and banish the fear of death as an illusion that inspires him with the foolish dread that he can ever be robbed of the present, and foreshadows a time in which there is no present; an illusion with regard to time analogous to the illusion with regard to space through which every one imagines the position on the globe he happens to occupy as above, and all other places as below. In the same way every one links the present to his own individuality, and imagines that all present is extinguished with it; that then past and future might be without a present. But as on the surface of the globe every place is above, so the form of all life is the present, and to fear death because it robs us of the present, is just as foolish as to fear that we may slip down from the round globe upon which we have now the good fortune to occupy the upper surface. The present is the form essential to the objectification of the will. It cuts time, which extends infinitely in both directions, as a mathematical point, and stands immovably fixed, like an everlasting mid-day with no cool evening, as the actual sun burns without intermission, while it only seems to sink into the bosom of night. Therefore, if a man fears death as his annihilation, it is just as if he were to think that the sun cries out at evening, “Woe is [pg 362] me! for I go down into eternal night.”66 And conversely, whoever is oppressed with the burden of life, whoever desires life and affirms it, but abhors its torments, and especially can no longer endure the hard lot that has fallen to himself, such a man has no deliverance to hope for from death, and cannot right himself by suicide. The cool shades of Orcus allure him only with the false appearance of a haven of rest. The earth rolls from day into night, the individual dies, but the sun itself shines without intermission, an eternal noon. Life is assured to the will to live; the form of life is an endless present, no matter how the individuals, the phenomena of the Idea, arise and pass away in time, like fleeting dreams. Thus even already suicide appears to us as a vain and therefore a foolish action; when we have carried our investigation further it will appear to us in a still less favourable light.

Above all things, we must clearly understand that the essence of the phenomenon of will, the essence of life or reality, is really only the current, not the future or the past. The latter two exist only in our thoughts, only in the context of knowledge, as long as they follow the principle of sufficient reason. No one has ever lived in the past, and no one will live in the future; the current alone is the essence of all life and is its secure possession that can never be taken away. The present always exists, along with its contents. Both remain constant and unwavering, like a rainbow over a waterfall. Life is stable and certain in the will, and the present is stable and certain in life. Certainly, if we reflect on the thousands of years that have passed, of the millions of people who lived then, we might wonder, What were they? What has become of them? But conversely, we need only recall our own past life and vividly renew its scenes in our imagination, then ask again, What was all this? What has become of it? Just as it is for us, so it is for the life of those millions. Or should we think that the past could gain new existence because it’s been sealed by death? Our own past, even the most recent parts, and even yesterday, is now nothing more than an empty dream of the imagination, and so is the past for all those millions. What was? What is? The will, which life reflects, and knowledge free from will, which sees it clearly in that reflection. Anyone who hasn’t recognized this, or refuses to recognize it, must also add to the question asked above regarding the fate of past generations: Why is he, the questioner, so fortunate as to be aware of this precious, fleeting, and only real present, while those hundreds of generations of people, even the heroes and philosophers of those times, have sunk into the night of the past and become nothing; but he, his insignificant self, actually exists? Or more concisely, though somewhat oddly: Why is this now, his now, is right now and was not long ago? Since he asks such strange questions, he sees his existence and his time as separate, viewing the former as projected into the latter. He imagines there are two nows—one that belongs to the object and one that belongs to the subject—and marvels at the coincidence of their alignment. But in reality, only the point where the object, which has the form of time, meets the subject, which has no mode of sufficient reason as its form, constitutes the present, as demonstrated in the essay on the principle of sufficient reason. Now, all objects are manifestations of the will as they become ideas, and the subject is the necessary counterpart of the object. However, real objects exist only in the [pg 360] present; the past and future contain only concepts and illusions, thus the present is the essential form of the phenomenon of the will, inseparable from it. The present alone is what always exists and remains fixed. That which, when perceived empirically, is most fleeting, appears to metaphysical insight, which sees beyond empirical perception’s forms, as that which alone endures, the now standing of the scholars. The source and sustainer of its content is the will to live or the thing-in-itself—we are that. That which constantly comes into being and disappears, having either already been or yet to be, belongs to the phenomenon as such due to its forms, which make becoming and passing away possible. Accordingly, we must think:—What was it?It is. What will it be?Quod fuit; and take it in the strict meaning of the words; thus understand not simile but same. For life is certain to the will, and the present is certain to life. Therefore, everyone can say, "I am always in control of the present, and it will always be with me like my shadow: so, I don't worry about where it came from or how it is exactly right now." We might compare time to a constantly revolving sphere; the half that always sinks would be the past, that which always rises would be the future; but the indivisible point at the top, where the tangent touches, would be the point-less present. Just as the tangent does not rotate with the sphere, neither does the present, the contact point of the object, whose form is time, with the subject, which has no form because it does not belong to the knowable but is the condition of all that is knowable. Or, time is like an unending stream, and the present is a rock where the stream breaks but does not carry away with it. The will, as the thing-in-itself, is just as independent of the principle of sufficient reason [pg 361] as the subject of knowledge, which, in some ways, is the will itself or its expression. And just as life, its own phenomenon, is assured to the will, so is the present, the only form of real life. Thus, we need not investigate the past before life, nor the future after death: we need to understand the current, the singular form in which the will manifests itself.65 It will not separate from the will, nor will the will separate from it. Therefore, if life as it is satisfies, anyone who affirms it in every way may view it confidently as endless, banishing the fear of death as an illusion that fills him with the foolish dread that he can ever be stripped of the present, and foreshadows a time without a present; an illusion regarding time analogous to the illusion about space, through which everyone imagines their position on the globe as above, with all other places as below. Similarly, everyone links the present to their own individuality and imagines that all present ceases with it; that then past and future could exist without a present. However, just as every place on the surface of the globe is above, the essence of all life is the current, and to fear death because it takes away the present is as foolish as fearing that we might fall down from the round globe where we are currently fortunate enough to occupy the upper side. The present is the essence necessary for the objectification of the will. It slices through time, which stretches infinitely in both directions, like a mathematical point, and remains fixed, like an eternal noon without a cool evening, as the actual sun burns continuously, while it merely seems to sink into the embrace of night. Therefore, if someone fears death as their annihilation, it is as if they were to think that the sun cries out at evening, "Feeling so hopeless! I'm heading into permanent darkness."66 And conversely, whoever feels burdened by life, whoever yearns for life and affirms it, yet detests its sufferings, and particularly cannot bear the harsh fate that has befallen him, such a person has no hope for escape from death and cannot resolve their plight through suicide. The cool shadows of the underworld tempt him only with the false impression of a refuge. The earth rolls from day into night, individuals die, but the sun itself shines unceasingly, an eternal noon. Life is secured to the will to live; the essence of life is an endless present, no matter how the individuals, the phenomena of the Idea, arise and fade away in time, like fleeting dreams. Thus even already, suicide appears to us as a vain and therefore foolish action; when we delve deeper into our investigation, it will seem to us in an even less favorable light.

Dogmas change and our knowledge is deceptive; but Nature never errs, her procedure is sure, and she never conceals it. Everything is entirely in Nature, and Nature is entire in everything. She has her centre in every brute. It has surely found its way into existence, and it will surely find its way out of it. In the meantime it lives, fearless and without care, in the presence of annihilation, supported by the consciousness that it is Nature herself, and imperishable as she is. Man alone carries about with him, in abstract conceptions, the certainty of his death; yet this can only trouble him very rarely, [pg 363] when for a single moment some occasion calls it up to his imagination. Against the mighty voice of Nature reflection can do little. In man, as in the brute which does not think, the certainty that springs from his inmost consciousness that he himself is Nature, the world, predominates as a lasting frame of mind; and on account of this no man is observably disturbed by the thought of certain and never-distant death, but lives as if he would live for ever. Indeed this is carried so far that we may say that no one has really a lively conviction of the certainty of his death, otherwise there would be no great difference between his frame of mind and that of a condemned criminal. Every one recognises that certainty in the abstract and theoretically, but lays it aside like other theoretical truths which are not applicable to practice, without really receiving it into his living consciousness. Whoever carefully considers this peculiarity of human character will see that the psychological explanations of it, from habit and acquiescence in the inevitable, are by no means sufficient, and that its true explanation lies in the deeper ground we have given. The same fact explains the circumstance that at all times and among all peoples dogmas of some kind or other relating to the continued existence of the individual after death arise, and are believed in, although the evidence in support of them must always be very insufficient, and the evidence against them forcible and varied. But, in truth, this really requires no proof, but is recognised by the healthy understanding as a fact, and confirmed by the confidence that Nature never lies any more than she errs, but openly exhibits and naïvely expresses her action and her nature, while only we ourselves obscure it by our folly, in order to establish what is agreeable to our limited point of view.

Dogmas change, and our understanding can be misleading; however, Nature never makes mistakes, her processes are reliable, and she never hides them. Everything is completely part of Nature, and Nature is all-encompassing. She has her center in every creature. Each has undoubtedly found its way into existence and will certainly find its way out of it. In the meantime, it exists, fearless and carefree, in the face of annihilation, supported by the awareness that it is Nature itself and as eternal as she is. Only humans carry with them the abstract understanding of their own mortality; yet this thought only bothers them occasionally, when a moment arises that brings it to mind. Against the powerful voice of Nature, reflection has little impact. In humans, just like in unthinking animals, the inner certainty that they themselves are part of Nature and the world prevails as a lasting mindset. Because of this, no one is noticeably troubled by the thought of inevitable death, but lives as if they will live forever. In fact, this belief is so ingrained that we can say no one truly has a vivid awareness of their own mortality; otherwise, there would be little difference between their mindset and that of a condemned prisoner. Everyone acknowledges this certainty on an abstract level and theoretically, but they set it aside like other theoretical truths that don’t apply to real life, without genuinely incorporating it into their conscious experience. Those who thoughtfully reflect on this aspect of human character will realize that psychological explanations like habit and acceptance of the inevitable are far from adequate, and that the true explanation lies in the deeper understanding we've provided. This same reality accounts for why, at all times and across all cultures, various dogmas about individual existence after death arise and are believed in, even though the evidence supporting them is always quite weak and the evidence against them is strong and diverse. But really, this doesn’t need proof; it’s recognized by a healthy mind as a fact, and affirmed by the belief that Nature doesn’t lie any more than she makes mistakes, but openly shows and simply expresses her actions and her nature, while we ourselves obscure it with our folly in order to justify what fits our narrow perspective.

But this that we have brought to clearest consciousness, that although the particular phenomenon of the will has a temporal beginning and end, the will itself as thing-in-itself is not affected by it, nor yet the correlative of [pg 364] all object, the knowing but never known subject, and that life is always assured to the will to live—this is not to be numbered with the doctrines of immortality. For permanence has no more to do with the will or with the pure subject of knowing, the eternal eye of the world, than transitoriness, for both are predicates that are only valid in time, and the will and the pure subject of knowing lie outside time. Therefore the egoism of the individual (this particular phenomenon of will enlightened by the subject of knowing) can extract as little nourishment and consolation for his wish to endure through endless time from the view we have expressed, as he could from the knowledge that after his death the rest of the eternal world would continue to exist, which is just the expression of the same view considered objectively, and therefore temporally. For every individual is transitory only as phenomenon, but as thing-in-itself is timeless, and therefore endless. But it is also only as phenomenon that an individual is distinguished from the other things of the world; as thing-in-itself he is the will which appears in all, and death destroys the illusion which separates his consciousness from that of the rest: this is immortality. His exemption from death, which belongs to him only as thing-in-itself, is for the phenomenon one with the immortality of the rest of the external world.67 Hence also, it arises that although the inward and merely felt consciousness of that which we have raised to distinct knowledge is indeed, as we have said, sufficient to prevent the thought of death from poisoning the life of the rational being, because this consciousness is the basis of that love of life which maintains everything living, and enables it to live on [pg 365] at ease as if there were no such thing as death, so long as it is face to face with life, and turns its attention to it, yet it will not prevent the individual from being seized with the fear of death, and trying in every way to escape from it, when it presents itself to him in some particular real case, or even only in his imagination, and he is compelled to contemplate it. For just as, so long as his knowledge was directed to life as such, he was obliged to recognise immortality in it, so when death is brought before his eyes, he is obliged to recognise it as that which it is, the temporal end of the particular temporal phenomenon. What we fear in death is by no means the pain, for it lies clearly on this side of death, and, moreover, we often take refuge in death from pain, just as, on the contrary, we sometimes endure the most fearful suffering merely to escape death for a while, although it would be quick and easy. Thus we distinguish pain and death as two entirely different evils. What we fear in death is the end of the individual, which it openly professes itself to be, and since the individual is a particular objectification of the will to live itself, its whole nature struggles against death. Now when feeling thus exposes us helpless, reason can yet step in and for the most part overcome its adverse influence, for it places us upon a higher standpoint, from which we no longer contemplate the particular but the whole. Therefore a philosophical knowledge of the nature of the world, which extended to the point we have now reached in this work but went no farther, could even at this point of view overcome the terror of death in the measure in which reflection had power over direct feeling in the given individual. A man who had thoroughly assimilated the truths we have already advanced, but had not come to know, either from his own experience or from a deeper insight, that constant suffering is essential to life, who found satisfaction and all that he wished in life, and could calmly and deliberately desire that his [pg 366] life, as he had hitherto known it, should endure for ever or repeat itself ever anew, and whose love of life was so great that he willingly and gladly accepted all the hardships and miseries to which it is exposed for the sake of its pleasures,—such a man would stand “with firm-knit bones on the well-rounded, enduring earth,” and would have nothing to fear. Armed with the knowledge we have given him, he would await with indifference the death that hastens towards him on the wings of time. He would regard it as a false illusion, an impotent spectre, which frightens the weak but has no power over him who knows that he is himself the will of which the whole world is the objectification or copy, and that therefore he is always certain of life, and also of the present, the peculiar and only form of the phenomenon of the will. He could not be terrified by an endless past or future in which he would not be, for this he would regard as the empty delusion of the web of Mâya. Thus he would no more fear death than the sun fears the night. In the “Bhagavad-Gita” Krishna thus raises the mind of his young pupil Arjuna, when, seized with compunction at the sight of the arrayed hosts (somewhat as Xerxes was), he loses heart and desires to give up the battle in order to avert the death of so many thousands. Krishna leads him to this point of view, and the death of those thousands can no longer restrain him; he gives the sign for battle. This point of view is also expressed by Goethe's Prometheus, especially when he says—

But what we have made clear is that even though the will has a specific beginning and end in time, the will itself, as a thing in itself, is unaffected by this, nor is it the counterpart of all objects, the knowing yet never known subject. Life is always guaranteed for the will to live—this should not be confused with doctrines of immortality. Permanence is as irrelevant to the will or to the pure subject of knowing, the eternal eye of the world, as transience is, since both are only valid concepts within time, while the will and the pure subject of knowing exist outside of it. Therefore, an individual’s egoism (this specific phenomenon of will illuminated by the knowing subject) can gain as little comfort or nourishment for its desire to endure through eternity from the viewpoint we've expressed as it could from the understanding that the rest of the eternal world will continue to exist after their death, which is simply another way of stating the same idea from an objective and thus temporal perspective. Each individual is transient only as a phenomenon; as a thing in itself, they are timeless and thus endless. However, it is only as a phenomenon that an individual stands apart from other elements of the world; as a thing in itself, they are the will manifested in all, and death shatters the illusion that separates their consciousness from that of the rest: this is immortality. Their exemption from death, which belongs to them only as a thing in itself, coincides for the phenomenon with the immortality of the rest of the external world. Thus, although the inward and merely felt awareness of what we've established as distinct knowledge is indeed sufficient to prevent the thought of death from tainting the life of a rational being—because this awareness is the foundation of the love of life that sustains everything living and allows it to continue as if death does not exist, as long as it focuses on life—it won’t stop the individual from being overwhelmed with the fear of death and attempting to escape from it whenever it confronts them in a specific situation or even just in their imagination, compelling them to contemplate it. Just as while their knowledge was focused on life in general, they had to acknowledge immortality within it, when death is put before them, they must recognize it as what it truly is: the temporal end of a particular temporal phenomenon. What we fear in death isn’t the pain, since that clearly exists before death, and additionally, we often seek refuge in death from pain, just as sometimes we endure excruciating suffering merely to avoid death, even though that would be a quick and easy escape. Thus, we clearly distinguish pain and death as two entirely different evils. What we fear in death is the end of the individual, which it openly claims to be, and since the individual is a particular manifestation of the will to live itself, their entire nature fights against death. Now, when feeling exposes us as helpless, reason can still intervene and largely overcome its negative influence, as it raises us to a higher perspective, allowing us to look at the whole rather than the specific. Therefore, a philosophical understanding of the nature of the world, which extends to the point we have reached in this work but does not go beyond it, could, even from this point of view, diminish the fear of death to the extent that reflection could overpower immediate feeling in the given individual. A person who has thoroughly absorbed the truths we have discussed so far, but has not learned from personal experience or deep insight that constant suffering is a part of life, who finds satisfaction and all they desire in life, and who could calmly and deliberately wish for their life, as they have known it, to continue forever or repeat itself endlessly, and who loves life so much that they willingly and eagerly accept all the challenges and suffering it entails for the sake of its pleasures—such a person would stand “with firm-knit bones on the well-rounded, enduring earth” and fear nothing. Armed with the knowledge we have provided, they would face the death racing towards them on the wings of time with indifference. They would see it as a false illusion, a powerless specter, which frightens the weak but cannot affect someone who knows they are the very will of which the entire world is a manifestation or reflection, and thus they are always assured of life and the present, the unique and only form of the phenomenon of the will. They could not be scared by an endless past or future where they would not exist, as they would deem this an empty delusion woven into the fabric of Mâya. So they would fear death no more than the sun fears the night. In the “Bhagavad-Gita,” Krishna elevates his young student Arjuna's mind when, overwhelmed with remorse at the sight of the assembled armies (much like Xerxes), he loses courage and wants to abandon the battle to avoid the death of countless thousands. Krishna guides him to this perspective, and the death of those thousands no longer holds him back; he signals for battle. This perspective is also reflected in Goethe's Prometheus, especially in the lines where he says—

“Here I sit, for mankind”
In my own way,
A race like mine,
To struggle and to cry,
Celebrate, have fun,
And don’t pay attention,
As I.

The philosophy of Bruno and that of Spinoza might also lead any one to this point of view whose conviction was [pg 367] not shaken and weakened by their errors and imperfections. That of Bruno has properly no ethical theory at all, and the theory contained in the philosophy of Spinoza does not really proceed from the inner nature of his doctrine, but is merely tacked on to it by means of weak and palpable sophisms, though in itself it is praiseworthy and beautiful. Finally, there are many men who would occupy this point of view if their knowledge kept pace with their will, i.e., if, free from all illusion, they were in a position to become clearly and distinctly themselves. For this is, for knowledge, the point of view of the complete assertion of the will to live.

The philosophies of Bruno and Spinoza could lead anyone to this perspective, provided their beliefs aren’t shaken or weakened by their mistakes and flaws. Bruno doesn’t really have any ethical theory, and the ethics in Spinoza’s philosophy don’t genuinely arise from the essence of his teachings; they’re just attached through weak and obvious arguments, even though they are commendable and beautiful in themselves. Ultimately, many people would adopt this viewpoint if their understanding matched their desire—meaning, if they could clearly and distinctly see themselves without any illusions. Because for knowledge, this is the perspective of the complete assertion of the desire to live.

That the will asserts itself means, that while in its objectivity, i.e., in the world and life, its own nature is completely and distinctly given it as idea, this knowledge does not by any means check its volition; but this very life, so known, is willed as such by the will with knowledge, consciously and deliberately, just as up to this point it willed it as blind effort without knowledge. The opposite of this, the denial of the will to live, shows itself if, when that knowledge is attained, volition ends, because the particular known phenomena no longer act as motives for willing, but the whole knowledge of the nature of the world, the mirror of the will, which has grown up through the comprehension of the Ideas, becomes a quieter of the will; and thus free, the will suppresses itself. These quite unfamiliar conceptions are difficult to understand when expressed in this general way, but it is hoped they will become clear through the exposition we shall give presently, with special reference to action, of the phenomena in which, on the one hand, the assertion in its different grades, and, on the other hand, the denial, expresses itself. For both proceed from knowledge, yet not from abstract knowledge, which is expressed in words, but from living knowledge, which is expressed in action and behaviour alone, and is independent of the dogmas which at the same time occupy the reason as abstract knowledge. To [pg 368] exhibit them both, and bring them to distinct knowledge of the reason, can alone be my aim, and not to prescribe or recommend the one or the other, which would be as foolish as it would be useless; for the will in itself is absolutely free and entirely self-determining, and for it there is no law. But before we go on to the exposition referred to, we must first explain and more exactly define this freedom and its relation to necessity. And also, with regard to the life, the assertion and denial of which is our problem, we must insert a few general remarks connected with the will and its objects. Through all this we shall facilitate the apprehension of the inmost nature of the knowledge we are aiming at, of the ethical significance of methods of action.

That the will asserts itself means that, while its nature is completely and distinctly given as an idea in its objectivity, in the world and life, this understanding does not stop its desire. Instead, this very life, as understood, is consciously and deliberately willed by the will with knowledge, just as it was before when it willed it as a blind effort without understanding. The opposite of this, the denial of the will to live, shows up when, upon gaining this knowledge, desire ceases, because the specific known phenomena no longer serve as motives for willing. However, the overall understanding of the nature of the world, the reflection of the will, which has developed through an understanding of the Ideas, becomes a suppressor of the will; thus, free, the will suppresses itself. These unfamiliar concepts can be hard to grasp when presented this way, but it is hoped that they will become clearer through the analysis we will provide shortly, particularly regarding action, highlighting how the assertion in its various forms, and the denial, express themselves. Both stem from knowledge, but not from the abstract knowledge expressed in words; rather, they arise from living knowledge, which is shown only through actions and behavior, and is independent of the doctrines that engage reason as abstract knowledge. My goal is to showcase both and clarify them for reason's understanding—not to advocate or advise one over the other, which would be as pointless as it would be foolish; because the will is absolutely free and entirely self-determining, and there is no law governing it. Before we proceed to the aforementioned analysis, we must first clarify and define this freedom more precisely and its relationship to necessity. Additionally, concerning life—the assertion and denial of which is our issue—we must include some general remarks related to the will and its objects. Through all this, we aim to enhance the understanding of the core essence of the knowledge we seek, highlighting the ethical significance of different methods of action.

Since, as has been said, this whole work is only the unfolding of a single thought, it follows that all its parts have the most intimate connection with each other. Not merely that each part stands in a necessary relation to what immediately precedes it, and only presupposes a recollection of that by the reader, as is the case with all philosophies which consist merely of a series of inferences, but that every part of the whole work is related to every other part and presupposes it. It is, therefore, necessary that the reader should remember not only what has just been said, but all the earlier parts of the work, so that he may be able to connect them with what he is reading, however much may have intervened. Plato also makes this demand upon his readers through the intricate digressions of his dialogues, in which he only returns to the leading thought after long episodes, which illustrate and explain it. In our case this demand is necessary; for the breaking up of our one single thought into its many aspects is indeed the only means of imparting it, though not essential to the thought itself, but merely an artificial form. The division of four principal points of view into four books, and the most careful bringing together of all that is related and homogeneous, assists the exposition [pg 369] and its comprehension; yet the material absolutely does not admit of an advance in a straight line, such as the progress of history, but necessitates a more complicated exposition. This again makes a repeated study of the book necessary, for thus alone does the connection of all the parts with each other become distinct, and only then do they all mutually throw light upon each other and become quite clear.68

Since, as mentioned before, this entire work is just the development of a single idea, it follows that all its parts are closely connected with each other. Not only does each part relate directly to what comes right before it and assumes the reader remembers that, as is the case with philosophies that consist merely of a series of inferences, but every part of this work is connected to every other part and expects the reader to be aware of it. Therefore, it's essential for the reader to remember not just what has just been said, but all the earlier sections of the work, so they can connect them with what they are currently reading, no matter how much has come between. Plato also requires this of his readers through the complex digressions in his dialogues, where he only returns to the main idea after lengthy episodes that illustrate and explain it. In our case, this requirement is vital; breaking our single idea into its many aspects is indeed the only way to convey it, though it is not essential to the idea itself, but just an artificial structure. Dividing four main perspectives into four books, and carefully connecting all related and similar material, helps with the explanation and understanding; yet the content does not allow for a straightforward advancement, like the progress of history, but instead requires a more complex presentation. This makes it necessary to study the book multiple times, as that is the only way the connection between all the parts becomes clear, and only then do they illuminate each other and become completely understandable. [pg 369]

§ 55. That the will as such is free, follows from the fact that, according to our view, it is the thing-in-itself, the content of all phenomena. The phenomena, on the other hand, we recognise as absolutely subordinate to the principle of sufficient reason in its four forms. And since we know that necessity is throughout identical with following from given grounds, and that these are convertible conceptions, all that belongs to the phenomenon, i.e., all that is object for the knowing subject as individual, is in one aspect reason, and in another aspect consequent; and in this last capacity is determined with absolute necessity, and can, therefore, in no respect be other than it is. The whole content of Nature, the collective sum of its phenomena, is thus throughout necessary, and the necessity of every part, of every phenomenon, of every event, can always be proved, because it must be possible to find the reason from which it follows as a consequent. This admits of no exception: it follows from the unrestricted validity of the principle of sufficient reason. In another aspect, however, the same world is for us, in all its phenomena, objectivity of will. And the will, since it is not phenomenon, is not idea or object, but thing-in-itself, and is not subordinate to the principle of sufficient reason, the form of all object; thus is not determined as a consequent through any reason, knows no necessity, i.e., is free. The concept of freedom is thus [pg 370] properly a negative concept, for its content is merely the denial of necessity, i.e., the relation of consequent to its reason, according to the principle of sufficient reason. Now here lies before us in its most distinct form the solution of that great contradiction, the union of freedom with necessity, which has so often been discussed in recent times, yet, so far as I know, never clearly and adequately. Everything is as phenomenon, as object, absolutely necessary: in itself it is will, which is perfectly free to all eternity. The phenomenon, the object, is necessarily and unalterably determined in that chain of causes and effects which admits of no interruption. But the existence in general of this object, and its specific nature, i.e., the Idea which reveals itself in it, or, in other words, its character, is a direct manifestation of will. Thus, in conformity with the freedom of this will, the object might not be at all, or it might be originally and essentially something quite different from what it is, in which case, however, the whole chain of which it is a link, and which is itself a manifestation of the same will, would be quite different also. But once there and existing, it has entered the chain of causes and effects, is always necessarily determined in it, and can, therefore, neither become something else, i.e., change itself, nor yet escape from the chain, i.e., vanish. Man, like every other part of Nature, is objectivity of the will; therefore all that has been said holds good of him. As everything in Nature has its forces and qualities, which react in a definite way when definitely affected, and constitute its character, man also has his character, from which the motives call forth his actions with necessity. In this manner of conduct his empirical character reveals itself, but in this again his intelligible character, the will in itself, whose determined phenomenon he is. But man is the most complete phenomenon of will, and, as we explained in the Second Book, he had to be enlightened with so high a degree of knowledge [pg 371] in order to maintain himself in existence, that in it a perfectly adequate copy or repetition of the nature of the world under the form of the idea became possible: this is the comprehension of the Ideas, the pure mirror of the world, as we learnt in the Third Book. Thus in man the will can attain to full self-consciousness, to distinct and exhaustive knowledge of its own nature, as it mirrors itself in the whole world. We saw in the preceding book that art springs from the actual presence of this degree of knowledge; and at the end of our whole work it will further appear that, through the same knowledge, in that the will relates it to itself, a suppression and self-denial of the will in its most perfect manifestation is possible. So that the freedom which otherwise, as belonging to the thing-in-itself, can never show itself in the phenomenon, in such a case does also appear in it, and, by abolishing the nature which lies at the foundation of the phenomenon, while the latter itself still continues to exist in time, it brings about a contradiction of the phenomenon with itself, and in this way exhibits the phenomena of holiness and self-renunciation. But all this can only be fully understood at the end of this book. What has just been said merely affords a preliminary and general indication of how man is distinguished from all the other phenomena of will by the fact that freedom, i.e., independence of the principle of sufficient reason, which only belongs to the will as thing-in-itself, and contradicts the phenomenon, may yet possibly, in his case, appear in the phenomenon also, where, however, it necessarily exhibits itself as a contradiction of the phenomenon with itself. In this sense, not only the will in itself, but man also may certainly be called free, and thus distinguished from all other beings. But how this is to be understood can only become clear through all that is to follow, and for the present we must turn away from it altogether. For, in the first place, we must beware of the error that the action of the individual definite man is subject to no [pg 372] necessity, i.e., that the power of the motive is less certain than the power of the cause, or the following of the conclusion from the premises. The freedom of the will as thing-in-itself, if, as has been said, we abstract from the entirely exceptional case mentioned above, by no means extends directly to its phenomenon, not even in the case in which this reaches the highest made of its visibility, and thus does not extend to the rational animal endowed with individual character, i.e., the person. The person is never free although he is the phenomenon of a free will; for he is already the determined phenomenon of the free volition of this will, and, because he enters the form of every object, the principle of sufficient reason, he develops indeed the unity of that will in a multiplicity of actions, but on account of the timeless unity of that volition in itself, this multiplicity exhibits in itself the regular conformity to law of a force of Nature. Since, however, it is that free volition that becomes visible in the person and the whole of his conduct, relating itself to him as the concept to the definition, every individual action of the person is to be ascribed to the free will, and directly proclaims itself as such in consciousness. Therefore, as was said in the Second Book, every one regards himself a priori (i.e., here in this original feeling) as free in his individual actions, in the sense that in every given case every action is possible for him, and he only recognises a posteriori from experience and reflection upon experience that his actions take place with absolute necessity from the coincidence of his character with his motives. Hence it arises that every uncultured man, following his feeling, ardently defends complete freedom in particular actions, while the great thinkers of all ages, and indeed the more profound systems of religion, have denied it. But whoever has come to see clearly that the whole nature of man is will, and he himself only a phenomenon of this will, and that such a phenomenon has, even from the subject itself, the principle of sufficient reason as its [pg 373] necessary form, which here appears as the law of motivation,—such a man will regard it as just as absurd to doubt the inevitable nature of an action when the motive is presented to a given character, as to doubt that the three angles of any triangle are together equal to two right angles. Priestley has very sufficiently proved the necessity of the individual action in his “Doctrine of Philosophical Necessity;” but Kant, whose merit in this respect is specially great, first proved the coexistence of this necessity with the freedom of the will in itself, i.e., apart from the phenomenon,69 by establishing the distinction between the intelligible and the empirical character. I entirely adhere to this distinction, for the former is the will as thing-in-itself so far as it appears in a definite individual in a definite grade, and the latter is this phenomenon itself as it exhibits itself in time in the mode of action, and in space in the physical structure. In order to make the relation of the two comprehensible, the best expression is that which I have already used in the introductory essay, that the intelligible character of every man is to be regarded as an act of will outside time, and therefore indivisible and unchangeable, and the manifestation of this act of will developed and broken up in time and space and all the forms of the principle of sufficient reason is the empirical character as it exhibits itself for experience in the whole conduct and life of this man. As the whole tree is only the constantly repeated manifestation of one and the same tendency, which exhibits itself in its simplest form in the fibre, and recurs and is easily recognised in the construction of the leaf, shoot, branch, and trunk, so all a man's deeds are merely the constantly repeated expression, somewhat varied in form, of his intelligible character, and the induction based on the sum of all these expressions gives us his empirical [pg 374] character. For the rest, I shall not at this point repeat in my own words Kant's masterly exposition, but presuppose it as known.

§ 55. The will, as we understand it, is free, because it represents the thing-in-itself, the core of all phenomena. In contrast, we view phenomena as entirely subject to the principle of sufficient reason in its four forms. Since we know that necessity is always linked to deriving from given reasons, and these concepts are interchangeable, everything related to the phenomenon, i.e., everything that is an object for the knowing subject as an individual, is partly reason and partly consequence; and as such, it is determined with absolute necessity, meaning that it cannot be anything other than what it is. The entirety of Nature, the total collection of its phenomena, is thus entirely necessary, and the necessity of each part, every phenomenon, every event, can always be demonstrated because it's possible to identify the reason from which it follows as a consequence. This has no exceptions: it stems from the universal validity of the principle of sufficient reason. However, in another sense, this same world represents the objectivity of will in all its phenomena. The will, being non-phenomenal, is not an idea or an object, but the thing-in-itself, and is not governed by the principle of sufficient reason, the foundation of all objects; thus, it is not determined as a consequence through any reason and knows no necessity, i.e., it is complimentary. The concept of freedom is primarily a negative concept because its essence is simply the denial of necessity, i.e., the relationship of the consequence to its reason, according to the principle of sufficient reason. Here we have the most clear representation of the solution to the significant contradiction, the connection between freedom and necessity, which has often been debated lately, but as far as I know, never clearly and adequately resolved. Everything as phenomenon, as object, is entirely necessary: in itself it is will, which is perfectly free for all eternity. The phenomenon, the object, is necessarily and unalterably shaped in that chain of causes and effects that allows for no interruption. Yet the existence of this object in general, and its specific nature, i.e., the Idea that is revealed within it, or in other words, its character, is a direct expression of will. Thus, in line with the freedom of this will, the object could not exist at all, or it could have originally and fundamentally been something entirely different from what it is; if that were the case, the entire chain of which it is a part, which is also an expression of the same will, would be different as well. But once it exists and is present, it has entered the chain of causes and effects, is always necessarily determined within it, and therefore can neither change itself nor escape from the chain, i.e., vanish. Man, like every other part of Nature, is an objectivity of the will; so everything that has been said can also apply to him. Just as everything in Nature has its forces and qualities, which respond in a defined way to specific influences and shape its character, man also has his character, from which his motives compel his actions with necessity. This manner of behavior shows his empirical character, but through this also reveals his intelligible character, the will in itself, of which he is the determined phenomenon. However, man is the most complete phenomenon of will, and as previously explained in the Second Book, he needed to be endowed with a high level of knowledge [pg 371] to sustain his existence, such that a perfectly accurate reflection or repetition of the world's nature in the form of ideas became feasible: this is the understanding of Ideas, the pure mirroring of the world, as discussed in the Third Book. In this way, in man, the will can achieve complete self-consciousness, distinct and thorough knowledge of its own nature, as it reflects itself throughout the entire world. We saw in the previous book that art arises from the actual presence of this level of knowledge; and at the conclusion of our work, it will further become apparent that through this same knowledge, as the will relates it to itself, a suppression and self-denial of the will in its most perfect manifestation is possible. Thus, the freedom that, as tied to the thing-in-itself, can never manifest in the phenomenon, can in this case show itself in the phenomenon also, and by negating the nature that underlies the phenomenon—while the phenomenon itself continues to exist in time—creates a contradiction of the phenomenon with itself, thus displaying the phenomena of holiness and self-renunciation. Yet, all this can only be fully comprehended at the end of this book. What has just been said provides merely a preliminary and general indication of how man is distinguished from all other phenomena of will by the fact that freedom, i.e., the independence of the principle of sufficient reason, which only pertains to the will as thing-in-itself and contradicts the phenomenon, may still potentially, in his case, appear in the phenomenon as well, where, however, it necessarily manifests as a contradiction of the phenomenon with itself. Therefore, in this sense, not only the will in itself, but man as well can indeed be called free, marking him as distinct from all other beings. But how this is to be understood will only become clear through everything that follows, and for now, we must completely set it aside. Firstly, we must avoid the mistake of believing that the actions of any individual person are not subject to [pg 372] necessity, i.e., that the influence of the motive is less certain than the impact of the cause, or the derivation of the conclusion from the premises. The freedom of the will as thing-in-itself, if we abstract from the entirely exceptional case mentioned above, does not directly extend to its phenomenon, not even when this reaches the highest level of visibility, and therefore it does not extend to the rational animal endowed with individual character, i.e., the person. The person is never free even though he is the phenomenon of a free will; for he is already the determined phenomenon of the free volition of this will, and because he embodies the form of every object, the principle of sufficient reason, he indeed expresses that will's unity in a multiplicity of actions, but due to the timeless unity of that volition in itself, this multiplicity reveals the regular conforming to the laws of Nature. However, since this free volition becomes apparent in the person and the totality of his conduct, relating to him as the concept to the definition, every individual action of the person can be attributed to free will and directly asserts itself as such in consciousness. Therefore, as stated in the Second Book, everyone considers themselves beforehand (i.e., in this original feeling) to be free in their individual actions, in the sense that in any given situation every action is possible for them, and they only acknowledge a posteriori from experience and reflection upon that experience that their actions occur with absolute necessity from the coincidence of their character with their motives. This leads to the fact that every unrefined person, following their feelings, passionately defends complete freedom in specific actions, while the great thinkers of all times, and indeed the more profound religious systems, have denied it. But whoever has come to the clear realization that the entire nature of man is will, and that he himself is merely a phenomenon of this will, and that such a phenomenon has, even from the subject itself, the principle of sufficient reason as its [pg 373] necessary form, which appears here as the law of motivation—such a person will find it just as absurd to doubt the inevitable nature of an action when the motive is presented to a given character as to doubt that the three angles of any triangle add up to two right angles. Priestley has effectively demonstrated the necessity of individual action in his “Philosophical Necessity Doctrine;” but Kant, whose contributions in this regard are particularly significant, first proved the coexistence of this necessity with the freedom of the will in itself, i.e., apart from the phenomenon, by establishing the distinction between intelligible and empirical character. I fully support this distinction, for the former is the will as thing-in-itself as it appears in a specific individual at a certain level, and the latter is the phenomenon itself as it unfolds in time through actions, and in space as physical manifestations. To clarify the relationship between the two, the best description I have previously used in the introductory essay suggests that the intelligible character of every person should be viewed as an act of will outside time, and therefore indivisible and unchangeable, while the expression of this act of will developed and fragmented in time and space, through all the forms of the principle of sufficient reason, is the empirical character as it is experienced in the entirety of this person's conduct and life. Just as the entire tree is simply the repeatedly manifesting of one and the same tendency, appearing in its most basic form in the fiber, and recurring and easily recognized in the design of the leaf, shoot, branch, and trunk, so each person's deeds represent merely the continually repeated expression, somewhat varied in style, of their intelligible character, and the summary of all these expressions gives us their empirical [pg 374] character. Furthermore, I will not reiterate Kant's masterful exposition in my own words at this moment but will assume it is already understood.

In the year 1840 I dealt with the important chapter on the freedom of the will, thoroughly and in detail, in my crowned prize-essay upon the subject, and exposed the reason of the delusion which led men to imagine that they found an empirically given absolute freedom of the will, that is to say, a liberum arbitrium indifferentiæ, as a fact in self-consciousness; for the question propounded for the essay was with great insight directed to this point. Therefore, as I refer the reader to that work, and also to the tenth paragraph of the prize-essay on the basis of morals, which was published along with it under the title “The Two Fundamental Problems of Ethics,” I now omit the incomplete exposition of the necessity of the act of will, which was given at this place in the first edition. Instead of it I shall explain the delusion mentioned above in a brief discussion which is presupposed in the nineteenth chapter of the supplement to the present work, and therefore could not be given in the prize-essay referred to.

In 1840, I covered the significant topic of free will thoroughly in my award-winning essay on the subject. I revealed the reasons behind the misconception that led people to believe they experienced an absolute freedom of will, or a free will of indifference, as a reality in self-awareness. The question posed in the essay was insightfully directed toward this issue. So, as I direct the reader to that work, as well as to the tenth paragraph of the prize essay on the foundation of morals, which was published alongside it under the title "The Two Fundamental Problems of Ethics," I will skip the incomplete explanation of the necessity of the act of will that was included in the first edition. Instead, I will provide a brief explanation of the aforementioned misconception in a discussion that is assumed in the nineteenth chapter of the supplement to this work, which could not be included in the referenced prize essay.

Apart from the fact that the will as the true thing-in-itself is actually original and independent, and that the feeling of its originality and absoluteness must accompany its acts in self-consciousness, though here they are already determined, there arises the illusion of an empirical freedom of the will (instead of the transcendental freedom which alone is to be attributed to it), and thus a freedom of its particular actions, from that attitude of the intellect towards the will which is explained, separated, and subordinated in the nineteenth chapter of the supplement, especially under No. 3. The intellect knows the conclusions of the will only a posteriori and empirically; therefore when a choice is presented, it has no data as to how the will is to decide. For the intelligible character, by virtue of which, when motives are given, only one [pg 375] decision is possible and is therefore necessary, does not come within the knowledge of the intellect, but merely the empirical character is known to it through the succession of its particular acts. Therefore it seems to the intellect that in a given case two opposite decisions are possible for the will. But this is just the same thing as if we were to say of a perpendicular beam that has lost its balance, and is hesitating which way to fall, “It can fall either to the right hand or the left.” This can has merely a subjective significance, and really means “as far as the data known to us are concerned.” Objectively, the direction of the fall is necessarily determined as soon as the equilibrium is lost. Accordingly, the decision of one's own will is undetermined only to the beholder, one's own intellect, and thus merely relatively and subjectively for the subject of knowing. In itself and objectively, on the other hand, in every choice presented to it, its decision is at once determined and necessary. But this determination only comes into consciousness through the decision that follows upon it. Indeed, we receive an empirical proof of this when any difficult and important choice lies before us, but only under a condition which is not yet present, but merely hoped for, so that in the meanwhile we can do nothing, but must remain passive. Now we consider how we shall decide when the circumstances occur that will give us a free activity and choice. Generally the foresight of rational deliberation recommends one decision, while direct inclination leans rather to the other. So long as we are compelled to remain passive, the side of reason seems to wish to keep the upper hand; but we see beforehand how strongly the other side will influence us when the opportunity for action arises. Till then we are eagerly concerned to place the motives on both sides in the clearest light, by calm meditation on the pro et contra, so that every motive may exert its full influence upon the will when the time arrives, and it may not be misled by a [pg 376] mistake on the part of the intellect to decide otherwise than it would have done if all the motives had their due influence upon it. But this distinct unfolding of the motives on both sides is all that the intellect can do to assist the choice. It awaits the real decision just as passively and with the same intense curiosity as if it were that of a foreign will. Therefore from its point of view both decisions must seem to it equally possible; and this is just the illusion of the empirical freedom of the will. Certainly the decision enters the sphere of the intellect altogether empirically, as the final conclusion of the matter; but yet it proceeded from the inner nature, the intelligible character, of the individual will in its conflict with given motives, and therefore with complete necessity. The intellect can do nothing more than bring out clearly and fully the nature of the motives; it cannot determine the will itself; for the will is quite inaccessible to it, and, as we have seen, cannot be investigated.

Aside from the fact that the will, as the true essence of itself, is actually original and independent, and that the awareness of its originality and absoluteness must accompany its actions in self-consciousness—even though these are already determined—there arises the illusion of an empirical freedom of the will (as opposed to the transcendental freedom that should be attributed to it). This creates a perceived freedom of its specific actions based on the intellect's attitude towards the will, which is explained, separated, and subordinated in the nineteenth chapter of the supplement, especially under No. 3. The intellect only understands the outcomes of the will after the fact and empirically; therefore, when faced with a choice, it has no information about how the will will decide. The intelligible character, which means that when motives are given, only one[pg 375] decision is possible and necessary, is not accessible to the intellect; it only knows the empirical character through the sequence of its specific actions. Thus, it seems to the intellect that in any particular case, there are two opposing decisions possible for the will. But this is just like saying about a vertical beam that has lost its balance and is unsure which way to fall, "It can fall to the right or to the left." This can has merely a subjective meaning and really means "as far as the data we have is concerned." Objectively, the direction of the fall is determined as soon as the balance is lost. Therefore, the decision of one’s own will is ambiguous only to the observer—one’s own intellect—and thus relatively and subjectively for the knower. In itself and objectively, however, in every choice presented, its decision is immediately determined and necessary. But this determination only becomes conscious through the subsequent decision. We actually get empirical proof of this when we face a difficult and important choice, but only under a condition that is not yet present, merely hoped for, so that in the meantime we can do nothing but remain passive. We then think about how we will decide when the circumstances arise that will allow us to act freely. Generally, rational deliberation suggests one decision, while direct inclination tends towards the other. As long as we are forced to remain passive, the rational side seems to dominate; however, we can foresee how strongly the other side will sway us when the opportunity for action comes. Until then, we are keen to clarify the motives on both sides through calm reflection on the pros and cons, so that each motive can fully influence the will when the time comes, preventing the will from being misled by an error of the intellect that might lead to a decision different from what it would have made if all motives had their proper influence. But this clear elaboration of the motives on both sides is all the intellect can do to assist in the choice. It waits for the actual decision just as passively and with the same intense curiosity as if it were a foreign will. Therefore, from its perspective, both decisions must seem equally possible; and this is the illusion of the empirical freedom of the will. Certainly, the decision enters the intellect's realm entirely empirically as the conclusive outcome; however, it originates from the inner nature, the intelligible character, of the individual will in its struggle with the given motives and is thus completely necessary. The intellect can only clarify and fully express the nature of the motives; it cannot determine the will itself, as the will is quite inaccessible to it, and, as we have seen, cannot be investigated.

If, under the same circumstances, a man could act now one way and now another, it would be necessary that his will itself should have changed in the meantime, and thus that it should lie in time, for change is only possible in time; but then either the will would be a mere phenomenon, or time would be a condition of the thing-in-itself. Accordingly the dispute as to the freedom of the particular action, the liberum arbitrium indifferentiæ, really turns on the question whether the will lies in time or not. If, as both Kant's doctrine and the whole of my system necessitates, the will is the thing-in-itself outside time and outside every form of the principle of sufficient reason, not only must the individual act in the same way in the same circumstances, and not only must every bad action be the sure warrant of innumerable others, which the individual must perform and cannot leave, but, as Kant said, if only the empirical character and the motives were completely given, it would be possible to calculate the future conduct of a man just as we can calculate an [pg 377] eclipse of the sun or moon. As Nature is consistent, so is the character; every action must take place in accordance with it, just as every phenomenon takes place according to a law of Nature: the causes in the latter case and the motives in the former are merely the occasional causes, as was shown in the Second Book. The will, whose phenomenon is the whole being and life of man, cannot deny itself in the particular case, and what the man wills on the whole, that will he also will in the particular case.

If, under the same circumstances, a person could act one way now and another way later, it would mean that their will itself must have changed in the meantime, which implies that it exists in time, because change is only possible within time. However, this would either make the will just a phenomenon or mean that time is a condition of the thing-in-itself. Therefore, the debate about the freedom of a specific action, the free will of indifference, ultimately hinges on whether the will exists in time or not. If, as both Kant's teachings and my entire system argue, the will is the thing-in-itself outside of time and any form of the principle of sufficient reason, then not only must the individual act the same way under the same circumstances, but every bad action must also guarantee countless others that the individual must perform and can't avoid. As Kant stated, if only the empirical character and motives are completely known, we could predict a person's future behavior just like we can predict a [pg 377] eclipse of the sun or moon. Nature is consistent, and so is character; every action must occur in line with it, just as every phenomenon happens according to the laws of Nature: in the latter case, the causes and in the former, the motives are simply the occasional causes, as I explained in the Second Book. The will, which is manifested in the entire existence and life of a person, cannot contradict itself in any specific instance, and what a person ultimately wills will be reflected in their actions in that particular instance.

The assertion of an empirical freedom of the will, a liberum arbitrium indifferentiæ, agrees precisely with the doctrine that places the inner nature of man in a soul, which is originally a knowing, and indeed really an abstract thinking nature, and only in consequence of this a willing nature—a doctrine which thus regards the will as of a secondary or derivative nature, instead of knowledge which is really so. The will indeed came to be regarded as an act of thought, and to be identified with the judgment, especially by Descartes and Spinoza. According to this doctrine every man must become what he is only through his knowledge; he must enter the world as a moral cipher come to know the things in it, and thereupon determine to be this or that, to act thus or thus, and may also through new knowledge achieve a new course of action, that is to say, become another person. Further, he must first know a thing to be good, and in consequence of this will it, instead of first willing it, and in consequence of this calling it good. According to my fundamental point of view, all this is a reversal of the true relation. Will is first and original; knowledge is merely added to it as an instrument belonging to the phenomenon of will. Therefore every man is what he is through his will, and his character is original, for willing is the basis of his nature. Through the knowledge which is added to it he comes to know in the course of experience what he is, i.e., he learns his [pg 378] character. Thus he knows himself in consequence of and in accordance with the nature of his will, instead of willing in consequence of and in accordance with his knowing. According to the latter view, he would only require to consider how he would like best to be, and he would be it; that is its doctrine of the freedom of the will. Thus it consists really in this, that a man is his own work guided by the light of knowledge. I, on the contrary, say that he is his own work before all knowledge, and knowledge is merely added to it to enlighten it. Therefore he cannot resolve to be this or that, nor can he become other than he is; but he is once for all, and he knows in the course of experience what he is. According to one doctrine he wills what he knows, and according to the other he knows what he wills.

The idea of an empirical freedom of the will, a free will of indifference, aligns perfectly with the belief that sees the inner nature of man as a soul, which is primarily a knowledge, and indeed fundamentally an abstract thinking being, and only as a result of this a ready being—a belief that sees the will as secondary or derived, rather than knowledge, which is truly primary. The will is commonly seen as an act of thought, and it gets linked to judgment, especially by Descartes and Spinoza. According to this belief, every person must become who they are only through their understanding; they need to enter the world as a moral blank slate to learn about things in it, and then decide to be this or that, to act one way or another, and can also through new knowledge pursue new actions, effectively becoming a different person. Moreover, they must first recognize something as great, and then will it, rather than first open to it it and subsequently labeling it as good. From my perspective, all of this inverses the true relationship. Will is primary and original; knowledge is simply attached as a tool related to the phenomenon of will. Thus, every individual is who they are through their will, and their character is original, as willing is the foundation of their nature. Through the knowledge that gets added, they come to realize over time what they are, i.e. they learn their [pg 378] character. Thus they know themselves as a result of and in line with the nature of their will, rather than eager as a result of and in line with their knowing. According to the former view, one would just need to think about how they would like to be the most, and that would be their reality; that’s the idea of freedom of the will. Essentially, it means a person creates themselves, guided by the insights of knowledge. I, however, argue that they create themselves prior to any knowledge, and knowledge is just an addition to provide clarity. Therefore, they can’t decide to be something or someone else, nor can they become anything other than what they are; rather, they are as is, and they discover through experiences what they are. According to one belief, they gonna what they know, and according to the other, they know what they will.

The Greeks called the character ηθος, and its expression, i.e., morals, ηθη. But this word comes from εθος, custom; they chose it in order to express metaphorically the constancy of character through the constancy of custom. Το γαρ ηθος απο του εθους εχει την επωνυμιαν. ηθικε γαρ καλειται δια το εθιζεσθαι (a voce ηθος, i.e., consuetudo ηθος est appellatum: ethica ergo dicta est απο του εθιζεσθαι, sivi ab assuescendo) says Aristotle (Eth. Magna, i. 6, p. 1186, and Eth. Eud., p. 1220, and Eth. Nic., p. 1103, ed. Ber.) Stobæus quotes: οἱ δε κατα Ζηνωνα τροπικως; ηθος εστι πηγη βιου αφ᾽ ἡς αἱ κατα μερος πραξεις ρεουσι (Stoici autem, Zenonis castra sequentes, metaphorice ethos definiunt vitæ fontem, e quo singulæ manant actiones), ii. ch. 7. In Christian theology we find the dogma of predestination in consequence of election and non-election (Rom. ix. 11-24), clearly originating from the knowledge that man does not change himself, but his life and conduct, i.e., his empirical character, is only the unfolding of his intelligible character, the development of decided and unchangeable natural dispositions recognisable even in the child; therefore, as it were, even at his birth his conduct is firmly determined, and [pg 379] remains essentially the same to the end. This we entirely agree with; but certainly the consequences which followed from the union of this perfectly correct insight with the dogmas that already existed in Jewish theology, and which now gave rise to the great difficulty, the Gordian knot upon which most of the controversies of the Church turned, I do not undertake to defend, for even the Apostle Paul scarcely succeeded in doing so by means of his simile of the potter's vessels which he invented for the purpose, for the result he finally arrived at was nothing else than this:—

The Greeks called character ηθος, and its expression, i.e., morals, ηθη. This word comes from εθος, meaning custom; they chose it to metaphorically express the consistency of character through the consistency of custom. Το γαρ ηθος απο του εθους εχει την επωνυμιαν. ηθικε γαρ καλειται δια το εθιζεσθαι (a voice ηθος, i.e., custom ηθος It is called: ethics, therefore it is said απο του εθιζεσθαι, sivi from habit-forming) says Aristotle (Eth. Magna, i. 6, p. 1186, and Eth. Eud., p. 1220, and Eth. Nic., p. 1103, ed. Ber.). Stobæus quotes: οἱ δε κατα Ζηνωνα τροπικως; ηθος εστι πηγη βιου αφ᾽ ἡς αἱ κατα μερος πραξεις ρεουσι (The Stoics, following the teachings of Zeno, metaphorically define ethos as the source of life, from which individual actions flow.), ii. ch. 7. In Christian theology, we find the doctrine of predestination based on election and non-election (Rom. ix. 11-24), clearly originating from the understanding that a person does not change themselves, but their life and actions, i.e., their empirical character, is merely the expression of their intelligible character, the growth of fixed and unchangeable natural tendencies observable even in children; therefore, it can be said that even at birth, their behavior is determined, and [pg 379] remains fundamentally the same until the end. We completely agree with this; however, the implications that arose from the combination of this accurate understanding with the existing doctrines from Jewish theology created a significant challenge, the Gordian knot around which most of the Church's debates revolved, and I do not claim to defend it, for even the Apostle Paul barely managed to explain it using his analogy of the potter's vessels, which he created for this purpose, and ultimately, the conclusion he reached was nothing more than this:—

“Let humanity”
Fear the gods!
They have the power
In eternal hands:
And they can utilize it
As they see fit.

Such considerations, however, are really foreign to our subject. Some explanation as to the relation between the character and the knowledge in which all its motives lie, will now be more to the point.

Such considerations, however, are really unrelated to our topic. Some explanation about the connection between character and the knowledge that drives all its motives will now be more relevant.

The motives which determine the manifestation of the character or conduct influence it through the medium of knowledge. But knowledge is changeable, and often vacillates between truth and error, yet, as a rule, is rectified more and more in the course of life, though certainly in very different degrees. Therefore the conduct of a man may be observably altered without justifying us in concluding that his character has been changed. What the man really and in general wills, the striving of his inmost nature, and the end he pursues in accordance with it, this we can never change by influence upon him from without by instruction, otherwise we could transform him. Seneca says admirably, velle non discitur; whereby he preferred truth to his Stoic philosophers, who taught διδακτην ειναι την αρετην (doceri posse virtutem). From without the will can only be affected by motives. But [pg 380] these can never change the will itself; for they have power over it only under the presupposition that it is precisely such as it is. All that they can do is thus to alter the direction of its effort, i.e., bring it about that it shall seek in another way than it has hitherto done that which it invariably seeks. Therefore instruction, improved knowledge, in other words, influence from without, may indeed teach the will that it erred in the means it employed, and can therefore bring it about that the end after which it strives once for all according to its inner nature shall be pursued on an entirely different path and in an entirely different object from what has hitherto been the case. But it can never bring about that the will shall will something actually different from what it has hitherto willed; this remains unchangeable, for the will is simply this willing itself, which would have to be abolished. The former, however, the possible modification of knowledge, and through knowledge of conduct, extends so far that the will seeks to attain its unalterable end, for example, Mohammed's paradise, at one time in the real world, at another time in a world of imagination, adapting the means to each, and thus in the first case applying prudence, might, and fraud, and in the second case, abstinence, justice, alms, and pilgrimages to Mecca. But its effort itself has not therefore changed, still less the will itself. Thus, although its action certainly shows itself very different at different times, its willing has yet remained precisely the same. Velle non discitur.

The motives that influence a person's character or behavior affect it through knowledge. Knowledge is changeable and often swings between truth and error, but generally, it gets more accurate over the course of life, though at very different rates. Therefore, a person's behavior may noticeably change without us being justified in concluding that their character has changed. What a person truly and generally desires, the deep drive of their nature, and the goal they pursue in alignment with that, cannot be changed by outside influence through education; otherwise, we could completely transform them. Seneca wisely says, you can't want to learn; showing he valued truth over his Stoic philosophers, who believed that virtue could be taught (to give power to the able). External factors can only influence the will through motives. However, [pg 380] these cannot change the will itself; they only have power over it assuming it remains as it is. All they can do is adjust the direction of its efforts, i.e., lead it to seek its goal in a different way than it has before. Thus, education and improved knowledge, or external influence, can teach the will that it has been wrong about the means it used, leading it to pursue its innate goal on a completely different path and with different objectives than it previously followed. But it cannot change what the will actually wants; that remains unchanged, as the will is simply the act of willing itself, which would have to be eliminated. However, the potential for modifying knowledge and, consequently, behavior extends far enough that the will seeks to achieve its unchanging goal—like Mohammed's paradise—at one moment in the real world and another in an imaginary world, adapting its means to each situation, applying cunning, strength, and deceit in the first case, and abstinence, justice, charity, and pilgrimages to Mecca in the second. Yet its fundamental effort has not changed, nor has the will itself. Thus, although its actions can vary significantly over time, its willingness remains exactly the same. You can't learn unwillingly.

For motives to act, it is necessary not only that they should be present, but that they should be known; for, according to a very good expression of the schoolmen, which we referred to once before, causa finalis movet non secundum suum esse reale; sed secundum esse cognitum. For example, in order that the relation may appear that exists in a given man between egoism and sympathy, it is not sufficient that he should possess wealth [pg 381] and see others in want, but he must also know what he can do with his wealth, both for himself and for others: not only must the suffering of others be presented to him, but he must know both what suffering and also what pleasure is. Perhaps, on a first occasion, he did not know all this so well as on a second; and if, on a similar occasion, he acts differently, this arises simply from the fact that the circumstances were really different, as regards the part of them that depends on his knowing them, although they seem to be the same. As ignorance of actually existing circumstances robs them of their influence, so, on the other hand, entirely imaginary circumstances may act as if they were real, not only in the case of a particular deception, but also in general and continuously. For example, if a man is firmly persuaded that every good action will be repaid him a hundredfold in a future life, such a conviction affects him in precisely the same way as a good bill of exchange at a very long date, and he can give from mere egoism, as from another point of view he would take from egoism. He has not changed himself: velle non discitur. It is on account of this great influence of knowledge upon action, while the will remains unchangeable, that the character develops and its different features appear only little by little. Therefore it shows itself different at every period of life, and an impetuous, wild youth may be succeeded by a staid, sober, manly age. Especially what is bad in the character will always come out more strongly with time, yet sometimes it occurs that passions which a man gave way to in his youth are afterwards voluntarily restrained, simply because the motives opposed to them have only then come into knowledge. Hence, also, we are all innocent to begin with, and this merely means that neither we nor others know the evil of our own nature; it only appears with the motives, and only in time do the motives appear in knowledge. [pg 382] Finally we come to know ourselves as quite different from what a priori we supposed ourselves to be, and then we are often terrified at ourselves.

To take action, it's not enough for motives to just exist; they also need to be recognized. As an insightful saying from scholars states, The final cause moves not according to its real existence, but according to its known existence. For instance, to understand the relationship between selfishness and compassion in someone, it's not enough for them to have wealth [pg 381] and see others in need; they must also be aware of what they can do with that wealth, both for themselves and for others. They need to be confronted with the suffering of others and have a clear understanding of both suffering and joy. Perhaps on one occasion, they weren't fully aware of all this, but during a subsequent event, their understanding might be clearer; if they act differently in similar situations, it's simply due to the varying circumstances they were aware of, even if the external situations appear the same. Just as ignorance of actual conditions diminishes their impact, imaginary scenarios can exert influence as though they were real, both in specific instances of deception and consistently overall. For example, if someone firmly believes that every good deed will be rewarded a hundredfold in the afterlife, that belief affects them just like a favorable long-term financial agreement, allowing them to give out of selfish motives similarly to how they would take for themselves. Their fundamental nature hasn't changed: you can't learn unwillingly. This significant impact of knowledge on actions, while the will stays the same, is why character develops, revealing different aspects gradually. Thus, it can appear different at various life stages, where an impulsive, wild youth may give way to a calm, mature period. Particularly negative traits will often be more pronounced over time, although sometimes the passions that someone succumbed to in their youth are later consciously controlled as opposing motivations become clear. Consequently, we all start off innocent, which just means that neither we nor others recognize the darker aspects of our nature; those only manifest with the motivations, which unfold with time. [pg 382] Eventually, we come to see ourselves as quite different from what beforehand we thought we were, and then we often become alarmed at ourselves.

Repentance never proceeds from a change of the will (which is impossible), but from a change of knowledge. The essential and peculiar in what I have always willed I must still continue to will; for I myself am this will which lies outside time and change. I can therefore never repent of what I have willed, though I can repent of what I have done; because, led by false conceptions, I did something that was not in conformity with my will. The discovery of this through fuller knowledge is repentance. This extends not merely to worldly wisdom, to the choice of the means, and the judgment of the appropriateness of the end to my own will, but also to what is properly ethical. For example, I may have acted more egotistically than is in accordance with my character, led astray by exaggerated ideas of the need in which I myself stood, or of the craft, falseness, and wickedness of others, or because I hurried too much, i.e., acted without deliberation, determined not by motives distinctly known in abstracto, but by merely perceived motives, by the present and the emotion which it excited, and which was so strong that I had not properly the use of my reason; but the return of reflection is thus here also merely corrected knowledge, and from this repentance may proceed, which always proclaims itself by making amends for the past, as far as is possible. Yet it must be observed that, in order to deceive themselves, men prearrange what seem to be hasty errors, but are really secretly considered actions. For we deceive and flatter no one through such fine devices as ourselves. The converse of the case we have given may also occur. I may be misled by too good an opinion of others, or want of knowledge of the relative value of the good things of life, or some abstract dogma in which I have since lost faith, and thus I may act less egotistically than is in [pg 383] keeping with my character, and lay up for myself repentance of another kind. Thus repentance is always corrected knowledge of the relation of an act to its special intention. When the will reveals its Ideas in space alone, i.e., through mere form, the matter in which other Ideas—in this case natural forces—already reign, resists the will, and seldom allows the form that is striving after visibility to appear in perfect purity and distinctness, i.e., in perfect beauty. And there is an analogous hindrance to the will as it reveals itself in time alone, i.e., through actions, in the knowledge which seldom gives it the data quite correctly, so that the action which takes place does not accurately correspond to the will, and leads to repentance. Repentance thus always proceeds from corrected knowledge, not from the change of the will, which is impossible. Anguish of conscience for past deeds is anything but repentance. It is pain at the knowledge of oneself in one's inmost nature, i.e., as will. It rests precisely on the certainty that we have still the same will. If the will were changed, and therefore the anguish of conscience mere repentance, it would cease to exist. The past could then no longer give us pain, for it exhibited the expressions of a will which is no longer that of him who has repented. We shall explain the significance of anguish of conscience in detail farther on.

Repentance never comes from a change in our will (which is impossible), but from a change in our understanding. What I have consistently chosen to will, I must continue to will; because I am this will that exists outside of time and change. Therefore, I can never regret what I have chosen to will, though I can regret my actions; because, misled by false beliefs, I did something that wasn’t aligned with my will. Realizing this through deeper understanding is recovery. This doesn’t just apply to worldly wisdom, the choice of methods, and the judgment of whether the outcome aligns with my will, but also to what is truly ethical. For example, I might have acted more selfishly than suits my character, misled by inflated ideas about my own needs, the deceitfulness and malice of others, or because I rushed into things—that is, acted without thinking, driven not by clearly understood motives in abstract, but by motives I only perceived, influenced by the present moment and the emotions it stirred, which were so intense that I didn’t have proper use of my reason. However, reflecting on this is also just correcting my understanding, and from this, repentance can arise, which always shows itself by trying to make amends for the past, as much as possible. Yet it’s worth noting that, in an effort to deceive themselves, people often make hasty mistakes look planned, even when they were not. We can deceive and flatter no one more than ourselves with such clever tricks. The opposite situation can also happen. I might be misled by having an overly positive view of others, by not understanding the relative value of life’s good things, or by some abstract principle that I have since lost faith in, which could lead me to act less selfishly than fits my character, and accumulate a different kind of regret. Thus, repentance is always a corrected understanding of how an action relates to its specific intention. When the will expresses its Ideas only in space—i.e., through mere form—natural forces already at play resist the will, making it hard for the striving form to show up in perfect clarity and distinction, i.e., in perfect beauty. Similarly, there are obstacles to the will as it reveals itself only through time—i.e., through actions—because the information we receive is rarely completely accurate, so the actions taken don’t match the will precisely, leading to regret. Thus, repentance always arises from corrected understanding, not from a change in the will, which cannot happen. Feelings of guilt over past actions are not the same as repentance. It’s an ache that comes from knowing oneself at a deep level, i.e., as will. It’s based on the certainty that we still have the same will. If the will had changed, and thus guilt felt like simple repentance, it would vanish. The past would no longer cause us pain, since it would show the expressions of a will no longer held by the person who has repented. We will explain the importance of guilt further on.

The influence which knowledge, as the medium of motives, exerts, not indeed upon the will itself, but upon its appearance in actions, is also the source of the principal distinction between the action of men and that of brutes, for their methods of knowledge are different. The brute has only knowledge of perception, the man, through reason, has also abstract ideas, conceptions. Now, although man and brute are with equal necessity determined by their motives, yet man, as distinguished from the brute, has a complete choice, which has often been regarded as a freedom of the will in particular actions, although it is nothing but the possibility of a [pg 384] thoroughly-fought-out battle between several motives, the strongest of which then determines it with necessity. For this the motives must have assumed the form of abstract thoughts, because it is really only by means of these that deliberation, i.e., a weighing of opposite reasons for action, is possible. In the case of the brute there can only be a choice between perceptible motives presented to it, so that the choice is limited to the narrow sphere of its present sensuous perception. Therefore the necessity of the determination of the will by the motive, which is like that of the effect by the cause, can be exhibited perceptibly and directly only in the case of the brutes, because here the spectator has the motives just as directly before his eyes as their effect; while in the case of man the motives are almost always abstract ideas, which are not communicated to the spectator, and even for the actor himself the necessity of their effect is hidden behind their conflict. For only in abstracto can several ideas, as judgments and chains of conclusions, lie beside each other in consciousness, and then, free from all determination of time, work against each other till the stronger overcomes the rest and determines the will. This is the complete choice or power of deliberation which man has as distinguished from the brutes, and on account of which freedom of the will has been attributed to him, in the belief that his willing is a mere result of the operations of his intellect, without a definite tendency which serves as its basis; while, in truth, the motives only work on the foundation and under the presupposition of his definite tendency, which in his case is individual, i.e., a character. A fuller exposition of this power of deliberation, and the difference between human and brute choice which is introduced by it, will be found in the “Two Fundamental Problems of Ethics” (1st edition, p. 35, et seq.; 2d edition, p. 34, et seq.), to which I therefore refer. For the rest, this power of deliberation which man possesses is one of those things that makes his [pg 385] existence so much more miserable than that of the brute. For in general our greatest sufferings do not lie in the present as ideas of perception or as immediate feelings; but in the reason, as abstract conceptions, painful thoughts, from which the brute, which lives only in the present, and therefore in enviable carelessness, is entirely free.

The influence that knowledge, as a medium for motives, has is not on the will itself, but on how it shows up in actions. This is also what mainly distinguishes human actions from those of animals, since their ways of knowing are different. Animals only understand what they perceive, while humans, through reason, can also have abstract ideas and concepts. Although both humans and animals are equally driven by motives, humans have a complete option, which has often been seen as a kind of freedom of the will in specific actions. However, it's really just the possibility of a thoroughly considered battle between various motives, where the strongest one inevitably wins out. For this to happen, motives must take the form of abstract thoughts, because only through these can deliberation, i.e., weighing opposing reasons for action, occur. In the case of animals, they can only choose from perceptible motives presented to them, limiting their choices to what they can sense in the moment. Therefore, the necessity of the will being determined by motives—similar to how effects arise from causes—can be shown directly and obviously only in animals. Here, the observer sees the motives right in front of them, just as they see their effects; while for humans, the motives are usually abstract ideas that aren’t clear to the observer, and even for the person acting, the necessity of their effects is obscured by the conflicting motives. Only in theory can multiple ideas, as judgments and chains of conclusions, coexist in consciousness, freely working against one another until the strongest idea wins and dictates the will. This is the complete option or power of deliberation that humans have, which sets them apart from animals. This leads to the belief that humans have freedom of will, as if their decisions are simply the result of their intellectual operations without a specific drive behind them. In reality, motives only act upon the foundation of their defined tendencies, which in each case is individual, i.e., a character. A more detailed explanation of this power of deliberation and the differences it introduces between human and animal choices can be found in the “Two Key Issues in Ethics” (1st edition, p. 35, et seq.; 2nd edition, p. 34, and following), which I recommend referring to. Ultimately, this power of deliberation that humans possess is one of those aspects that makes their [pg 385] existence much more miserable than that of animals. Our greatest suffering usually doesn't come from present immediate feelings or perceptions; instead, it arises from the reason as abstract concepts—painful thoughts—from which animals, which live solely in the present and thus in a blissful state of ignorance, are completely free.

It seems to have been the dependence, which we have shown, of the human power of deliberation upon the faculty of abstract thinking, and thus also of judging and drawing conclusions also, that led both Descartes and Spinoza to identify the decisions of the will with the faculty of asserting and denying (the faculty of judgment). From this Descartes deduced the doctrine that the will, which, according to him, is indifferently free, is the source of sin, and also of all theoretical error. And Spinoza, on the other hand, concluded that the will is necessarily determined by the motives, as the judgment is by the reasons.70 The latter doctrine is in a sense true, but it appears as a true conclusion from false premises.

It seems that the reliance of human deliberation on the ability to think abstractly, and therefore on judgment and drawing conclusions, led both Descartes and Spinoza to connect the will's decisions with the ability to affirm and deny (the judgment ability). From this, Descartes concluded that the will, which he believed is freely indifferent, is the source of sin and all theoretical errors. Conversely, Spinoza argued that the will is necessarily influenced by motives, just as judgment is influenced by reasons. 70 This latter doctrine has some truth to it, but it seems to be a valid conclusion based on false premises.

The distinction we have established between the ways in which the brutes and man are respectively moved by motives exerts a very wide influence upon the nature of both, and has most to do with the complete and obvious differences of their existence. While an idea of perception is in every case the motive which determines the brute, the man strives to exclude this kind of motivation altogether, and to determine himself entirely by abstract ideas. Thus he uses his prerogative of reason to the greatest possible advantage. Independent of the present, he neither chooses nor avoids the passing pleasure or pain, but reflects on the consequences of both. In most cases, setting aside quite insignificant actions, we are determined by abstract, thought motives, not present impressions. Therefore all particular privation for the moment is for us comparatively light, but all renunciation is terribly [pg 386] hard; for the former only concerns the fleeting present, but the latter concerns the future, and includes in itself innumerable privations, of which it is the equivalent. The causes of our pain, as of our pleasure, lie for the most part, not in the real present, but merely in abstract thoughts. It is these which are often unbearable to us—inflict torments in comparison with which all the sufferings of the animal world are very small; for even our own physical pain is not felt at all when they are present. Indeed, in the case of keen mental suffering, we even inflict physical suffering on ourselves merely to distract our attention from the former to the latter. This is why, in great mental anguish, men tear their hair, beat their breasts, lacerate their faces, or roll on the floor, for all these are in reality only violent means of diverting the mind from an unbearable thought. Just because mental pain, being much greater, makes us insensible to physical pain, suicide is very easy to the person who is in despair, or who is consumed by morbid depression, even though formerly, in comfortable circumstances, he recoiled at the thought of it. In the same way care and passion (thus the play of thought) wear out the body oftener and more than physical hardships. And in accordance with this Epictetus rightly says: Ταρασσει τους ανθρωπους ου τα πραγματα, αλλα τα περι των πραγματων δογματα (Perturbant homines non res ipsæ, sed de rebus decreta) (V.); and Seneca: Plura sunt quæ nos terrent, quam quæ premunt, et sæpius opinione quam re laboramus (Ep. 5). Eulenspiegel also admirably bantered human nature, for going uphill he laughed, and going downhill he wept. Indeed, children who have hurt themselves often cry, not at the pain, but at the thought of the pain which is awakened when some one condoles with them. Such great differences in conduct and in life arise from the diversity between the methods of knowledge of the brutes and man. Further, the appearance of the distinct and decided individual character, the [pg 387] principal distinction between man and the brute, which has scarcely more than the character of the species, is conditioned by the choice between several motives, which is only possible through abstract conceptions. For only after a choice has been made are the resolutions, which vary in different individuals, an indication of the individual character which is different in each; while the action of the brute depends only upon the presence or absence of the impression, supposing this impression to be in general a motive for its species. And, finally, in the case of man, only the resolve, and not the mere wish, is a valid indication of his character both for himself and for others; but the resolve becomes for himself, as for others, a certain fact only through the deed. The wish is merely the necessary consequence of the present impression, whether of the outward stimulus, or the inward passing mood; and is therefore as immediately necessary and devoid of consideration as the action of the brutes. Therefore, like the action of the brutes, it merely expresses the character of the species, not that of the individual, i.e., it indicates merely what man in general, not what the individual who experiences the wish, is capable of doing. The deed alone,—because as human action it always requires a certain deliberation, and because as a rule a man has command of his reason, is considerate, i.e., decides in accordance with considered and abstract motives,—is the expression of the intelligible maxims of his conduct, the result of his inmost willing, and is related as a letter to the word that stands for his empirical character, itself merely the temporal expression of his intelligible character. In a healthy mind, therefore, only deeds oppress the conscience, not wishes and thoughts; for it is only our deeds that hold up to us the mirror of our will. The deed referred to above, that is entirely unconsidered and is really committed in blind passion, is to a certain extent an intermediate thing between the mere wish and the resolve.

The distinction we’ve made between how animals and humans are motivated has a significant impact on the essence of both and influences the clear differences in their existences. While animals are primarily driven by immediate perceptions, humans try to move away from this kind of motivation and instead want to be guided by abstract ideas. This allows them to fully utilize their ability to reason. Unlike animals, humans do not simply seek or avoid momentary pleasures or pains; they think about the long-term effects of their choices. Generally, apart from trivial actions, we are influenced by abstract, thoughtful motivations rather than immediate experiences. As a result, temporary deprivations feel relatively minor, while letting go of something significant is very challenging; the former is linked to the fleeting present, whereas the latter pertains to the future and involves countless deprivations that it represents. The sources of our pain and pleasure mainly come not from the actual present but from these abstract thoughts, which can often be unbearable and cause torment that dwarfs all suffering in the animal world; physical pain often goes unnoticed when these thoughts are overwhelming. In fact, during intense mental distress, people may inflict physical pain on themselves just to shift their focus from the unbearable thoughts to something else. This explains why people in great mental anguish might tear their hair, beat their chests, scratch their faces, or roll on the floor—all of these actions serve as extreme methods to distract the mind from intolerable thoughts. Because mental pain is much more intense, it makes us numb to physical pain, which is why suicide can seem like an easy option for someone in despair or deep depression, even if they previously shunned the thought when in better circumstances. Similarly, worry and passion (the workings of thought) wear down the body more often and more than physical hardships. As Epictetus rightly states: “People are disturbed not by things themselves, but by their opinions about those things” (V.); and Seneca: “There are more things that terrify us than things that weigh us down, and we often suffer more from perception than reality” (Ep. 5). Eulenspiegel humorously highlighted human nature; he laughed while going uphill and cried while going downhill. Children who injure themselves often cry, not from the pain itself, but from the thought of the pain, which is triggered when someone comforts them. These significant differences in behavior and life stem from the varying ways animals and humans acquire knowledge. Additionally, the emergence of distinct and defined individual characters, the primary distinction between humans and animals—who only exhibit traits of their species—is shaped by our ability to choose among multiple motives, which is only possible through abstract concepts. Only after making a choice do the different resolutions that vary from one individual to another become a reflection of their unique character; whereas animal behavior depends solely on the presence or absence of stimuli, assuming that such stimuli generally motivate them as a species. Ultimately, for humans, only a firm decision—not a mere desire—validates character for both the individual and others. However, a decision becomes a concrete fact for oneself and others only through action. A desire is simply a necessary response to immediate impressions, whether from external triggers or fleeting moods; thus, it’s as instinctive and decisive as animal behavior. Therefore, like animal behavior, it simply shows the character of the species, not of the individual—meaning it reflects what *humans in general* can do, not what the specific individual feels inclined to do. Only actions—because human behavior always involves a degree of deliberation and typically men possess their reasoning capabilities, allowing them to act intentionally, guided by thoughtful and abstract motives—express their underlying principles, the product of their true desires, and are correlated as if a letter stands for the word that represents their empirical character, which is merely a temporary manifestation of their true nature. In a healthy mind, only actions weigh on the conscience, not wishes or thoughts; it is only our deeds that reflect our true will. The action mentioned earlier, which is instinctive and committed in the heat of passion, is somewhat of a middle ground between mere desire and a firm decision.

[pg 388]

Therefore, by true repentance, which, however, shows itself as action also, it can be obliterated, as a falsely drawn line, from that picture of our will which our course of life is. I may insert the remark here, as a very good comparison, that the relation between wish and deed has a purely accidental but accurate analogy with that between the accumulation and discharge of electricity.

Therefore, through genuine repentance, which also manifests as action, it can be erased, like a mistakenly drawn line, from the portrait of our will that represents our life journey. I’d like to point out a very fitting comparison here: the relationship between desire and action has an accidental yet precise analogy with the accumulation and discharge of electricity.

As the result of the whole of this discussion of the freedom of the will and what relates to it, we find that although the will may, in itself and apart from the phenomenon, be called free and even omnipotent, yet in its particular phenomena enlightened by knowledge, as in men and brutes, it is determined by motives to which the special character regularly and necessarily responds, and always in the same way. We see that because of the possession on his part of abstract or rational knowledge, man, as distinguished from the brutes, has a choice, which only makes him the scene of the conflict of his motives, without withdrawing him from their control. This choice is therefore certainly the condition of the possibility of the complete expression of the individual character, but is by no means to be regarded as freedom of the particular volition, i.e., independence of the law of causality, the necessity of which extends to man as to every other phenomenon. Thus the difference between human volition and that of the brutes, which is introduced by reason or knowledge through concepts, extends to the point we have indicated, and no farther. But, what is quite a different thing, there may arise a phenomenon of the human will which is quite impossible in the brute creation, if man altogether lays aside the knowledge of particular things as such which is subordinate to the principle of sufficient reason, and by means of his knowledge of the Ideas sees through the principium individuationis. Then an actual appearance of the real freedom of the will as a thing-in-itself is possible, by which the phenomenon comes into a sort of contradiction with [pg 389] itself, as is indicated by the word self-renunciation; and, finally, the “in-itself” of its nature suppresses itself. But this, the one, real, and direct expression of the freedom of the will in itself in the phenomenon, cannot be distinctly explained here, but will form the subject of the concluding part of our work.

As a result of this entire discussion on free will and its implications, we see that while the will can, on its own and apart from observable phenomena, be considered free and even all-powerful, in its specific manifestations—like in humans and animals—it is influenced by motives to which its unique nature consistently responds, always in the same way. We observe that due to having abstract or rational knowledge, humans, unlike animals, have a option, which merely places them in the midst of conflicting motives without freeing them from those influences. Therefore, this choice is definitely necessary for fully expressing individual character, but it should not be seen as freedom of specific intention, i.e., independence from the law of causality, which applies to humans just as it does to every other phenomenon. Thus, the difference between human will and animal will, as introduced by reason or knowledge through concepts, extends only to the point mentioned and not beyond that. However, a completely different scenario can occur where a phenomenon of the human will arises that is impossible among animals, if humans entirely set aside the knowledge of specific things governed by the principle of sufficient reason, and instead, through their understanding of Ideas, see beyond the principle of individuation. Then, the true appearance of real freedom of will as a thing-in-itself becomes possible, leading the phenomenon to contradict itself, as indicated by the term self-renunciation; ultimately, the "in itself" of its nature suppresses itself. However, this one true and direct expression of the freedom of the will in itself within the phenomenon cannot be clearly explained here, but it will be the focus of the concluding part of our work.

Now that we have shown clearly in these pages the unalterable nature of the empirical character, which is just the unfolding of the intelligible character that lies outside time, together with the necessity with which actions follow upon its contact with motives, we hasten to anticipate an argument which may very easily be drawn from this in the interest of bad dispositions. Our character is to be regarded as the temporal unfolding of an extra-temporal, and therefore indivisible and unalterable, act of will, or an intelligible character. This necessarily determines all that is essential in our conduct in life, i.e., its ethical content, which must express itself in accordance with it in its phenomenal appearance, the empirical character; while only what is unessential in this, the outward form of our course of life, depends upon the forms in which the motives present themselves. It might, therefore, be inferred that it is a waste of trouble to endeavour to improve one's character, and that it is wiser to submit to the inevitable, and gratify every inclination at once, even if it is bad. But this is precisely the same thing as the theory of an inevitable fate which is called αργος λογος, and in more recent times Turkish faith. Its true refutation, as it is supposed to have been given by Chrysippus, is explained by Cicero in his book De Fato, ch. 12, 13.

Now that we've clearly shown in these pages the unchangeable nature of our personality, which is really just the expression of the underlying, timeless character, along with the necessity of how actions follow their motivations, we want to address an argument that could easily come from this that supports negative attitudes. Our character should be seen as the unfolding of a timeless, indivisible, and unchangeable act of will, or an underlying character. This fundamentally shapes everything essential in our behavior in life, i.e., its ethical content, which must reflect itself in line with the empirical character; the only aspect that depends on how our motivations appear is the less important outward form of our lives. Thus, one might conclude that trying to improve one's character is pointless, and that it's smarter to accept what’s unavoidable and indulge every desire at once, even the bad ones. But this is essentially the same as the concept of an inevitable fate known as αργος λογος, and more recently, Turkish belief. Its true rebuttal, as Chrysippus supposedly provided, is outlined by Cicero in his book In Fact, ch. 12, 13.

Though everything may be regarded as irrevocably predetermined by fate, yet it is so only through the medium of the chain of causes; therefore in no case can it be determined that an effect shall appear without its cause. Thus it is not simply the event that is [pg 390] predetermined, but the event as the consequence of preceding causes; so that fate does not decide the consequence alone, but also the means as the consequence of which it is destined to appear. Accordingly, if some means is not present, it is certain that the consequence also will not be present: each is always present in accordance with the determination of fate, but this is never known to us till afterwards.

Though everything might seem completely determined by fate, it's really only so through a series of causes; therefore, in no situation can we say that an effect will happen without a cause. So, it's not just the event that is predetermined, but also the event as a result of what came before it; fate doesn't just decide the outcome, but also the means by which it will occur. Thus, if a certain means is absent, it's certain that the outcome won't happen either: each is always present according to the determination of fate, but we never realize this until later.

As events always take place according to fate, i.e., according to the infinite concatenation of causes, so our actions always take place according to our intelligible character. But just as we do not know the former beforehand, so no a priori insight is given us into the latter, but we only come to know ourselves as we come to know other persons a posteriori through experience. If the intelligible character involved that we could only form a good resolution after a long conflict with a bad disposition, this conflict would have to come first and be waited for. Reflection on the unalterable nature of the character, on the unity of the source from which all our actions flow, must not mislead us into claiming the decision of the character in favour of one side or the other; it is in the resolve that follows that we shall see what manner of men we are, and mirror ourselves in our actions. This is the explanation of the satisfaction or the anguish of soul with which we look back on the course of our past life. Both are experienced, not because these past deeds have still an existence; they are past, they have been, and now are no more; but their great importance for us lies in their significance, lies in the fact that these deeds are the expression of the character, the mirror of the will, in which we look and recognise our inmost self, the kernel of our will. Because we experience this not before, but only after, it behoves us to strive and fight in time, in order that the picture we produce by our deeds may be such that the contemplation of it may calm us as much as possible, instead of harassing us. The significance of [pg 391] this consolation or anguish of soul will, as we have said, be inquired into farther on; but to this place there belongs the inquiry which follows, and which stands by itself.

As events always unfold according to fate, meaning according to the endless chain of causes, our actions also happen based on our understandable character. But just as we can't predict the former in advance, we also don't have prior insight into the latter; we only get to know ourselves as we get to know other people through experience. If our understandable character meant we could only make a good decision after a long struggle with a bad inclination, that struggle would need to happen first. Thinking about the unchanging nature of character and the unity of the source from which all our actions originate shouldn't mislead us into believing the character leans towards one choice or the other; it's in the decisions we make that we reveal who we really are and see ourselves reflected in our actions. This explains the satisfaction or distress we feel when we look back on our past lives. Both are experienced not because those past actions still exist; they are gone and no longer here, but their significance lies in the fact that these actions express our character and reflect our will, allowing us to recognize our true selves at our core. Since we only experience this after the fact, we must strive and fight in the present so that the image we create through our actions is one that calms us as much as possible, rather than tormenting us. The significance of this comfort or distress, as we mentioned, will be explored further on; however, what follows here is an inquiry that stands on its own.

Besides the intelligible and the empirical character, we must mention a third which is different from them both, the acquired character, which one only receives in life through contact with the world, and which is referred to when one is praised as a man of character or censured as being without character. Certainly one might suppose that, since the empirical character, as the phenomenon of the intelligible, is unalterable, and, like every natural phenomenon, is consistent with itself, man would always have to appear like himself and consistent, and would therefore have no need to acquire a character artificially by experience and reflection. But the case is otherwise, and although a man is always the same, yet he does not always understand himself, but often mistakes himself, till he has in some degree acquired real self-knowledge. The empirical character, as a mere natural tendency, is in itself irrational; nay, more, its expressions are disturbed by reason, all the more so the more intellect and power of thought the man has; for these always keep before him what becomes man in general as the character of the species, and what is possible for him both in will and in deed. This makes it the more difficult for him to see how much his individuality enables him to will and to accomplish. He finds in himself the germs of all the various human pursuits and powers, but the difference of degree in which they exist in his individuality is not clear to him in the absence of experience; and if he now applies himself to the pursuits which alone correspond to his character, he yet feels, especially at particular moments and in particular moods, the inclination to directly opposite pursuits which cannot be combined with them, but must be entirely suppressed if he desires to follow the former undisturbed. For as our physical path upon earth is always [pg 392] merely a line, not an extended surface, so in life, if we desire to grasp and possess one thing, we must renounce and leave innumerable others on the right hand and on the left. If we cannot make up our minds to this, but, like children at the fair, snatch at everything that attracts us in passing, we are making the perverse endeavour to change the line of our path into an extended surface; we run in a zigzag, skip about like a will o' the wisp, and attain to nothing. Or, to use another comparison, as, according to Hobbes' philosophy of law, every one has an original right to everything but an exclusive right to nothing, yet can obtain an exclusive right to particular things by renouncing his right to all the rest, while others, on their part, do likewise with regard to what he has chosen; so is it in life, in which some definite pursuit, whether it be pleasure, honour, wealth, science, art, or virtue, can only be followed with seriousness and success when all claims that are foreign to it are given up, when everything else is renounced. Accordingly, the mere will and the mere ability are not sufficient, but a man must also know what he wills, and know what he can do; only then will he show character, and only then can he accomplish something right. Until he attains to that, notwithstanding the natural consistency of the empirical character, he is without character. And although, on the whole, he must remain true to himself, and fulfil his course, led by his dæmon, yet his path will not be a straight line, but wavering and uneven. He will hesitate, deviate, turn back, lay up for himself repentance and pain. And all this is because, in great and small, he sees before him all that is possible and attainable for man in general, but does not know what part of all this is alone suitable for him, can be accomplished by him, and is alone enjoyable by him. He will, therefore, envy many men on account of a position and circumstances which are yet only suitable to their characters and not to his, and in which he would feel unhappy, if indeed he found [pg 393] them endurable at all. For as a fish is only at home in water, a bird in the air, a mole in the earth, so every man is only at home in the atmosphere suitable to him. For example, not all men can breathe the air of court life. From deficiency of proper insight into all this, many a man will make all kinds of abortive attempts, will do violence to his character in particulars, and yet, on the whole, will have to yield to it again; and what he thus painfully attains will give him no pleasure; what he thus learns will remain dead; even in an ethical regard, a deed that is too noble for his character, that has not sprung from pure, direct impulse, but from a concept, a dogma, will lose all merit, even in his own eyes, through subsequent egoistical repentance. Velle non discitur. We only become conscious of the inflexibility of another person's character through experience, and till then we childishly believe that it is possible, by means of rational ideas, by prayers and entreaties, by example and noble-mindedness, ever to persuade any one to leave his own way, to change his course of conduct, to depart from his mode of thinking, or even to extend his capacities: so is it also with ourselves. We must first learn from experience what we desire and what we can do. Till then we know it not, we are without character, and must often be driven back to our own way by hard blows from without. But if we have finally learnt it, then we have attained to what in the world is called character, the acquired character. This is accordingly nothing but the most perfect knowledge possible of our own individuality. It is the abstract, and consequently distinct, knowledge of the unalterable qualities of our own empirical character, and of the measure and direction of our mental and physical powers, and thus of the whole strength and weakness of our own individuality. This places us in a position to carry out deliberately and methodically the rôle which belongs to our own person, and to fill up the gaps which caprices or weaknesses [pg 394] produce in it, under the guidance of fixed conceptions. This rôle is in itself unchangeably determined once for all, but hitherto we have allowed it to follow its natural course without any rule. We have now brought to distinct conscious maxims which are always present to us the form of conduct which is necessarily determined by our own individual nature, and now we conduct it in accordance with them as deliberately as if we had learned it; without ever falling into error through the passing influence of the mood or the impression of the present, without being checked by the bitterness or sweetness of some particular thing we meet with on our path, without delay, without hesitation, without inconsistency. We shall now no longer, as novices, wait, attempt, and grope about in order to see what we really desire and are able to do, but we know this once for all, and in every choice we have only to apply general principles to particular cases, and arrive at once at a decision. We know our will in general, and do not allow ourselves to be led by the passing mood or by solicitations from without to resolve in particular cases what is contrary to it as a whole. We know in the same way the nature and the measure of our strength and our weakness, and thereby are spared much suffering. For we experience no real pleasure except in the use and feeling of our own powers, and the greatest pain is the conscious deficiency of our powers where we need them. If, now, we have discovered where our strength and our weakness lie, we will endeavour to cultivate, employ, and in every way make use of those talents which are naturally prominent in us. We will always turn to those occupations in which they are valuable and to the purpose, and entirely avoid, even with self-renunciation, those pursuits for which we have naturally little aptitude; we will beware of attempting that in which we have no chance of succeeding. Only he who has attained to this will constantly and with [pg 395] full consciousness be completely himself, and will never fail himself at the critical moment, because he will always have known what he could expect from himself. He will often enjoy the satisfaction of feeling his strength, and seldom experience the pain of being reminded of his weakness. The latter is mortification, which causes perhaps the greatest of mental sufferings; therefore it is far more endurable to have our misfortune brought clearly before us than our incapacity. And, further, if we are thus fully acquainted with our strength and our weakness, we will not attempt to make a show of powers which we do not possess; we will not play with base coin, for all such dissimulation misses the mark in the end. For since the whole man is only the phenomenon of his will, nothing can be more perverse than to try, by means of reflection, to become something else than one is, for this is a direct contradiction of the will with itself. The imitation of the qualities and idiosyncrasies of others is much more shameful than to dress in other people's clothes; for it is the judgment of our own worthlessness pronounced by ourselves. Knowledge of our own mind and its capacities of every kind, and their unalterable limits, is in this respect the surest way to the attainment of the greatest possible contentment with ourselves. For it holds good of inward as of outward circumstances that there is for us no consolation so effective as the complete certainty of unalterable necessity. No evil that befalls us pains us so much as the thought of the circumstances by which it might have been warded off. Therefore nothing comforts us so effectually as the consideration of what has happened from the standpoint of necessity, from which all accidents appear as tools in the hand of an overruling fate, and we therefore recognise the evil that has come to us as inevitably produced by the conflict of inner and outer circumstances; in other words, fatalism. We really only complain and storm so long as we hope [pg 396] either to affect others or to excite ourselves to unheard-of efforts. But children and grown-up people know very well to yield contentedly as soon as they clearly see that it absolutely cannot be otherwise:—Θυμὸν ἐνὶ στήθεσσι φίλον δαμάσσαντες ἀνάγκη (Animo in pectoribus nostro domito necessitate). We are like the entrapped elephants, that rage and struggle for many days, till they see that it is useless, and then suddenly offer their necks quietly to the yoke, tamed for ever. We are like King David, who, as long as his son still lived, unceasingly importuned Jehovah with prayers, and behaved himself as if in despair; but as soon as his son was dead, thought no longer about it. Hence it arises that innumerable permanent ills, such as lameness, poverty, low estate, ugliness, a disagreeable dwelling-place, are borne with indifference by innumerable persons, and are no longer felt, like healed wounds, just because these persons know that inward or outward necessity renders it impossible that any change can take place in these things; while those who are more fortunate cannot understand how such misfortunes can be borne. Now as with outward necessity, so also with inward; nothing reconciles so thoroughly as a distinct knowledge of it. If we have once for all distinctly recognised not only our good qualities and our strength, but also our defects and weakness, established our aim accordingly, and rest satisfied concerning what cannot be attained, we thus escape in the surest way, as far as our individuality permits, the bitterest of all sorrows, discontentment with ourselves, which is the inevitable result of ignorance of our own individuality, of false conceit and the audacity that proceeds from it. To the bitter chapter of the self-knowledge here recommended the lines of Ovid admit of excellent application—

Besides the intelligible and empirical character, we should mention a third type, which is different from both—the acquired identity, which one only gains in life through contact with the world, often referenced when someone is praised for being a person of character or criticized for lacking it. One might think that since the empirical character, as the phenomenon of the intelligible, is unchangeable, and, like any natural phenomenon, is consistent, a person would always appear true to themselves and consistent, thus having no reason to artificially acquire a character through experience and reflection. However, the reality is different; although a person is always fundamentally the same, they don’t always understand themselves and often misinterpret their own nature until they gain some degree of true self-knowledge. The empirical character, as a mere natural tendency, is inherently irrational; moreover, its expressions are disrupted by reason, especially the more intellect and thought power a person has. This is because these qualities constantly remind them of what is typical of guy in general as the character of the species, and what is possible for them in both will and action. This makes it harder for them to perceive how much their individuality allows them to will and achieve. They discover within themselves the seeds of various human pursuits and capabilities, but the different levels at which they exist within their individuality aren’t clear to them without experience. When they commit to endeavors that align with their character, they still feel, especially at certain times and in particular moods, the urge to pursue completely opposite paths that cannot be combined with their current aims and must be wholly suppressed if they wish to pursue the former without disturbance. Just as our physical journey on earth is always [pg 392] a line, not a broad surface, in life, if we wish to grasp and hold onto one thing, we have to give up countless others to the left and right. If we can't commit to this, but, like children at a fair, grab at everything that catches our eye, we are making the misguided attempt to turn our linear path into a broad surface; we zigzag around, flit about like a will-o'-the-wisp, and achieve nothing. Or, to draw another comparison, as, according to Hobbes' philosophy of law, each person has an original right to everything but an exclusive right to nothing, they can obtain an exclusive right to particular things by renouncing their claim to all others, while others also renounce their claim to what he has chosen; life operates in a similar way, where pursuing any particular goal—be it pleasure, honor, wealth, science, art, or virtue—only works with seriousness and success when foreign claims are given up and when everything else is abandoned. Therefore, mere will and ability aren't enough; a person must also know what they will and know what they can do; only then will they show character and be capable of achieving anything worthwhile. Until they reach that understanding, despite the natural consistency of the empirical character, they lack character. Though, overall, they must stay true to themselves and follow their path, led by their inner spirit, their journey will not be direct but will waver and be uneven. They will hesitate, divert, retreat, and accumulate regrets and pain. All this arises because, in both great and small matters, they see all that is possible and attainable for human beings in general but do not know which part of those possibilities fits them alone, which they can accomplish, and which they can truly enjoy. Consequently, they may envy many people for situations and circumstances that only suit those individuals' characters and not theirs, which would make them unhappy if they even found them tolerable. Just as a fish only feels at home in water, a bird in the air, and a mole in the earth, every person is only truly at home in the environment that suits them. For instance, not everyone can thrive in the court life. Due to a lack of proper insight into all this, many people will make various unsuccessful attempts, act against their character in certain ways, but ultimately must yield to it again; what they painfully gain will bring them no joy; what they learn in this way will remain lifeless; and even in ethical terms, an action too noble for their character, which hasn't stemmed from a pure, spontaneous impulse but from a concept or dogma, will lose all merit in their own eyes because of subsequent self-serving regret. You can't teach desire. We only become aware of someone else's unyielding character through experience, and until then, we childishly believe it’s possible, through rational ideas, prayers, pleas, example, and noble-mindedness, to persuade anyone to change their own way, alter their behavior, shift their way of thinking, or even expand their capacities; the same applies to ourselves. We must first learn through experience what we genuinely desire and what we can do. Until then, we don’t understand it, we lack character, and we often have to be pushed back onto our own path by harsh external events. But once we finally learn this, we've attained what is generally called character, the acquired personality. This is essentially the most accurate knowledge possible of our own individuality. It means having clear, distinct knowledge of the unchanging qualities of our empirical character, as well as the measure and direction of our mental and physical abilities, thus understanding the full strength and weaknesses of our individuality. This enables us to purposefully and systematically enact the role that belongs to us and to address the gaps that impulsive changes or weaknesses [pg 394] create, under the guidance of established principles. This role is inherently unchangeable once defined, but we have previously allowed it to flow naturally without any structured approach. We have now defined clear conscious principles that are always in our minds, guiding the conduct determined by our individual nature, and we carry it out according to them just as deliberately as if we had learned it; without making errors based on mood or immediate impressions, without being swayed by the bitterness or sweetness of things we encounter along our path, without hesitation, confusion, or inconsistency. We will no longer, as novices, wait, attempt, or fumble around to discover what we truly want and are capable of doing; instead, we know this definitively, and in every decision, we need only apply general principles to specific circumstances and arrive immediately at a conclusion. We understand our will generally and won’t allow ourselves to be swayed by fleeting moods or external temptations to make decisions that contradict it as a whole. We similarly understand the nature and extent of our strengths and weaknesses, which helps us avoid much suffering. For we find no real joy except in using and feeling our own abilities, and the worst pain is the conscious lack of our capabilities where they're necessary. Thus, once we identify where our strengths and weaknesses lie, we will strive to cultivate, utilize, and make the most of those talents that naturally stand out in us. We will consistently choose pursuits where they are beneficial and relevant and completely avoid, even at the cost of self-denial, those endeavors for which we have little natural aptitude; we will be cautious about attempting things where we have no chance of succeeding. Only someone who has reached this understanding will consistently and with [pg 395] full awareness be entirely themselves, never letting themselves down at critical moments because they will always know what they can expect from themselves. They will frequently enjoy the satisfaction of recognizing their strengths and rarely experience the pain of facing their weaknesses. The latter is a source of shame and perhaps the greatest form of mental suffering; hence, it’s much more bearable to have our misfortunes laid before us than our shortcomings. Moreover, if we are fully aware of our strengths and weaknesses, we won’t attempt to showcase abilities we don’t possess; we won’t play with counterfeit coins, as all such dissimulation ultimately leads to failure. Since the whole person is merely the manifestation of their will, nothing is more misguided than trying, through reflection, to become something other than one is, as this directly contradicts the will itself. Imitating the qualities and quirks of others is far more shameful than wearing someone else’s clothes; it reflects our own judgment of worthlessness. Understanding our own mind and its various capacities, along with their unchangeable limits, is the surest path to achieving the highest possible level of satisfaction with ourselves. For like outward circumstances, inward situations also find no greater consolation than the clear knowledge of unchangeable necessity. No misfortune that befalls us hurts as much as the thought of circumstances that could have been avoided. Therefore, nothing so effectively comforts us as looking at what has occurred from the perspective of necessity, against which all accidents appear as tools in the hands of an overpowering fate, allowing us to see the misfortunes we face as inevitably arising from the interplay of internal and external realities; in other words, fatalism. We really only complain and rage as long as we hope [pg 396] either to influence others or incite ourselves to unprecedented efforts. Yet children and adults alike understand well to accept things when they clearly recognize that it absolutely cannot be otherwise:—Θυμὸν ἐνὶ στήθεσσι φίλον δαμάσσαντες ἀνάγκη (Courage in our hearts tamed by necessity). We are like trapped elephants, who lose their minds and struggle for days until they realize it’s futile, at which point they calmly submit to the yoke, forever tamed. We are like King David, who, as long as his son lived, continually pleaded with Jehovah and acted as if in despair; but as soon as his son died, he stopped thinking about it. Hence, many long-lasting hardships, such as lameness, poverty, low status, ugliness, or an unpleasant living situation, are endured indifferently by countless individuals and fade from feeling like healed wounds, simply because these individuals understand that inner or outer necessity makes it impossible to change these circumstances; meanwhile, those who are more fortunate often cannot grasp how such misfortunes can be tolerated. Just as it is with external necessity, the same applies to internal; nothing reconciles us more thoroughly than a clear understanding of it. If we have once and for all clearly acknowledged not only our strengths and positive traits but also our flaws and weaknesses, set our goals accordingly, and grown content with what cannot be achieved, we thus avoid the most profound sorrow, which is discontentment with ourselves—a consequence of ignorance of our individuality, misplaced pride, and the audacity that springs from it. The bitter insights into self-knowledge recommended here resonate wonderfully with Ovid's lines—

The best defender of the soul hurts the heart,
The bond that was broken, and sorrowed once.
[pg 397]

So much with regard to the acquired character, which, indeed, is not of so much importance for ethics proper as for life in the world. But its investigation was related as that of a third species to the investigation of the intelligible and the empirical character, in regard to which we were obliged to enter upon a somewhat detailed inquiry in order to bring out clearly how in all its phenomena the will is subject to necessity, while yet in itself it may be called free and even omnipotent.

So much for the acquired persona, which isn't as important for ethics itself as it is for living in the world. However, its exploration was linked as a third type to the study of the intelligible and empirical character, for which we had to engage in a somewhat detailed examination to clearly illustrate how, in all its phenomena, the will is subject to necessity, while still being considered free and even all-powerful in itself.

§ 56. This freedom, this omnipotence, as the expression of which the whole visible world exists and progressively develops in accordance with the laws which belong to the form of knowledge, can now, at the point at which in its most perfect manifestation it has attained to the completely adequate knowledge of its own nature, express itself anew in two ways. Either it wills here, at the summit of mental endowment and self-consciousness, simply what it willed before blindly and unconsciously, and if so, knowledge always remains its motive in the whole as in the particular case. Or, conversely, this knowledge becomes for it a quieter, which appeases and suppresses all willing. This is that assertion and denial of the will to live which was stated above in general terms. As, in the reference of individual conduct, a general, not a particular manifestation of will, it does not disturb and modify the development of the character, nor does it find its expression in particular actions; but, either by an ever more marked appearance of the whole method of action it has followed hitherto, or conversely by the entire suppression of it, it expresses in a living form the maxims which the will has freely adopted in accordance with the knowledge it has now attained to. By the explanations we have just given of freedom, necessity, and character, we have somewhat facilitated and prepared the way for the clearer development of all this, which is the principal subject of this last book. But we shall have done so still more when we have turned our attention to [pg 398] life itself, the willing or not willing of which is the great question, and have endeavoured to find out generally what the will itself, which is everywhere the inmost nature of this life, will really attain by its assertion—in what way and to what extent this assertion satisfies or can satisfy the will; in short, what is generally and mainly to be regarded as its position in this its own world, which in every relation belongs to it.

§ 56. This freedom, this power, which is the basis of the entire visible world and its ongoing development according to the principles of knowledge, can now, at its highest expression where it fully understands its own nature, express itself in two new ways. It can either will, at this peak of mental capacity and self-awareness, what it previously willed blindly and unconsciously; if so, knowledge remains its motive both universally and in specific instances. Or, on the other hand, this knowledge can become a more subdued that calms and suppresses all desires. This reflects the affirmation and denial of the will to live mentioned earlier in general terms. In terms of individual behavior, it is a general, not a specific expression of will, which doesn't disrupt or alter character development and doesn't manifest in specific actions; instead, either through an increasingly clear representation of the action patterns it has followed up to now or through a complete suppression of them, it embodies in a living form the principles that the will has freely chosen according to its newly gained knowledge. The discussions we've just had regarding freedom, necessity, and character have made it easier to develop and clarify all of this, which is the main focus of this last book. However, we will achieve further clarity when we turn our attention to [pg 398] life itself, the willing or not willing of which poses the central question, and attempt to discover what the will, which is the deepest nature of this life, actually achieves through its determination—how and to what extent this determination meets or can meet the will; in short, what should be primarily understood as its place in this world that inherently belongs to it.

First of all, I wish the reader to recall the passage with which we closed the Second Book,—a passage occasioned by the question, which met us then, as to the end and aim of the will. Instead of the answer to this question, it appeared clearly before us how, in all the grades of its manifestation, from the lowest to the highest, the will dispenses altogether with a final goal and aim. It always strives, for striving is its sole nature, which no attained goal can put an end to. Therefore it is not susceptible of any final satisfaction, but can only be restrained by hindrances, while in itself it goes on for ever. We see this in the simplest of all natural phenomena, gravity, which does not cease to strive and press towards a mathematical centre to reach which would be the annihilation both of itself and matter, and would not cease even if the whole universe were already rolled into one ball. We see it in the other simple natural phenomena. A solid tends towards fluidity either by melting or dissolving, for only so will its chemical forces be free; rigidity is the imprisonment in which it is held by cold. The fluid tends towards the gaseous state, into which it passes at once as soon as all pressure is removed from it. No body is without relationship, i.e., without tendency or without desire and longing, as Jacob Böhme would say. Electricity transmits its inner self-repulsion to infinity, though the mass of the earth absorbs the effect. Galvanism is certainly, so long as the pile is working, an aimless, unceasingly repeated act of repulsion and attraction. The existence of the plant is just such a restless, [pg 399] never satisfied striving, a ceaseless tendency through ever-ascending forms, till the end, the seed, becomes a new starting-point; and this repeated ad infinitum—nowhere an end, nowhere a final satisfaction, nowhere a resting-place. It will also be remembered, from the Second Book, that the multitude of natural forces and organised forms everywhere strive with each other for the matter in which they desire to appear, for each of them only possesses what it has wrested from the others; and thus a constant internecine war is waged, from which, for the most part, arises the resistance through which that striving, which constitutes the inner nature of everything, is at all points hindered; struggles in vain, yet, from its nature, cannot leave off; toils on laboriously till this phenomenon dies, when others eagerly seize its place and its matter.

First of all, I want the reader to remember the section with which we concluded the Second Book—a section prompted by the question we faced then about the purpose and goal of the will. Instead of answering this question, it became clear how, at all levels of its expression, from the lowest to the highest, the will doesn't really have a final goal or aim. It constantly strives, since striving is its very nature, and no achieved goal can put an end to it. Therefore, it cannot reach any ultimate satisfaction but can only be impeded by obstacles, while in itself, it goes on forever. We see this in the simplest of all natural phenomena, gravity, which never stops striving and pressing toward a mathematical center—achieving which would mean its own annihilation as well as that of matter, and it wouldn’t cease even if the entire universe were collapsed into a single ball. We also observe this in other straightforward natural phenomena. A solid moves towards fluidity either by melting or dissolving, for only then can its chemical forces be free; rigidity is a prison created by cold. The fluid seeks to become gas, transitioning instantly as soon as all pressure is removed from it. No body exists without some form of relationship, meaning without tendency or desire, as Jacob Böhme would say. Electricity transmits its inner self-repulsion infinitely, even though the mass of the earth absorbs the effect. Galvanism, as long as the battery is operational, involves aimless, endlessly repeated acts of repulsion and attraction. The existence of a plant is similarly a restless, never-satisfied striving, an unending tendency through ever-ascending forms, until the end, the seed, becomes a new starting point; this repeated process goes on ad infinitum—without an end, without ultimate satisfaction, without a resting place. It should also be recalled from the Second Book that the multitude of natural forces and organized forms constantly compete with each other for the material in which they want to appear, since each only possesses what it has taken from others; thus, a constant internal conflict takes place, from which, mostly, arises the resistance that hinders that striving, which defines the inner nature of everything, at every point; struggling in vain, yet by its nature, cannot stop; tirelessly working until this phenomenon perishes, when others eagerly take its place and its material.

We have long since recognised this striving, which constitutes the kernel and in-itself of everything, as identical with that which in us, where it manifests itself most distinctly in the light of the fullest consciousness, is called will. Its hindrance through an obstacle which places itself between it and its temporary aim we call suffering, and, on the other hand, its attainment of the end satisfaction, wellbeing, happiness. We may also transfer this terminology to the phenomena of the unconscious world, for though weaker in degree, they are identical in nature. Then we see them involved in constant suffering, and without any continuing happiness. For all effort springs from defect—from discontent with one's estate—is thus suffering so long as it is not satisfied; but no satisfaction is lasting, rather it is always merely the starting-point of a new effort. The striving we see everywhere hindered in many ways, everywhere in conflict, and therefore always under the form of suffering. Thus, if there is no final end of striving, there is no measure and end of suffering.

We have long recognized this drive, which is the core of everything, as the same thing as what we call will, where it shows itself most clearly in the light of full awareness. When something stands in the way of this drive and blocks its temporary goal, we call that pain. On the other hand, achieving the goal brings satisfaction, wellbeing, and happiness. We can also apply this terminology to unconscious phenomena, as they are similar in nature, even if weaker in intensity. In those cases, we see them constantly suffering, with no lasting happiness. All effort arises from a sense of deficiency—from dissatisfaction with one’s situation—and thus it is suffering as long as it remains unfulfilled. However, no satisfaction lasts; instead, it becomes just the starting point for a new effort. This striving is hindered in many ways everywhere, always in conflict, and therefore always manifests as suffering. Therefore, if there is no ultimate goal of striving, there is no end or limit to suffering.

But what we only discover in unconscious Nature by sharpened observation, and with an effort, presents itself [pg 400] distinctly to us in the intelligent world in the life of animals, whose constant suffering is easily proved. But without lingering over these intermediate grades, we shall turn to the life of man, in which all this appears with the greatest distinctness, illuminated by the clearest knowledge; for as the phenomenon of will becomes more complete, the suffering also becomes more and more apparent. In the plant there is as yet no sensibility, and therefore no pain. A certain very small degree of suffering is experienced by the lowest species of animal life—infusoria and radiata; even in insects the capacity to feel and suffer is still limited. It first appears in a high degree with the complete nervous system of vertebrate animals, and always in a higher degree the more intelligence develops. Thus, in proportion as knowledge attains to distinctness, as consciousness ascends, pain also increases, and therefore reaches its highest degree in man. And then, again, the more distinctly a man knows, the more intelligent he is, the more pain he has; the man who is gifted with genius suffers most of all. In this sense, that is, with reference to the degree of knowledge in general, not mere abstract rational knowledge, I understand and use here that saying of the Preacher: Qui auget scientiam, auget at dolorem. That philosophical painter or painting philosopher, Tischbein, has very beautifully expressed the accurate relation between the degree of consciousness and that of suffering by exhibiting it in a visible and clear form in a drawing. The upper half of his drawing represents women whose children have been stolen, and who in different groups and attitudes, express in many ways deep maternal pain, anguish, and despair. The lower half of the drawing represents sheep whose lambs have been taken away. They are arranged and grouped in precisely the same way; so that every human head, every human attitude of the upper half, has below a brute head and attitude corresponding to it. Thus we see distinctly how the pain which is possible in the dull brute consciousness [pg 401] is related to the violent grief, which only becomes possible through distinctness of knowledge and clearness of consciousness.

But what we only discover in the unconscious world of nature through careful observation and effort becomes clear in the intelligent world in the lives of animals, whose ongoing suffering is easily demonstrated. Without focusing on these intermediate stages, let's shift to human life, where all of this is revealed most clearly, enlightened by a deeper understanding; as the phenomenon of will becomes more complete, suffering also becomes more apparent. Plants have no sensitivity, and therefore they experience no pain. A slight degree of suffering is felt by the simplest forms of animal life—like infusoria and radiata; even insects have a limited capacity for feeling and suffering. It first emerges significantly in vertebrates with a complete nervous system and becomes more pronounced as intelligence develops. Thus, as knowledge becomes clearer and consciousness rises, pain also increases, reaching its highest expression in humans. Moreover, the more aware a person is and the more intelligent they become, the more they suffer; individuals with exceptional genius endure the most pain. In this context, relating to the general level of knowledge—not just abstract rational knowledge—I reference the saying of the Preacher: Who increases knowledge, increases pain. The philosophical painter, Tischbein, has beautifully illustrated the connection between the degree of consciousness and the level of suffering in a drawing. The upper half shows women whose children have been taken from them, expressing profound maternal pain, anguish, and despair in various groups and postures. The lower half depicts sheep whose lambs have been taken away, arranged in the same manner; thus, every human face and posture in the upper half corresponds to a brute face and posture in the lower half. This way, we can clearly see how the pain possible in dull animal consciousness relates to the intense grief that arises only through clarity of knowledge and consciousness.

We desire to consider in this way, in human existence, the inner and essential destiny of will. Every one will easily recognise that same destiny expressed in various degrees in the life of the brutes, only more weakly, and may also convince himself to his own satisfaction, from the suffering animal world, how essential to all life is suffering.

We want to look at it this way, in human life, the core and essential fate of will. Anyone can easily recognize that same fate showing up in different degrees in the lives of animals, just more weakly, and can also convince themselves, to their own satisfaction, from the suffering in the animal world, how crucial suffering is to all life.

§ 57. At every grade that is enlightened by knowledge, the will appears as an individual. The human individual finds himself as finite in infinite space and time, and consequently as a vanishing quantity compared with them. He is projected into them, and, on account of their unlimited nature, he has always a merely relative, never absolute when and where of his existence; for his place and duration are finite parts of what is infinite and boundless. His real existence is only in the present, whose unchecked flight into the past is a constant transition into death, a constant dying. For his past life, apart from its possible consequences for the present, and the testimony regarding the will that is expressed in it, is now entirely done with, dead, and no longer anything; and, therefore, it must be, as a matter of reason, indifferent to him whether the content of that past was pain or pleasure. But the present is always passing through his hands into the past; the future is quite uncertain and always short. Thus his existence, even when we consider only its formal side, is a constant hurrying of the present into the dead past, a constant dying. But if we look at it from the physical side; it is clear that, as our walking is admittedly merely a constantly prevented falling, the life of our body is only a constantly prevented dying, an ever-postponed death: finally, in the same way, the activity of our mind is a constantly deferred ennui. [pg 402] Every breath we draw wards off the death that is constantly intruding upon us. In this way we fight with it every moment, and again, at longer intervals, through every meal we eat, every sleep we take, every time we warm ourselves, &c. In the end, death must conquer, for we became subject to him through birth, and he only plays for a little while with his prey before he swallows it up. We pursue our life, however, with great interest and much solicitude as long as possible, as we blow out a soap-bubble as long and as large as possible, although we know perfectly well that it will burst.

§ 57. At every level illuminated by knowledge, the will appears as an individual. A person recognizes themselves as finite amid infinite space and time, and thus as a diminishing presence in comparison. They are cast into these dimensions, and because of their limitless nature, they always have only a relative, never an absolute when and where of their existence; their place and duration are finite parts of what is infinite and boundless. Their true existence is only in the present, whose uncontrollable march into the past signifies a constant transition into death, a constant dying. Their past life, aside from its potential effects on the present and the will it reflects, is completely done, dead, and no longer anything; therefore, it must be, by reason, indifferent to them whether that past was filled with pain or pleasure. Yet the present always slips through their fingers into the past; the future is uncertain and constantly brief. Thus, their existence, even when considering only its formal aspect, is a constant rush of the present into the dead past, a constant dying. From a physical perspective, it is evident that just as our walking is simply a series of prevented falls, the life of our body is only a series of postponed deaths: ultimately, similarly, the activity of our mind is a continually delayed boredom. [pg 402] Every breath we take pushes back the death that is always encroaching upon us. In this way, we battle it every moment, and again, at longer intervals, through every meal we eat, every sleep we take, every time we warm ourselves, etc. Ultimately, death must prevail, for we became subject to it through birth, and it only plays with its prey for a little while before consuming it. Nevertheless, we pursue our lives with great interest and care for as long as we can, much like blowing a soap bubble as big and long-lasting as possible, even though we know full well that it will burst.

We saw that the inner being of unconscious nature is a constant striving without end and without rest. And this appears to us much more distinctly when we consider the nature of brutes and man. Willing and striving is its whole being, which may be very well compared to an unquenchable thirst. But the basis of all willing is need, deficiency, and thus pain. Consequently, the nature of brutes and man is subject to pain originally and through its very being. If, on the other hand, it lacks objects of desire, because it is at once deprived of them by a too easy satisfaction, a terrible void and ennui comes over it, i.e., its being and existence itself becomes an unbearable burden to it. Thus its life swings like a pendulum backwards and forwards between pain and ennui. This has also had to express itself very oddly in this way; after man had transferred all pain and torments to hell, there then remained nothing over for heaven but ennui.

We observed that the inner essence of unconscious nature is a constant drive without end or rest. This becomes much clearer when we think about the nature of animals and humans. Willing and striving make up its entire existence, which can be compared to an insatiable thirst. However, the foundation of all willing is need, lack, and thus pain. As a result, the nature of both animals and humans is fundamentally tied to pain. If it lacks objects of desire because they are too easily satisfied, it experiences a terrible void and boredom, meaning its being and existence become an unbearable burden. Consequently, its life swings like a pendulum between pain and boredom. This peculiar situation was also expressed oddly; after humans transferred all pain and suffering to hell, nothing remained for heaven but boredom.

But the constant striving which constitutes the inner nature of every manifestation of will obtains its primary and most general foundation at the higher grades of objectification, from the fact that here the will manifests itself as a living body, with the iron command to nourish it; and what gives strength to this command is just that this body is nothing but the objectified will to live [pg 403] itself. Man, as the most complete objectification of that will, is in like measure also the most necessitous of all beings: he is through and through concrete willing and needing; he is a concretion of a thousand necessities. With these he stands upon the earth, left to himself, uncertain about everything except his own need and misery. Consequently the care for the maintenance of that existence under exacting demands, which are renewed every day, occupies, as a rule, the whole of human life. To this is directly related the second claim, that of the propagation of the species. At the same time he is threatened from all sides by the most different kinds of dangers, from which it requires constant watchfulness to escape. With cautious steps and casting anxious glances round him he pursues his path, for a thousand accidents and a thousand enemies lie in wait for him. Thus he went while yet a savage, thus he goes in civilised life; there is no security for him.

But the constant effort that defines the inner nature of every expression of will finds its main and most universal foundation in the higher levels of manifestation, where will shows itself as a living being, with the firm obligation to sustain it; and what strengthens this obligation is that this being is nothing but the objectified will to live itself. Humans, as the most complete expression of that will, are equally the most needy of all beings: they are entirely concrete in their wanting and needing; they embody countless necessities. With these, they exist on Earth, left to their own devices, unsure about everything except their own needs and suffering. As a result, the responsibility for maintaining that existence under demanding conditions, which are renewed every day, usually occupies the entirety of human life. This is closely related to the second necessity, that of reproduction. At the same time, they are surrounded by all sorts of dangers, which require constant vigilance to avoid. With cautious steps and anxious glances around, they navigate their path, as a thousand accidents and a thousand foes lie in wait for them. Thus, they moved when they were still primitive, and thus they move in civilized life; there is no security for them.

In what darkness of life, and how many dangers
Degitur hocc' ævi, quodcunque est!Understood! Please provide the text you would like modernized.Lucr. ii. 15.

The life of the great majority is only a constant struggle for this existence itself, with the certainty of losing it at last. But what enables them to endure this wearisome battle is not so much the love of life as the fear of death, which yet stands in the background as inevitable, and may come upon them at any moment. Life itself is a sea, full of rocks and whirlpools, which man avoids with the greatest care and solicitude, although he knows that even if he succeeds in getting through with all his efforts and skill, he yet by doing so comes nearer at every step to the greatest, the total, inevitable, and irremediable shipwreck, death; nay, even steers right upon it: this is the final goal of the laborious voyage, and worse for him than all the rocks from which he has escaped.

The lives of most people are just a constant struggle for survival, with the certainty of losing that survival in the end. What helps them endure this exhausting fight isn't so much a love for life, but rather a fear of death, which looms in the background as something unavoidable and could strike at any moment. Life is like a sea, filled with rocks and whirlpools that people navigate with great care and concern, even though they know that even if they manage to make it through using all their effort and skill, they are still getting closer to the ultimate, unavoidable disaster: death. In fact, they are steering right toward it. This is the final destination of their difficult journey, and it's worse for them than all the obstacles they've managed to escape.

Now it is well worth observing that, on the one hand, [pg 404] the suffering and misery of life may easily increase to such an extent that death itself, in the flight from which the whole of life consists, becomes desirable, and we hasten towards it voluntarily; and again, on the other hand, that as soon as want and suffering permit rest to a man, ennui is at once so near that he necessarily requires diversion. The striving after existence is what occupies all living things and maintains them in motion. But when existence is assured, then they know not what to do with it; thus the second thing that sets them in motion is the effort to get free from the burden of existence, to make it cease to be felt, “to kill time,” i.e., to escape from ennui. Accordingly we see that almost all men who are secure from want and care, now that at last they have thrown off all other burdens, become a burden to themselves, and regard as a gain every hour they succeed in getting through; and thus every diminution of the very life which, till then, they have employed all their powers to maintain as long as possible. Ennui is by no means an evil to be lightly esteemed; in the end it depicts on the countenance real despair. It makes beings who love each other so little as men do, seek each other eagerly, and thus becomes the source of social intercourse. Moreover, even from motives of policy, public precautions are everywhere taken against it, as against other universal calamities. For this evil may drive men to the greatest excesses, just as much as its opposite extreme, famine: the people require panem et circenses. The strict penitentiary system of Philadelphia makes use of ennui alone as a means of punishment, through solitary confinement and idleness, and it is found so terrible that it has even led prisoners to commit suicide. As want is the constant scourge of the people, so ennui is that of the fashionable world. In middle-class life ennui is represented by the Sunday, and want by the six week-days.

Now, it's important to note that on one hand, [pg 404] the suffering and misery of life can become so overwhelming that death itself, which many try to escape, starts to seem desirable, and people may willingly rush towards it. On the other hand, as soon as hardship and suffering allow a person to rest, boredom quickly sets in, and they need something to divert their attention. The drive to survive occupies all living beings and keeps them moving. But once survival is guaranteed, they often don’t know what to do with that life; so they turn to trying to escape the burden of existence, to make it feel less heavy, “to pass the time,” i.e. to avoid boredom. Accordingly, we see that almost everyone who is free from want and worry, now that they have shed all other burdens, ends up becoming a burden to themselves and sees every hour they manage to get through as a victory, leading to a decrease in the very life they have worked so hard to prolong. Boredom is not a trivial problem; it ultimately manifests as real despair. It drives people, who generally love each other very little, to seek connections, becoming a catalyst for social interaction. Moreover, for various reasons, society takes precautions against it, much like it does against other widespread disasters. This issue can lead people to the most extreme actions, just as its counterpart, famine: people need bread and circuses. The strict prison system in Philadelphia uses boredom as a form of punishment, enforced by solitary confinement and idleness, and it’s found to be so horrific that it has even driven some inmates to suicide. While want is a constant affliction for the masses, boredom plagues the upper classes. In middle-class life, boredom is represented by Sunday, while want is depicted by the six weekdays.

Thus between desiring and attaining all human life flows on throughout. The wish is, in its nature, pain; [pg 405] the attainment soon begets satiety: the end was only apparent; possession takes away the charm; the wish, the need, presents itself under a new form; when it does not, then follows desolateness, emptiness, ennui, against which the conflict is just as painful as against want. That wish and satisfaction should follow each other neither too quickly nor too slowly reduces the suffering, which both occasion to the smallest amount, and constitutes the happiest life. For that which we might otherwise call the most beautiful part of life, its purest joy, if it were only because it lifts us out of real existence and transforms us into disinterested spectators of it—that is, pure knowledge, which is foreign to all willing, the pleasure of the beautiful, the true delight in art—this is granted only to a very few, because it demands rare talents, and to these few only as a passing dream. And then, even these few, on account of their higher intellectual power, are made susceptible of far greater suffering than duller minds can ever feel, and are also placed in lonely isolation by a nature which is obviously different from that of others; thus here also accounts are squared. But to the great majority of men purely intellectual pleasures are not accessible. They are almost quite incapable of the joys which lie in pure knowledge. They are entirely given up to willing. If, therefore, anything is to win their sympathy, to be interesting to them, it must (as is implied in the meaning of the word) in some way excite their will, even if it is only through a distant and merely problematical relation to it; the will must not be left altogether out of the question, for their existence lies far more in willing than in knowing,—action and reaction is their one element. We may find in trifles and everyday occurrences the naïve expressions of this quality. Thus, for example, at any place worth seeing they may visit, they write their names, in order thus to react, to affect the place since it does not affect them. Again, when they see a strange rare animal, they cannot [pg 406] easily confine themselves to merely observing it; they must rouse it, tease it, play with it, merely to experience action and reaction; but this need for excitement of the will manifests itself very specially in the discovery and support of card-playing, which is quite peculiarly the expression of the miserable side of humanity.

So, between wanting and getting, all human life continues. The desire, by its nature, brings pain; [pg 405] achieving it soon leads to boredom: the goal was merely an illusion; having something takes away its appeal; the desire, the need, presents itself in a new form; when it doesn’t, then loneliness, emptiness, and boredom set in, which is just as painful as feeling the lack of something. For desire and satisfaction to follow each other neither too quickly nor too slowly lessens the suffering they cause to a minimum and creates the happiest life. The part of life we might call the most beautiful, its purest joy, only lifts us out of real existence and turns us into detached spectators—that is, pure knowledge, which is separate from all wanting, the enjoyment of beauty, the true pleasure we find in art—this is granted to very few, as it demands rare talents, and to those few, it’s often just a fleeting dream. Meanwhile, these few, because of their greater intellectual ability, feel far more intense suffering than those with duller minds can ever experience and are often isolated by a nature that clearly differs from that of others; thus, everything balances out. But for the vast majority of people, purely intellectual pleasures are not accessible. They are almost entirely incapable of finding joy in pure knowledge. They are fully focused on wanting. If anything is to attract their interest, it must (as the meaning of the word suggests) somehow stimulate their gonna, even if it only does so through a distant and hypothetical connection; the will cannot be completely ignored, because their existence depends much more on wanting than knowing—action and reaction are their only realm. We can see naïve expressions of this trait in trivial matters and daily events. For instance, at any place worth visiting, they write their names to leave their mark since the place does not engage with them. Similarly, when they see a rare exotic animal, they can’t [pg 406] easily just watch it; they need to provoke it, tease it, play with it, just to experience mutual action; this craving for will stimulation is particularly evident in the popularity and support of card games, which uniquely express the unfortunate side of humanity.

But whatever nature and fortune may have done, whoever a man be and whatever he may possess, the pain which is essential to life cannot be thrown off:—Πηλειδης δ᾽ ῳμωξεν, ιδων εις ουρανον ευρυν (Pelides autem ejulavit, intuitus in cælum latum). And again:—Ζηνος μεν παις ηα Κρονιονος, αυταρ οιζυν ειχον απειρεσιην (Jovis quidem filius eram Saturnii; verum ærumnam habebam infinitam). The ceaseless efforts to banish suffering accomplish no more than to make it change its form. It is essentially deficiency, want, care for the maintenance of life. If we succeed, which is very difficult, in removing pain in this form, it immediately assumes a thousand others, varying according to age and circumstances, such as lust, passionate love, jealousy, envy, hatred, anxiety, ambition, covetousness, sickness, &c., &c. If at last it can find entrance in no other form, it comes in the sad, grey garments of tediousness and ennui, against which we then strive in various ways. If finally we succeed in driving this away, we shall hardly do so without letting pain enter in one of its earlier forms, and the dance begin again from the beginning; for all human life is tossed backwards and forwards between pain and ennui. Depressing as this view of life is, I will draw attention, by the way, to an aspect of it from which consolation may be drawn, and perhaps even a stoical indifference to one's own present ills may be attained. For our impatience at these arises for the most part from the fact that we regard them as brought about by a chain of causes which might easily be different. We do not generally grieve over ills which are directly necessary and quite universal; for example, the necessity of age and of [pg 407] death, and many daily inconveniences. It is rather the consideration of the accidental nature of the circumstances that brought some sorrow just to us, that gives it its sting. But if we have recognised that pain, as such, is inevitable and essential to life, and that nothing depends upon chance but its mere fashion, the form under which it presents itself, that thus our present sorrow fills a place that, without it, would at once be occupied by another which now is excluded by it, and that therefore fate can affect us little in what is essential; such a reflection, if it were to become a living conviction, might produce a considerable degree of stoical equanimity, and very much lessen the anxious care for our own well-being. But, in fact, such a powerful control of reason over directly felt suffering seldom or never occurs.

But no matter what nature and fate might have done, no matter who a person is or what they possess, the pain that is essential to life cannot be avoided:—"And Achilles wept, gazing up at the vast sky." And again:—"I was indeed the son of Jupiter; but I suffered countless hardships." The constant attempts to eliminate suffering only succeed in changing its form. It is fundamentally about lack, need, and the worry of maintaining life. If we manage, which is quite challenging, to remove pain in one form, it quickly takes on a thousand others, depending on age and circumstances, such as lust, passionate love, jealousy, envy, hatred, anxiety, ambition, greed, illness, etc. If eventually it can't find a new form to enter, it shows up in the dull, grey clothing of boredom and monotony, which we then try to escape in various ways. If we finally manage to push that away, we will hardly do so without allowing pain back in through one of its earlier forms, and the cycle starts all over again; for all human life sways back and forth between pain and boredom. While this view of life may be disheartening, I want to point out an aspect of it from which we might find some comfort, and perhaps even achieve a stoical indifference to our current troubles. Our impatience with them largely stems from our belief that they are a result of a chain of events that could easily be different. We generally don't mourn over hardships that are directly necessary and completely universal; for instance, the inevitability of aging and death, along with many daily annoyances. It is rather the thought of the random nature of the circumstances that brought some suffering just to us that gives it its sting. But if we recognize that pain, as such, is unavoidable and essential to life, and that nothing depends on chance except its appearance—the form it takes—we see that our current suffering occupies a space that, without it, would immediately be filled by another that is now excluded. Therefore, fate has little effect on what is essential to us; such a realization, if it were to become a true conviction, could lead to a significant degree of stoical calm and greatly reduce our anxious concern for our own well-being. However, in reality, such strong control of reason over immediate suffering rarely or never happens.

Besides, through this view of the inevitableness of pain, of the supplanting of one pain by another, and the introduction of a new pain through the passing away of that which preceded it, one might be led to the paradoxical but not absurd hypothesis, that in every individual the measure of the pain essential to him was determined once for all by his nature, a measure which could neither remain empty, nor be more than filled, however much the form of the suffering might change. Thus his suffering and well-being would by no means be determined from without, but only through that measure, that natural disposition, which indeed might experience certain additions and diminutions from the physical condition at different times, but yet, on the whole, would remain the same, and would just be what is called the temperament, or, more accurately, the degree in which he might be ευκολος or δυσκολος, as Plato expresses it in the First Book of the Republic, i.e., in an easy or difficult mood. This hypothesis is supported not only by the well-known experience that great suffering makes all lesser ills cease to be felt, and conversely that freedom from great suffering makes even the most trifling inconveniences torment us [pg 408] and put us out of humour; but experience also teaches that if a great misfortune, at the mere thought of which we shuddered, actually befalls us, as soon as we have overcome the first pain of it, our disposition remains for the most part unchanged; and, conversely, that after the attainment of some happiness we have long desired, we do not feel ourselves on the whole and permanently very much better off and agreeably situated than before. Only the moment at which these changes occur affects us with unusual strength, as deep sorrow or exulting joy, but both soon pass away, for they are based upon illusion. For they do not spring from the immediately present pleasure or pain, but only from the opening up of a new future which is anticipated in them. Only by borrowing from the future could pain or pleasure be heightened so abnormally, and consequently not enduringly. It would follow, from the hypothesis advanced, that a large part of the feeling of suffering and of well-being would be subjective and determined a priori, as is the case with knowing; and we may add the following remarks as evidence in favour of it. Human cheerfulness or dejection are manifestly not determined by external circumstances, such as wealth and position, for we see at least as many glad faces among the poor as among the rich. Further, the motives which induce suicide are so very different, that we can assign no motive that is so great as to bring it about, even with great probability, in every character, and few that would be so small that the like of them had never caused it. Now although the degree of our serenity or sadness is not at all times the same, yet, in consequence of this view, we shall not attribute it to the change of outward circumstances, but to that of the inner condition, the physical state. For when an actual, though only temporary, increase of our serenity, even to the extent of joyfulness, takes place, it usually appears without any external occasion. It is true that [pg 409] we often see our pain arise only from some definite external relation, and are visibly oppressed and saddened by this only. Then we believe that if only this were taken away, the greatest contentment would necessarily ensue. But this is illusion. The measure of our pain and our happiness is on the whole, according to our hypothesis, subjectively determined for each point of time, and the motive for sadness is related to that, just as a blister which draws to a head all the bad humours otherwise distributed is related to the body. The pain which is at that period of time essential to our nature, and therefore cannot be shaken off, would, without the definite external cause of our suffering, be divided at a hundred points, and appear in the form of a hundred little annoyances and cares about things which we now entirely overlook, because our capacity for pain is already filled by that chief evil which has concentrated in a point all the suffering otherwise dispersed. This corresponds also to the observation that if a great and pressing care is lifted from our breast by its fortunate issue, another immediately takes its place, the whole material of which was already there before, yet could not come into consciousness as care because there was no capacity left for it, and therefore this material of care remained indistinct and unobserved in a cloudy form on the farthest horizon of consciousness. But now that there is room, this prepared material at once comes forward and occupies the throne of the reigning care of the day (πρυτανευουσα). And if it is very much lighter in its matter than the material of the care which has vanished, it knows how to blow itself out so as apparently to equal it in size, and thus, as the chief care of the day, completely fills the throne.

Besides, through this perspective on the inevitability of pain, where one pain replaces another, and a new pain emerges with the loss of the previous one, we might consider the paradoxical yet reasonable idea that each person’s capacity for pain was predetermined by their nature; a capacity that could neither be empty nor exceed its limit, regardless of how the type of suffering might change. Therefore, an individual's suffering and well-being are shaped not by external factors but by that intrinsic measure, that natural disposition, which might be influenced by physical conditions at different times, yet would generally remain constant, embodying what we call temperament, or more precisely, the degree to which one might be easygoing or difficult, as Plato puts it in the First Book of the Republic, i.e., in an easy or challenging state of mind. This idea is backed not only by the well-known experience that intense suffering makes minor troubles feel insignificant, and conversely, that relief from major suffering accentuates even the slightest annoyances and can put us in a bad mood; but also by the fact that if a significant misfortune, which we dreaded at the mere thought, actually occurs, once we get through the initial pain, our overall disposition usually remains the same. Similarly, after achieving a long-desired happiness, we generally do not feel much better off or more satisfied than before. Only the moments of these changes affect us strongly, manifesting as deep sorrow or overwhelming joy, but both emotions quickly fade, as they are built on illusion. They do not arise from immediate pleasure or pain, but rather from the promise of a new future that they represent. Pain or pleasure could only be so drastically heightened by projecting into the future, hence lacking permanence. Consequently, from this hypothesis, it follows that a significant portion of our suffering and well-being feelings is subjective and determined beforehand, similar to knowledge; and we can provide further observations as evidence for this. Human joy or sadness clearly isn’t dictated by external conditions like wealth or status, as we see just as many happy faces among the poor as among the rich. Additionally, the reasons people commit suicide vary so greatly that no single motivation can be found to cause it with high probability in every individual, and very few reasons are so minor that they’ve never led to suicide. Although our levels of happiness or sadness are not constant, we shouldn’t attribute fluctuations to changes in external circumstances, but rather to shifts in our internal state, our physical condition. When an actual, albeit temporary, increase in our happiness, even to the point of joyfulness, occurs, it usually happens without any external trigger. It’s true that [pg 409] we often perceive our pain stemming from specific external factors, visibly feeling oppressed and saddened solely by them. Then we believe that removing these factors would automatically lead to our greatest contentment. However, this is an illusion. The level of our pain and happiness is overall, according to our hypothesis, subjectively defined at each moment, and the reasons for sadness relate to this, similar to how a blister collects all the bad humors otherwise spread throughout the body. The pain that is fundamentally essential to us at any given time cannot be dismissed and, without that specific external cause of our suffering, would distribute itself across many small annoyances and concerns, many of which we now entirely overlook because our capacity for pain is already filled by that primary issue that has concentrated all our dispersed suffering into one spot. This observation also aligns with the fact that when a considerable and pressing worry is alleviated through a fortunate outcome, another immediately takes its place; the material for this new concern was already there but couldn’t surface into consciousness because we had no room for it, so it remained vague and unnoticed in the background. But once there is space, this pre-existing material emerges into focus, ready to occupy the spotlight of the current concern of the day (πρυτανευουσα). And if it’s significantly lighter than the material of the concern that has just disappeared, it can inflate itself to appear equally substantial and thus, as the primary focus of the day’s worries, completely fills the role.

Excessive joy and very keen suffering always occur in the same person, for they condition each other reciprocally, and are also in common conditioned by great activity of the mind. Both are produced, as we have just seen, not by what is really present, but by the anticipation of [pg 410] the future. But since pain is essential to life, and its degree is also determined by the nature of the subject, sudden changes, because they are always external, cannot really alter its degree. Thus an error and delusion always lies at the foundation of immoderate joy or grief, and consequently both these excessive strainings of the mind can be avoided by knowledge. Every immoderate joy (exultatio, insolens lætitia) always rests on the delusion that one has found in life what can never be found there—lasting satisfaction of the harassing desires and cares, which are constantly breeding new ones. From every particular delusion of this kind one must inevitably be brought back later, and then when it vanishes must pay for it with pain as bitter as the joy its entrance caused was keen. So far, then, it is precisely like a height from which one can come down only by a fall. Therefore one ought to avoid them; and every sudden excessive grief is just a fall from some such height, the vanishing of such a delusion, and so conditioned by it. Consequently we might avoid them both if we had sufficient control over ourselves to survey things always with perfect clearness as a whole and in their connection, and steadfastly to guard against really lending them the colours which we wish they had. The principal effort of the Stoical ethics was to free the mind from all such delusion and its consequences, and to give it instead an equanimity that could not be disturbed. It is this insight that inspires Horace in the well-known ode—

Excessive joy and intense suffering often happen in the same person because they influence each other and are both affected by a highly active mind. As we've just seen, both arise not from what is currently happening but from our expectations of the future. Since pain is a fundamental part of life, and its intensity depends on the nature of the individual, sudden changes—being external—can't truly change its intensity. Therefore, there's always a mistake and a misconception at the root of extreme joy or sadness, and as a result, we can avoid these intense mental states through knowledge. Every extreme joy (exultatio, insolens lætitia) is built on the misconception that life holds something it can never truly offer—lasting satisfaction from the endless desires and worries that keep creating new ones. Eventually, we must confront these specific misconceptions, and when they fade away, we pay for it with pain as intense as the joy it initially brought. It's much like being at a height where the only way down is through a fall. So, we should steer clear of them; every sudden overwhelming grief is just a fall from such a height, which is conditioned by that misconception. Therefore, we could avoid both if we had enough self-control to see things clearly and in context, and steadfastly resist coloring them with the hues we wish they had. The main goal of Stoic philosophy was to free the mind from all such illusions and their effects, and instead cultivate an unwavering calmness. This understanding is what motivates Horace in the well-known ode—

Remember to stay calm in difficult times
Keep your mind intact, just like in good times.
Ab insolenti temperatam
Lætitia.

For the most part, however, we close our minds against the knowledge, which may be compared to a bitter medicine, that suffering is essential to life, and therefore does not flow in upon us from without, but that every one carries about with him its perennial source in his own [pg 411] heart. We rather seek constantly for an external particular cause, as it were, a pretext for the pain which never leaves us, just as the free man makes himself an idol, in order to have a master. For we unweariedly strive from wish to wish; and although every satisfaction, however much it promised, when attained fails to satisfy us, but for the most part comes presently to be an error of which we are ashamed, yet we do not see that we draw water with the sieve of the Danaides, but ever hasten to new desires.

For the most part, though, we shut ourselves off from the truth, which can be like a bitter pill to swallow: suffering is a part of life, and it doesn’t come from outside us; everyone carries its endless source in their own [pg 411] heart. Instead, we constantly look for an external reason, as if we need an excuse for the pain that never leaves us, similar to how a free person creates an idol to have a master. We tirelessly chase one desire after another; and even though every fulfillment, no matter how promising, ultimately fails to satisfy us and often becomes a source of embarrassment, we don’t realize we’re trying to draw water with a sieve, continually rushing towards new wants.

But, while we lack what we desire, it seems to surpass us
In other matters; later, when it happened, we are eager;
And let fairness hold life always gaping.Understood. Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.Lucr. iii. 1095.

Thus it either goes on for ever, or, what is more rare and presupposes a certain strength of character, till we reach a wish which is not satisfied and yet cannot be given up. In that case we have, as it were, found what we sought, something that we can always blame, instead of our own nature, as the source of our suffering. And thus, although we are now at variance with our fate, we are reconciled to our existence, for the knowledge is again put far from us that suffering is essential to this existence itself, and true satisfaction impossible. The result of this form of development is a somewhat melancholy disposition, the constant endurance of a single great pain, and the contempt for all lesser sorrows or joys that proceeds from it; consequently an already nobler phenomenon than that constant seizing upon ever-new forms of illusion, which is much more common.

So it either goes on forever, or, what is rarer and requires a certain strength of character, we reach a desire that remains unfulfilled yet can't be relinquished. In that case, we’ve essentially found what we were looking for—something we can always blame for our suffering instead of our own nature. Therefore, even if we are at odds with our fate, we come to terms with our existence, because the painful truth that suffering is part of this existence and true satisfaction is unattainable is pushed far from our minds. The outcome of this kind of development is a somewhat melancholic mindset, marked by the constant bearing of a single deep pain and a disdain for all lesser sorrows or joys that arise from it; thus, it represents a higher phenomenon than the more common habit of constantly chasing after new illusions.

§ 58. All satisfaction, or what is commonly called happiness, is always really and essentially only negative, and never positive. It is not an original gratification coming to us of itself, but must always be the satisfaction of a wish. The wish, i.e., some want, is the condition which precedes every pleasure. But with the satisfaction the wish and therefore the pleasure cease. Thus the satisfaction or the pleasing can never be more than the [pg 412] deliverance from a pain, from a want; for such is not only every actual, open sorrow, but every desire, the importunity of which disturbs our peace, and, indeed, the deadening ennui also that makes life a burden to us. It is, however, so hard to attain or achieve anything; difficulties and troubles without end are opposed to every purpose, and at every step hindrances accumulate. But when finally everything is overcome and attained, nothing can ever be gained but deliverance from some sorrow or desire, so that we find ourselves just in the same position as we occupied before this sorrow or desire appeared. All that is even directly given us is merely the want, i.e., the pain. The satisfaction and the pleasure we can only know indirectly through the remembrance of the preceding suffering and want, which ceases with its appearance. Hence it arises that we are not properly conscious of the blessings and advantages we actually possess, nor do we prize them, but think of them merely as a matter of course, for they gratify us only negatively by restraining suffering. Only when we have lost them do we become sensible of their value; for the want, the privation, the sorrow, is the positive, communicating itself directly to us. Thus also we are pleased by the remembrance of past need, sickness, want, and such like, because this is the only means of enjoying the present blessings. And, further, it cannot be denied that in this respect, and from this standpoint of egoism, which is the form of the will to live, the sight or the description of the sufferings of others affords us satisfaction and pleasure in precisely the way Lucretius beautifully and frankly expresses it in the beginning of the Second Book—

§ 58. All satisfaction, or what we usually call happiness, is always essentially negative and never positive. It isn’t an original pleasure that comes to us on its own; it must always be the fulfillment of a desire. The desire, i.e. a want, is the condition that precedes every pleasure. However, with the satisfaction, the desire and therefore the pleasure come to an end. Thus, satisfaction or pleasure can only be the [pg 412] relief from pain or want; this applies not only to any obvious, immediate sorrow but also to every desire that disrupts our peace, and even the dull boredom that burdens us with life. It is, however, very difficult to achieve anything; endless challenges and troubles come in the way of every goal, and obstacles pile up at every step. But when we finally overcome and achieve everything, all we gain is relief from some sorrow or desire, leaving us in the same situation we were in before that sorrow or desire appeared. Everything we truly receive is merely the want, i.e. the pain. We can only experience satisfaction and pleasure indirectly through the memory of the suffering and want that end with their fulfillment. This is why we are often unaware of the blessings and advantages we actually have, and we don't value them; we think of them as just a given, as they only satisfy us by preventing suffering. Only when we lose them do we recognize their value, as the want, the deprivation, the sorrow, is what comes to us directly as something positive. We also find pleasure in recalling past needs, illnesses, and wants, as this is the only way to enjoy our current blessings. Furthermore, it cannot be denied that, in this respect and from this egoistic perspective, which is part of the will to live, seeing or hearing about others' suffering gives us satisfaction and pleasure, just as Lucretius beautifully and frankly expresses at the beginning of the Second Book—

Gently, on a vast sea, with the waters disturbed by the winds,
And to watch the great effort of another:
No, because it's pleasurable to be annoyed by anyone;
But, from the troubles you avoid yourself, because it is pleasing to see.

Yet we shall see farther on that this kind of pleasure, [pg 413] through knowledge of our own well-being obtained in this way, lies very near the source of real, positive wickedness.

Yet we will see later that this type of pleasure, [pg 413] gained through awareness of our own well-being in this manner, is very close to the root of true, negative evil.

That all happiness is only of a negative not a positive nature, that just on this account it cannot be lasting satisfaction and gratification, but merely delivers us from some pain or want which must be followed either by a new pain, or by languor, empty longing, and ennui; this finds support in art, that true mirror of the world and life, and especially in poetry. Every epic and dramatic poem can only represent a struggle, an effort, and fight for happiness, never enduring and complete happiness itself. It conducts its heroes through a thousand difficulties and dangers to the goal; as soon as this is reached, it hastens to let the curtain fall; for now there would remain nothing for it to do but to show that the glittering goal in which the hero expected to find happiness had only disappointed him, and that after its attainment he was no better off than before. Because a genuine enduring happiness is not possible, it cannot be the subject of art. Certainly the aim of the idyll is the description of such a happiness, but one also sees that the idyll as such cannot continue. The poet always finds that it either becomes epical in his hands, and in this case it is a very insignificant epic, made up of trifling sorrows, trifling delights, and trifling efforts—this is the commonest case—or else it becomes a merely descriptive poem, describing the beauty of nature, i.e., pure knowing free from will, which certainly, as a matter of fact, is the only pure happiness, which is neither preceded by suffering or want, nor necessarily followed by repentance, sorrow, emptiness, or satiety; but this happiness cannot fill the whole life, but is only possible at moments. What we see in poetry we find again in music; in the melodies of which we have recognised the universal expression of the inmost history of the self-conscious will, the most secret life, longing, suffering, and delight; the ebb and [pg 414] flow of the human heart. Melody is always a deviation from the keynote through a thousand capricious wanderings, even to the most painful discord, and then a final return to the keynote which expresses the satisfaction and appeasing of the will, but with which nothing more can then be done, and the continuance of which any longer would only be a wearisome and unmeaning monotony corresponding to ennui.

All happiness is simply a negative experience rather than a positive one, which is why it can’t provide lasting satisfaction or fulfillment. Instead, it only releases us from some pain or need, which will soon be followed by either new pain or by boredom, empty longing, and dissatisfaction. This idea is reflected in art, which is a true reflection of the world and life, especially in poetry. Every epic and dramatic poem represents a struggle, an effort, and a fight for happiness, but never true, enduring happiness itself. The heroes are guided through numerous challenges and dangers to reach their goal; as soon as they succeed, the story ends. This is because there would be nothing left to show but that the shiny goal the hero thought would bring happiness actually disappointed him and left him no better off than before. Since genuine, lasting happiness isn't possible, it can't be the focus of art. The purpose of the idyll is to depict such happiness, but it's clear that the idyll itself can’t last. The poet often finds that it either turns into an epic, which in this case is a trivial tale made up of small sorrows, small joys, and small efforts—this is the most common outcome—or it becomes a purely descriptive poem, highlighting the beauty of nature, that is, pure knowledge free from will, which is indeed the only true happiness. This happiness isn’t preceded by suffering or need nor necessarily followed by regret, sorrow, emptiness, or overindulgence, but it can't fill our entire lives; it can only exist in moments. What we observe in poetry is echoed in music, where melodies express the universal realities of our deepest selves: our history of self-awareness, secret life, longing, suffering, and joy; the rise and fall of the human heart. Melody always strays from the central tone through countless unpredictable variations, even reaching painful dissonance, before ultimately returning to the central tone that signifies the satisfaction and appeasement of the will. However, beyond that point, nothing more can happen, and to continue would only lead to a tedious and meaningless monotony that matches our boredom.

All that we intend to bring out clearly through these investigations, the impossibility of attaining lasting satisfaction and the negative nature of all happiness, finds its explanation in what is shown at the conclusion of the Second Book: that the will, of which human life, like every phenomenon, is the objectification, is a striving without aim or end. We find the stamp of this endlessness imprinted upon all the parts of its whole manifestation, from its most universal form, endless time and space, up to the most perfect of all phenomena, the life and efforts of man. We may theoretically assume three extremes of human life, and treat them as elements of actual human life. First, the powerful will, the strong passions (Radscha-Guna). It appears in great historical characters; it is described in the epic and the drama. But it can also show itself in the little world, for the size of the objects is measured here by the degree in which they influence the will, not according to their external relations. Secondly, pure knowing, the comprehension of the Ideas, conditioned by the freeing of knowledge from the service of will: the life of genius (Satwa-Guna). Thirdly and lastly, the greatest lethargy of the will, and also of the knowledge attaching to it, empty longing, life-benumbing languor (Tama-Guna). The life of the individual, far from becoming permanently fixed in one of these extremes, seldom touches any of them, and is for the most part only a weak and wavering approach to one or the other side, a needy desiring of trifling objects, constantly recurring, and so [pg 415] escaping ennui. It is really incredible how meaningless and void of significance when looked at from without, how dull and unenlightened by intellect when felt from within, is the course of the life of the great majority of men. It is a weary longing and complaining, a dream-like staggering through the four ages of life to death, accompanied by a series of trivial thoughts. Such men are like clockwork, which is wound up, and goes it knows not why; and every time a man is begotten and born, the clock of human life is wound up anew, to repeat the same old piece it has played innumerable times before, passage after passage, measure after measure, with insignificant variations. Every individual, every human being and his course of life, is but another short dream of the endless spirit of nature, of the persistent will to live; is only another fleeting form, which it carelessly sketches on its infinite page, space and time; allows to remain for a time so short that it vanishes into nothing in comparison with these, and then obliterates to make new room. And yet, and here lies the serious side of life, every one of these fleeting forms, these empty fancies, must be paid for by the whole will to live, in all its activity, with many and deep sufferings, and finally with a bitter death, long feared and coming at last. This is why the sight of a corpse makes us suddenly so serious.

All that we intend to clarify through these investigations—the impossibility of achieving lasting satisfaction and the negative nature of all happiness—is explained by what is revealed at the end of the Second Book: that the will, which human life, like every phenomenon, embodies, is a striving without aim or end. We see this endlessness stamped on all parts of its entire manifestation, from its most universal forms, endless time and space, to the most perfect phenomena, the life and efforts of mankind. We can theoretically identify three extremes of human life and treat them as elements of actual human experience. First, the powerful will, the strong passions (Radscha-Guna). It shows up in significant historical figures; it is depicted in epics and dramas. But it can also manifest in smaller spheres, as the scale of these objects is measured by how they impact the will, not by their external relationships. Second, pure knowing, the understanding of Ideas, which is conditioned by freeing knowledge from the demands of will: the life of genius (Satwa-Guna). Lastly, the greatest lethargy of will and the knowledge tied to it, empty longing, life-numbing indolence (Tama-Guna). The life of the individual rarely becomes permanently fixed in one of these extremes; it seldom touches any of them and is generally just a weak and wavering approach to one side or the other, a needy desire for trivial things, perpetually recurring, and thus escaping boredom. It is truly remarkable how meaningless and insignificant, when viewed from the outside, and how dull and unilluminated by intellect, when felt from within, is the life journey of the vast majority of people. It consists of a weary longing and complaints, a dream-like stumbling through the four stages of life toward death, accompanied by a series of trivial thoughts. These people are like clockwork, which is wound up and moves without knowing why; every time a person is conceived and born, the clock of human life is wound up again to repeat the same old tune it has played countless times before, passage after passage, measure after measure, with trivial variations. Every individual, every human being and their life course, is just another short dream of the endless spirit of nature, of the persistent will to live; it is merely another fleeting form that it carelessly sketches on its infinite page, space and time; it allows to exist for such a brief time that it disappears into nothing compared to these, and then obliterates it to make room for new ones. Yet, here lies the serious side of life: each of these fleeting forms, these empty fantasies, must be paid for by the entire will to live, in all its activity, with much deep suffering, and ultimately with a bitter death, long feared and eventually arriving. This is why the sight of a corpse suddenly makes us so serious.

The life of every individual, if we survey it as a whole and in general, and only lay stress upon its most significant features, is really always a tragedy, but gone through in detail, it has the character of a comedy. For the deeds and vexations of the day, the restless irritation of the moment, the desires and fears of the week, the mishaps of every hour, are all through chance, which is ever bent upon some jest, scenes of a comedy. But the never-satisfied wishes, the frustrated efforts, the hopes unmercifully crushed by fate, the unfortunate errors of the whole life, with increasing suffering and death at the [pg 416] end, are always a tragedy. Thus, as if fate would add derision to the misery of our existence, our life must contain all the woes of tragedy, and yet we cannot even assert the dignity of tragic characters, but in the broad detail of life must inevitably be the foolish characters of a comedy.

The life of every person, when we look at it as a whole and focus on its most important aspects, is really always a tragedy. But when we break it down into details, it feels more like a comedy. The daily actions and frustrations, the constant irritations of the moment, the wishes and fears of the week, the setbacks we face every hour—all these are by chance, which seems to only want to make a joke, resembling scenes from a comedy. However, the never-ending desires, the thwarted efforts, the hopes that fate cruelly shatters, and the unfortunate mistakes that accumulate throughout life, along with increasing suffering and death at the end, are always tragic. It’s as if fate wants to add mockery to the pain of our existence; our lives must hold all the sorrows of tragedy, yet we can’t even claim the dignity of tragic heroes—our lives inevitably embody the foolishness of comedy in their broader details.

But however much great and small trials may fill human life, they are not able to conceal its insufficiency to satisfy the spirit; they cannot hide the emptiness and superficiality of existence, nor exclude ennui, which is always ready to fill up every pause that care may allow. Hence it arises that the human mind, not content with the cares, anxieties, and occupations which the actual world lays upon it, creates for itself an imaginary world also in the form of a thousand different superstitions, then finds all manner of employment with this, and wastes time and strength upon it, as soon as the real world is willing to grant it the rest which it is quite incapable of enjoying. This is accordingly most markedly the case with nations for which life is made easy by the congenial nature of the climate and the soil, most of all with the Hindus, then with the Greeks, the Romans, and later with the Italians, the Spaniards, &c. Demons, gods, and saints man creates in his own image; and to them he must then unceasingly bring offerings, prayers, temple decorations, vows and their fulfilment, pilgrimages, salutations, ornaments for their images, &c. Their service mingles everywhere with the real, and, indeed, obscures it. Every event of life is regarded as the work of these beings; the intercourse with them occupies half the time of life, constantly sustains hope, and by the charm of illusion often becomes more interesting than intercourse with real beings. It is the expression and symptom of the actual need of mankind, partly for help and support, partly for occupation and diversion; and if it often works in direct opposition to the first need, because when accidents and dangers arise valuable time [pg 417] and strength, instead of being directed to warding them off, are uselessly wasted on prayers and offerings; it serves the second end all the better by this imaginary converse with a visionary spirit world; and this is the by no means contemptible gain of all superstitions.

But no matter how many big and small challenges fill human life, they can't hide its inability to satisfy the spirit; they can't cover up the emptiness and superficiality of existence, nor can they prevent boredom, which is always ready to take over every moment when worry allows it. This is why the human mind, unsatisfied with the cares, anxieties, and activities that the real world imposes, creates an imaginary world filled with various superstitions, then finds all sorts of distractions in it and wastes time and energy on it whenever the real world gives it a break that it is unable to enjoy. This is especially true for nations where life is made easier by a favorable climate and soil, particularly the Hindus, then the Greeks, the Romans, and later the Italians, Spaniards, etc. People create demons, gods, and saints in their own image, and then they constantly offer them gifts, prayers, temple decorations, vows and their fulfillment, pilgrimages, greetings, ornaments for their images, etc. Their worship is intertwined with reality, often obscuring it. Every life event is seen as the work of these beings; interaction with them takes up half of life’s time, constantly fuels hope, and, through the allure of illusion, often becomes more engaging than interactions with real beings. It expresses a genuine need among humanity, partly for help and support and partly for engagement and entertainment; and while it often contradicts the first need—since when accidents and dangers arise, valuable time [pg 417] and energy, instead of being spent on avoiding them, are wasted on prayers and offerings—it better serves the second purpose through this imaginary interaction with a spiritual realm, which is no small benefit of all superstitions.

§ 59. If we have so far convinced ourselves a priori, by the most general consideration, by investigation of the primary and elemental features of human life, that in its whole plan it is capable of no true blessedness, but is in its very nature suffering in various forms, and throughout a state of misery, we might now awaken this conviction much more vividly within us if, proceeding more a posteriori, we were to turn to more definite instances, call up pictures to the fancy, and illustrate by examples the unspeakable misery which experience and history present, wherever one may look and in whatever direction one may seek. But the chapter would have no end, and would carry us far from the standpoint of the universal, which is essential to philosophy; and, moreover, such a description might easily be taken for a mere declamation on human misery, such as has often been given, and, as such, might be charged with one-sidedness, because it started from particular facts. From such a reproach and suspicion our perfectly cold and philosophical investigation of the inevitable suffering which is founded in the nature of life is free, for it starts from the universal and is conducted a priori. But confirmation a posteriori is everywhere easily obtained. Every one who has awakened from the first dream of youth, who has considered his own experience and that of others, who has studied himself in life, in the history of the past and of his own time, and finally in the works of the great poets, will, if his judgment is not paralysed by some indelibly imprinted prejudice, certainly arrive at the conclusion that this human world is the kingdom of chance and error, which rule without mercy in great things and in small, and along with which folly and wickedness also wield the scourge. Hence it arises [pg 418] that everything better only struggles through with difficulty; what is noble and wise seldom attains to expression, becomes effective and claims attention, but the absurd and the perverse in the sphere of thought, the dull and tasteless in the sphere of art, the wicked and deceitful in the sphere of action, really assert a supremacy, only disturbed by short interruptions. On the other hand, everything that is excellent is always a mere exception, one case in millions, and therefore, if it presents itself in a lasting work, this, when it has outlived the enmity of its contemporaries, exists in isolation, is preserved like a meteoric stone, sprung from an order of things different from that which prevails here. But as far as the life of the individual is concerned, every biography is the history of suffering, for every life is, as a rule, a continual series of great and small misfortunes, which each one conceals as much as possible, because he knows that others can seldom feel sympathy or compassion, but almost always satisfaction at the sight of the woes from which they are themselves for the moment exempt. But perhaps at the end of life, if a man is sincere and in full possession of his faculties, he will never wish to have it to live over again, but rather than this, he will much prefer absolute annihilation. The essential content of the famous soliloquy in “Hamlet” is briefly this: Our state is so wretched that absolute annihilation would be decidedly preferable. If suicide really offered us this, so that the alternative “to be or not to be,” in the full sense of the word, was placed before us, then it would be unconditionally to be chosen as “a consummation devoutly to be wished.” But there is something in us which tells us that this is not the case: suicide is not the end; death is not absolute annihilation. In like manner, what was said by the father of history71 has not since him been contradicted, that no man has ever lived who has not wished more than once that he had not to live the following day. [pg 419] According to this, the brevity of life, which is so constantly lamented, may be the best quality it possesses. If, finally, we should bring clearly to a man's sight the terrible sufferings and miseries to which his life is constantly exposed, he would be seized with horror; and if we were to conduct the confirmed optimist through the hospitals, infirmaries, and surgical operating-rooms, through the prisons, torture-chambers, and slave-kennels, over battle-fields and places of execution; if we were to open to him all the dark abodes of misery, where it hides itself from the glance of cold curiosity, and, finally, allow him to glance into the starving dungeon of Ugolino, he, too, would understand at last the nature of this “best of possible worlds.” For whence did Dante take the materials for his hell but from this our actual world? And yet he made a very proper hell of it. And when, on the other hand, he came to the task of describing heaven and its delights, he had an insurmountable difficulty before him, for our world affords no materials at all for this. Therefore there remained nothing for him to do but, instead of describing the joys of paradise, to repeat to us the instruction given him there by his ancestor, by Beatrice, and by various saints. But from this it is sufficiently clear what manner of world it is. Certainly human life, like all bad ware, is covered over with a false lustre: what suffers always conceals itself; on the other hand, whatever pomp or splendour any one can get, he makes a show of openly, and the more inner contentment deserts him, the more he desires to exist as fortunate in the opinion of others: to such an extent does folly go, and the opinion of others is a chief aim of the efforts of every one, although the utter nothingness of it is expressed in the fact that in almost all languages vanity, vanitas, originally signifies emptiness and nothingness. But under all this false show, the miseries of life can so increase—and this happens every day—that the death which hitherto has been feared above all things is [pg 420] eagerly seized upon. Indeed, if fate will show its whole malice, even this refuge is denied to the sufferer, and, in the hands of enraged enemies, he may remain exposed to terrible and slow tortures without remedy. In vain the sufferer then calls on his gods for help; he remains exposed to his fate without grace. But this irremediableness is only the mirror of the invincible nature of his will, of which his person is the objectivity. As little as an external power can change or suppress this will, so little can a foreign power deliver it from the miseries which proceed from the life which is the phenomenal appearance of that will. In the principal matter, as in everything else, a man is always thrown back upon himself. In vain does he make to himself gods in order to get from them by prayers and flattery what can only be accomplished by his own will-power. The Old Testament made the world and man the work of a god, but the New Testament saw that, in order to teach that holiness and salvation from the sorrows of this world can only come from the world itself, it was necessary that this god should become man. It is and remains the will of man upon which everything depends for him. Fanatics, martyrs, saints of every faith and name, have voluntarily and gladly endured every torture, because in them the will to live had suppressed itself; and then even the slow destruction of its phenomenon was welcome to them. But I do not wish to anticipate the later exposition. For the rest, I cannot here avoid the statement that, to me, optimism, when it is not merely the thoughtless talk of such as harbour nothing but words under their low foreheads, appears not merely as an absurd, but also as a really wicked way of thinking, as a bitter mockery of the unspeakable suffering of humanity. Let no one think that Christianity is favourable to optimism; for, on the contrary, in the Gospels world and evil are used as almost synonymous.72

§ 59. If we have so far convinced ourselves beforehand, by the most general considerations and by examining the fundamental aspects of human life, that in its entirety it is incapable of true happiness and is, by its very nature, suffering in various forms, existing in a state of misery, we might now reinforce this belief more vividly by looking at more specific examples, evoking images in our minds, and illustrating with examples the unimaginable suffering that experience and history reveal wherever we look. However, such a chapter would never end and would take us far away from the universal perspective that is essential to philosophy; moreover, such a description might easily be misinterpreted as a mere rant about human misery, as has often been done, and might be criticized for being one-sided because it starts from particular facts. Our completely objective and philosophical exploration of the inevitable suffering inherent to life is free from such criticism and suspicion, as it begins from the universal and is carried out beforehand. But confirmation after the fact is readily available everywhere. Anyone who has woken up from the initial dreams of youth, who has reflected on his own experiences as well as those of others, who has observed himself in life, in the history of the past and his own time, and finally in the works of great poets, will, if his judgment is not clouded by some indelible prejudice, definitely come to the conclusion that this human world is governed by chance and error, which operate mercilessly in both grand and trivial matters, alongside which folly and wickedness also reign. Hence, it follows [pg 418] that anything better only barely survives; what is noble and wise seldom expresses itself, becomes impactful, or grabs attention, while the absurd and the perverse in thought, the dull and tasteless in art, and the wicked and deceitful in action really dominate, only momentarily interrupted. On the other hand, everything that is excellent is always just an exception, one instance among millions, and thus, if it appears in a lasting creation, this work, having outlived the hostility of its contemporaries, remains isolated, preserved like a meteorite from a realm different from the prevailing order here. However, regarding individual lives, every biography is a history of suffering, as every life is generally a continuous series of both major and minor misfortunes, which each person conceals as much as possible, knowing that others rarely feel sympathy or compassion, but almost always experience satisfaction at witnessing the woes from which they themselves are temporarily exempt. But perhaps at the end of life, if a person is sincere and fully aware, he will never wish to live it over again; instead, he would prefer complete annihilation. The essential message of the famous soliloquy in "Hamlet" is simply this: Our condition is so miserable that absolute annihilation seems much more appealing. If suicide truly provided this, so that the choice "to be or not to be," was put before us in its full sense, then it would unquestionably be the option to choose as "a fulfillment that is truly desired." Yet there is something in us that tells us this isn’t the case: suicide is not the end; death is not complete annihilation. Similarly, what was stated by the father of history has not been refuted since he uttered it—that no one has lived who hasn't wished more than once that he didn’t have to live to see the next day. [pg 419] Based on this, the brevity of life, which is constantly lamented, may actually be its best quality. Ultimately, if we were to clearly expose a person to the terrible sufferings and hardships that life constantly presents, he would be overwhelmed with horror; and if we were to take a committed optimist through hospitals, infirmaries, surgical operating rooms, prisons, torture chambers, and places of execution; if we were to show him all the dark corners of misery that hide from the gaze of cold curiosity, and finally allow him a glimpse into the starving dungeon of Ugolino, he would, too, finally understand the nature of this "best of all possible worlds." For from where did Dante gather the materials for his hell if not from our actual world? And yet he created a very fitting hell from it. Conversely, when he tried to describe heaven and its pleasures, he faced insurmountable challenges, since our world offers no materials for this. Thus, he had no choice but to, instead of portraying the joys of paradise, relay to us the teachings given to him there by his ancestor, Beatrice, and various saints. This makes it clear what kind of world we inhabit. Indeed, human life, like all flawed goods, is cloaked in a false shine: what suffers always hides away; meanwhile, whatever pomp or prestige anyone can display is flaunted openly, and the more inner satisfaction departs from them, the more they seek to appear fortunate in the eyes of others: such is the extent of folly, and the opinion of others is a primary goal for everyone, despite the utter insignificance of this, evidenced by the fact that in almost all languages, vanity, vanity, originally signifies emptiness and nothingness. However, beneath all this deceptive façade, the miseries of life can escalate so much—and this happens every day—that the death once feared above all else is [pg 420] eagerly embraced. Indeed, if fate shows its true hostility, even this solace is denied to the sufferer, and, in the hands of furious enemies, they may be forced to endure horrific and prolonged tortures without relief. In vain does the sufferer then call upon his gods for help; he remains exposed to his fate without grace. But this inability to remedy is merely a reflection of the unyielding nature of his will, of which his being is the manifestation. Just as an external force cannot change or suppress this will, neither can it liberate him from the suffering stemming from the life that is the observable expression of that will. In the main issue, as in everything else, a person is always thrown back on himself. It is futile for him to create gods in hopes of obtaining through prayers and flattery what can only be achieved by his own willpower. The Old Testament portrayed the world and humanity as the creation of a god, but the New Testament recognized that, in order to teach that holiness and liberation from the sorrows of this world can only arise from the world itself, this god had to become human. Ultimately, it is and remains the human will upon which everything depends. Fanatics, martyrs, saints of every faith and name, have voluntarily and gladly endured every torment because within them the will to live had suppressed itself; and even the gradual demise of its manifestation became welcome to them. Yet, I do not wish to preempt the later discussion. For the record, I cannot avoid stating here that, to me, hopefulness, when it is not merely the thoughtless chatter of those who hold nothing but words beneath their dull foreheads, appears not just absurd, but also genuinely awesome, serving as a bitter mockery of the unspeakable suffering of humanity. Let no one assume that Christianity supports optimism; on the contrary, in the Gospels, the world and evil are treated as almost synonymous.72

[pg 421]

§ 60. We have now completed the two expositions it was necessary to insert; the exposition of the freedom of the will in itself together with the necessity of its phenomenon, and the exposition of its lot in the world which reflects its own nature, and upon the knowledge of which it has to assert or deny itself. Therefore we can now proceed to bring out more clearly the nature of this assertion and denial itself, which was referred to and explained in a merely general way above. This we shall do by exhibiting the conduct in which alone it finds its expression, and considering it in its inner significance.

§ 60. We have now finished the two explanations that needed to be included; the explanation of free will in itself along with the necessity of its occurrence, and the explanation of its place in the world that reflects its own nature, upon which it has to assert or deny itself. Therefore, we can now clarify the nature of this assertion and denial itself, which was mentioned and explained in a general way above. We will do this by showing the behavior in which it alone finds its expression and considering it in its deeper meaning.

The assertion of the will is the continuous willing itself, undisturbed by any knowledge, as it fills the life of man in general. For even the body of a man is the objectivity of the will, as it appears at this grade and in this individual. And thus his willing which develops itself in time is, as it were, a paraphrase of his body, an elucidation of the significance of the whole and its parts; it is another way of exhibiting the same thing-in-itself, of which the body is already the phenomenon. Therefore, instead of saying assertion of the will, we may say assertion of the body. The fundamental theme or subject of all the multifarious acts of will is the satisfaction of the wants which are inseparable from the existence of the body in health, they already have their expression in it, and may be referred to the maintenance of the individual and the propagation of the species. But indirectly the most different kinds of motives obtain in this way power over the will, and bring about the most multifarious acts of will. Each of these is only an example, an instance, of the will which here manifests itself generally. Of what nature this example may be, what form the motive may have and impart to it, is not essential; the important point here is that something is willed in general and the degree of intensity with which it is so willed. The will can only become visible in the motives, as the eye only manifests its power of seeing in the light. [pg 422] The motive in general stands before the will in protean forms. It constantly promises complete satisfaction, the quenching of the thirst of will. But whenever it is attained it at once appears in another form, and thus influences the will anew, always according to the degree of the intensity of this will, and its relation to knowledge which are revealed as empirical character, in these very examples and instances.

The willpower assertion is the ongoing act of willing itself, unaffected by any knowledge, as it fills a person's life in general. Even a person's body is the expression of the will, as it appears at this stage and within this individual. Therefore, their willingness, which unfolds over time, can be seen as a reflection of their body, clarifying the meaning of both the whole and its parts; it’s another way of showing the same underlying reality, of which the body is already a manifestation. So instead of saying assertion of the will, we can say assertion of the body. The main theme or focus of all the various acts of will is to satisfy the needs that are tied to the body’s existence in good health; these needs are already expressed through it and relate to the individual's survival and the continuation of the species. However, in different ways, various types of motives gain influence over the will, resulting in a wide range of acts of will. Each of these acts is just an example of the will that manifests itself generally. The nature of this example, the form the motive takes and how it shapes the act, is not what matters; the key point is that something is willed and the intensity with which it is willed. The will can only be seen through the motives, just as the eye reveals its ability to see in the light. [pg 422] The motive generally presents itself to the will in various forms. It continually promises complete satisfaction, the relief of the will's thirst. But once that satisfaction is achieved, it immediately takes on another form, influencing the will again, always depending on the intensity of that will and its relationship to knowledge, which are shown as empirical characteristics in these very examples and instances.

From the first appearance of consciousness, a man finds himself a willing being, and as a rule, his knowledge remains in constant relation to his will. He first seeks to know thoroughly the objects of his desire, and then the means of attaining them. Now he knows what he has to do, and, as a rule, he does not strive after other knowledge. He moves and acts; his consciousness keeps him always working directly and actively towards the aims of his will; his thought is concerned with the choice of motives. Such is life for almost all men; they wish, they know what they wish, and they strive after it, with sufficient success to keep them from despair, and sufficient failure to keep them from ennui and its consequences. From this proceeds a certain serenity, or at least indifference, which cannot be affected by wealth or poverty; for the rich and the poor do not enjoy what they have, for this, as we have shown, acts in a purely negative way, but what they hope to attain to by their efforts. They press forward with much earnestness, and indeed with an air of importance; thus children also pursue their play. It is always an exception if such a life suffers interruption from the fact that either the æsthetic demand for contemplation or the ethical demand for renunciation proceed from a knowledge which is independent of the service of the will, and directed to the nature of the world in general. Most men are pursued by want all through life, without ever being allowed to come to their senses. On the other hand, the will is often inflamed to a degree that far transcends the assertion of the [pg 423] body, and then violent emotions and powerful passions show themselves, in which the individual not only asserts his own existence, but denies and seeks to suppress that of others when it stands in his way.

From the moment we become conscious, a person discovers they are a willing being, and usually, their knowledge is closely tied to their desires. They first want to fully understand the things they desire, and then figure out how to achieve them. Now they know what needs to be done, and typically, they don’t seek other knowledge. They move and take action; their awareness drives them to work directly and actively toward their goals; their thoughts focus on choosing motivations. This is how life is for most people; they have desires, they know what those desires are, and they pursue them with enough success to prevent despair and enough failure to avoid boredom and its consequences. This results in a certain calmness, or at least a sense of indifference, that wealth or poverty cannot disturb; the rich and the poor alike do not enjoy what they possess—instead, as we've shown, they are driven by what they hope to achieve through their efforts. They push forward with great seriousness, much like children engrossed in play. It's quite rare for this kind of life to be interrupted by either a desire for contemplation or an ethical call for self-denial that comes from a perspective independent of the will, aimed at understanding the broader nature of the world. Most people are driven by wants throughout their lives, often without ever gaining real insight. Conversely, the will can sometimes become so intense that it far exceeds the basic needs of the body, leading to strong emotions and powerful passions where the individual not only asserts their own existence but also denies and tries to suppress that of others when it gets in their way.

The maintenance of the body through its own powers is so small a degree of the assertion of will, that if it voluntarily remains at this degree, we might assume that, with the death of this body, the will also which appeared in it would be extinguished. But even the satisfaction of the sexual passions goes beyond the assertion of one's own existence, which fills so short a time, and asserts life for an indefinite time after the death of the individual. Nature, always true and consistent, here even naïve, exhibits to us openly the inner significance of the act of generation. Our own consciousness, the intensity of the impulse, teaches us that in this act the most decided assertion of the will to live expresses itself, pure and without further addition (any denial of other individuals); and now, as the consequence of this act, a new life appears in time and the causal series, i.e., in nature; the begotten appears before the begetter, different as regards the phenomenon, but in himself, i.e., according to the Idea, identical with him. Therefore it is this act through which every species of living creature binds itself to a whole and is perpetuated. Generation is, with reference to the begetter, only the expression, the symptom, of his decided assertion of the will to live: with reference to the begotten, it is not the cause of the will which appears in him, for the will in itself knows neither cause nor effect, but, like all causes, it is merely the occasional cause of the phenomenal appearance of this will at this time in this place. As thing-in-itself, the will of the begetter and that of the begotten are not different, for only the phenomenon, not the thing-in-itself, is subordinate to the principim individuationis. With that assertion beyond our own body and extending to the production of a new body, suffering [pg 424] and death, as belonging to the phenomenon of life, have also been asserted anew, and the possibility of salvation, introduced by the completest capability of knowledge, has for this time been shown to be fruitless. Here lies the profound reason of the shame connected with the process of generation. This view is mythically expressed in the dogma of Christian theology that we are all partakers in Adam's first transgression (which is clearly just the satisfaction of sexual passion), and through it are guilty of suffering and death. In this theology goes beyond the consideration of things according to the principle of sufficient reason, and recognises the Idea of man, the unity of which is re-established out of its dispersion into innumerable individuals through the bond of generation which holds them all together. Accordingly it regards every individual as on one side identical with Adam, the representative of the assertion of life, and, so far, as subject to sin (original sin), suffering, and death; on the other side, the knowledge of the Idea of man enables it to regard every individual as identical with the saviour, the representative of the denial of the will to live, and, so far as a partaker of his sacrifice of himself, saved through his merits, and delivered from the bands of sin and death, i.e., the world (Rom. v. 12-21).

The maintenance of the body through its own powers represents such a small aspect of the assertion of will that if it consciously chooses to remain at this level, we might think that with the death of this body, the will that existed in it would also cease. However, even the fulfillment of sexual passions goes beyond merely asserting one's own existence, which lasts only a brief time, and instead asserts life indefinitely beyond the death of the individual. Nature, always true and consistent, even innocently, openly reveals to us the deeper meaning of the act of creation. Our own consciousness and the intensity of the impulse teach us that in this act, the most clear assertion of the desire to live is expressed, pure and uncomplicated (without denying other individuals); and now, as a result of this act, a new life emerges in time and the causal chain, i.e., in nature; the offspring appears before the parent, different in terms of the phenomenon, but in essence, i.e., according to the Idea, identical with them. Thus, through this act, every species of living creature connects itself to a whole and ensures its continuation. Generation, in relation to the parent, is merely the expression, the symptom, of their strong assertion of the will to live: in relation to the offspring, it is not the source of the will emerging in them since the will itself knows no cause or effect but is simply the occasional cause of the observable emergence of this will at this particular time and place. In its true form, the will of the parent and that of the offspring are not different, for only the phenomenon, not the essence, is subject to the principle of individuation. With this assertion extending beyond our own body to create a new one, suffering [pg 424] and death, as part of the phenomenon of life, have also been asserted anew, and the potential for salvation, introduced through the fullest capability of knowledge, has shown to be pointless this time. Here lies the deep reason for the shame associated with the process of generation. This idea is mythically expressed in the belief of Christian theology that we all share in Adam's first sin (which is clearly just the satisfaction of sexual desire), and through it, we are guilty of suffering and death. In this theology, there is a move beyond considering things solely according to the principle of sufficient reason and it recognizes the Idea of man, the unity of which is restored from its fragmentation into countless individuals through the bond of generation that holds them all together. Consequently, it views every individual as being, on one hand, identical with Adam, the representative of the assertion of life, and thus subject to sin (original sin), suffering, and death; on the other hand, the understanding of the Idea of man allows it to view every individual as being identical with the savior, the representative of the denial of the will to live, and thus a partaker in his self-sacrifice, redeemed through his merits, and freed from the chains of sin and death, i.e., the world (Rom. v. 12-21).

Another mythical exposition of our view of sexual pleasure as the assertion of the will to live beyond the individual life, as an attainment to life which is brought about for the first time by this means, or as it were a renewed assignment of life, is the Greek myth of Proserpine, who might return from the lower world so long as she had not tasted its fruit, but who became subject to it altogether through eating the pomegranate. This meaning appears very clearly in Goethe's incomparable presentation of this myth, especially when, as soon as she has tasted the pomegranate, the invisible chorus of the Fates—

Another mythical representation of our understanding of sexual pleasure as a declaration of the will to live beyond individual existence, as a journey to life that is first achieved through this means, or as a renewed assignment of life, is the Greek myth of Proserpine. She could return from the underworld as long as she hadn’t eaten its fruit, but she became fully subject to it upon eating the pomegranate. This meaning is very clearly conveyed in Goethe's unmatched depiction of this myth, especially when, right after she tastes the pomegranate, the invisible chorus of the Fates—

[pg 425]
“You are ours!”
Fasting should you return:
And the bite of the apple makes you ours!

It is worth noticing that Clement of Alexandria (Strom. iii. c. 15) illustrates the matter with the same image and the same expression: Οἱ μεν ευνουχισαντες ἑαυτους απο πασης ἁμαρτιας, δια την βασιλειαν, των ουρανων, μακαριοι οὑτοι εισιν, οἱ του κοσμου νηστευοντες; (Qui se castrarunt ab omni peccato propter regnum cœlorum, ii sunt beati, a mundo jejunantes).

It’s important to note that Clement of Alexandria (Strom. iii. c. 15) uses the same image and expression: "Those who have castrated themselves from all sin for the sake of the kingdom of heaven, blessed are they, those who fast from the world?" (Those who have renounced all sin for the sake of the Kingdom of Heaven are blessed; they are fasting from the world.).

The sexual impulse also proves itself the decided and strongest assertion of life by the fact that to man in a state of nature, as to the brutes, it is the final end, the highest goal of life. Self-maintenance is his first effort, and as soon as he has made provision for that, he only strives after the propagation of the species: as a merely natural being he can attempt no more. Nature also, the inner being of which is the will to live itself, impels with all her power both man and the brute towards propagation. Then it has attained its end with the individual, and is quite indifferent to its death, for, as the will to live, it cares only for the preservation of the species, the individual is nothing to it. Because the will to live expresses itself most strongly in the sexual impulse, the inner being of nature, the old poets and philosophers—Hesiod and Parmenides—said very significantly that Eros is the first, the creator, the principle from which all things proceed. (Cf. Arist. Metaph., i. 4.) Pherecydes said: Εις ερωτα μεταβεβλησθαι τον Δια, μελλοντα δημιουργειν (Jovem, cum mundum fabricare vellet, in cupidinem sese transformasse). Proclus ad Plat. Tim., l. iii. A complete treatment of this subject we have recently received from G. F. Schœmann, De Cupidine Cosmogonico,” 1852. The Mâya of the Hindus, whose work and web is the whole world of illusion, is also symbolised by love.

The sexual drive clearly shows itself as the most powerful assertion of life because, for humans in their natural state, just like for animals, it represents the ultimate goal of existence. The first instinct is self-preservation, and once that need is met, the focus shifts to the continuation of the species; as purely natural beings, they seek nothing more. Nature, which is essentially the will to live, drives both humans and animals towards reproduction with all its force. Once this goal is achieved for the individual, nature becomes indifferent to its death, as the will to live is concerned only with the survival of the species—the individual holds no significance. Since the will to live is most strongly expressed in the sexual impulse, ancient poets and philosophers—like Hesiod and Parmenides—notably stated that Eros is the first, the creator, and the principle from which everything arises. (Cf. Arist. Metaph., i. 4.) Pherecydes said: Εις ερωτα μεταβεβλησθαι τον Δια, μελλοντα δημιουργειν (Young, wishing to shape the world, found himself transformed into desire). Proclus on Plato's Timaeus., l. iii. A thorough exploration of this topic was recently provided by G. F. Schœmann, “De Cupidine Cosmogonico,” 1852. The Mâya of the Hindus, which encompasses the entire world of illusion, is also represented by love.

The genital organs are, far more than any other external member of the body, subject merely to the will, and [pg 426] not at all to knowledge. Indeed, the will shows itself here almost as independent of knowledge, as in those parts which, acting merely in consequence of stimuli, are subservient to vegetative life and reproduction, in which the will works blindly as in unconscious nature. For generation is only reproduction passing over to a new individual, as it were reproduction at the second power, as death is only excretion at the second power. According to all this, the genitals are properly the focus of will, and consequently the opposite pole of the brain, the representative of knowledge, i.e., the other side of the world, the world as idea. The former are the life-sustaining principle ensuring endless life to time. In this respect they were worshipped by the Greeks in the phallus, and by the Hindus in the lingam, which are thus the symbol of the assertion of the will. Knowledge, on the other hand, affords the possibility of the suppression of willing, of salvation through freedom, of conquest and annihilation of the world.

The genital organs are, much more than any other external part of the body, primarily controlled by the will and not by knowledge at all. In fact, the will here seems almost independent of knowledge, similar to those parts that respond solely to stimuli, serving life processes and reproduction, where the will operates blindly, like in unconscious nature. Generation is simply reproduction extending to a new individual, essentially reproduction at a higher level, just as death is excretion at a higher level. Given all this, the genitals are essentially the focus of will, and therefore the opposite of the brain, which represents knowledge, i.e., the other side of reality, the world as idea. The former represents the life-sustaining principle that guarantees endless existence in time. In this sense, they were revered by the Greeks in the penis, and by the Hindus in the lingam, symbolizing the assertion of will. Knowledge, on the other hand, provides the means to suppress will, achieve freedom, and conquer and eradicate the world.

We already considered fully at the beginning of this Fourth Book how the will to live in its assertion must regard its relation to death. We saw that death does not trouble it, because it exists as something included in life itself and belonging to it. Its opposite, generation, completely counterbalances it; and, in spite of the death of the individual, ensures and guarantees life to the will to live through all time. To express this the Hindus made the lingam an attribute of Siva, the god of death. We also fully explained there how he who with full consciousness occupies the standpoint of the decided assertion of life awaits death without fear. We shall therefore say nothing more about this here. Without clear consciousness most men occupy this standpoint and continually assert life. The world exists as the mirror of this assertion, with innumerable individuals in infinite time and space, in infinite suffering, between generation and death without end. Yet from no side is a complaint to be [pg 427] further raised about this; for the will conducts the great tragedy and comedy at its own expense, and is also its own spectator. The world is just what it is because the will, whose manifestation it is, is what it is, because it so wills. The justification of suffering is, that in this phenomenon also the will asserts itself; and this assertion is justified and balanced by the fact that the will bears the suffering. Here we get a glimpse of eternal justice in the whole: we shall recognise it later more definitely and distinctly, and also in the particular. But first we must consider temporal or human justice.73

We already considered at the beginning of this Fourth Book how the will to live, in its assertion, must acknowledge its relationship with death. We saw that death doesn’t trouble it because it exists as part of life itself and is inherent to it. Its opposite, creation, completely balances it out; and despite the death of the individual, it ensures and guarantees life to the will to live throughout all time. To illustrate this, the Hindus made the lingam an attribute of Siva, the god of death. We also explained that someone who fully understands the firm assertion of life can face death without fear. So we won’t discuss that further here. Most people, lacking clear consciousness, occupy this standpoint and continuously affirm life. The world exists as a reflection of this affirmation, with countless individuals across infinite time and space, in countless struggles, between generation and death without end. Yet no complaint shall be [pg 427] raised about this; for the will conducts the grand tragedy and comedy at its own expense, while also being its own audience. The world is exactly as it is because the will, which manifests it, is as it is, because it desires it that way. The justification for suffering lies in the fact that within this phenomenon, the will asserts itself; and this assertion is validated and balanced by the will enduring the suffering. Here we catch a glimpse of everlasting justice in the whole: we will recognize it later more clearly and distinctly, both in general and in specific cases. But first, we need to consider temporal or human justice.73

§ 61. It may be remembered from the Second Book that in the whole of nature, at all the grades of the objectification of will, there was a necessary and constant conflict between the individuals of all species; and in this way was expressed the inner contradiction of the will to live with itself. At the highest grade of the objectification, this phenomenon, like all others, will exhibit itself with greater distinctness, and will therefore be more easily explained. With this aim we shall next attempt to trace the source of egoism as the starting-point of all conflict.

§ 61. It might be recalled from the Second Book that throughout all of nature, in every level of the expression of will, there has been an essential and ongoing struggle among individuals of all species; this reflects the internal contradiction of the will to live with itself. At the highest level of this expression, this phenomenon, like all others, will become clearer and thus easier to explain. With this goal in mind, we will next attempt to identify the source of selfishness as the root of all conflict.

We have called time and space the principium individuationis, because only through them and in them is multiplicity of the homogeneous possible. They are the essential forms of natural knowledge, i.e., knowledge springing from the will. Therefore the will everywhere manifests itself in the multiplicity of individuals. But this multiplicity does not concern the will as thing-in-itself, but only its phenomena. The will itself is present, whole and undivided, in every one of these, and beholds around it the innumerably repeated image of its own nature; but this nature itself, the actually real, it finds directly only in its inner self. Therefore every one desires everything for himself, desires to possess, or at least to control, everything, and whatever opposes it it would like to destroy. To this is added, in [pg 428] the case of such beings as have knowledge, that the individual is the supporter of the knowing subject, and the knowing subject is the supporter of the world, i.e., that the whole of Nature outside the knowing subject, and thus also all other individuals, exist only in its idea; it is only conscious of them as its idea, thus merely indirectly as something which is dependent on its own nature and existence; for with its consciousness the world necessarily disappears for it, i.e., its being and non-being become synonymous and indistinguishable. Every knowing individual is thus in truth, and finds itself as the whole will to live, or the inner being of the world itself, and also as the complemental condition of the world as idea, consequently as a microcosm which is of equal value with the macrocosm. Nature itself, which is everywhere and always truthful, gives him this knowledge, originally and independently of all reflection, with simple and direct certainty. Now from these two necessary properties we have given the fact may be explained that every individual, though vanishing altogether and diminished to nothing in the boundless world, yet makes itself the centre of the world, has regard for its own existence and well-being before everything else; indeed, from the natural standpoint, is ready to sacrifice everything else for this—is ready to annihilate the world in order to maintain its own self, this drop in the ocean, a little longer. This disposition is egoism, which is essential to everything in Nature. Yet it is just through egoism that the inner conflict of the will with itself attains to such a terrible revelation; for this egoism has its continuance and being in that opposition of the microcosm and macrocosm, or in the fact that the objectification of will has the principium individuationis for its form, through which the will manifests itself in the same way in innumerable individuals, and indeed entire and completely in both aspects (will and idea) in each. Thus, while each individual is given to itself directly as the [pg 429] whole will and the whole subject of ideas, other individuals are only given it as ideas. Therefore its own being, and the maintenance of it, is of more importance to it than that of all others together. Every one looks upon his own death as upon the end of the world, while he accepts the death of his acquaintances as a matter of comparative indifference, if he is not in some way affected by it. In the consciousness that has reached the highest grade, that of man, egoism, as well as knowledge, pain and pleasure, must have reached its highest grade also, and the conflict of individuals which is conditioned by it must appear in its most terrible form. And indeed we see this everywhere before our eyes, in small things as in great. Now we see its terrible side in the lives of great tyrants and miscreants, and in world-desolating wars; now its absurd side, in which it is the theme of comedy, and very specially appears as self-conceit and vanity. Rochefoucault understood this better than any one else, and presented it in the abstract. We see it both in the history of the world and in our own experience. But it appears most distinctly of all when any mob of men is set free from all law and order; then there shows itself at once in the distinctest form the bellum omnium contra omnes, which Hobbes has so admirably described in the first chapter De Cive. We see not only how every one tries to seize from the other what he wants himself, but how often one will destroy the whole happiness or life of another for the sake of an insignificant addition to his own happiness. This is the highest expression of egoism, the manifestations of which in this regard are only surpassed by those of actual wickedness, which seeks, quite disinterestedly, the hurt and suffering of others, without any advantage to itself. Of this we shall speak soon. With this exhibition of the source of egoism the reader should compare the presentation of it in my prize-essay on the basis of morals, § 14.

We refer to time and space as the principle of individuation, because it is only through them and within them that the variety of the same can exist. They are the fundamental frameworks of natural understanding, i.e., knowledge that arises from the will. Thus, the will expresses itself everywhere in the diversity of individuals. However, this diversity doesn’t pertain to the will as a thing-in-itself, but only to its manifestations. The will is fully present, complete and undivided, in each individual, reflecting the countless repetitions of its own essence; yet it finds this essence, the true reality, only within itself. Consequently, every individual desires everything for themselves, wishes to own, or at least control, everything, and seeks to eliminate anything that stands in their way. Additionally, for beings that possess knowledge, the individual serves as the foundation of the knowing subject, and the knowing subject is the foundation of the world, i.e., that all of Nature outside the knowing subject, and thus all other individuals, exist solely in its perception; it recognizes them only as its idea, thus merely indirectly as something reliant on its own nature and existence; because with this awareness, the world inevitably fades away for it, i.e., its being and non-being become equivalent and indistinguishable. Every knowing individual is, therefore, in reality, and perceives itself as the total will to live, or the inner essence of the world itself, as well as the complementary condition of the world as idea, making it a microcosm of equal significance to the macrocosm. Nature itself, which is always truthful, grants this knowledge, originating independently of any reflection, with simple and direct certainty. From these two essential properties, we can explain the fact that every individual, while entirely disappearing and reduced to nothing in the vast world, still considers itself the center of the universe, prioritizing its own existence and well-being above everything else; indeed, from a natural perspective, it is prepared to sacrifice everything else for this purpose—it would destroy the world to prolong its own existence, this drop in the ocean, for just a little longer. This tendency is selfishness, a trait intrinsic to everything in Nature. Yet, it is through egoism that the inner struggle of the will with itself reveals such a dreadful outcome; for this egoism persists and exists in the conflict between the microcosm and macrocosm, or in the notion that the objectification of will follows the principle of individuation as its form, through which the will manifests itself identically across countless individuals, completely and integrally in both dimensions (will and idea) in each one. Thus, while each individual perceives itself directly as the [pg 429] total will and the entire subject of ideas, other individuals are perceived only as ideas. Therefore, maintaining its own existence is more vital to it than that of all others combined. Each person views their own death as the end of the world, while they regard the death of others with relative indifference, unless it affects them personally. In the highest form of consciousness, that of humans, egoism, along with knowledge, pain, and pleasure, must also reach its peak, and the conflict among individuals that arises from it must manifest in its most extreme form. And indeed, we see this everywhere in both minor and major instances. At times, we glimpse its dreadful aspect in the lives of powerful tyrants and villains, and during devastating wars; at other times, we witness its absurd side, which becomes comedic, particularly in the form of self-importance and vanity. Rochefoucault articulated this better than anyone else, abstracting it effectively. We observe it in both historical events and personal experiences. It becomes most pronounced when a mob of people is freed from laws and order; then we clearly see the war of all against all, which Hobbes aptly described in the first chapter of *De Cive*. We witness not only how everyone tries to seize what they desire from others, but also how frequently one might destroy another's entire happiness or life for the sake of a trivial boost to their own. This is the ultimate expression of egoism, the instances of which are only surpassed by outright malice, which seeks to harm and inflict suffering on others without any benefit to itself. We will discuss this soon. In examining this origin of egoism, the reader should compare it to my presentation of the same in my award-winning essay on the basis of morals, § 14.

A chief source of that suffering which we found above [pg 430] to be essential and inevitable to all life is, when it really appears in a definite form, that Eris, the conflict of all individuals, the expression of the contradiction, with which the will to live is affected in its inner self, and which attains a visible form through the principium individuationis. Wild-beast fights are the most cruel means of showing this directly and vividly. In this original discord lies an unquenchable source of suffering, in spite of the precautions that have been taken against it, and which we shall now consider more closely.

A major source of the suffering we mentioned earlier [pg 430] that is essential and unavoidable in all life is, when it becomes apparent in a specific form, that Eris, the conflict among all individuals, represents the contradiction that impacts the will to live at its core, and which becomes visible through the principle of individuation. Animal fights are the most brutal way to demonstrate this directly and vividly. Within this fundamental discord lies an endless source of suffering, despite the efforts made to guard against it, which we will now examine more closely.

§ 62. It has already been explained that the first and simplest assertion of the will to live is only the assertion of one's own body, i.e., the exhibition of the will through acts in time, so far as the body, in its form and design, exhibits the same will in space, and no further. This assertion shows itself as maintenance of the body, by means of the application of its own powers. To it is directly related the satisfaction of the sexual impulse; indeed this belongs to it, because the genitals belong to the body. Therefore voluntary renunciation of the satisfaction of that impulse, based upon no motive, is already a denial of the will to live, is a voluntary self-suppression of it, upon the entrance of knowledge which acts as a quieter. Accordingly such denial of one's own body exhibits itself as a contradiction by the will of its own phenomenon. For although here also the body objectifies in the genitals the will to perpetuate the species, yet this is not willed. Just on this account, because it is a denial or suppression of the will to live, such a renunciation is a hard and painful self-conquest; but of this later. But since the will exhibits that self-assertion of one's own body in innumerable individuals beside each other, it very easily extends in one individual, on account of the egoism peculiar to them all, beyond this assertion to the denial of the same will appearing in another individual. The will of the first breaks through the limits of the assertion of will of another, because the individual either destroys or injures [pg 431] this other body itself, or else because it compels the powers of the other body to serve its own will, instead of the will which manifests itself in that other body. Thus if, from the will manifesting itself as another body, it withdraws the powers of this body, and so increases the power serving its own will beyond that of its own body, it consequently asserts its own will beyond its own body by means of the negation of the will appearing in another body. This breaking through the limits of the assertion of will of another has always been distinctly recognised, and its concept denoted by the word wrong. For both sides recognise the fact instantly, not, indeed, as we do here in distinct abstraction, but as feeling. He who suffers wrong feels the transgression into the sphere of the assertion of his own body, through the denial of it by another individual, as a direct and mental pain which is entirely separated and different from the accompanying physical suffering experienced from the act or the vexation at the loss. To the doer of wrong, on the other hand, the knowledge presents itself that he is in himself the same will which appears in that body also, and which asserts itself with such vehemence; the one phenomenon that, transgressing the limits of its own body and its powers, it extends to the denial of this very will in another phenomenon, and so, regarded as will in itself, it strives against itself by this vehemence and rends itself. Moreover, this knowledge presents itself to him instantly, not in abstracto, but as an obscure feeling; and this is called remorse, or, more accurately in this case, the feeling of wrong committed.

§ 62. It has already been explained that the first and simplest expression of the will to live is simply the assertion of one’s own body, i.e., showing the will through actions over time, as the body, in its form and design, expresses the same will in space, and nothing more. This assertion appears as the maintenance of the body, using its own abilities. It is directly related to the satisfaction of the sexual impulse; in fact, this impulse is part of it because the genitals are part of the body. Therefore, a optional decision to give up satisfying that impulse, without any motive, is essentially a denial of the will to live, a voluntary suppression of it, influenced by knowledge acting as a more silent. As a result, denying one’s own body shows up as a contradiction of the will of its own phenomenon. For even though the body also expresses in the genitals the will to reproduce the species, this is not actively chosen. Because it represents a denial or suppression of the will to live, such renunciation becomes a challenging and painful self-conquest; but more on that later. Since the will shows that self-advocacy of one’s own body in countless individuals alongside each other, it easily extends for one individual, due to the inherent egoism in all of them, beyond this assertion to the denial of the same will as it appears in another individual. The will of the first individual breaks through the limits of the will assertion of another, either by destroying or harming [pg 431] that other body, or by forcing the powers of the other body to serve its own will, instead of the will which is expressed in that other body. Thus, if it withdraws the powers from the other body manifesting as a different will, it increases the power serving its own will beyond that of its own body, consequently asserting its own will beyond its own body by negating the will that appears in another body. This breaking through the limits of another's will assertion has always been clearly recognized and labeled as incorrect. Both sides recognize this fact immediately, not as we do here in clear abstraction, but as a feeling. The one who suffers wrong feels the violation of the realm of his own body due to another individual's denial of it as a direct and mental pain that is entirely separate and distinct from the physical suffering caused by the act or the upset at the loss. On the other hand, the wrongdoer knows that he is the same will that appears in that other body, asserting itself with such intensity; one phenomenon that, by overstepping the limits of its own body and powers, extends to denying this very will in another phenomenon, and therefore, seen as will in itself, it struggles against itself with such intensity and tears itself apart. Moreover, this knowledge comes to him immediately, not in abstract, but as a vague feeling; and this feeling is called remorse, or, more accurately in this case, the feeling of wrong done.

Wrong, the conception of which we have thus analysed in its most general and abstract form, expresses itself in the concrete most completely, peculiarly, and palpably in cannibalism. This is its most distinct and evident type, the terrible picture of the greatest conflict of the will with itself at the highest grade of its objectification, which is man. Next to this, it expresses itself most distinctly [pg 432] in murder; and therefore the committal of murder is followed instantly and with fearful distinctness by remorse, the abstract and dry significance of which we have just given, which inflicts a wound on our peace of mind that a lifetime cannot heal. For our horror at the murder committed, as also our shrinking from the committal of it, corresponds to that infinite clinging to life with which everything living, as phenomenon of the will to live, is penetrated. (We shall analyse this feeling which accompanies the doing of wrong and evil, in other words, the pangs of conscience, more fully later on, and raise its concept to distinctness.) Mutilation, or mere injury of another body, indeed every blow, is to be regarded as in its nature the same as murder, and differing from it only in degree. Further, wrong shows itself in the subjugation of another individual, in forcing him into slavery, and, finally, in the seizure of another's goods, which, so far as these goods are regarded as the fruit of his labour, is just the same thing as making him a slave, and is related to this as mere injury is to murder.

Incorrect, which we've analyzed in its most general and abstract form, expresses itself most fully, uniquely, and obviously in cannibalism. This is its most clear and evident representation, depicting the intense struggle of the will against itself at the highest level of objectification, which is humanity. After this, it is seen most clearly [pg 432] in murder; and so the act of murder is swiftly followed by a severe and unmistakable remorse, the abstract and blunt meaning of which we just discussed, leaving a wound on our peace of mind that a lifetime cannot mend. Our horror at the murder committed, as well as our aversion to committing it, aligns with that deep instinct for life that infuses everything living, as a manifestation of the will to live. (We will explore this feeling that accompanies wrongdoing and evil, in other words, the pangs of conscience, more thoroughly later and clarify its concept.) Mutilation, or simply injuring another person, even any strike, should be viewed as fundamentally the same as murder, differing only in severity. Moreover, wrong manifests itself in the domination of another person, forcing them into slavery, and ultimately in the taking of someone else's possessions, which, in so far as these possessions are viewed as the outcome of their labor, is effectively the same as making them a slave, just as simple injury relates to murder.

For property, which is not taken from a man without wrong, can, according to our explanation of wrong, only be that which has been produced by his own powers. Therefore by taking this we really take the powers of his body from the will objectified in it, to make them subject to the will objectified in another body. For only so does the wrong-doer, by seizing, not the body of another, but a lifeless thing quite different from it, break into the sphere of the assertion of will of another person, because the powers, the work of this other body, are, as it were, incorporated and identified with this thing. It follows from this that all true, i.e., moral, right of property is based simply and solely on work, as was pretty generally assumed before Kant, and is distinctly and beautifully expressed in the oldest of all codes of law: “Wise men who know the past explain that a cultured field is the property of him who cut down the wood and cleared and [pg 433] ploughed it, as an antelope belongs to the first hunter who mortally wounds it” (Laws of Manu, ix. 44). Kant's philosophy of law is an extraordinary concatenation of errors all leading to each other, and he bases the right of property upon first occupation. To me this is only explicable on the supposition that his powers were failing through old age. For how should the mere avowal of my will to exclude others from the use of a thing at once give me a right to it? Clearly such an avowal itself requires a foundation of right, instead of being one, as Kant assumes. And how would he act unjustly in se, i.e., morally, who does not respect that claim to the sole possession of a thing which is based upon nothing but its own avowal? How should his conscience trouble him about it? For it is so clear and easy to understand that there can be absolutely no such thing as a just seizure of anything, but only a just conversion or acquired possession of it, by spending our own original powers upon it. When, by any foreign labour, however little, a thing has been cultivated, improved, kept from harm or preserved, even if this labour were only the plucking or picking up from the ground of fruit that has grown wild; the person who forcibly seizes such a thing clearly deprives the other of the result of his labour expended upon it, makes the body of this other serve his will instead of its own, asserts his will beyond its own phenomenon to the denial of that of the other, i.e., does injustice or wrong.74 On the other hand, the mere enjoyment of a thing, without any cultivation or preservation of it from destruction, gives just as little right to it as the mere avowal of our desire for its sole possession. Therefore, though one family has hunted a district alone, even for a [pg 434] hundred years, but has done nothing for its improvement; if a stranger comes and desires to hunt there, it cannot prevent him from doing so without moral injustice. Thus the so-called right of preoccupation, according to which, for the mere past enjoyment of a thing, there is demanded the further recompense of the exclusive right to its future enjoyment, is morally entirely without foundation. A new-comer might with far better right reply to him who was depending upon such a right, “Just because you have so long enjoyed, it is right that others should now enjoy also.” No moral right can be established to the sole possession of anything upon which labour cannot be expended, either in improving it or in preserving it from harm, unless it be through a voluntary surrender on the part of others, as a reward for other services. This, however, already presupposes a community regulated by agreement—the State. The morally established right of property, as we have deduced it above, gives, from its nature, to the owner of a thing, the same unlimited power over it which he has over his own body; and hence it follows that he can part with his possessions to others either in exchange or as a gift, and they then possess them with the same moral right as he did.

For property, which isn't taken from someone without wrong, can, based on our understanding of wrong, only be what has been created by that person's own efforts. By taking this property, we are essentially taking the abilities of their body that have been manifested in it, making them subject to the will expressed in another body. This is how the wrongdoer, by seizing not another person's body but a completely different lifeless object, intrudes into the sphere of assertion of will of someone else, because the abilities, the work of that other body, seem to be incorporated and identified with this object. Thus, it follows that all true, i.e., moral, property rights are fundamentally based on labor, as was generally assumed before Kant, and this is clearly and beautifully stated in the oldest legal codes: "Knowledgeable people who understand history say that a cultivated land belongs to the person who chopped down the trees, cleared it, and plowed it, just like an antelope belongs to the first hunter who inflicts a fatal wound on it." (Laws of Manu, ix. 44). Kant’s philosophy of law is a remarkable chain of errors all connected to one another, as he bases property rights on first occupancy. To me, this can only be explained by the assumption that his faculties were failing due to old age. How could the mere assertion of my will to exclude others from using something automatically grant me a correct to it? Clearly, such an assertion itself needs a foundation of right, rather than being one, as Kant suggests. How would someone act unjustly in itself, i.e., morally, if they do not acknowledge that claim to sole ownership of something based solely on their own assertion? Why should their conscience be troubled by it? It is so clear and straightforward to understand that there can be no such thing as a just seizure of anything; rather, there can only be a just conversion or possession through our own efforts. When any external effort, no matter how small, has cultivated, improved, protected, or preserved something, even if this work was just picking or gathering fruit that grew wild; the person who forcibly takes such an object is clearly depriving the other of the results of their labor and makes the other person serve their own will instead of its own, asserting their will beyond its own existence to deny that of the other, i.e., committing injustice or wrong.74 Conversely, simply enjoying something without any cultivation or protection from destruction affords just as little right to it as merely declaring a desire for its exclusive ownership. Therefore, even if one family has hunted in an area alone for a [pg 434] hundred years without improving it; if a stranger comes and wants to hunt there, they cannot stop him without committing moral injustice. Thus, the so-called right of first occupancy, which claims that merely having enjoyed something in the past entitles one to exclusive future enjoyment, is entirely without moral foundation. A newcomer could justifiably respond to someone claiming such a right, "Just because you’ve enjoyed it for so long, it’s only fair that others should enjoy it too." No moral right can be established to sole ownership of anything that cannot be improved or protected through labor, unless it is through a voluntary surrender from others as a reward for other services. This, however, presupposes a community governed by agreement—the State. The morally established right of property, as we have outlined above, naturally gives the owner of something the same unlimited control over it that they have over their own body; therefore, they can transfer their possessions to others either as a trade or as a gift, and those others then possess them with the same moral right as they did.

As regards the doing of wrong generally, it occurs either through violence or through craft; it matters not which as far as what is morally essential is concerned. First, in the case of murder, it is a matter of indifference whether I make use of a dagger or of poison; and the case of every bodily injury is analogous. Other cases of wrong can all be reduced to the fact that I, as the doer of wrong, compel another individual to serve my will instead of his own, to act according to my will instead of according to his own. On the path of violence I attain this end through physical causality, but on the path of craft by means of motivation, i.e., by means of causality through knowledge; for I present to his will [pg 435] illusive motives, on account of which he follows my will, while he believes he is following his own. Since the medium in which the motives lie is knowledge, I can only accomplish this by falsifying his knowledge, and this is the lie. The lie always aims at influencing another's will, not merely his knowledge, for itself and as such, but only as a means, so far as it determines his will. For my lying itself, inasmuch as it proceeds from my will, requires a motive; and only the will of another can be such a motive, not his knowledge in and for itself; for as such it can never have an influence upon my will, therefore it can never move it, can never be a motive of its aim. But only the willing and doing of another can be this, and his knowledge indirectly through it. This holds good not only of all lies that have manifestly sprung from self-interest, but also of those which proceed from pure wickedness, which seeks enjoyment in the painful consequences of the error into which it has led another. Indeed, mere empty boasting aims at influencing the will and action of others more or less, by increasing their respect or improving their opinion of the boaster. The mere refusal of a truth, i.e., of an assertion generally, is in itself no wrong, but every imposing of a lie is certainly a wrong. He who refuses to show the strayed traveller the right road does him no wrong, but he who directs him to a false road certainly does. It follows from what has been said, that every lie, like every act of violence, is as such wrong, because as such it has for its aim the extension of the authority of my will to other individuals, and so the assertion of my will through the denial of theirs, just as much as violence has. But the most complete lie is the broken contract, because here all the conditions mentioned are completely and distinctly present together. For when I enter into a contract, the promised performance of the other individual is directly and confessedly the motive for my reciprocal performance. The promises were deliberately [pg 436] and formally exchanged. The fulfilment of the declarations made is, it is assumed, in the power of each. If the other breaks the covenant, he has deceived me, and by introducing merely illusory motives into my knowledge, he has bent my will according to his intention; he has extended the control of his will to another individual, and thus has committed a distinct wrong. On this is founded the moral lawfulness and validity of the contract.

Regarding wrongdoing in general, it happens either through force or through deception; it doesn’t matter which in terms of what is morally significant. First, with murder, it doesn’t matter if I use a knife or poison; the same applies to any physical harm. Other forms of wrongdoing can all be boiled down to the fact that I, as the wrongdoer, force another person to act according to my wishes instead of their own. Through violence, I achieve this through physical means, but through deception, I use persuasion, meaning I influence them through their understanding. I present misleading motives that lead them to follow my desires while they think they’re acting on their own. Since the basis of these motives is knowledge, I can only do this by distorting their understanding, which is the lie. The lie always aims at influencing someone else's will, not just their knowledge for its own sake, but as a means to determine their will. My own lying, since it comes from my will, requires a motive; and only the will of another can serve as such a motive, not their knowledge by itself, since that cannot influence my will. Only the willingness and actions of another can provide this, with their knowledge serving as a secondary factor. This applies not only to all lies that clearly come from self-interest but also to those that arise from pure malice, seeking pleasure in the harmful outcomes that result from misleading someone else. In fact, mere bragging also aims to sway the will and actions of others by boosting their respect or improving their view of the boastful person. Simply refusing to state a fact, in other words, refusing to make an assertion, is not inherently wrong, but imposing a lie certainly is. The person who refuses to show a lost traveler the right path does them no harm, but directing them to a wrong path definitely does. From this, it follows that every lie, like every act of violence, is inherently wrong because it seeks to extend my will over others, asserting my will while denying theirs, just like violence does. However, the most complete lie is breaking a contract, because all the factors mentioned are fully and clearly present. When I enter into a contract, the other person's promised performance is explicitly the reason for my own reciprocation. The promises are exchanged intentionally and formally. It is assumed that fulfilling those promises is within the power of each party. If the other person breaks the agreement, they deceive me, introducing merely false motives into my understanding and steering my will according to their intention; they have extended their will over another person and thus committed a clear wrongdoing. This forms the basis of the moral legitimacy and validity of a contract.

Wrong through violence is not so shameful to the doer of it as wrong through craft; for the former arises from physical power, which under all circumstances impresses mankind; while the latter, by the use of subterfuge, betrays weakness, and lowers man at once as a physical and moral being. This is further the case because lying and deception can only succeed if he who employs them expresses at the same time horror and contempt of them in order to win confidence, and his victory rests on the fact that men credit him with honesty which he does not possess. The deep horror which is always excited by cunning, faithlessness, and treachery rests on the fact that good faith and honesty are the bond which externally binds into a unity the will which has been broken up into the multiplicity of individuals, and thereby limits the consequences of the egoism which results from that dispersion. Faithlessness and treachery break this outward bond asunder, and thus give boundless scope to the consequences of egoism.

Wrong done through violence isn't as shameful to the person committing it as wrong done through deceit; the former comes from physical strength, which, in any situation, impresses people. In contrast, the latter, through trickery, reveals weakness and degrades a person both physically and morally. This is even more true because lying and deceit can only work if the person using them simultaneously shows disgust and disdain for such actions to gain trust, and their success relies on others believing they are honest when they aren't. The deep disgust that arises from cunning, betrayal, and deceit exists because good faith and honesty serve as the bond that unites individuals, whose wills have been fragmented into many parts, and this limits the effects of the egoism caused by that fragmentation. Betrayal and treachery tear this bond apart, allowing the consequences of egoism to run free.

In the connection of our system we have found that the content of the concept of wrong is that quality of the conduct of an individual in which he extends the assertion of the will appearing in his own body so far that it becomes the denial of the will appearing in the bodies of others. We have also laid down, by means of very general examples, the limits at which the province of wrong begins; for we have at once defined its gradations, from the highest degree to the lowest, by means of a few [pg 437] leading conceptions. According to this, the concept of wrong is the original and positive, and the concept of right, which is opposed to it, is the derivative and negative; for we must keep to the concepts, and not to the words. As a matter of fact, there would be no talk of right if there were no such thing as wrong. The concept right contains merely the negation of wrong, and every action is subsumed under it which does not transgress the limit laid down above, i.e., is not a denial of the will of another for the stronger assertion of our own. That limit, therefore, divides, as regards a purely moral definition, the whole province of possible actions into such as are wrong or right. Whenever an action does not encroach, in the way explained above, on the sphere of the assertion of will of another, denying it, it is not wrong. Therefore, for example, the refusal of help to another in great need, the quiet contemplation of the death of another from starvation while we ourselves have more than enough, is certainly cruel and fiendish, but it is not wrong; only it can be affirmed with certainty that whoever is capable of carrying unkindness and hardness to such a degree will certainly also commit every wrong whenever his wishes demand it and no compulsion prevents it.

In our system, we've discovered that the idea of incorrect refers to the quality of a person's behavior where they assert their will to the extent that it undermines the will of others. We’ve also established, through some general examples, the point at which the concept of wrong starts; we've defined its levels from the highest to the lowest through a few [pg 437] key ideas. Thus, the concept of wrong is original and positive, while the opposing concept of right is derivative and negative; we must focus on the ideas, not just the words. In reality, we wouldn't even discuss right if wrong didn’t exist. The concept of right simply represents the absence of wrong, and any action that doesn’t violate the boundaries mentioned above—i.e., doesn’t deny another's will for the sake of asserting our own—is considered right. This limit, therefore, separates all possible actions into those that are wrong and those that are right, according to a purely ethics definition. Whenever an action doesn’t encroach on another person’s will as described, it’s not wrong. For instance, refusing to help someone in dire need or passively watching someone die of starvation while we have plenty may be cruel and heartless, but it isn’t technically wrong; however, it can be confidently stated that anyone capable of such unkindness is likely to commit actual wrongs whenever it suits their desires, provided there’s no external pressure stopping them.

But the conception of right as the negation of wrong finds its principal application, and no doubt its origin, in cases in which an attempted wrong by violence is warded off. This warding off cannot itself be wrong, and consequently is right, although the violence it requires, regarded in itself and in isolation, would be wrong, and is here only justified by the motive, i.e., becomes right. If an individual goes so far in the assertion of his own will that he encroaches upon the assertion of will which is essential to my person as such, and denies it, then my warding off of that encroachment is only the denial of that denial, and thus from my side is nothing more than the assertion of the will which essentially and originally appears in my body, and is already implicitly [pg 438] expressed by the mere appearance of this body; consequently is not wrong, but right. That is to say: I have then a right to deny that denial of another with the force necessary to overcome it, and it is easy to see that this may extend to the killing of the other individual, whose encroachment as external violence pressing upon me may be warded off by a somewhat stronger counteraction, entirely without wrong, consequently with right. For all that happens from my side lies always within the sphere of the assertion of will essential to my person as such, and already expressed by it (which is the scene of the conflict), and does not encroach on that of the other, consequently is only negation of the negation, and thus affirmation, not itself negation. Thus if the will of another denies my will, as this appears in my body and the use of its powers for its maintenance, without denial of any foreign will which observes a like limitation, I can without wrong compel it to desist from such denial, i.e., I have so far a right of compulsion.

But the idea of right as the absence of wrong mainly applies to situations where an attempted wrong by force is defended against. Defending against this can't be considered wrong and is therefore right, even though the violence involved, when viewed on its own, would be wrong and is only justified here by the motive, meaning it becomes right. If someone asserts their own will to the point that it infringes on my essential will and denies it, then my defense against that infringement is simply the rejection of that denial, and from my perspective, it's merely the assertion of the will that is fundamentally inherent in my body, already implicitly expressed just by my physical presence; therefore, it is not wrong, but right. In other words, I have the right to counter that denial of another with the necessary force to overcome it, and it’s clear that this can extend to taking the life of the other person, whose external aggression against me can be repelled by a stronger response, entirely without being wrong, thus with right. Everything that happens on my part is always within the realm of asserting the will essential to my identity, already expressed by it (which is the arena of conflict), and does not infringe upon the other’s will; consequently, it is simply the negation of the negation, and thus an affirmation, not a negation in itself. Therefore, if another person's will denies my will, as it manifests in my body and the use of its powers for its preservation, without denying any other will that recognizes a similar limitation, I can not right force them to stop such denial, i.e. I have thus far a right to compel.

In all cases in which I have a right of compulsion, a complete right to use violence against another, I may, according to the circumstances, just as well oppose the violence of the other with craft without doing any wrong, and accordingly I have an actual right to lie precisely so far as I have a right of compulsion. Therefore a man acts with perfect right who assures a highway robber who is searching him that he has nothing more upon him; or, if a burglar has broken into his house by night, induces him by a lie to enter a cellar and then locks him in. A man who has been captured and carried off by robbers, for example by pirates, has the right to kill them not only by violence but also by craft, in order to regain his freedom. Thus, also, a promise is certainly not binding when it has been extorted by direct bodily violence, because he who suffers such compulsion may with full right free himself by killing, and, a fortiori, by deceiving his oppressor. Whoever cannot recover through force the property which has [pg 439] been stolen from him, commits no wrong if he can accomplish it through craft. Indeed, if some one plays with me for money he has stolen from me, I have the right to use false dice against him, because all that I win from him already belongs to me. Whoever would deny this must still more deny the justifiableness of stratagem in war, which is just an acted lie, and is a proof of the saying of Queen Christina of Sweden, “The words of men are to be esteemed as nothing; scarcely are their deeds to be trusted.” So sharply does the limit of right border upon that of wrong. For the rest, I regard it as superfluous to show that all this completely agrees with what was said above about the unlawfulness of the lie and of violence. It may also serve to explain the peculiar theory of the lie told under pressure.75

In any situation where I have the right to force someone, meaning I can use violence against them, I can also counter their violence with smartness without doing anything wrong. Because of this, I have an actual the right to lie as much as I have the right to compel. Therefore, it is perfectly justifiable for a person to tell a highway robber who is searching them that they have nothing else on them or, if a burglar breaks into their home at night, to trick them into going into a cellar and then lock them in. A person who has been taken captive by robbers, like pirates, has the right to kill them, not only through violence but also through cleverness, in order to regain their freedom. Likewise, a promise cannot be considered binding if it was obtained through direct physical violence, because anyone who is subjected to such force can rightfully free themselves by killing, and by extension, by deceiving their oppressor. Anyone who cannot recover their stolen property through force does not do wrong if they can achieve it through cleverness. Indeed, if someone plays a game with me using money they stole from me, I have the right to use loaded dice against them, because everything I win back from them already belongs to me. Anyone who would dispute this must also deny the legitimacy of using tricks in warfare, which is essentially a lie in action, supporting Queen Christina of Sweden's statement, "The words of men should be valued as nothing; their actions are hardly trustworthy." The line between what is right and what is wrong is very thin. Furthermore, I believe it is unnecessary to reiterate that all of this aligns with what was previously stated about the immorality of lying and violence. This may also clarify the unique concept of lying under duress.75

In accordance with what has been said, wrong and right are merely moral determinations, i.e., such as are valid with regard to the consideration of human action as such, and in relation to the inner significance of this action in itself. This asserts itself directly in consciousness through the fact that the doing of wrong is accompanied by an inward pain, which is the merely felt consciousness of the wrong-doer of the excessive strength of the assertion of will in itself, which extends even to the denial of the manifestation of the will of another, and also the consciousness that although he is different from the person suffering wrong as far as the manifestation is concerned, yet in himself he is identical with him. The further explanation of this inner significance of all pain of conscience cannot be given till later. He who suffers wrong is, on the other hand, painfully conscious of the denial of his will, as it is expressed through the body and its natural requirements, for the satisfaction of which nature refers him to the powers of his body; and at the [pg 440] same time he is conscious that without doing wrong he might ward off that denial by every means unless he lacks the power. This purely moral significance is the only one which right and wrong have for men as men, not as members of the State, and which consequently remains even when man is in a state of nature without any positive law. It constitutes the basis and the content of all that has on this account been named natural law, though it is better called moral law, for its validity does not extend to suffering, to the external reality, but only to the action of man and the self-knowledge of his individual will which grows up in him from his action, and which is called conscience. It cannot, however, in a state of nature, assert itself in all cases, and outwardly upon other individuals, and prevent might from reigning instead of right. In a state of nature it depends upon every one merely to see that in every case he does no wrong, but by no means to see that in every case he suffers no wrong, for this depends on the accident of his outward power. Therefore the concepts right and wrong, even in a state of nature, are certainly valid and by no means conventional, but there they are valid merely as moral concepts, for the self-knowledge of one's own will in each. They are a fixed point in the scale of the very different degrees of strength with which the will to live asserts itself in human individuals, like the freezing-point on the thermometer; the point at which the assertion of one's own will becomes the denial of the will of another, i.e., specifies through wrong-doing the degree of its intensity, combined with the degree in which knowledge is involved in the principium individuationis (which is the form of all knowledge that is subject to the will). But whoever wants to set aside the purely moral consideration of human action, or denies it, and wishes to regard conduct merely in its outward effects and their consequences, may certainly, with Hobbes, explain right and wrong as conventional definitions arbitrarily assumed, and therefore [pg 441] not existing outside positive law, and we can never show him through external experience what does not belong to such experience. Hobbes himself characterises his completely empirical method of thought very remarkably by the fact that in his book De Principiis Geometrarum he denies all pure mathematics properly so called, and obstinately maintains that the point has extension and the line has breadth, and we can never show him a point without extension or a line without breadth. Thus we can just as little impart to him the a priori nature of mathematics as the a priori nature of right, because he shuts himself out from all knowledge which is not empirical.

In line with what has been discussed, wrong and right are simply moral judgments, meaning they are relevant to understanding human actions and the deeper significance of those actions. This becomes clear in our awareness because doing wrong brings about an internal discomfort, which is the wrongdoer's recognition of their strong assertion of will, even to the point of denying the will of another person. They also realize that even though their actions differ from the person being wronged, they are fundamentally the same. A more detailed explanation of the inner significance of conscience-related pain will come later. On the other hand, the person who suffers from wrongdoing is acutely aware of the denial of their will as expressed through their body and its natural needs, which nature tells them should be fulfilled by their physical capabilities. Simultaneously, they know that if they weren’t doing wrong, they could potentially prevent that denial by any means available, unless they lack the ability to do so. This moral significance is the only one that right and wrong hold for people as individuals, rather than as members of the state, and it persists even when individuals exist in a natural state without any formal laws. It forms the basis and essence of what has been called natural law, though it is more accurately referred to as moral law, because its validity pertains not to suffering or external reality, but to human actions and the self-awareness of individual will that develops from those actions, known as conscience. However, in a natural state, this moral law cannot always manifest itself outwardly toward others, making it powerless against the dominance of force over right. In such a state, it is solely up to each individual to ensure they do not commit wrongs, but not necessarily to ensure they do not suffer wrong, as that depends on the randomness of their external power. Therefore, the ideas of right and wrong, even in a natural setting, are still valid and are not merely conventional; instead, they exist as moral concepts indicating self-awareness of one’s will. They provide a consistent reference point within the varying degrees of the will to live that humans express, much like the freezing point on a thermometer; it is the point where asserting one's own will results in denying someone else's will, thereby indicating the intensity of the wrong done, along with the extent of knowledge involved in the individuation process (which is the form of all knowledge subject to will). Anyone who tries to dismiss the moral aspects of human actions or denies them, viewing conduct purely through its external consequences, can certainly, like Hobbes, interpret right and wrong as arbitrary definitions created by convention, which do not exist outside of positive law. We can never use external experiences to show them what falls outside that realm. Hobbes himself illustrates his entirely empirical method of thinking by asserting in his book “De Principiis Geometrarum” that pure mathematics does not exist in its original form, insisting that points have extension and lines have width, and we can never demonstrate a point without extension or a line without width. Thus, we cannot convey to him the a priori nature of mathematics any more than we can the a priori nature of right, because he has closed himself off from all knowledge that is not empirical.

The pure doctrine of right is thus a chapter of ethics, and is directly related only to action, not to suffering; for only the former is the expression of will, and this alone is considered by ethics. Suffering is mere occurrence. Ethics can only have regard to suffering indirectly, merely to show that what takes place merely to avoid suffering wrong is itself no infliction of wrong. The working out of this chapter of ethics would contain the precise definition of the limits to which an individual may go in the assertion of the will already objectified in his body without denying the same will as it appears in another individual; and also the actions which transgress these limits, which consequently are wrong, and therefore in their turn may be warded off without wrong. Thus our own action always remains the point of view of the investigation.

The pure doctrine of right is a part of ethics and is directly related only to action, not to pain; because only the former expresses will, and ethics only considers this. Suffering is just an event. Ethics can only address suffering indirectly, simply to demonstrate that actions taken to avoid causing suffering are not themselves wrong. This part of ethics would define the exact limits within which a person can assert their will as expressed in their body without denying the same will as it shows up in someone else; it would also identify actions that cross these limits and are therefore wrong, which can be prevented without wrong. Thus, our own action remains the focal point of the investigation.

But the suffering of wrong appears as an event in outward experience, and in it is manifested, as we have said, more distinctly than anywhere else, the phenomenon of the conflict of the will to live with itself, arising from the multiplicity of individuals and from egoism, both of which are conditioned through the principium individuationis, which is the form of the world as idea for the knowledge of the individual. We also saw above that a very large [pg 442] part of the suffering essential to human life has its perennial source in that conflict of individuals.

But the wrongdoing pain shows up as an event in our experiences, and it reflects, as we've discussed, more clearly than anywhere else, the phenomenon of the struggle between the will to live and itself, which arises from the diversity of individuals and from egoism, both shaped by the principle of individuation, the way the world is perceived as an idea for individual understanding. We also noted earlier that a significant [pg 442] portion of the suffering that is essential to human life has its constant source in that conflict among individuals.

The reason, however, which is common to all these individuals, and which enables them to know not merely the particular case, as the brutes do, but also the whole abstractly in its connection, has also taught them to discern the source of that suffering, and induced them to consider the means of diminishing it, or, when possible, of suppressing it by a common sacrifice, which is, however, more than counterbalanced by the common advantage that proceeds from it. However agreeable it is to the egoism of the individual to inflict wrong in particular cases, this has yet a necessary correlative in the suffering of wrong of another individual, to whom it is a great pain. And because the reason which surveys the whole left the one-sided point of view of the individual to which it belongs, and freed itself for the moment from its dependence upon it, it saw the pleasure of an individual in inflicting wrong always outweighed by the relatively greater pain of the other who suffered the wrong; and it found further, that because here everything was left to chance, every one had to fear that the pleasure of conveniently inflicting wrong would far more rarely fall to his lot than the pain of enduring it. From this reason recognised that both in order to diminish the suffering which is everywhere disseminated, and as far as possible to divide it equally, the best and only means was to spare all the pain of suffering wrong by renouncing all the pleasure to be obtained by inflicting it. This means is the contract of the state or law. It is easily conceived, and little by little carried out by the egoism, which, through the use of reason, proceeds methodically and forsakes its one-sided point of view. This origin of the state and of law I have indicated was already exhibited as such by Plato in the “Republic.” In fact, it is the essential and only origin, determined by the nature of the matter. Moreover, in no land can the state have ever had a [pg 443] different origin, because it is just this mode of originating this aim that makes it a state. But it is a matter of indifference whether, in each particular nation, the condition which preceded it was that of a horde of savages independent of each other (anarchy), or that of a horde of slaves ruled at will by the stronger (despotism). In both cases there existed as yet no state; it first arose through that common agreement; and according as that agreement is more or less free from anarchy or despotism, the state is more or less perfect. Republics tend to anarchy, monarchies to despotism, and the mean of constitutional monarchy, which was therefore devised, tends to government by factions. In order to found a perfect state, we must begin by providing beings whose nature allows them always to sacrifice their own to the public good. Till then, however, something may be attained through the existence of one family whose good is quite inseparable from that of the country; so that, at least in matters of importance, it can never advance the one without the other. On this rests the power and the advantage of the hereditary monarchy.

The reason, however, that connects all these individuals and allows them to understand not only specific situations, like animals do, but also the overall context, has taught them to identify the source of suffering and encouraged them to think about ways to reduce it, or, when possible, eliminate it through a collective sacrifice. This is, however, outweighed by the shared benefit that comes from it. While it may feel satisfying for an individual to cause harm in certain cases, there’s a necessary counterpart in the suffering of another person, which causes them significant pain. And because the reasoning that looks at the bigger picture detaches itself from the narrow perspective of the individual, it sees that the pleasure derived from causing harm for one person is always overshadowed by the greater pain experienced by the one wronged. It further realizes that since everything is left to chance, everyone must be concerned that the enjoyment of causing harm will come to them much less often than the pain of having it inflicted upon them. Therefore, this reasoning concluded that to reduce the suffering that is widespread and to spread it as evenly as possible, the best and only way is to forgo all the pleasure gained by inflicting harm in order to spare everyone the pain of experiencing it. This approach is the state contract or law. It’s easily understood, and gradually implemented through egoism, which uses reason to proceed systematically and move away from its narrow viewpoint. The origin of the state and law I’ve pointed out was already articulated by Plato in the "Republic." In fact, it is the fundamental and only origin, determined by the nature of the subject. Moreover, in no country can the state have ever originated differently because it’s this way of establishing the goal that defines it as a state. However, it doesn’t matter whether, in any given nation, the preceding condition was that of a group of independent savages (anarchy) or a group of slaves under the control of the stronger (despotism). In both scenarios, there was no state; it first emerged through that shared agreement. Depending on how free that agreement is from anarchy or despotism, the state is more or less perfect. Republics tend toward anarchy, monarchies toward despotism, and the balance of constitutional monarchy, which was created for that reason, tends to be governed by factions. To establish a perfect state, we must start by ensuring there are individuals whose nature allows them to prioritize the public good over their personal interests. Until then, some progress can be made through the existence of one family whose well-being is completely tied to that of the country, so that, at least in significant matters, it can never promote one without also benefiting the other. This principle underlies the power and advantages of hereditary monarchy.

Now as ethics was concerned exclusively with right and wrong doing, and could accurately point out the limits of his action to whoever was resolved to do no wrong; politics, on the contrary, the theory of legislation, is exclusively concerned with the suffering of wrong, and would never trouble itself with wrong-doing at all if it were not on account of its ever-necessary correlative, the suffering of wrong, which it always keeps in view as the enemy it opposes. Indeed, if it were possible to conceive an infliction of wrong with which no suffering of wrong on the part of another was connected, the state would, consistently, by no means prohibit it. And because in ethics the will, the disposition, is the object of consideration, and the only real thing, the firm will to do wrong, which is only restrained [pg 444] and rendered ineffective by external might, and the actually committed wrong, are to it quite the same, and it condemns him who so wills as unjust at its tribunal. On the other hand, will and disposition, merely as such, do not concern the state at all, but only the deed (whether it is merely attempted or carried out), on account of its correlative, the suffering on the part of another. Thus for the state the deed, the event, is the only real; the disposition, the intention, is only investigated so far as the significance of the deed becomes known through it. Therefore the state will forbid no one to carry about in his thought murder and poison against another, so long as it knows certainly that the fear of the sword and the wheel will always restrain the effects of that will. The state has also by no means to eradicate the foolish purpose, the inclination to wrong-doing, the wicked disposition; but merely always to place beside every possible motive for doing a wrong a more powerful motive for leaving it undone in the inevitable punishment that will ensue. Therefore the criminal code is as complete a register as possible of motives against every criminal action that can possibly be imagined—both in abstracto, in order to make any case that occurs an application in concreto. Politics or legislation will therefore for this end borrow from that chapter of ethics which is the doctrine of right, and which, besides the inner significance of right and wrong, determines the exact limits between them. Yet it will only do so for the purpose of making use of its reverse side, and regarding all the limits which ethics lays down as not to be transgressed, if we are to avoid doing wrong, from the other side, as the limits which we must not allow others to transgress if we do not wish to suffer wrong, and from which we have therefore a right to drive others back. Therefore these limits are, as much as possible, from the passive side, barricaded by laws. It is evident that as an historian has very wittily been called an inverted prophet, the professor of [pg 445] law is an inverted moralist, and therefore law itself, in its proper sense, i.e., the doctrine of the right, which we ought to maintain, is inverted ethics in that chapter of it in which the rights are laid down which we ought not to violate. The concept of wrong and its negation, that of right, which is originally ethical, becomes juridical by the transference of the starting-point from the active to the passive side, and thus by inversion. This, as well as Kant's theory of law, which very falsely deduces the institution of the state as a moral duty from his categorical imperative, has, even in the most recent times, repeatedly occasioned the very extraordinary error that the state is an institution for furthering morality; that it arises from the endeavour after this, and is, consequently, directed against egoism. As if the inward disposition, to which alone morality or immorality belongs, the externally free will, would allow itself to be modified from without and changed by influences exerted upon it! Still more perverse is the theory that the state is the condition of freedom in the moral sense, and in this way the condition of morality; for freedom lies beyond the phenomenon, and indeed beyond human arrangements. The state is, as we have said, so little directed against egoism in general and as such, that, on the contrary, it has sprung from egoism and exists only in its service—an egoism that well understands itself, proceeds methodically and forsakes the one-sided for the universal point of view, and so by addition is the common egoism of all. The state is thus instituted under the correct presupposition that pure morality, i.e., right action from moral grounds, is not to be expected; if this were not the case, it would itself be superfluous. Thus the state, which aims at well-being, is by no means directed against egoism, but only against the disadvantageous consequences which arise from the multiplicity of egoistic individuals, and reciprocally affect them all and disturb their well-being. Therefore it was already said by Aristotle (De. Rep. iii.): Τελος μεν ουν πολεως το ευ ζην; [pg 446] τουτο δε εστιν το ζῃν ευδαιμονως και καλως (Finis civitatis est bene vivere, hoc autem est beate et pulchre vivere). Hobbes also has accurately and excellently expounded this origin and end of the state; and that old first principle of all state policy, salus publica prima lex esto, indicates the same thing. If the state completely attains its end, it will produce the same outward result as if perfect justice of disposition prevailed everywhere. But the inner nature and origin of both phenomena will be the converse. Thus in the second case it would be that no one wished to do wrong, and in the first that no one wished to suffer wrong, and the means appropriate to this end had been fully employed. Thus the same line may be drawn from opposite directions, and a beast of prey with a muzzle is as harmless as a graminivorous animal. But beyond this point the state cannot go. It cannot exhibit a phenomenon such as would spring from universal mutual well-wishing and love. For just as we found that from its nature it would not forbid the doing of a wrong which involved no corresponding suffering of wrong on the part of another, and prohibits all wrong-doing only because this is impossible; so conversely, in accordance with its tendency towards the well-being of all, it would very gladly take care that every benevolent action and work of human love should be experienced, if it were not that these also have an inevitable correlative in the performance of acts of benevolence and works of love, and every member of the state would wish to assume the passive and none the active rôle, and there would be no reason for exacting the latter from one member of the state rather than from another. Accordingly only the negative, which is just the right, not the positive, which has been comprehended under the name of obligations of love, or, less completely, duties, can be exacted by force.

Now, ethics focuses solely on right and wrong and can clearly show the limits of a person's actions to anyone committed to avoiding wrongdoing. Politics, however, which includes the theory of legislation, is entirely about the suffering caused by wrongdoing and would not concern itself with wrongdoing at all if not for its indispensable counterpart, the suffering it causes, which it always considers as the enemy it fights against. In fact, if it were conceivable to imagine wrongdoing that didn’t involve someone else suffering, the state would not prohibit it at all. Ethics considers will and intention as its main focus; the true desire to do wrong is only limited and made ineffective by external forces, and the actual act of wrongdoing is seen as the same, condemning anyone who wishes to do wrong as unjust in its eyes. In contrast, the will and intention are of no concern to the state; it only cares about the deed (whether it has been attempted or completed) because of its link to the suffering of others. Therefore, for the state, the act itself is what is real; the intention is only examined to understand the significance of the act. The state doesn't prevent anyone from thinking about murder or poisoning another, as long as it knows that the threat of punishment will always keep such intentions in check. The state doesn't need to eliminate foolish intentions or wicked inclinations. Instead, it must ensure that for every possible motive to commit wrongdoing, there is a stronger motive to refrain from it due to the inevitable punishment that will follow. Thus, the criminal code aims to be as comprehensive as possible regarding motives against every conceivable crime—both in the abstract, to apply to any specific case that arises. Politics or legislation will thus borrow from that branch of ethics known as the doctrine of right, which, along with the intrinsic significance of right and wrong, determines the precise boundaries between them. However, it will only do so in order to utilize its opposite side, considering all the boundaries set by ethics that we must not cross to avoid doing wrong, as the limits we must enforce on others to prevent suffering wrong and from which we thus have the right to push others back. These limits must be, as much as possible, protected from the passive side by laws. It is clear that just as an historian has been cleverly called an inverted prophet, a law professor is an inverted moralist, and therefore law itself, in its true sense, that is, the doctrine of the right we should uphold, is inverted ethics in that part of it which defines the rights we should not violate. The concept of wrongdoing and its opposite, the concept of right, which is originally ethical, becomes juridical by shifting the focus from the active to the passive side, thus resulting in an inversion. This, along with Kant's theory of law, which incorrectly derives the establishment of the state as a moral duty from his categorical imperative, has often led to the extraordinary mistake that the state is an institution aimed at promoting morality; that it emerges from this pursuit and thus opposes egoism. As if the inner disposition, which solely pertains to morality or immorality, would allow itself to be influenced from the outside and changed by external forces! Even more misguided is the view that the state is a condition for moral freedom and thereby a basis for morality itself; since true freedom exists beyond our experiences and beyond human arrangements. The state, as we have said, is not opposed to egoism in general; rather, it actually arises from egoism and exists only to serve it—an egoism that recognizes itself, operates systematically, and shifts from a narrow to a broader perspective, meaning it becomes the shared egoism of all. The state is thus established under the correct assumption that pure morality, meaning right action based on moral grounds, is not to be expected; if this were not true, it would be unnecessary. Thus, the state that seeks well-being is not against egoism, but only against the negative impacts that result from the multitude of self-interested individuals, which affect everyone and disrupt their well-being. Aristotle has already stated (De. Rep. iii.): Τελος μεν ουν πολεως το ευ ζην; τουτο δε εστιν το ζῃν ευδαιμονως και καλως (Finis civitatis est bene vivere, hoc autem est beate et pulchre vivere). Hobbes also accurately explained the origin and purpose of the state, and the ancient principle of state policy, salus publica prima lex esto, suggests the same idea. If the state fully achieves its goal, it will yield the same visible outcome as if perfect moral disposition were present everywhere. But the inner nature and source of both situations will be the opposite. In the second case, it would mean that no one wants to do wrong, and in the first that no one wants to suffer wrong, and the means necessary to achieve this would have been completely employed. Hence, the same conclusion can be reached from two different directions, and a predator with a muzzle is just as harmless as a herbivore. However, the state cannot go beyond this point. It cannot create a situation that would arise from universal goodwill and love. Just as we determined that, by its nature, it would not prohibit an action that entails no corresponding suffering for another, the state only forbids wrongdoing because it is unavoidable; so in a similar manner, due to its inclination towards the well-being of all, it would gladly ensure that every kind act and expression of human love is experienced, if it were not for the unavoidable requirement of performing benevolent acts and works of love, where every individual in the state would prefer to take the passive role rather than the active one, leading to no reason to expect the latter from one member rather than another. Therefore, only the negative, which constitutes the right, can be enforced through coercion, not the positive, which is denoted by the obligations of love or, less completely, duties, can be exacted by force.

Legislation, as we have said, borrows the pure philosophy of right, or the doctrine of the nature and limits of right and wrong, from ethics, in order to apply it from [pg 447] the reverse side to its own ends, which are different from those of ethics, and to institute positive legislation and the means of supporting it, i.e., the state, in accordance with it. Positive legislation is thus the inverted application of the purely moral doctrine of right. This application may be made with reference to the peculiar relations and circumstances of a particular people. But only if the positive legislation is, in essential matters, throughout determined in accordance with the guidance of the pure theory of right, and for each of its propositions a ground can be established in the pure theory of right, is the legislation which has arisen a positive right and the state a community based upon right, a state in the proper meaning of the word, a morally permissible, not immoral institution. Otherwise the positive legislation is, on the contrary, the establishment of a positive wrong; it is itself an openly avowed enforced wrong. Such is every despotism, the constitution of most Mohammedan kingdoms; and indeed various parts of many constitutions are also of this kind; for example, serfdom, vassalage, and many such institutions. The pure theory of right or natural right—better, moral right—though always reversed, lies at the foundation of every just positive legislation, as pure mathematics lies at the foundation of every branch of applied mathematics. The most important points of the doctrine of right, as philosophy has to supply it for that end to legislation, are the following: 1. The explanation of the inner and real significance both of the origin of the conceptions of wrong and right, and of their application and position in ethics. 2. The deduction of the law of property. 3. The deduction of the moral validity of contracts; for this is the moral basis of the contract of the state. 4. The explanation of the origin and the aim of the state, of the relation of this aim to ethics, and of the intentional transference of the ethical doctrine of right, by reversing it, to legislation, in consequence of this relation. 5. The deduction of the [pg 448] right of punishment. The remaining content of the doctrine of right is mere application of these principles, mere accurate definition of the limits of right and wrong for all possible relations of life, which are consequently united and distributed under certain points of view and titles. In these special doctrines the books which treat of pure law are fairly at one; it is only in the principles that they differ much, for these are always connected with some philosophical system. In connection with our system, we have explained the first four of these principal points shortly and generally, yet definitely and distinctly, and it remains for us to speak in the same way of the right of punishment.

Laws, as we’ve mentioned, take the essential philosophy of right, or the principles of what is right and wrong, from ethics to use it for their own purposes, which differ from ethics, and to create positive laws and the means to enforce them, that is, the state, in accordance with it. Positive laws thus represent a reverse application of the purely moral principles of right. This application can refer to the specific relationships and circumstances of a particular society. However, for positive laws to genuinely be considered a positive right, they must fundamentally align with the guidance of the pure theory of right, and there must be a basis in the pure theory of right for each of its propositions. If this is the case, the resulting legislation is a positive affirmation and the state becomes a community based on the right, a state in the true sense of the word, a morally acceptable institution, not an immoral one. If not, the positive laws represent the creation of a good mistake; they are, in themselves, a blatant enforced wrongdoing. This applies to any tyranny, the government structures of most Muslim countries, and even various parts of many constitutions; for instance, serfdom, vassalage, and similar institutions. The pure theory of right or natural right—better referred to as moral right—though always inverted, serves as the foundation for every fair positive legislation, just as pure mathematics underpins every branch of applied mathematics. The key aspects of the doctrine of right that philosophy needs to provide for legislation are: 1. An explanation of the true significance of the origins of the concepts of wrong and right, and their applications and role in ethics. 2. A derivation of property law. 3. A derivation of the moral validity of contracts, as this forms the ethical groundwork for the social contract. 4. An explanation of the origin and purpose of the state, how this purpose relates to ethics, and the intentional transfer of the ethical doctrine of right to legislation by reversing it, due to this relationship. 5. A derivation of the [pg 448] right to punish. The rest of the doctrine of right is simply applying these principles, precisely defining the boundaries of right and wrong for all conceivable life relationships, which are then unified and categorized under certain perspectives and titles. In these specific doctrines, books on pure law generally agree; it's mainly in the principles where they diverge significantly, as these are always tied to some philosophical system. In accordance with our system, we have briefly and generally yet clearly detailed the first four of these main points, and now we need to address the right to punishment in the same clear manner.

Kant makes the fundamentally false assertion that apart from the state there would be no complete right of property. It follows from our deduction, as given above, that even in a state of nature there is property with complete natural, i.e., moral right, which cannot be injured without wrong, but may without wrong be defended to the uttermost. On the other hand, it is certain that apart from the state there is no right of punishment. All right to punish is based upon the positive law alone, which before the offence has determined a punishment for it, the threat of which, as a counter-motive, is intended to outweigh all possible motives for the offence. This positive law is to be regarded as sanctioned and recognised by all the members of the state. It is thus based upon a common contract which the members of the state are in duty bound to fulfil, and thus, on the one hand, to inflict the punishment, and, on the other hand, to endure it; thus the endurance of the punishment may with right be enforced. Consequently the immediate end of punishment is, in the particular case, the fulfilment of the law as a contract. But the one end of the law is deterrence from the infringement of the rights of others. For, in order that every one may be protected from suffering wrong, men have combined to [pg 449] form a state, have renounced the doing of wrong, and assumed the task of maintaining the state. Thus the law and the fulfilment of it, the punishment, are essentially directed to the future, not to the past. This distinguishes punishment from revenge; for the motives which instigate the latter are solely concerned with what has happened, and thus with the past as such. All requital of wrong by the infliction of pain, without any aim for the future, is revenge, and can have no other end than consolation for the suffering one has borne by the sight of the suffering one has inflicted upon another. This is wickedness and cruelty, and cannot be morally justified. Wrong which some one has inflicted upon me by no means entitles me to inflict wrong upon him. The requital of evil with evil without further intention is neither morally nor otherwise through any rational ground to be justified, and the jus talionis set up as the absolute, final principle of the right of punishment, is meaningless. Therefore Kant's theory of punishment as mere requital for requital's sake is a completely groundless and perverse view. Yet it is always appearing in the writings of many jurists, under all kinds of lofty phrases, which amount to nothing but empty words, as: Through the punishment the crime is expiated or neutralised and abolished, and many such. But no man has the right to set himself up as a purely moral judge and requiter, and punish the misdeeds of another with pains which he inflicts upon him, and so to impose penance upon him for his sins. Nay, this would rather be the most presumptuous arrogance; and therefore the Bible says, “Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.” But man has the right to care for the safety of society; and this can only be done by interdicting all actions which are denoted by the word “criminal,” in order to prevent them by means of counter-motives, which are the threatened punishments. And this threat can only be made effective by carrying it out when a case [pg 450] occurs in spite of it. Accordingly that the end of punishment, or more accurately of penal law, is the deterrence from crime, is a truth so generally recognised and indeed self-evident, that in England it is expressed in the very old form of indictment which is still served by the counsel for the Crown in criminal actions, for it concludes with the words, “If this be proved, you, the said N. N., ought to be punished with pains of law, to deter others from the like crimes in all time coming.” If a prince desires to extend mercy to a criminal who has justly been condemned, his Ministers will represent to him that, if he does, this crime will soon be repeated. An end for the future distinguishes punishment from revenge, and punishment only has this end when it is inflicted in fulfilment of a law. It thus announces itself as inevitable in every future case, and thus the law obtains the power to deter, in which its end really consists. Now here a Kantian would inevitably reply that certainly according to this view the punished criminal would be used “merely as a means.” This proposition, so unweariedly repeated by all the Kantians, “Man must always be treated as an end, never as a means,” certainly sounds significant, and is therefore a very suitable proposition for those who like to have a formula which saves them all further thought; but looked at in the light, it is an exceedingly vague, indefinite assertion, which reaches its aim quite indirectly, requires to be explained, defined, and modified in every case of its application, and, if taken generally, is insufficient, meagre, and moreover problematical. The murderer who has been condemned to the punishment of death according to law must now, at any rate, and with complete right, be used as a mere means. For public security, the chief end of the state, is disturbed by him; indeed it is abolished if the law is not carried out. The murderer, his life, his person, must now be the means of fulfilling the law, and thereby of re-establishing the public security. And he is made such a means with perfect right, [pg 451] in fulfilment of the contract of the state, which was entered into by him because he was a citizen, and in accordance with which, in order to enjoy security for his life, freedom, and property, he has pledged his life, his freedom, and his property for the security of all, which pledge has now been forfeited.

Kant makes the fundamentally incorrect claim that without the state, there can be no complete right of property. Our earlier reasoning shows that even in a state of nature, there exists property with complete natural or moral rights, which cannot be violated without wrong, but can be defended vigorously without being wrong. On the other hand, it is clear that outside the state, there is no right to punish. The right to punish is solely based on positive law, which has predetermined a punishment for an offense before it occurs, and this threat is designed to outweigh any motives for committing the offense. This positive law should be seen as sanctioned and accepted by all members of the state. Therefore, it relies on a mutual contract that the members of the state are obligated to uphold, which entails both inflicting punishment and enduring it; thus, the enforcement of the punishment can be justified. Consequently, the immediate end of punishment is, in a specific case, the enforcement of the law as a contract. However, the ultimate purpose of the law is deterrence of infringements on the rights of others. To ensure that everyone is protected from wrongdoing, people have come together to form a state, have given up the right to do wrong, and have taken on the task of maintaining the state. Thus, the law and its fulfillment, or punishment, are fundamentally oriented toward the future, not the past. This differentiates punishment from revenge, since the motives driving revenge are exclusively focused on past events. Any response to wrongdoing through inflicting pain without a future intention is revenge and serves no purpose other than to provide consolation to the one who has suffered by seeing the suffering inflicted on another. This is malicious and cruel, and cannot be justified morally. Someone else's wrongdoing towards me does not give me the right to inflict wrongdoing on them. Responding to evil with evil, without any further intention, cannot be justified morally or rationally, and the idea of "an eye for an eye" as the absolute principle of punishment is meaningless. Therefore, Kant's theory of punishment as mere retribution for the sake of retribution is completely unfounded and perverse. Yet, such ideas continue to appear in the writings of many legal scholars, adorned with lofty phrases that are ultimately empty, such as: punishment expiates, neutralizes, or abolishes crime, and many similar assertions. However, no one has the right to position themselves as a purely moral judge and retaliate against another's misdeeds by inflicting pain, thus imposing penance for their sins. Such an act would be the height of arrogance; as the Bible states, “Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.” But individuals do have the right to safeguard society; this can only be achieved by prohibiting actions labeled as "criminal" and preventing them through counter-motives, which are the threats of punishment. And this threat becomes effective only when enforced if an offense occurs despite it. Hence, the purpose of punishment, or more accurately penal law, is to deter crime, a truth so widely accepted that in England it is included in the traditional form of indictment still used by the Crown's counsel in criminal cases, concluding with the phrase, “If this is proven, you, the said N. N., ought to be punished with pains of law, to deter others from similar crimes in the future.” If a ruler wishes to show mercy to a rightly condemned criminal, their ministers will advise that this could lead to the same crime being repeated soon. The future-oriented purpose distinguishes punishment from revenge, and punishment only serves this purpose when it is executed in accordance with the law. It thus establishes itself as inevitable in every future instance, granting the law the power to deter, which is where its true aim lies. Here, a Kantian might respond that according to this view, the punished criminal would merely be used as a means. This statement, tirelessly echoed by Kantians, “Man must always be treated as an end, never as a means," certainly sounds significant, making it appealing for those who prefer a formula that requires no further thought; but upon closer examination, it is an exceedingly vague and ambiguous statement that needs clarification and adaptation in every application and is ultimately insufficient and problematic when applied broadly. A person condemned to death according to law must now, in any case, and with complete justification, be used as a mere means. The security of the public, which is the primary goal of the state, is threatened by them; indeed, it ceases to exist if the law is not enforced. The murderer, their life, their being, must now serve as a means to uphold the law and restore public security. And they are made into such a means justly, in fulfillment of the contract of the state, which they entered into as a citizen, in accordance with which they pledged their life, freedom, and property in exchange for security for all, a pledge that has now been forfeited.

This theory of punishment which we have established, the theory which is directly supported by sound reason, is certainly in the main no new thought; but it is a thought which was almost supplanted by new errors, and therefore it was necessary to exhibit it as distinctly as possible. The same thing is in its essence contained in what Puffendorf says on the subject, De Officio Hominis et Civis (Bk. ii. chap. 12). Hobbes also agrees with it, “Leviathan” (chaps. 15-28). In our own day Feurbach is well known to have maintained it. Indeed, it occurs even in the utterances of the ancient philosophers. Plato expresses it clearly in the “Protagoras” (p. 114, edit. Bip.), also in the “Gorgias” (p. 168), and lastly in the eleventh book of the “Laws” (p. 165). Seneca expresses Plato's opinion and the theory of all punishment in the short sentence, Nemo prudens punit, quia peccatum est; sed ne peccetur (De Ira, i. 16).

This theory of punishment that we've established, which is backed by sound reasoning, isn't exactly a new idea. However, it has been nearly overshadowed by newer misunderstandings, so it was important to present it as clearly as possible. The same idea is fundamentally present in what Puffendorf states on the subject, On the Duties of Man and Citizen (Bk. ii. chap. 12). Hobbes also agrees with it, as noted in “Leviathan” (chaps. 15-28). In our time, Feurbach is well-known for supporting this idea. In fact, it can even be found in the writings of ancient philosophers. Plato articulates it clearly in the "Protagoras" (p. 114, edit. Bip.), also in the "Gorgias" (p. 168), and finally in the eleventh book of the "Laws" (p. 165). Seneca summarizes Plato's view and the theory of all punishment in the concise statement, "No wise person punishes because it is a sin; but to prevent sin" (De Ira, i. 16).

Thus we have come to recognise in the state the means by which egoism endowed with reason seeks to escape from its own evil consequences which turn against itself, and now each promotes the well-being of all because he sees that his own well-being is involved in it. If the state attained its end completely, then to a certain extent something approaching to an Utopia might finally, by the removal of all kinds of evil, be brought about. For by the human powers united in it, it is able to make the rest of nature more and more serviceable. But as yet the state has always remained very far from this goal. And even if it attained to it, innumerable evils essential to all life would still keep it in suffering; and finally, if they were all removed, ennui would at once occupy [pg 452] every place they left. And besides, the strife of individuals is never completely abolished by the state, for it vexes in trifles when it is prohibited in greater things. Finally, Eris, happily expelled from within, turns to what is without; as the conflict of individuals, she is banished by the institution of the state; but she reappears from without as the war of nations, and now demands in bulk and at once, as an accumulated debt, the bloody sacrifice which by wise precautions has been denied her in the particular. And even supposing that all this were finally overcome and removed, by wisdom founded on the experience of thousands of years, at the end the result would be the actual over-population of the whole planet, the terrible evil of which only a bold imagination can now realise.76

Thus we have come to recognize that the state is the means by which self-interest, equipped with reason, tries to escape its own harmful consequences that ultimately turn against itself. Now, each individual promotes the well-being of all because they see that their own well-being is tied to it. If the state were to achieve its goals completely, it could create something resembling a Utopia by eliminating all forms of evil. Through the combined human abilities within it, the state can increasingly make the rest of nature serve our needs. However, the state has always remained far from this goal. Even if it could reach it, countless evils essential to life would still cause suffering; and if those evils were all removed, boredom would immediately fill the void they left behind. Moreover, the conflicts between individuals are never fully resolved by the state; they may be suppressed in significant matters but emerge in trivial ones. Finally, Eris, happily driven out from within, turns to external matters; as individual conflict is banished by the establishment of the state, it reemerges externally as the war between nations, demanding a large and immediate bloody sacrifice that wise precautions have previously denied it in smaller matters. Even if all these issues were finally overcome and resolved through wisdom based on thousands of years of experience, the end result would still be actual overpopulation of the entire planet—a severe evil that only a bold imagination can currently comprehend.

§ 63. We have recognised temporal justice, which has its seat in the state, as requiting and punishing, and have seen that this only becomes justice through a reference to the future. For without this reference all punishing and requiting would be an outrage without justification, and indeed merely the addition of another evil to that which has already occurred, without meaning or significance. But it is quite otherwise with eternal justice, which was referred to before, and which rules not the state but the world, is not dependent upon human institutions, is not subject to chance and deception, is not uncertain, wavering, and erring, but infallible, fixed, and sure. The conception of requital implies that of time; therefore eternal justice cannot be requital. Thus it cannot, like temporal justice, admit of respite and delay, and require time in order to triumph, equalising the evil deed by the evil consequences only by means of time. The punishment must here be so bound up with the offence that both are one.

§ 63. We have recognized time-based justice, which is based in the state, as rewarding and punishing, and we have seen that this only becomes true justice when it's connected to the future. Without this connection, all punishing and rewarding would be an unjust outrage, simply adding another wrong to what has already happened, without meaning or significance. However, timeless justice, which we mentioned earlier, operates not within the state but in the world, is not dependent on human systems, is not influenced by chance or deceit, is not uncertain, fluctuating, or fallible, but infallible, steadfast, and reliable. The concept of reward implies a connection to time; therefore, timeless justice cannot be a matter of reward. Unlike temporal justice, it cannot be postponed or require time to succeed, balancing the wrongdoing with its harmful consequences only through time. The punishment must be so intertwined with the offense that they become one.

[pg 453]
Do you think that jumping into crimes will lead to the gods?
With wings, and then in the reports of Zeus, in folds.
Writing something here, while seeing him, Zeus.
Judging mortals? Not even the heavens do that.
Διοσ γράφοντος ταρ βροτών ἁμαρτίας
Εξαρκεσειεν, ουδ᾽ εκεινος αν
Is it right to impose a penalty on each person? But the Justice...
Here, where it is nearby, if you want to see.
Euripides, quoted in Stobaeus, Eclogues, book I, section 4.
It's empty.To fly, wings of crime to the ethereal home
Putatis, there in Jupiter's register
Scripto referring; then Jupiter over the readings
Express an opinion?—but of mortals
Facinora cœli, how great it is, royal
Nequit tenere: nec legendae Juppiter
And punishment is equal. However, it is still revenge,
And, if we look closely, that one lives nearby.)

Now that such an eternal justice really lies in the nature of the world will soon become completely evident to whoever has grasped the whole of the thought which we have hitherto been developing.

Now that this kind of eternal justice is truly part of the world's nature, it will soon become clear to anyone who has understood the entire concept we've been discussing so far.

The world, in all the multiplicity of its parts and forms, is the manifestation, the objectivity, of the one will to live. Existence itself, and the kind of existence, both as a collective whole and in every part, proceeds from the will alone. The will is free, the will is almighty. The will appears in everything, just as it determines itself in itself and outside time. The world is only the mirror of this willing; and all finitude, all suffering, all miseries, which it contains, belong to the expression of that which the will wills, are as they are because the will so wills. Accordingly with perfect right every being supports existence in general, and also the existence of its species and its peculiar individuality, entirely as it is and in circumstances as they are, in a world such as it is, swayed by chance and error, transient, ephemeral, and constantly suffering; and in all that it experiences, or indeed can experience, it always gets its [pg 454] due. For the will belongs to it; and as the will is, so is the world. Only this world itself can bear the responsibility of its own existence and nature—no other; for by what means could another have assumed it? Do we desire to know what men, morally considered, are worth as a whole and in general, we have only to consider their fate as a whole and in general. This is want, wretchedness, affliction, misery, and death. Eternal justice reigns; if they were not, as a whole, worthless, their fate, as a whole, would not be so sad. In this sense we may say, the world itself is the judgment of the world. If we could lay all the misery of the world in one scale of the balance, and all the guilt of the world in the other, the needle would certainly point to the centre.

The world, with all its diverse parts and forms, is the expression, the reality, of a single will to live. Existence itself, and the nature of that existence, both as a whole and in each part, comes solely from the will. The will is free; the will is powerful. The will can be found in everything, just as it defines itself both within and outside of time. The world is simply a reflection of this willing, and all the limitations, suffering, and hardships it contains arise from what the will desires; they exist as they are because the will chooses it that way. In this regard, every being rightly sustains existence as a whole, as well as the existence of its species and its unique individuality, exactly as it is and in the circumstances it finds itself, in a world that is unpredictable and flawed, fleeting, temporary, and always in pain; and in everything it experiences, or can experience, it always receives its due. For the will belongs to it; and as the will is, so is the world. Only this world can take responsibility for its own existence and nature—no one else can; how could anyone else assume it? If we want to understand what humans, in moral terms, are worth as a whole, we need only consider their collective fate. This fate is one of want, suffering, hardship, misery, and death. Eternal justice prevails; if they were not, as a whole, insignificant, their fate would not be so tragic. In this way, we can say that the world itself is a judgment on itself. If we were to weigh all the misery of the world on one side of a scale and all its guilt on the other, the pointer would definitely lean towards the middle.

Certainly, however, the world does not exhibit itself to the knowledge of the individual as such, developed for the service of the will, as it finally reveals itself to the inquirer as the objectivity of the one and only will to live, which he himself is. But the sight of the uncultured individual is clouded, as the Hindus say, by the veil of Mâyâ. He sees not the thing-in-itself but the phenomenon in time and space, the principium individuationis, and in the other forms of the principle of sufficient reason. And in this form of his limited knowledge he sees not the inner nature of things, which is one, but its phenomena as separated, disunited, innumerable, very different, and indeed opposed. For to him pleasure appears as one thing and pain as quite another thing: one man as a tormentor and a murderer, another as a martyr and a victim; wickedness as one thing and evil as another. He sees one man live in joy, abundance, and pleasure, and even at his door another die miserably of want and cold. Then he asks, Where is the retribution? And he himself, in the vehement, pressure of will which is his origin and his nature, seizes upon the pleasures and enjoyments of life, firmly [pg 455] embraces them, and knows not that by this very act of his will he seizes and hugs all those pains and sorrows at the sight of which he shudders. He sees the ills and he sees the wickedness in the world, but far from knowing that both of these are but different sides of the manifestation of the one will to live, he regards them as very different, and indeed quite opposed, and often seeks to escape by wickedness, i.e., by causing the suffering of another, from ills, from the suffering of his own individuality, for he is involved in the principium individuationis, deluded by the veil of Mâyâ. Just as a sailor sits in a boat trusting to his frail barque in a stormy sea, unbounded in every direction, rising and falling with the howling mountainous waves; so in the midst of a world of sorrows the individual man sits quietly, supported by and trusting to the principium individuationis, or the way in which the individual knows things as phenomena. The boundless world, everywhere full of suffering in the infinite past, in the infinite future, is strange to him, indeed is to him but a fable; his ephemeral person, his extensionless present, his momentary satisfaction, this alone has reality for him; and he does all to maintain this, so long as his eyes are not opened by a better knowledge. Till then, there lives only in the inmost depths of his consciousness a very obscure presentiment that all that is after all not really so strange to him, but has a connection with him, from which the principium individuationis cannot protect him. From this presentiment arises that ineradicable awe common to all men (and indeed perhaps even to the most sensible of the brutes) which suddenly seizes them if by any chance they become puzzled about the principium individuationis, because the principle of sufficient reason in some one of its forms seems to admit of an exception. For example, if it seems as if some change took place without a cause, or some one who is dead appears again, or if in any [pg 456] other way the past or the future becomes present or the distant becomes near. The fearful terror at anything of the kind is founded on the fact that they suddenly become puzzled about the forms of knowledge of the phenomenon, which alone separate their own individuality from the rest of the world. But even this separation lies only in the phenomenon, and not in the thing-in-itself; and on this rests eternal justice. In fact, all temporal happiness stands, and all prudence proceeds, upon ground that is undermined. They defend the person from accidents and supply its pleasures; but the person is merely phenomenon, and its difference from other individuals, and exemption from the sufferings which they endure, rests merely in the form of the phenomenon, the principium individuationis. According to the true nature of things, every one has all the suffering of the world as his own, and indeed has to regard all merely possible suffering as for him actual, so long as he is the fixed will to live, i.e., asserts life with all his power. For the knowledge that sees through the principium individuationis, a happy life in time, the gift of chance or won by prudence, amid the sorrows of innumerable others, is only the dream of a beggar in which he is a king, but from which he must awake and learn from experience that only a fleeting illusion had separated him from the suffering of his life.

Sure, however, the world doesn’t present itself to an individual’s understanding as something developed for the will’s service, but rather as it ultimately reveals itself to the seeker as the reality of the singular will to live, which the seeker himself embodies. But an uncultured individual's view is clouded, as the Hindus say, by the veil of Mâyâ. He doesn’t see the thing-in-itself but the phenomenon in time and space, the principle of individuation, along with the other forms of the principle of sufficient reason. In this limited understanding, he perceives not the inner essence of things, which is singular, but its phenomena as separate, divided, numerous, very different, and even opposing. To him, pleasure seems to be one thing and pain something entirely different: one person appears as a tormentor and a murderer, another as a martyr and a victim; wickedness is one thing and evil another. He observes one person living in joy, luxury, and pleasure, while just outside another person suffers miserably from lack of resources and cold. He then wonders, Where is the justice? And he himself, in the intense pressure of will that defines his nature, grabs hold of life’s pleasures and comforts, firmly [pg 455] embracing them, without realizing that in doing so, he’s also grasping all the pains and sorrows that make him recoil. He notices the wrongs and evil in the world, but instead of recognizing that both are merely different expressions of the same will to live, he sees them as entirely distinct and indeed opposite, often trying to escape from his own suffering by inflicting pain on others, as he is caught in the principle of individuation, deceived by the veil of Mâyâ. Just as a sailor sits in a small boat, trusting it amid a stormy sea, expansive and chaotic, rising and falling with the monstrous waves; so within a world of sorrows, the individual man rests quietly, supported by and depending on the principle of individuation, or the manner in which he comprehends things as phenomena. The limitless world, filled with suffering across the infinite past and future, is unfamiliar to him, essentially a fable; his transient self, his lacking present, his fleeting satisfaction—these alone hold reality for him; and he does everything to preserve this, until his eyes are opened by a deeper understanding. Until then, within the depths of his consciousness lives an obscure foreboding that everything is not truly so strange to him, but is linked to him, a connection from which the principle of individuation cannot shield him. This foreboding gives rise to that deep wow that is common to all humans (and perhaps even to the wisest of animals), which suddenly takes hold of them if they become confused about the principle of individuation, because the principle of sufficient reason, in some form, appears to allow for an exception. For example, when it seems that a change happens without a cause, or someone who has died returns, or in any [pg 456] way the past or future becomes present, or the distant comes nearer. The deep fright at such phenomena stems from their sudden puzzlement regarding the understanding of the phenomenon, which is what keeps their own individuality separate from the rest of the world. But even this separation exists only in the phenomenon, not in the thing-in-itself; and this is the foundation of eternal justice. In fact, all temporary happiness rests, and all wisdom is based, on ground that is unstable. They protect the individual from misfortune and provide it pleasures; however, the individual is merely a phenomenon, and its distinction from others, along with its exemption from the suffering they experience, is simply a characteristic of the phenomenon, the principle of individuation. By the true nature of things, everyone bears all the suffering of the world as their own and must regard all potentially possible suffering as actual for them, as long as they remain a fixed will to live, i.e., affirming life with all their strength. For those who understand beyond the principle of individuation, a happy life in time—whether through luck or prudence—amid the sorrows of countless others, becomes merely the fantasy of a beggar who envisions himself as a king, but must eventually awaken and realize that only a fleeting illusion had set him apart from his own suffering.

Eternal justice withdraws itself from the vision that is involved in the knowledge which follows the principle of sufficient reason in the principium individuationis; such vision misses it altogether unless it vindicates it in some way by fictions. It sees the bad, after misdeeds and cruelties of every kind, live in happiness and leave the world unpunished. It sees the oppressed drag out a life full of suffering to the end without an avenger, a requiter appearing. But that man only will grasp and comprehend eternal justice who raises himself above the knowledge that proceeds under the guidance of the principle of sufficient [pg 457] reason, bound to the particular thing, and recognises the Ideas, sees through the principium individuationis, and becomes conscious that the forms of the phenomenon do not apply to the thing-in-itself. Moreover, he alone, by virtue of the same knowledge, can understand the true nature of virtue, as it will soon disclose itself to us in connection with the present inquiry, although for the practice of virtue this knowledge in the abstract is by no means demanded. Thus it becomes clear to whoever has attained to the knowledge referred to, that because the will is the in-itself of all phenomena, the misery which is awarded to others and that which he experiences himself, the bad and the evil, always concerns only that one inner being which is everywhere the same, although the phenomena in which the one and the other exhibits itself exist as quite different individuals, and are widely separated by time and space. He sees that the difference between him who inflicts the suffering and him who must bear it is only the phenomenon, and does not concern the thing-in-itself, for this is the will living in both, which here, deceived by the knowledge which is bound to its service, does not recognise itself, and seeking an increased happiness in one of its phenomena, produces great suffering in another, and thus, in the pressure of excitement, buries its teeth in its own flesh, not knowing that it always injures only itself, revealing in this form, through the medium of individuality, the conflict with itself which it bears in its inner nature. The inflicter of suffering and the sufferer are one. The former errs in that he believes he is not a partaker in the suffering; the latter, in that he believes he is not a partaker in the guilt. If the eyes of both were opened, the inflicter of suffering would see that he lives in all that suffers pain in the wide world, and which, if endowed with reason, in vain asks why it was called into existence for such great suffering, its desert of which it does not understand. And the sufferer would see that all the wickedness [pg 458] which is or ever was committed in the world proceeds from that will which constitutes his own nature also, appears also in him, and that through this phenomenon and its assertion he has taken upon himself all the sufferings which proceed from such a will and bears them as his due, so long as he is this will. From this knowledge speaks the profound poet Calderon in “Life a Dream”

Eternal justice pulls away from the understanding tied to the knowledge that follows the principle of sufficient reason in the principle of individuation; this understanding completely misses it unless it justifies it somehow through illusions. It observes the wicked, after all kinds of misdeeds and cruelties, living in happiness and leaving the world without punishment. It sees the oppressed dragging out lives filled with suffering to the end without any avenger or restitution. But only the person who elevates themselves above this knowledge, which is grounded in the principle of sufficient [pg 457] reason and tied to particular instances, and recognizes the Ideas, sees through the principle of individuation, and becomes aware that the forms of phenomena do not apply to the thing-in-itself, can truly grasp and understand eternal justice. Furthermore, only this person, through the same kind of knowledge, can understand the real nature of virtue, which will soon reveal itself in our current inquiry, even though this abstract knowledge isn't necessary for practicing virtue. It then becomes clear to anyone who has reached this understanding that, since the will is the essence of all phenomena, the suffering experienced by others and by oneself, the bad and the evil, always refers to that one inner being that is fundamentally the same everywhere, even though the phenomena where each manifests as completely different individuals, separated by time and space. They see that the difference between the one causing the suffering and the one enduring it is merely a phenomenon and doesn't pertain to the thing-in-itself, given that this is the will living in both, which, deceived by the knowledge devoted to its service, fails to recognize itself and, in pursuit of greater happiness in one of its phenomena, inflicts great suffering in another. In this chaos of emotions, it bites into its own flesh, unaware that it only ever harms itself, revealing, through the lens of individuality, the internal struggle it faces. The one inflicting suffering and the sufferer are one. The former is mistaken when he believes he does not share in the suffering; the latter, when he thinks he does not share in the guilt. If both could see clearly, the one causing suffering would realize that he exists within all who endure pain in the vast world, which, if it had reason, would futilely ask why it was brought into existence for such immense suffering, the nature of which it does not comprehend. And the sufferer would acknowledge that all the wrongs [pg 458] that have ever been committed in the world come from the same will that also constitutes his own nature, that also appears in him, and that through this phenomenon and its assertion, he has taken on all the suffering arising from such a will and endures it as his due, as long as he remains this will. This understanding is echoed by the profound poet Calderon in "Life is a Dream"

“Well, the major crime”
El hombre ha nacido.
(For the worst crime of humanity
Is that he was ever born.I'm sorry, but there doesn't seem to be any text provided for me to modernize. Please provide a short phrase for me to work on.

Why should it not be a crime, since, according to an eternal law, death follows upon it? Calderon has merely expressed in these lines the Christian dogma of original sin.

Why shouldn't it be considered a crime, since, according to a timeless law, death results from it? Calderon has simply conveyed the Christian belief in original sin through these lines.

The living knowledge of eternal justice, of the balance that inseparably binds together the malum culpæ with the malum pœnæ, demands the complete transcending of individuality and the principle of its possibility. Therefore it will always remain unattainable to the majority of men, as will also be the case with the pure and distinct knowledge of the nature of all virtue, which is akin to it, and which we are about to explain. Accordingly the wise ancestors of the Hindu people have directly expressed it in the Vedas, which are only allowed to the three regenerate castes, or in their esoteric teaching, so far at any rate as conception and language comprehend it, and their method of exposition, which always remains pictorial and even rhapsodical, admits; but in the religion of the people, or exoteric teaching, they only communicate it by means of myths. The direct exposition we find in the Vedas, the fruit of the highest human knowledge and wisdom, the kernel of which has at last reached us in the Upanishads as the greatest gift of this century. It is expressed in various [pg 459] ways, but especially by making all the beings in the world, living and lifeless, pass successively before the view of the student, and pronouncing over every one of them that word which has become a formula, and as such has been called the Mahavakya: Tatoumes,—more correctly, Tat twam asi,—which means, “This thou art.”77 But for the people, that great truth, so far as in their limited condition they could comprehend it, was translated into the form of knowledge which follows the principle of sufficient reason. This form of knowledge is indeed, from its nature, quite incapable of apprehending that truth pure and in itself, and even stands in contradiction to it, yet in the form of a myth it received a substitute for it which was sufficient as a guide for conduct. For the myth enables the method of knowledge, in accordance with the principle of sufficient reason, to comprehend by figurative representation the ethical significance of conduct, which itself is ever foreign to it. This is the aim of all systems of religion, for as a whole they are the mythical clothing of the truth which is unattainable to the uncultured human intellect. In this sense this myth might, in Kant's language, be called a postulate of the practical reason; but regarded as such, it has the great advantage that it contains absolutely no elements but such as lie before our eyes in the course of actual experience, and can therefore support all its conceptions with perceptions. What is here referred to is the myth of the transmigration of souls. It teaches that all sufferings which in life one inflicts upon other beings must be expiated in a subsequent life in this world, through precisely the same sufferings; and this extends so far, that he who only kills a brute must, some time in endless time, be born as the same kind of brute and suffer the same death. It teaches that wicked conduct involves a future life in this world in suffering and despised creatures, and, accordingly, that one will then be born again in lower castes, or as [pg 460] a woman, or as a brute, as Pariah or Tschandala, as a leper, or as a crocodile, and so forth. All the pains which the myth threatens it supports with perceptions from actual life, through suffering creatures which do not know how they have merited their misery, and it does not require to call in the assistance of any other hell. As a reward, on the other hand, it promises re-birth in better, nobler forms, as Brahmans, wise men, or saints. The highest reward, which awaits the noblest deeds and the completest resignation, which is also given to the woman who in seven successive lives has voluntarily died on the funeral pile of her husband, and not less to the man whose pure mouth has never uttered a single lie,—this reward the myth can only express negatively in the language of this world by the promise, which is so often repeated, that they shall never be born again, Non adsumes iterum existentiam apparentem; or, as the Buddhists, who recognise neither Vedas nor castes, express it, “Thou shalt attain to Nirvâna,” i.e., to a state in which four things no longer exist—birth, age, sickness, and death.

The understanding of eternal justice, the balance that unavoidably connects the wrongdoing of guilt with the wrongdoing of punishment, requires completely moving beyond individuality and the principle that allows for its existence. Therefore, it will always be beyond the reach of most people, just as the clear understanding of the essence of all virtue, which is related to it, will also be. That's why the wise ancestors of the Hindu people expressed this directly in the Vedas, which are only available to the three higher castes, or in their esoteric teachings, as much as can be grasped through thought and language. Their method of explanation is always visual and even poetic, but in the popular religion, or exoteric teachings, they convey it primarily through myths. The direct teachings are found in the Vedas, which represent the peak of human knowledge and wisdom, and their essence has finally been passed down to us in the Upanishads as the greatest gift of this century. It's presented in various [pg 459] ways, especially by having all beings in the world, both living and non-living, successively appear before the view of the learner, declaring over each one the phrase that has become a formula, known as the Mahavakya: Tatoumes,—more accurately, Tat twam asi,—which means, “This is who you are.” However, for the masses, that profound truth, limited by their understanding, was simplified into a form of knowledge based on the principle of sufficient reason. This form of knowledge, by its nature, cannot truly grasp that truth as it is and even contradicts it. Yet, in myth, it offers a substitute that serves adequately as a guide for behavior. Myths enable knowledge, according to the principle of sufficient reason, to understand ethically significant conduct through symbolic representation, which is otherwise foreign to it. This is the purpose of all religious systems; they collectively are the mythical representation of truths that are unreachable for an unrefined human mind. In this sense, this myth could be described in Kant's terms as a postulate of practical reason; but viewed this way, it holds the advantage of containing only elements observable in actual experience and thus can substantiate all its ideas with perceptions. This refers to the myth of the transmigration of souls. It teaches that all suffering inflicted upon other beings in life must be atoned for in a future life through identical suffering; it extends so far that someone who kills an animal must, at some point in eternal time, be reborn as that same type of animal and suffer the same death. It teaches that evil actions result in a future life of suffering and contemptible beings, leading to rebirth in lower castes or as a [pg 460] woman, or as an animal, a Pariah or Tschandala, a leper, or even a crocodile, and so on. The pains threatened by the myth are supported by observations from real life, through suffering beings who are unaware of how they earned their misery, and it does not need to reference any other hell. Conversely, it promises rebirth in better, nobler forms, like Brahmans, wise men, or saints. The highest reward for the noblest deeds and complete surrender, also granted to the woman who voluntarily dies on her husband's funeral pyre across seven lifetimes, as well as to the man whose pure mouth has never spoken a single lie,—this reward can only be expressed negatively in the language of this world by the often-repeated promise that they will never be born again, I will not exist again.; or, as the Buddhists, who recognize neither Vedas nor castes, say, "You will reach Nirvana," i.e. to a state where four things no longer exist—birth, aging, sickness, and death.

Never has a myth entered, and never will one enter, more closely into the philosophical truth which is attainable to so few than this primitive doctrine of the noblest and most ancient nation. Broken up as this nation now is into many parts, this myth yet reigns as the universal belief of the people, and has the most decided influence upon life to-day, as four thousand years ago. Therefore Pythagoras and Plato have seized with admiration on that ne plus ultra of mythical representation, received it from India or Egypt, honoured it, made use of it, and, we know not how far, even believed it. We, on the contrary, now send the Brahmans English clergymen and evangelical linen-weavers to set them right out of sympathy, and to show them that they are created out of nothing, and ought thankfully to rejoice in the fact. But it is just the same as if we fired a bullet against a cliff. In India our religions will never take root. The ancient [pg 461] wisdom of the human race will not be displaced by what happened in Galilee. On the contrary, Indian philosophy streams back to Europe, and will produce a fundamental change in our knowledge and thought.

Never has a myth, and never will one, come so close to the philosophical truth that only a few can reach than this ancient belief of the noblest and oldest nation. Even though this nation is now divided into many parts, this myth still dominates as the universal belief of its people, influencing life today just as it did four thousand years ago. That's why Pythagoras and Plato were so captivated by that the best of the best of mythical representation, which they received from India or Egypt, honored, used, and perhaps even believed to some extent. Conversely, we send English clergymen and evangelical linen-weavers to India out of goodwill, trying to convince them that they were created from nothing and should be grateful for it. But that’s as pointless as shooting a bullet at a cliff. Our religions will never take hold in India. The ancient [pg 461] wisdom of humanity won't be overshadowed by what occurred in Galilee. Instead, Indian philosophy is flowing back to Europe and will bring about a fundamental change in our knowledge and thinking.

§ 64. From our exposition of eternal justice, which is not mythical but philosophical, we will now proceed to the kindred investigation of the ethical significance of conduct and of conscience, which is the merely felt knowledge of that significance. But first I wish at this point to draw attention to two peculiarities of human nature, that might help to make clear how the nature of that eternal justice, and the unity and identity of the will in all its phenomena upon which it rests, is known to every one, at least as an obscure feeling.

§ 64. From our discussion of eternal justice, which is grounded in philosophy rather than myth, we will now move on to the related exploration of the ethical importance of behavior and conscience, which is simply the instinctive awareness of that importance. But first, I want to highlight two unique aspects of human nature that might clarify how everyone knows, at least in a vague sense, the essence of that eternal justice and the unity and consistency of the will in all its different manifestations.

When a bad deed has been done, it affords satisfaction not only to the sufferer, who for the most part feels the desire of revenge, but also to the perfectly indifferent spectator, to see that he who caused another pain suffers himself a like measure of pain; and this quite independently of the end which we have shown the state has in view in punishment, and which is the foundation of penal law. It seems to me that what expresses itself here is nothing but the consciousness of that eternal justice, which is, nevertheless, at once misunderstood and falsified by the unenlightened mind, for, involved in the principium individuationis, it produces an amphiboly of the concepts and demands from the phenomenon what only belongs to the thing in itself. It does not see how far in themselves the offender and the offended are one, and that it is the same being which, not recognising itself in its own manifestation, bears both the pain and the guilt, but it desires rather to see the pain also in the particular individual to whom the guilt belongs. Therefore, most persons would demand that a man who had a very high degree of wickedness which might yet occur in many others, only not matched with other qualities such as are found in him, a man who also far surpassed [pg 462] others by extraordinary intellectual powers, and who inflicted unspeakable sufferings upon millions of others—for example, as a conqueror,—most persons, I say, would demand that such a man should at some time and in some place expiate all these sufferings by a like amount of pain; for they do not recognise how in themselves the inflicter of suffering and the sufferers are one, and that it is the same will through which the latter exist and live which also appears in the former, and just through him attains to a distinct revelation of its nature, and which likewise suffers both in the oppressed and the oppressor; and indeed in the latter in a greater measure, as the consciousness has attained a higher degree of clearness and distinctness and the will has greater vehemence. But that the deeper knowledge, which is no longer involved in the principium individuationis, from which all virtue and nobleness proceed, no longer retains the disposition which demands requital, is shown by the Christian ethics, which absolutely forbids all requital of evil with evil, and allows eternal justice to proceed in the sphere of the thing-in-itself, which is different from that of the phenomenon. (“Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord,”—Rom. xii. 19.)

When someone does something wrong, it satisfies not just the victim, who usually craves revenge, but also the casual observer who takes pleasure in seeing the wrongdoer suffer in kind. This reaction occurs regardless of the state's intention behind punishment, which is the basis of criminal law. To me, what is expressed here is a sense of eternal justice, which is often misunderstood and distorted by those lacking insight. Caught up in the concept of individuality, they create confusion over ideas and expect from experience what only belongs to the essence of things. They fail to recognize how the offender and the victim are fundamentally one, that it is the same being who, not aware of its own manifestation, experiences both pain and guilt, but instead prefer to see the pain inflicted specifically on the individual responsible. Therefore, most people would insist that a man with a very high degree of wickedness—one that could exist in many others, albeit without his unique traits, such as exceptional intelligence—which caused immense suffering to millions, like a conqueror, should at some point pay for these sufferings by experiencing an equal amount of pain. They do not see how the inflicter of suffering and the sufferers are one, and that it's the same will that allows the latter to exist and live, which also appears in the former and, through him, reveals its nature. This will suffers both in the oppressed and the oppressor, indeed in the latter even more so, as their awareness is clearer and more distinct, and their will is stronger. However, the deeper understanding that transcends the concept of individuality—from which all virtue and nobility arise—no longer holds the attitude that demands retribution. This is exemplified by Christian ethics, which completely forbids repaying evil with evil and lets eternal justice unfold in the realm of the essence of things, separate from the realm of appearances. (“Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord,”—Rom. xii. 19.)

A much more striking, but also a much rarer, characteristic of human nature, which expresses that desire to draw eternal justice into the province of experience, i.e., of individuality, and at the same time indicates a felt consciousness that, as I have expressed it above, the will to live conducts at its own cost the great tragedy and comedy, and that the same one will lives in all manifestations,—such a characteristic, I say, is the following. We sometimes see a man so deeply moved by a great injury which he has experienced, or, it may be, only witnessed, that he deliberately and irretrievably stakes his own life in order to take vengeance on the perpetrator of that wrong. We see him seek for some mighty oppressor through long years, murder him at last, and then himself die on the [pg 463] scaffold, as he had foreseen, and often, it may be, did not seek to avoid, for his life had value for him only as a means of vengeance. We find examples of this especially among the Spaniards.78 If, now, we consider the spirit of that desire for retribution carefully, we find that it is very different from common revenge, which seeks to mitigate the suffering, endured by the sight of the suffering inflicted; indeed, we find that what it aims at deserves to be called, not so much revenge as punishment. For in it there really lies the intention of an effect upon the future through the example, and that without any selfish aim, either for the avenging person, for it costs him his life, or for a society which secures its own safety by laws. For that punishment is carried out by individuals, not by the state, nor is it in fulfilment of a law, but, on the contrary, always concerns a deed which the state either would not or could not punish, and the punishment of which it condemns. It seems to me that the indignation which carries such a man so far beyond the limits of all self-love springs from the deepest consciousness that he himself is the whole will to live, which appears in all beings through all time, and that therefore the most distant future belongs to him just as the present, and cannot be indifferent to him. Asserting this will, he yet desires that in the drama which represents its nature no such fearful wrong shall ever appear again, and wishes to frighten ever future wrong-doer by the example of a vengeance against which there is no means of defence, since the avenger is not deterred by the fear of death. The will to live, though still asserting itself, does not here depend any longer upon the particular phenomenon, the individual, but comprehends the Idea of man, and wishes to keep its manifestation pure from such a fearful and shocking wrong. It is a rare, very significant, and even sublime [pg 464] trait of character through which the individual sacrifices himself by striving to make himself the arm of eternal justice, of the true nature of which he is yet ignorant.

A much more striking, yet also much rarer, aspect of human nature reflects the desire to bring eternal justice into the sphere of experience, that is, of individuality. At the same time, it indicates a deep awareness that, as I've mentioned earlier, the will to live, at its own expense, carries out both the great tragedy and comedy of existence, and that this same will is present in all manifestations. This characteristic is exemplified in certain individuals. We sometimes see a person so profoundly affected by a significant injury they have suffered, or perhaps merely witnessed, that they intentionally and irrevocably risk their own life to exact revenge on the wrongdoer. We see them search for a powerful oppressor for many years, ultimately kill them, and then die on the scaffold, as they anticipated, and often, it seems, did not even try to avoid, because their life was only valuable to them as a means of revenge. We often find examples of this among Spaniards. If we carefully examine the spirit behind this desire for retribution, we discover that it is quite different from ordinary revenge, which aims to lessen the pain caused by witnessing suffering. In fact, what it strives for deserves to be labeled more as punishment than revenge. For it truly contains the intention of making an impact on the future through example, without any selfish motive, either for the avenger—since it costs them their life—or for a society that protects its own safety through laws. This form of punishment is enacted by individuals, not by the state, nor is it executed in accordance with any law; instead, it always involves an act that the state either would not or could not punish and condemns. It seems to me that the outrage driving such a person beyond all limits of self-interest arises from the profound realization that they are the embodiment of the whole will to live, which manifests in all beings throughout time. Thus, the most distant future belongs to them just as the present does, and cannot be indifferent to them. By asserting this will, they still wish for the unfolding drama, which represents its nature, to never again witness such a horrifying wrong, and they aim to intimidate any future wrongdoer by providing an example of a vengeance that cannot be defended against, since the avenger is not deterred by the fear of death. Although the will to live still asserts itself here, it is no longer dependent on the specific individual; instead, it encompasses the Idea of humanity and seeks to keep its manifestation free of such a dreadful and shocking wrong. It is a rare, significant, and even sublime trait of character through which an individual sacrifices themselves in the pursuit of becoming the instrument of eternal justice, the true nature of which they remain unaware.

§ 65. In all the preceding investigations of human action, we have been leading up to the final investigation, and have to a considerable extent lightened the task of raising to abstract and philosophical clearness, and exhibiting as a branch of our central thought that special ethical significance of action which in life is with perfect understanding denoted by the words good and bad.

§ 65. In all the previous studies of human behavior, we've been preparing for the final analysis, and we've significantly made it easier to clarify and present as part of our main idea the specific ethical importance of actions, which in everyday life is clearly captured by the terms great and bad.

First, however, I wish to trace back to their real meaning those conceptions of good and bad which have been treated by the philosophical writers of the day, very extraordinarily, as simple conceptions, and thus incapable of analysis; so that the reader may not remain involved in the senseless delusion that they contain more than is actually the case, and express in and for themselves all that is here necessary. I am in a position to do this because in ethics I am no more disposed to take refuge behind the word good than formerly behind the words beautiful and true, in order that by the adding a “ness,” which at the present day is supposed to have a special σεμνοτης, and therefore to be of assistance in various cases, and by assuming an air of solemnity, I might induce the belief that by uttering three such words I had done more than denote three very wide and abstract, and consequently empty conceptions, of very different origin and significance. Who is there, indeed, who has made himself acquainted with the books of our own day to whom these three words, admirable as are the things to which they originally refer, have not become an aversion after he has seen for the thousandth time how those who are least capable of thinking believe that they have only to utter these three words with open mouth and the air of an intelligent sheep, in order to have spoken the greatest wisdom?

First, however, I want to trace back to their true meaning those concepts of good and bad that the philosophical writers of today have treated, quite strangely, as simple ideas that can’t be analyzed. This way, the reader won’t be caught up in the pointless illusion that these terms mean more than they actually do, and that they encompass all that is needed here. I can do this because, in ethics, I’m not more willing to hide behind the word good than I was before behind the words beautiful and true. By adding a “ness,” which today is thought to carry a special seriousness and somehow provide help in various cases, and by adopting a solemn attitude, I might create the illusion that by stating these three words I had done more than just refer to three very broad and abstract, and therefore empty, ideas of very different origins and meanings. Who, indeed, has engaged with the writings of our own time, that hasn’t come to dread these three words, no matter how admirable the things they originally refer to are, after seeing for the thousandth time how those least capable of critical thought believe that they only need to utter these three words with an open mouth and the air of an intelligent sheep to convey the greatest wisdom?

The explanation of the concept true has already been [pg 465] given in the essay on the principle of sufficient reason, chap. v. § 29 et seq. The content of the concept beautiful found for the first time its proper explanation through the whole of the Third Book of the present work. We now wish to discover the significance of the concept good, which can be done with very little trouble. This concept is essentially relative, and signifies the conformity of an object to any definite effort of the will. Accordingly everything that corresponds to the will in any of its expressions and fulfils its end is thought through the concept good, however different such things may be in other respects. Thus we speak of good eating, good roads, good weather, good weapons, good omens, and so on; in short, we call everything good that is just as we wish it to be; and therefore that may be good in the eyes of one man which is just the reverse in those of another. The conception of the good divides itself into two sub-species—that of the direct and present satisfaction of any volition, and that of its indirect satisfaction which has reference to the future, i.e., the agreeable and the useful. The conception of the opposite, so long as we are speaking of unconscious existence, is expressed by the word bad, more rarely and abstractly by the word evil, which thus denotes everything that does not correspond to any effort of the will. Like all other things that can come into relation to the will, men who are favourable to the ends which happen to be desired, who further and befriend them, are called good, in the same sense, and always with that relative limitation, which shows itself, for example, in the expression, “I find this good, but you don't.” Those, however, who are naturally disposed not to hinder the endeavours of others, but rather to assist them, and who are thus consistently helpful, benevolent, friendly, and charitable, are called good men, on account of this relation of their conduct to the will of others in general. In the case of conscious beings (brutes and men) the contrary conception is denoted in German, [pg 466] and, within the last hundred years or so, in French also, by a different word from that which is used in speaking of unconscious existence; in German, böse; in French, méchant; while in almost all other languages this distinction does not exist; and κακος, malus, cattivo, bad, are used of men, as of lifeless things, which are opposed to the ends of a definite individual will. Thus, having started entirely from the passive element in the good, the inquiry could only proceed later to the active element, and investigate the conduct of the man who is called good, no longer with reference to others, but to himself; specially setting itself the task of explaining both the purely objective respect which such conduct produces in others, and the peculiar contentment with himself which it clearly produces in the man himself, since he purchases it with sacrifices of another kind; and also, on the other hand, the inner pain which accompanies the bad disposition, whatever outward advantages it brings to him who entertains it. It was from this source that the ethical systems, both the philosophical and those which are supported by systems of religion, took their rise. Both seek constantly in some way or other to connect happiness with virtue, the former either by means of the principle of contradiction or that of sufficient reason, and thus to make happiness either identical with or the consequence of virtue, always sophistically; the latter, by asserting the existence of other worlds than that which alone can be known to experience.79 In our system, on the contrary, [pg 467] virtue will show itself, not as a striving after happiness, that is, well-being and life, but as an effort in quite an opposite direction.

The explanation of the concept true has already been [pg 465] given in the essay on the principle of sufficient reason, chap. v. § 29 and following The content of the concept stunning first found its proper explanation throughout the Third Book of this work. We now want to understand the significance of the concept good, which can be done with minimal effort. This concept is essentially relative and refers to how effectively an object satisfies any particular wish of the will. Therefore, everything that aligns with the will in any of its expressions and fulfills its purpose is considered through the concept great, regardless of how different these things may be in other respects. Thus, we refer to good food, good roads, good weather, good weapons, good omens, and so on; in short, we label everything good that is just how we want it to be; and therefore, what might be good for one person could be the opposite for another. The idea of the good divides itself into two subcategories—that of immediate satisfaction of any desire, and that of future satisfaction, i.e., the pleasant and the useful. The opposite concept, when referring to unconscious existence, is represented by the word bad, and less commonly and more abstractly by the word bad, which denotes everything that does not align with any effort of the will. Like all other entities that can relate to the will, people who support the ends that happen to be desired and encourage them are also considered good, in the same sense, and always with that relative limitation, evident in the expression, "I think this is good, but you don't." However, those who are naturally inclined not to hinder others' efforts but rather to assist them and consistently act in a helpful, kind, friendly, and charitable manner are referred to as great individuals because of this aspect of their behavior concerning the will of others in general. In regard to conscious beings (animals and humans), the opposite concept is expressed in German, [pg 466] and, in the last hundred years or so, in French too, with a different term than that used for unconscious existence; in German, evil; in French, mean; while in almost all other languages, this distinction does not exist; and κακος, malus, bad, bad, are used for individuals as well as lifeless objects, opposing them to the goals of any specific individual will. Thus, starting entirely from the passive element in the good, the inquiry could only then proceed to the active element and examine the conduct of a person who is deemed good, not in relation to others but to themselves; specifically aiming to explain both the purely objective way that such conduct affects others, and the unique satisfaction it brings to the individual, who achieves it through sacrifices of another kind; and also, on the other hand, the inner discomfort that comes with a bad disposition, regardless of any outward benefits it may confer on the person harboring it. It is from this source that ethical systems, both philosophical ones and those grounded in religious beliefs, originated. Both continuously attempt, in one way or another, to connect happiness with virtue, with the former either through the principle of contradiction or that of sufficient reason, attempting to make happiness either identical with or a result of virtue, always in a fallacious way; the latter seeks to assert the existence of other worlds apart from the one that can solely be known through experience.79 In our system, on the contrary, [pg 467] virtue will reveal itself, not as a pursuit of happiness, or well-being and life, but as an effort in a completely opposite direction.

It follows from what has been said above, that the good is, according to its concept, των πρως τι; thus every good is essentially relative, for its being consists in its relation to a desiring will. Absolute good is, therefore, a contradiction in terms; highest good, summum bonum, really signifies the same thing—a final satisfaction of the will, after which no new desire could arise,—a last motive, the attainment of which would afford enduring satisfaction of the will. But, according to the investigations which have already been conducted in this Fourth Book, such a consummation is not even thinkable. The will can just as little cease from willing altogether on account of some particular satisfaction, as time can end or begin; for it there is no such thing as a permanent fulfilment which shall completely and for ever satisfy its craving. It is the vessel of the Danaides; for it there is no highest good, no absolute good, but always a merely temporary good. If, however, we wish to give an honorary position, as it were emeritus, to an old expression, which from custom we do not like to discard altogether, we may, metaphorically and figuratively, call the complete self-effacement and denial of the will, the true absence of will, which alone for ever stills and silences its struggle, alone gives that contentment which can never again be disturbed, alone redeems the world, and which we shall now soon consider at the close of our whole investigation—the [pg 468] absolute good, the summum bonum—and regard it as the only radical cure of the disease of which all other means are only palliations or anodynes. In this sense the Greek τελος and also finis bonorum correspond to the thing still better. So much for the words good and bad; now for the thing itself.

It follows from what has been discussed above that the good is, by its nature, a matter of perspective; thus, every good is essentially relative, as its existence depends on its connection to a desiring will. Ultimate good is, therefore, a contradiction; the highest good, greatest good, essentially means the same—a final fulfillment of the will, after which no new desire could emerge—a final motivation, the achievement of which would provide lasting satisfaction for the will. However, based on the studies conducted in this Fourth Book, such a conclusion is not even conceivable. The will cannot simply stop wanting based on some specific satisfaction, just as time cannot cease or begin; for it, there is no such thing as a permanent fulfillment that completely and forever satisfies its longing. It is like the vessel of the Danaides; for it, there is no highest good, no absolute good, but only a temporary good. Nevertheless, if we want to honor an old expression that we hesitate to let go of completely, we might metaphorically and figuratively describe the complete self-effacement and denial of the will as the true absence of will, which alone can truly calm and silence its struggle, provides a contentment that can never again be disturbed, and redeems the world—a concept we will soon discuss at the end of our entire investigation—the [pg 468] absolute good, the highest good—and see it as the only radical cure for the condition, whereas all other means are merely temporary reliefs or comforts. In this sense, the Greek τελος and also end of goods correspond to an even better reality. That covers the terms good and poor; now let’s move on to the concept itself.

If a man is always disposed to do wrong whenever the opportunity presents itself, and there is no external power to restrain him, we call him bad. According to our doctrine of wrong, this means that such a man does not merely assert the will to live as it appears in his own body, but in this assertion goes so far that he denies the will which appears in other individuals. This is shown by the fact that he desires their powers for the service of his own will, and seeks to destroy their existence when they stand in the way of its efforts. The ultimate source of this is a high degree of egoism, the nature of which has been already explained. Two things are here apparent. In the first place, that in such a man an excessively vehement will to live expresses itself, extending far beyond the assertion of his own body; and, in the second place, that his knowledge, entirely given up to the principle of sufficient reason and involved in the principium individuationis, cannot get beyond the difference which this latter principle establishes between his own person and every one else. Therefore he seeks his own well-being alone, completely indifferent to that of all others, whose existence is to him altogether foreign and divided from his own by a wide gulf, and who are indeed regarded by him as mere masks with no reality behind them. And these two qualities are the constituent elements of the bad character.

If a man is always ready to do incorrect whenever he has the chance, and there’s no outside force to hold him back, we call him not good. According to our idea of wrong, this means that such a man doesn’t just affirm his own will to live as it appears in his body, but he takes it further by denying the will that exists in other individuals. This is evident from the fact that he wants their strengths to serve his own desires and seeks to eliminate them when they obstruct his goals. The root cause of this behavior is a high level of egoism, which has already been discussed. Two things are clear here. First, in such a man, an extremely intense will to live is expressed, extending far beyond the affirmation of his own body; and second, his understanding, fully focused on the principle of sufficient reason and caught up in the principle of individuation, can’t transcend the distinction that this principle creates between himself and everyone else. Thus, he seeks his own happiness only, completely indifferent to the well-being of others, whose existence seems entirely foreign to him and separated from his own by a wide gap, and whom he perceives as mere facades with no substance behind them. These two traits are the defining characteristics of a bad character.

This great intensity of will is in itself and directly a constant source of suffering. In the first place, because all volition as such arises from want; that is, suffering. (Therefore, as will be remembered, from the [pg 469] Third Book, the momentary cessation of all volition, which takes place whenever we give ourselves up to æsthetic contemplation, as pure will-less subject of knowledge, the correlative of the Idea, is one of the principal elements in our pleasure in the beautiful.) Secondly, because, through the causal connection of things, most of our desires must remain unfulfilled, and the will is oftener crossed than satisfied, and therefore much intense volition carries with it much intense suffering. For all suffering is simply unfulfilled and crossed volition; and even the pain of the body when it is injured or destroyed is as such only possible through the fact that the body is nothing but the will itself become object. Now on this account, because much intense suffering is inseparable from much intense volition, very bad men bear the stamp of inward suffering in the very expression of the countenance; even when they have attained every external happiness, they always look unhappy so long as they are not transported by some momentary ecstasy and are not dissembling. From this inward torment, which is absolutely and directly essential to them, there finally proceeds that delight in the suffering of others which does not spring from mere egoism, but is disinterested, and which constitutes wickedness proper, rising to the pitch of cruelty. For this the suffering of others is not a means for the attainment of the ends of its own will, but an end in itself. The more definite explanation of this phenomenon is as follows:—Since man is a manifestation of will illuminated by the clearest knowledge, he is always contrasting the actual and felt satisfaction of his will with the merely possible satisfaction of it which knowledge presents to him. Hence arises envy: every privation is infinitely increased by the enjoyment of others, and relieved by the knowledge that others also suffer the same privation. Those ills which are common to all and inseparable from human life trouble us little, just as those which belong to the [pg 470] climate, to the whole country. The recollection of greater sufferings than our own stills our pain; the sight of the sufferings of others soothes our own. If, now, a man is filled with an exceptionally intense pressure of will,—if with burning eagerness he seeks to accumulate everything to slake the thirst of his egoism, and thus experiences, as he inevitably must, that all satisfaction is merely apparent, that the attained end never fulfils the promise of the desired object, the final appeasing of the fierce pressure of will, but that when fulfilled the wish only changes its form, and now torments him in a new one; and indeed that if at last all wishes are exhausted, the pressure of will itself remains without any conscious motive, and makes itself known to him with fearful pain as a feeling of terrible desolation and emptiness; if from all this, which in the case of the ordinary degrees of volition is only felt in a small measure, and only produces the ordinary degree of melancholy, in the case of him who is a manifestation of will reaching the point of extraordinary wickedness, there necessarily springs an excessive inward misery, an eternal unrest, an incurable pain; he seeks indirectly the alleviation which directly is denied him,—seeks to mitigate his own suffering by the sight of the suffering of others, which at the same time he recognises as an expression of his power. The suffering of others now becomes for him an end in itself, and is a spectacle in which he delights; and thus arises the phenomenon of pure cruelty, blood-thirstiness, which history exhibits so often in the Neros and Domitians, in the African Deis, in Robespierre, and the like.

This intense will is, in itself, a constant source of suffering. First, all desires come from a sense of lack, which is a form of suffering. (As a reminder, from the [pg 469] Third Book, the brief pause of all desire that happens when we immerse ourselves in aesthetic contemplation, as a pure will-less subject of knowledge—the counterpart of the Idea—is a key element of our enjoyment of beauty.) Second, due to the way things are connected, many of our desires remain unfulfilled, and we experience more frustration than satisfaction, so intense desire leads to intense suffering. All suffering is essentially unfulfilled or thwarted desire; even bodily pain when hurt or harmed is only possible because the body is simply the will objectified. Therefore, because much intense suffering is tied to much intense desire, very wicked people show signs of inner torment in their facial expressions; even when they achieve all external happiness, they often look unhappy unless they are caught up in some fleeting joy or pretending otherwise. This inner torment, which is crucial to their being, leads to a pleasure in the suffering of others that isn't just selfish but disinterested, and this constitutes true evil, escalating to the level of cruelty. For these individuals, the suffering of others isn't a means to achieve their own ends, but an end in itself. A clearer explanation of this phenomenon is as follows: Since a person is a manifestation of will illuminated by clear knowledge, they constantly compare their actual and felt satisfaction with the merely possible satisfaction that knowledge shows them. This leads to envy: every deprivation feels much worse when contrasted with others' enjoyment, and we find relief in the realization that others share the same deprivation. The struggles that are common to everyone and part of human existence bother us little, much like those linked to the [pg 470] climate of the broader region. Remembering greater sufferings than our own eases our pain; seeing others' suffering calms our own. If someone feels an exceptionally strong pressure of will—as they eagerly try to gather everything to satisfy their ego and realize, inevitably, that all satisfaction is just an illusion, that achieving a goal never delivers the promised fulfillment of desire—then they see that once their wishes are fulfilled, they only take on a new form that torments them in different ways. Moreover, if eventually all wishes are exhausted, the will's pressure remains without any conscious purpose, revealing itself as a painful sensation of desolation and emptiness. For those who experience this at extraordinary levels of desire, which typically brings only minor sadness for others, an intense inner misery arises, leading to a constant unrest and inescapable pain. They then seek to relieve their own suffering indirectly through the suffering of others, which they also see as a demonstration of their own power. The suffering of others becomes an end in itself, a spectacle that they take pleasure in; thus pure cruelty and bloodthirstiness emerge, which history often illustrates in figures like Neros, Domitians, African Deis, and Robespierre.

The desire of revenge is closely related to wickedness. It recompenses evil with evil, not with reference to the future, which is the character of punishment, but merely on account of what has happened, what is past, as such, thus disinterestedly, not as a means, but as an end, in order to revel in the torment which the avenger himself has [pg 471] inflicted on the offender. What distinguishes revenge from pure wickedness, and to some extent excuses it, is an appearance of justice. For if the same act, which is now revenge, were to be done legally, that is, according to a previously determined and known rule, and in a society which had sanctioned this rule, it would be punishment, and thus justice.

The urge for revenge is closely linked to malice. It responds to evil with evil, not with an eye toward the future—which is what punishment is about—but simply based on what has already happened, what is in the past. It does this without any ulterior motives, not as a means to an end, but as an end in itself, to take pleasure in the suffering that the avenger has inflicted on the wrongdoer. What sets revenge apart from pure malice, and somewhat justifies it, is an illusion of justice. Because if the same act that is now called revenge were done legally, meaning according to a rule that was already established and accepted by society, it would be deemed punishment, and thus justice.

Besides the suffering which has been described, and which is inseparable from wickedness, because it springs from the same root, excessive vehemence of will, another specific pain quite different from this is connected with wickedness, which is felt in the case of every bad action, whether it be merely injustice proceeding from egoism or pure wickedness, and according to the length of its duration is called the sting of conscience or remorse. Now, whoever remembers and has present in his mind the content of the preceding portion of this Fourth Book, and especially the truth explained at the beginning of it, that life itself is always assured to the will to live, as its mere copy or mirror, and also the exposition of eternal justice, will find that the sting of conscience can have no other meaning than the following, i.e., its content, abstractly expressed, is what follows, in which two parts are distinguished, which again, however, entirely coincide, and must be thought as completely united.

Besides the suffering described, which is tied to wickedness because it comes from the same root—the excessive intensity of will—there's another specific pain, quite different from this, connected to wickedness. This pain is felt with every harmful action, whether it's just injustice arising from selfishness or outright wickedness. Depending on how long it lasts, it's referred to as the pangs of conscience or regret. Anyone who remembers and keeps in mind the content from the earlier part of this Fourth Book, particularly the truth explained at the beginning—that life itself is always guaranteed to the will to live, as its simple reflection—and the explanation of eternal justice, will find that the sting of conscience can only mean the following, i.e., its content, expressed abstractly, is what follows, where two parts are distinguished that completely coincide and must be considered as entirely united.

However closely the veil of Mâyâ may envelop the mind of the bad man, i.e., however firmly he may be involved in the principium individuationis, according to which he regards his person as absolutely different and separated by a wide gulf from all others, a knowledge to which he clings with all his might, as it alone suits and supports his egoism, so that knowledge is almost always corrupted by will, yet there arises in the inmost depths of his consciousness the secret presentiment that such an order of things is only phenomenal, and that their real constitution is quite different. He has a dim foreboding that, however much time and space may separate [pg 472] him from other individuals and the innumerable miseries which they suffer, and even suffer through him, and may represent them as quite foreign to him, yet in themselves, and apart from the idea and its forms, it is the one will to live appearing in them all, which here failing to recognise itself, turns its weapons against itself, and, by seeking increased happiness in one of its phenomena, imposes the greatest suffering upon another. He dimly sees that he, the bad man, is himself this whole will; that consequently he is not only the inflicter of pain but also the endurer of it, from whose suffering he is only separated and exempted by an illusive dream, the form of which is space and time, which, however, vanishes away; that he must in reality pay for the pleasure with the pain, and that all suffering which he only knows as possible really concerns him as the will to live, inasmuch as the possible and actual, the near and the distant in time and space, are only different for the knowledge of the individual, only by means of the principium individuationis, not in themselves. This is the truth which mythically, i.e., adapted to the principle of sufficient reason, and so translated into the form of the phenomenal, is expressed in the transmigration of souls. Yet it has its purest expression, free from all foreign admixture, in that obscurely felt yet inconsolable misery called remorse. But this springs also from a second immediate knowledge, which is closely bound to the first—the knowledge of the strength with which the will to live asserts itself in the wicked individual, which extends far beyond his own individual phenomenon, to the absolute denial of the same will appearing in other individuals. Consequently the inward horror of the wicked man at his own deed, which he himself tries to conceal, contains, besides that presentment of the nothingness, the mere illusiveness of the principium individuationis, and of the distinction established by it between him and others; also the knowledge of the [pg 473] vehemence of his own will, the intensity with which he has seized upon life and attached himself closely to it, even that life whose terrible side he sees before him in the misery of those who are oppressed by him, and with which he is yet so firmly united, that just on this account the greatest atrocity proceeds from him himself, as a means for the fuller assertion of his own will. He recognises himself as the concentrated manifestation of the will to live, feels to what degree he is given up to life, and with it also to innumerable sufferings which are essential to it, for it has infinite time and infinite space to abolish the distinction between the possible and the actual, and to change all the sufferings which as yet are merely known to him into sufferings he has experienced. The millions of years of constant rebirth certainly exist, like the whole past and future, only in conception; occupied time, the form of the phenomenon of the will, is only the present, and for the individual time is ever new: it seems to him always as if he had newly come into being. For life is inseparable from the will to live, and the only form of life is the present. Death (the repetition of the comparison must be excused) is like the setting of the sun, which is only apparently swallowed up by the night, but in reality, itself the source of all light, burns without intermission, brings new days to new worlds, is always rising and always setting. Beginning and end only concern the individual through time, the form of the phenomenon for the idea. Outside time lies only the will, Kant's thing-in-itself, and its adequate objectification, the Idea of Plato. Therefore suicide affords no escape; what every one in his inmost consciousness wills, that must he be; and what every one is, that he wills. Thus, besides the merely felt knowledge of the illusiveness and nothingness of the forms of the idea which separate individuals, it is the self-knowledge of one's own will and its degree that gives the sting to conscience. The course of life draws [pg 474] the image of the empirical character, whose original is the intelligible character, and horrifies the wicked man by this image. He is horrified all the same whether the image is depicted in large characters, so that the world shares his horror, or in such small ones that he alone sees it, for it only concerns him directly. The past would be a matter of indifference, and could not pain the conscience if the character did not feel itself free from all time and unalterable by it, so long as it does not deny itself. Therefore things which are long past still weigh on the conscience. The prayer, “Lead me not into temptation,” means, “Let me not see what manner of person I am.” In the might with which the bad man asserts life, and which exhibits itself to him in the sufferings which he inflicts on others, he measures how far he is from the surrender and denial of that will, the only possible deliverance from the world and its miseries. He sees how far he belongs to it, and how firmly he is bound to it; the known suffering of others has no power to move him; he is given up to life and felt suffering. It remains hidden whether this will ever break and overcome the vehemence of his will.

However closely the veil of Mâyâ may surround the mind of a bad person, that is, however deeply they may be trapped in the principle of individuation, which makes them see themselves as completely different and separated from everyone else by a wide gap—a knowledge they cling to fiercely because it suits and upholds their egoism, often distorting that knowledge through their will—there emerges from the depths of their consciousness a secret intuition that this state of affairs is merely a phenomenon, and that the true nature of reality is quite different. They have a vague feeling that, no matter how much time and space may separate them from other individuals and the countless miseries they endure, even those caused by them, and which they can view as entirely foreign, in essence, and apart from the idea and its forms, it is the same will to live manifesting in all of them. Failing to recognize itself, this will turns its weapons against itself, seeking greater happiness in one of its forms while imposing the greatest suffering on another. The bad person dimly understands that they are this entire will; therefore, they are not only the source of pain but also its sufferer, separated from their own suffering only by an illusion—a dream shaped by space and time, which ultimately fades away. They must pay for pleasure with pain, and all suffering that they can see as merely possible truly concerns them as the will to live since the possible and actual, the near and distant in time and space, differ only in the knowledge of the individual, exclusively due to the principle of individuation, not in themselves. This is the truth that is mythically, that is, adapted to the principle of sufficient reason and translated into the phenomenal form, expressed in the concept of the transmigration of souls. Yet its purest expression, free from all foreign elements, lies in that obscure yet inescapable pain known as remorse. This arises from a second immediate awareness, which is closely tied to the first—an awareness of the strength with which the will to live asserts itself in the wicked individual, extending far beyond their own individual experience to the complete denial of the same will in other individuals. Consequently, the inward horror that the wicked person feels about their own actions, which they try to hide, contains not only that sense of nothingness and the mere illusion of the principle of individuation and the distinctions it creates between themselves and others, but also an understanding of the intensity of their own will—the degree to which they cling to life, even life whose dark side they witness in the suffering of those they oppress, and with which they are so tightly bound that, for this reason alone, the greatest atrocities emerge from them as a means to more fully assert their own will. They see themselves as the concentrated manifestation of the will to live, recognizing the extent to which they are devoted to life, and with it, to countless inevitable sufferings since it has infinite time and space to erase the distinction between the possible and the actual, converting all sufferings they know only as potential into sufferings they have experienced. The millions of years of constant rebirth indeed exist, like all the past and future, only in conception; occupied time, the form of will’s phenomenon, exists only in the present, and for the individual, time is always new: it seems to them as if they have just come into being. Because life is inseparable from the will to live, and the only form of life is the present. Death (forgive the repetitive comparison) is like the setting sun, which only seems to be consumed by the night, but in reality, is the source of all light, burning continuously, bringing new days to new worlds, always rising and always setting. Beginnings and endings concern the individual only through time, which is the form of the phenomenon for the idea. Outside of time lies only the will, Kant's thing-in-itself, and its complete objectification, the Idea of Plato. Thus, suicide offers no escape; whatever one truly wills in their deepest consciousness, that they must be; and whatever one is, that they will. Therefore, beyond the merely felt awareness of the illusiveness and nothingness of the forms of the idea that separate individuals, it is the self-awareness of one's will and its intensity that causes the distress of conscience. The course of life shapes the image of the empirical character, whose original is the intelligible character, horrifying the wicked person with this image. They are horrified regardless of whether the image is portrayed in grand terms, making the world share in their horror, or in such small terms that they perceive it alone because it directly concerns them. The past would be irrelevant and could not trouble the conscience if the character did not feel itself free from all time and unchangeable by it, as long as they do not deny themselves. Therefore, things long past still burden the conscience. The prayer, "Lead me not into temptation," means, "Let me not see what kind of person I am." In the force with which the bad person asserts life, which shows itself in the suffering they inflict on others, they gauge how far they are from surrendering and denying that will, the only path to liberation from the world and its miseries. They see how deeply they belong to it and how tightly they are bound to it; the known suffering of others has no power to move them; they are surrendered to life and felt suffering. It remains uncertain whether this will ever break and overcome the intensity of their will.

This exposition of the significance and inner nature of the bad, which as mere feeling, i.e., not as distinct, abstract knowledge, is the content of remorse, will gain distinctness and completeness by the similar consideration of the good as a quality of human will, and finally of absolute resignation and holiness, which proceeds from it when it has attained its highest grade. For opposites always throw light upon each other, and the day at once reveals both itself and the night, as Spinoza admirably remarks.

This explanation of the importance and true nature of the bad, which is just a feeling—i.e. not as separate, abstract knowledge—is what makes up regret. It will become clearer and more complete when we also consider the good as a trait of human will, and ultimately of absolute resignation and holiness that emerges from it when it reaches its highest point. This is because opposites always illuminate each other, and day reveals both itself and the night, as Spinoza wisely points out.

§ 66. A theory of morals without proof, that is, mere moralising, can effect nothing, because it does not act as a motive. A theory of morals which does act as a motive can do so only by working on self-love. But what springs from this source has no moral worth. It follows from this that no genuine virtue can be produced [pg 475] through moral theory or abstract knowledge in general, but that such virtue must spring from that intuitive knowledge which recognises in the individuality of others the same nature as in our own.

§ 66. A theory of morals without proof, which is just moralizing, can't accomplish anything because it doesn't motivate action. A theory of morals that does motivate must tap into self-love. However, anything that comes from this source lacks genuine moral value. Therefore, true virtue can't be generated through moral theory or abstract knowledge in general; instead, such virtue must emerge from an intuitive understanding that sees in the individuality of others the same nature we recognize in ourselves. [pg 475]

For virtue certainly proceeds from knowledge, but not from the abstract knowledge that can be communicated through words. If it were so, virtue could be taught, and by here expressing in abstract language its nature and the knowledge which lies at its foundation, we should make every one who comprehends this even ethically better. But this is by no means the case. On the contrary, ethical discourses and preaching will just as little produce a virtuous man as all the systems of æsthetics from Aristotle downwards have succeeded in producing a poet. For the real inner nature of virtue the concept is unfruitful, just as it is in art, and it is only in a completely subordinate position that it can be of use as a tool in the elaboration and preserving of what has been ascertained and inferred by other means. Velle non discitur. Abstract dogmas are, in fact, without influence upon virtue, i.e., upon the goodness of the disposition. False dogmas do not disturb it; true ones will scarcely assist it. It would, in fact, be a bad look-out if the cardinal fact in the life of man, his ethical worth, that worth which counts for eternity, were dependent upon anything the attainment of which is so much a matter of chance as is the case with dogmas, religious doctrines, and philosophical theories. For morality dogmas have this value only: The man who has become virtuous from knowledge of another kind, which is presently to be considered, possesses in them a scheme or formula according to which he accounts to his own reason, for the most part fictitiously, for his non-egoistical action, the nature of which it, i.e., he himself, does not comprehend, and with which account he has accustomed it to be content.

Virtue definitely comes from knowledge, but not from the type of knowledge that you can just express in words. If it did, virtue could be taught, and by explaining its nature and the knowledge behind it in abstract terms, we would make everyone who understands this more ethically sound. But that's not the case at all. In fact, ethical discussions and preaching won't create a virtuous person any more than the various aesthetic theories from Aristotle onward have succeeded in making a poet. The true essence of virtue doesn’t come from concepts, just like in art; it can only serve as a useful tool in organizing and maintaining what has been discovered and inferred in other ways. You can't learn if you want to. Abstract dogmas really have no impact on virtue, i.e. the goodness of one's character. False dogmas don’t affect it; true ones hardly help it. It would be concerning if the most important aspect of a person’s life, their ethical value—which lasts for eternity—was dependent on something as unpredictable as dogmas, religious doctrines, and philosophical theories. For morality, dogmas only have this value: a person who has become virtuous through a different kind of knowledge, which we will look at soon, has a framework or formula to rationalize their selfless actions, often fictitiously, in a way that their own reasoning—including themselves—doesn’t fully understand, and they have learned to be satisfied with that explanation.

Upon conduct, outward action, dogmas may certainly exercise a powerful influence, as also custom and example [pg 476] (the last because the ordinary man does not trust his judgment, of the weakness of which he is conscious, but only follows his own or some one else's experience), but the disposition is not altered in this way.80 All abstract knowledge gives only motives; but, as was shown above, motives can only alter the direction of the will, not the will itself. All communicable knowledge, however, can only affect the will as a motive. Thus when dogmas lead it, what the man really and in general wills remains still the same. He has only received different thoughts as to the ways in which it is to be attained, and imaginary motives guide him just like real ones. Therefore, for example, it is all one, as regards his ethical worth, whether he gives large gifts to the poor, firmly persuaded that he will receive everything tenfold in a future life, or expends the same sum on the improvement of an estate which will yield interest, certainly late, but all the more surely and largely. And he who for the sake of orthodoxy commits the heretic to the flames is as much a murderer as the bandit who does it for gain; and indeed, as regards inward circumstances, so also was he who slaughtered the Turks in the Holy Land, if, like the burner of heretics, he really did so because he thought that he would thereby gain a place in heaven. For these are careful only for themselves, for their own egoism, just like the bandit, from whom they are only distinguished by the absurdity of their means. From without, as has been said, the will can only be reached through motives, and these only alter the way in which it expresses itself, never the will itself. Velle non discitur.

Upon behavior, outward actions and beliefs can definitely have a strong influence, just like customs and examples [pg 476] (the last one because ordinary people don't trust their judgment, which they know is weak, so they just follow their own or someone else's experiences), but this doesn’t change the underlying disposition. All abstract knowledge provides only motives; however, as mentioned earlier, motives can only change the direction of the will, not the will itself. All shared knowledge, however, can only impact the will as a motive. Therefore, when beliefs guide it, what the person truly wants remains the same. They've just received different ideas about how to achieve it, and imaginary motives lead them just like real ones do. So, for instance, it doesn't matter in terms of ethical value whether someone donates large sums to the poor, firmly believing they will get everything back tenfold in the afterlife, or spends the same amount on improving an estate that will yield returns—not immediately, but eventually and significantly. And someone who, for the sake of orthodoxy, burns a heretic is just as much a murderer as a bandit who does it for profit; indeed, in terms of inner motivations, so was the person who killed Turks in the Holy Land, if, like the heretic burner, they truly believed it would earn them a place in heaven. These individuals only care about themselves, for their own selfish reasons, just like the bandit, with the only difference being the ridiculousness of their means. As mentioned before, the will can only be influenced from the outside through motives, which only change how it expresses itself, never the will itself. Desire isn't learned.

In the case of good deeds, however, the doer of which appeals to dogmas, we must always distinguish whether these dogmas really are the motives which lead to the good deeds, or whether, as was said above, they are [pg 477] merely the illusive account of them with which he seeks to satisfy his own reason with regard to a good deed which really flows from quite a different source, a deed which he does because he is good, though he does not understand how to explain it rightly, and yet wishes to think something with regard to it. But this distinction is very hard to make, because it lies in the heart of a man. Therefore we can scarcely ever pass a correct moral judgment on the action of others, and very seldom on our own. The deeds and conduct of an individual and of a nation may be very much modified through dogmas, example, and custom. But in themselves all deeds (opera operata) are merely empty forms, and only the disposition which leads to them gives them moral significance. This disposition, however, may be quite the same when its outward manifestation is very different. With an equal degree of wickedness, one man may die on the wheel, and another in the bosom of his family. It may be the same grade of wickedness which expresses itself in one nation in the coarse characteristics of murder and cannibalism, and in another finely and softly in miniature, in court intrigues, oppressions, and delicate plots of every kind; the inner nature remains the same. It is conceivable that a perfect state, or perhaps indeed a complete and firmly believed doctrine of rewards and punishments after death, might prevent every crime; politically much would be gained thereby; morally, nothing; only the expression of the will in life would be restricted.

In terms of good deeds, especially when the actor refers to doctrines, we need to always see if those doctrines are genuinely the reasons for the good deeds, or if, as mentioned earlier, they are just a misleading explanation the person uses to rationalize a good deed that actually comes from a different place. This deed might stem from their goodness, even if they can’t fully express it and still want to think something about it. However, making this distinction is quite difficult because it lies in a person’s heart. As a result, it's tough to make accurate moral judgments about others' actions, and we rarely do so about our own. The actions and behaviors of individuals and nations can be heavily influenced by doctrines, examples, and customs. However, inherently, all deeds (opera operata) are just hollow forms, and only the intentions behind them grant them moral value. This intention can be the same even when its outward expression varies significantly. For the same degree of wickedness, one person might die in execution, while another dies surrounded by family. The same level of wickedness could manifest in one nation as blatant acts of murder and cannibalism, while in another, it might show itself more subtly through court intrigues, oppression, and intricate plots; the inner essence remains unchanged. It’s possible that a perfect state, or a fully embraced belief in rewards and punishments after death, could eliminate all crime; such a political gain would come at a moral cost, merely limiting how will is expressed in life.

Thus genuine goodness of disposition, disinterested virtue, and pure nobility do not proceed from abstract knowledge. Yet they do proceed from knowledge; but it is a direct intuitive knowledge, which can neither be reasoned away, nor arrived at by reasoning, a knowledge which, just because it is not abstract, cannot be communicated, but must arise in each for himself, which therefore finds its real and adequate expression not in [pg 478] words, but only in deeds, in conduct, in the course of the life of man. We who here seek the theory of virtue, and have therefore also to express abstractly the nature of the knowledge which lies at its foundation, will yet be unable to convey that knowledge itself in this expression. We can only give the concept of this knowledge, and thus always start from action in which alone it becomes visible, and refer to action as its only adequate expression. We can only explain and interpret action, i.e., express abstractly what really takes place in it.

Genuine goodness, selfless virtue, and true nobility don’t come from abstract knowledge. However, they do stem from knowledge, but it’s a direct, intuitive understanding that can’t be reasoned away or reached through reasoning. This kind of knowledge, because it isn’t abstract, can’t be shared directly; it must develop within each individual. Therefore, it finds its true expression not in words but in actions, behavior, and how one lives their life. We who are looking for the theory of virtue and need to articulate the nature of the knowledge behind it will still struggle to convey that knowledge through this expression. We can only present an idea of this knowledge, starting from actions where it’s evident, and we refer to actions as its only true form of expression. We can only explain and interpret actions, meaning we express abstractly what actually happens within them.

Before we speak of the good proper, in opposition to the bad, which has been explained, we must touch on an intermediate grade, the mere negation of the bad: this is justice. The nature of right and wrong has been fully explained above; therefore we may briefly say here, that he who voluntarily recognises and observes those merely moral limits between wrong and right, even where this is not secured by the state or any other external power, thus he who, according to our explanation, never carries the assertion of his own will so far as to deny the will appearing in another individual, is just. Thus, in order to increase his own well-being, he will not inflict suffering upon others, i.e., he will commit no crime, he will respect the rights and the property of others. We see that for such a just man the principium individuationis is no longer, as in the case of the bad man, an absolute wall of partition. We see that he does not, like the bad man, merely assert his own manifestation of will and deny all others; that other persons are not for him mere masks, whose nature is quite different from his own; but he shows in his conduct that he also recognises his own nature—the will to live as a thing-in-itself, in the foreign manifestation which is only given to him as idea. Thus he finds himself again in that other manifestation, up to a certain point, that of doing no wrong, i.e., abstaining from injury. To this extent, therefore, he sees through the principium individuationis, the veil of Mâyâ; so far he [pg 479] sets the being external to him on a level with his own—he does it no injury.

Before we discuss the proper notion of great as opposed to bad, which we've already covered, let's first look at a middle ground, the simple absence of bad: this is justice. The concepts of right and wrong have been fully detailed above; thus, we can briefly state that someone who willingly acknowledges and follows the basic moral boundaries between right and wrong, even if not enforced by the state or any other authority, is, as we described, just. To promote their own well-being, they won’t cause suffering to others; i.e., they won't commit a crime and will respect others' rights and property. For such a just person, the principle of individuation is no longer, as for the bad person, a complete barrier. They don’t, like the bad person, merely assert their own will and dismiss others; rather, they demonstrate in their behavior an acknowledgment of their own essence—the will to live as a being in itself, manifesting in others only as an idea. In this way, they connect with that other manifestation, at least to some degree, by not doing wrong, i.e., refraining from harm. To this extent, they see beyond the principle of individuation, the veil of Mâyâ; thus, they [pg 479] regard others as equal to themselves and do not inflict injury upon them.

If we examine the inmost nature of this justice, there already lies in it the resolution not to go so far in the assertion of one's own will as to deny the manifestations of will of others, by compelling them to serve one's own. One will therefore wish to render to others as much as one receives from them. The highest degree of this justice of disposition, which is, however, always united with goodness proper, whose character is no longer merely negative, extends so far that a man doubts his right to inherited property, wishes to support his body only by his own powers, mental and physical, feels every service of others and every luxury a reproach, and finally embraces voluntary poverty. Thus we see how Pascal, when he became an ascetic, would no longer permit any services to be rendered him, although he had servants enough; in spite of his constant bad health he made his bed himself, brought his own food from the kitchen, &c. (“Vie de Pascal, par sa Sœur,” p. 19). Quite in keeping with this, it is reported that many Hindus, even Rajas with great wealth, expend it merely on the maintenance of their position, their court and attendants, and themselves observe with the greatest scrupulousness the maxim that a man should eat nothing that he has not himself both sowed and reaped. Yet a certain misunderstanding lies at the bottom of this; for one man, just because he is rich and powerful, can render such signal services to the whole of human society that they counterbalance the wealth he has inherited, for the secure possession of which he is indebted to society. In reality that excessive justice of such Hindus is already more than justice; it is actual renunciation, denial of the will to live,—asceticism, of which we shall speak last. On the other hand, pure idleness and living through the exertions of others, in the case of inherited wealth, without accomplishing anything, may be regarded as morally [pg 480] wrong, even if it must remain right according to positive laws.

If we look closely at the true nature of justice, we see it embodies the decision not to assert one’s own will to the point of denying the will of others by forcing them to serve one's interests. Therefore, people generally want to give others as much as they receive from them. The highest form of this justice, which is always connected to genuine goodness, goes so far that a person may question their right to inherited property, choose to live solely by their own mental and physical abilities, feel guilty about any help they receive or luxuries they enjoy, and eventually embrace voluntary poverty. For instance, Pascal, when he adopted an ascetic lifestyle, refused to accept any help, despite having plenty of servants; he even made his own bed and fetched his meals from the kitchen, despite his poor health (see “Vie de Pascal, par sa Sœur,” p. 19). In a similar vein, it’s reported that many Hindus, even wealthy Rajas, spend their riches just to maintain their status, their court, and their attendants, adhering strictly to the idea that one should eat nothing that they haven't sown and reaped themselves. However, there’s a misunderstanding beneath this; a wealthy and powerful individual can provide such significant benefits to society that these contributions outweigh the wealth they have inherited, for which they owe their secure position to society. In truth, the extreme justice of such Hindus goes beyond mere justice; it reflects a true renunciation, a denial of the will to live—asceticism, which we will address last. Conversely, pure idleness and living off the efforts of others, while possessing inherited wealth without contributing anything, may be seen as morally wrong, even if it is legally acceptable.

We have found that voluntary justice has its inmost source in a certain degree of penetration of the principium individuationis, while the unjust remain entirely involved in this principle. This penetration may exist not only in the degree which is required for justice, but also in the higher degree which leads to benevolence and well-doing, to love of mankind. And this may take place however strong and energetic in itself the will which appears in such an individual may be. Knowledge can always counterbalance it in him, teach him to resist the tendency to wrong, and even produce in him every degree of goodness, and indeed of resignation. Thus the good man is by no means to be regarded as originally a weaker manifestation of will than the bad man, but it is knowledge which in him masters the blind striving of will. There are certainly individuals who merely seem to have a good disposition on account of the weakness of the will appearing in them, but what they are soon appears from the fact that they are not capable of any remarkable self-conquest in order to perform a just or good deed.

We have discovered that voluntary justice originates from a certain level of understanding of the principle of individuation, while those who are unjust remain completely caught up in this principle. This understanding can exist not only at the level necessary for justice but also at a higher level that fosters kindness, good deeds, and love for humanity. This can happen regardless of how strong and determined the individual's will may be. Knowledge can always balance this out, teaching them to resist the urge to do wrong and even cultivate every degree of goodness and, indeed, acceptance. Therefore, a good person should not be seen as having a weaker will than a bad person; rather, it is knowledge that guides their blind will. There are certainly individuals who only seem to be good due to their weak will, but their true nature becomes clear when it's evident that they lack the capacity for significant self-control to do something just or good.

If, however, as a rare exception, we meet a man who possesses a considerable income, but uses very little of it for himself and gives all the rest to the poor, while he denies himself many pleasures and comforts, and we seek to explain the action of this man, we shall find, apart altogether from the dogmas through which he tries to make his action intelligible to his reason, that the simplest general expression and the essential character of his conduct is that he makes less distinction than is usually made between himself and others. This distinction is so great in the eyes of many that the suffering of others is a direct pleasure to the wicked and a welcome means of happiness to the unjust. The merely just man is content not to cause it; and, in general, most men [pg 481] know and are acquainted with innumerable sufferings of others in their vicinity, but do not determine to mitigate them, because to do so would involve some self-denial on their part. Thus, in each of all these a strong distinction seems to prevail between his own ego and that of others; on the other hand, to the noble man we have imagined, this distinction is not so significant. The principium individuationis, the form of the phenomenon, no longer holds him so tightly in its grasp, but the suffering which he sees in others touches him almost as closely as his own. He therefore tries to strike a balance between them, denies himself pleasures, practises renunciation, in order to mitigate the sufferings of others. He sees that the distinction between himself and others, which to the bad man is so great a gulf, only belongs to a fleeting and illusive phenomenon. He recognises directly and without reasoning that the in-itself of his own manifestation is also that of others, the will to live, which constitutes the inner nature of everything and lives in all; indeed, that this applies also to the brutes and the whole of nature, and therefore he will not cause suffering even to a brute.81

If we happen to meet someone rare who has a decent income but doesn’t use much of it for himself, instead donating most of it to the poor while giving up many pleasures and comforts, and we try to understand this person’s actions, we’ll find that, aside from any beliefs he uses to make sense of his behavior, the simplest way to describe his actions is that he perceives less of a distinction between himself and others. For many, this difference is so significant that the pain of others brings pleasure to the wicked and is a means of happiness for the unjust. A just person is satisfied to not cause suffering, and in general, most people [pg 481] are aware of countless sufferings around them but choose not to help because doing so would require some sacrifice on their part. In these situations, there seems to be a clear divide between their own self and the selves of others; on the other hand, for our noble person, this divide isn’t as significant. The principle of individuation, the form of individual experience, no longer binds him tightly, and the suffering of others affects him almost as deeply as his own. He therefore seeks to balance things, gives up pleasures, and practices self-denial to ease the suffering of others. He realizes that the division between himself and others, which feels like a vast chasm to the bad person, is just a temporary and misleading appearance. He intuitively understands, without needing to think it through, that the essence of his existence is the same as that of others—that the will to live, which is the fundamental nature of everything, exists in all beings; in fact, this applies to animals and all of nature as well, and so he wouldn't want to cause suffering to even a creature.

He is now just as little likely to allow others to starve, while he himself has enough and to spare, as any one would be to suffer hunger one day in order to have more the next day than he could enjoy. For to him who does works of love the veil of Mâyâ has become transparent, [pg 482] the illusion of the principium individuationis has left him. He recognises himself, his will, in every being, and consequently also in the sufferer. He is now free from the perversity with which the will to live, not recognising itself, here in one individual enjoys a fleeting and precarious pleasure, and there in another pays for it with suffering and starvation, and thus both inflicts and endures misery, not knowing that, like Thyestes, it eagerly devours its own flesh; and then, on the one hand, laments its undeserved suffering, and on the other hand transgresses without fear of Nemesis, always merely because, involved in the principium individuationis, thus generally in the kind of knowledge which is governed by the principle of sufficient reason, it does not recognise itself in the foreign phenomenon, and therefore does not perceive eternal justice. To be cured of this illusion and deception of Mâyâ, and to do works of love, are one and the same. But the latter is the necessary and inevitable symptom of that knowledge.

He is now just as unlikely to let others starve while he has more than enough for himself as anyone would be to go hungry one day just to have more the next day than they could enjoy. For someone who acts out of love, the veil of illusion has become clear; the false sense of individuality has faded away. He sees himself and his will in every being, and therefore also in those who suffer. He is now free from the twisted nature of the will to live, which, not recognizing itself, finds fleeting and uncertain pleasure in one person while causing suffering and starvation in another, thus both causing and enduring misery, unaware that, like Thyestes, it eagerly consumes its own flesh; and then, on one hand, mourns its undeserved suffering, while on the other hand, breaches the rules without fear of retribution, all simply because, caught up in the sense of individuality, it doesn’t recognize itself in others and thus fails to see eternal justice. To be freed from this illusion and deception is the same as doing acts of love. But the latter is the necessary and inevitable result of that understanding.

The opposite of the sting of conscience, the origin and significance of which is explained above, is the good conscience, the satisfaction which we experience after every disinterested deed. It arises from the fact that such a deed, as it proceeds from the direct recognition of our own inner being in the phenomenon of another, affords us also the verification of this knowledge, the knowledge that our true self exists not only in our own person, this particular manifestation, but in everything that lives. By this the heart feels itself enlarged, as by egoism it is contracted. For as the latter concentrates our interest upon the particular manifestation of our own individuality, upon which knowledge always presents to us the innumerable dangers which constantly threaten this manifestation, and anxiety and care becomes the key-note of our disposition; the knowledge that everything living is just as much our own inner nature, as is our own person, extends our [pg 483] interest to everything living; and in this way the heart is enlarged. Thus through the diminished interest in our own self, the anxious care for the self is attacked at its very root and limited; hence the peace, the unbroken serenity, which a virtuous disposition and a good conscience affords, and the more distinct appearance of this with every good deed, for it proves to ourselves the depth of that disposition. The egoist feels himself surrounded by strange and hostile individuals, and all his hope is centred in his own good. The good man lives in a world of friendly individuals, the well-being of any of whom he regards as his own. Therefore, although the knowledge of the lot of mankind generally does not make his disposition a joyful one, yet the permanent knowledge of his own nature in all living beings, gives him a certain evenness, and even serenity of disposition. For the interest which is extended to innumerable manifestations cannot cause such anxiety as that which is concentrated upon one. The accidents which concern individuals collectively, equalise themselves, while those which happen to the particular individual constitute good or bad fortune.

The opposite of the sting of conscience, the origin and significance of which is explained above, is the clear conscience, the satisfaction we feel after every selfless act. It comes from the fact that such an act, which arises from a direct understanding of our inner being reflected in another, gives us validation of that understanding—that our true self exists not only in our own person but in everything that lives. This realization expands our hearts, while selfishness shrinks them. Selfishness narrows our focus to our own individuality, with knowledge bringing to light the endless dangers that threaten us, leading to anxiety and worry becoming our main feelings. In contrast, the understanding that all living things are part of our own nature expands our concern to everything living, thus enlarging our hearts. By decreasing our focus on ourselves, we attack that anxiety and care at their very source, resulting in the peace and steady calm that come from a virtuous character and a good conscience, which becomes more apparent with every good deed, proving to us the depth of our moral character. The selfish person feels surrounded by strangers and hostile individuals, placing all his hope in his own fortunes. The good person lives among friendly individuals, regarding the well-being of others as part of his own. Therefore, while knowledge of humanity's overall struggles might not bring him joy, the constant awareness of his connection to all living beings provides him with a sense of balance and even serenity. The concern that spreads across countless manifestations cannot create as much anxiety as focusing on just one. Events affecting groups of people tend to balance out, while those affecting an individual result in good or bad fortune.

Thus, though others have set up moral principles which they give out as prescriptions for virtue, and laws which it was necessary to follow, I, as has already been said, cannot do this because I have no “ought” or law to prescribe to the eternally free-will. Yet on the other hand, in the connection of my system, what to a certain extent corresponds and is analogous to that undertaking is the purely theoretical truth, of which my whole exposition may be regarded as merely an elaboration, that the will is the in-itself of every phenomenon but itself, as such, is free from the forms of the phenomenal, and consequently from multiplicity; a truth, which, with reference to action, I do not know how to express better than by the formula of the Vedas already quoted: “Tat twam asi!” (This thou art!) Whoever is able to say this to himself, with regard to every being with whom [pg 484] he comes in contact, with clear knowledge and firm inward conviction, is certain of all virtue and blessedness, and is on the direct road to salvation.

So, even though others have established moral principles that they present as guidelines for virtue and laws that must be followed, I, as I’ve mentioned before, cannot do this because I have no “ought” or law to impose on the eternally free will. On the other hand, within the framework of my system, what somewhat corresponds to that effort is the purely theoretical truth, of which my entire explanation can be seen as just an elaboration: that the will is the essence of every phenomenon but itself, and is therefore free from the forms of the phenomenal, and thus from multiplicity; a truth that, in relation to action, I can only express better than by quoting the Vedas: “Tat twam asi!” (This thou art!) Anyone who can say this to themselves regarding every being they encounter, with clear understanding and firm inner conviction, is assured of all virtue and happiness, and is on the direct path to salvation.

But before I go further, and, as the conclusion of my exposition, show how love, the origin and nature of which we recognised as the penetration of the principium individuationis, leads to salvation, to the entire surrender of the will to live, i.e., of all volition, and also how another path, less soft but more frequented, leads men to the same goal, a paradoxical proposition must first be stated and explained; not because it is paradoxical, but because it is true, and is necessary to the completeness of the thought I have present. It is this: “All love (αγαπη, caritas) is sympathy.”

But before I continue and, as the conclusion of my explanation, show how love, which we recognize as the essence of individuality, leads to salvation and total surrender of the desire to live, meaning all volition, and also how another, less gentle but more common path can lead people to the same outcome, I need to first state and explain a paradoxical idea. It’s not paradoxical because it’s false; it’s paradoxical because it’s true and is essential for the completeness of the thought I’m presenting. Here it is: “All love (αγαπη, caritas) is sympathy.”

§ 67. We have seen how justice proceeds from the penetration of the principium individuationis in a less degree, and how from its penetration in a higher degree there arises goodness of disposition proper, which shows itself as pure, i.e., disinterested love towards others. When now the latter becomes perfect, it places other individuals and their fate completely on a level with itself and its own fate. Further than this it cannot go, for there exists no reason for preferring the individuality of another to its own. Yet the number of other individuals whose whole happiness or life is in danger may outweigh the regard for one's own particular well-being. In such a case, the character that has attained to the highest goodness and perfect nobility will entirely sacrifice its own well-being, and even its life, for the well-being of many others. So died Codrus, and Leonidas, and Regulus, and Decius Mus, and Arnold von Winkelried; so dies every one who voluntarily and consciously faces certain death for his friends or his country. And they also stand on the same level who voluntarily submit to suffering and death for maintaining what conduces and rightly belongs to the welfare of all mankind; that is, for maintaining universal and important truths and [pg 485] destroying great errors. So died Socrates and Giordano Bruno, and so many a hero of the truth suffered death at the stake at the hands of the priests.

§ 67. We have seen how justice comes from a lesser degree of the principle of individuation, and how a greater degree of this leads to true goodness, which appears as pure, i.e., selfless love for others. When this love reaches perfection, it places all individuals and their fates on the same level as its own fate. It cannot go further than this, as there is no reason to favor another's individuality over its own. However, the number of other individuals whose entire happiness or lives are at risk may outweigh concern for one’s own well-being. In such instances, a character that has achieved the highest goodness and true nobility will completely sacrifice its own well-being, and even its life, for the benefit of many others. Thus died Codrus, Leonidas, Regulus, Decius Mus, and Arnold von Winkelried; thus dies anyone who willingly and consciously faces certain death for their friends or country. Those who willingly endure suffering and death to uphold what is beneficial and rightfully belongs to the welfare of all humanity are also on the same level; that is, for maintaining universal and significant truths and [pg 485] destroying major falsehoods. Thus died Socrates and Giordano Bruno, and so many heroes of truth who suffered the stake at the hands of the priests.

Now, however, I must remind the reader, with reference to the paradox stated above, that we found before that suffering is essential to life as a whole, and inseparable from it. And that we saw that every wish proceeds from a need, from a want, from suffering, and that therefore every satisfaction is only the removal of a pain, and brings no positive happiness; that the joys certainly lie to the wish, presenting themselves as a positive good, but in truth they have only a negative nature, and are only the end of an evil. Therefore what goodness, love, and nobleness do for others, is always merely an alleviation of their suffering, and consequently all that can influence them to good deeds and works of love, is simply the knowledge of the suffering of others, which is directly understood from their own suffering and placed on a level with it. But it follows from this that pure love (αγαπη, caritas) is in its nature sympathy; whether the suffering it mitigates, to which every unsatisfied wish belongs, be great or small. Therefore we shall have no hesitation, in direct contradiction to Kant, who will only recognise all true goodness and all virtue to be such, if it has proceeded from abstract reflection, and indeed from the conception of duty and of the categorical imperative, and explains felt sympathy as weakness, and by no means virtue, we shall have no hesitation, I say, in direct contradiction to Kant, in saying: the mere concept is for genuine virtue just as unfruitful as it is for genuine art: all true and pure love is sympathy, and all love which is not sympathy is selfishness. Ερος is selfishness, αγαπη is sympathy. Combinations of the two frequently occur. Indeed genuine friendship is always a mixture of selfishness and sympathy; the former lies in the pleasure experienced in the presence of the friend, whose individuality corresponds to our [pg 486] own, and this almost always constitutes the greatest part; sympathy shows itself in the sincere participation in his joy and grief, and the disinterested sacrifices made in respect of the latter. Thus Spinoza says: Benevolentia nihil aliud est, quam cupiditas ex commiseratione orta (Eth. iii. pr. 27, cor. 3, schol.) As a confirmation of our paradoxical proposition it may be observed that the tone and words of the language and caresses of pure love, entirely coincide with the tones of sympathy; and we may also remark in passing that in Italian sympathy and true love are denoted by the same word pietà.

Now, however, I must remind the reader, referencing the paradox stated above, that we previously found that suffering is essential to life as a whole and inseparable from it. We saw that every desire comes from a need, a want, from suffering, and therefore every satisfaction is just the relief from pain and brings no true happiness; that joys certainly appear to fulfill wishes, presenting themselves as a positive good, but in reality, they only have a negative nature and are merely the end of a struggle. Thus, what goodness, love, and nobility do for others is always just an alleviation of their suffering, and consequently, all that can drive them towards good deeds and acts of love is simply the awareness of other people's suffering, which is directly understood from their own suffering and placed on the same level. It follows from this that pure love (αγαπη, charity) is inherently sympathy; whether the suffering it eases, to which every unfulfilled desire belongs, is significant or minor. Therefore, we shall have no hesitation, in direct contradiction to Kant, who only recognizes all true goodness and all virtue as such if they arise from abstract reflection, specifically from the idea of duty and the categorical imperative, and explains felt sympathy as weakness—rather than virtue—we shall confidently say, in contradiction to Kant, that the mere concept is as unproductive for genuine virtue as it is for true art: all true and pure love is sympathy, and any love that is not sympathy is selfishness. Ερος is selfishness, αγαπη is sympathy. Combinations of the two occur frequently. In fact, genuine friendship is always a mix of selfishness and sympathy; the former lies in the enjoyment experienced in the presence of a friend whose individuality resonates with our own, which almost always makes up the greatest part; sympathy is evident in the sincere sharing in his joy and sorrow, and the unselfish sacrifices made regarding the latter. Thus, Spinoza states: Benevolence is nothing other than a desire that arises from compassion. (Eth. iii. pr. 27, cor. 3, schol.) As a confirmation of our paradoxical proposition, it can be noted that the tone and words of the language and affection of pure love completely align with the tones of sympathy; and we might also note in passing that in Italian, sympathy and true love are represented by the same word pietà.

This is also the place to explain one of the most striking peculiarities of human nature, weeping, which, like laughter, belongs to those qualities which distinguish man from the brutes. Weeping is by no means a direct expression of pain, for it occurs where there is very little pain. In my opinion, indeed, we never weep directly on account of the pain we experience, but always merely on account of its repetition in reflection. We pass from the felt pain, even when it is physical, to a mere idea of it, and then find our own state so deserving of sympathy that we are firmly and sincerely convinced that if another were the sufferer, we would be full of sympathy, and love to relieve him. But now we ourselves are the object of our own sympathy; with the most benevolent disposition we are ourselves most in need of help; we feel that we suffer more than we could see another suffer; and in this very complex frame of mind, in which the directly felt suffering only comes to perception by a doubly circuitous route, imagined as the suffering of another, sympathised with as such, and then suddenly perceived again as directly our own,—in this complex frame of mind, I say, Nature relieves itself through that remarkable physical conflict. Weeping is accordingly sympathy with our own selves, or sympathy directed back on its source. It is therefore conditional upon the capacity for love and sympathy, and also upon imagination. Therefore [pg 487] men who are either hard-hearted or unimaginative do not weep easily, and weeping is even always regarded as a sign of a certain degree of goodness of character, and disarms anger, because it is felt that whoever can still weep, must necessarily always be capable of love, i.e., sympathy towards others, for this enters in the manner described into the disposition that leads to weeping. The description which Petrarch gives of the rising of his own tears, naïvely and truly expressing his feeling, entirely agrees with the explanation we have given—

This is also the place to explain one of the most striking quirks of human nature, crying, which, like laughter, sets us apart from animals. Weeping isn’t just a straightforward reaction to pain; it can happen even in situations where there’s little actual pain. In my view, we don’t weep because of the pain we’re feeling directly, but because we reflect on it. We shift from feeling pain, even if it’s physical, to merely thinking about it, and then we find our own situation so deserving of sympathy that we genuinely believe that if someone else were suffering, we would want to help them. But now we’re the ones deserving of our own sympathy; with the best intentions, we find ourselves needing help the most; we feel we suffer more than we could bear to see someone else suffer. In this complex state of mind, where our immediate suffering is recognized through a roundabout process—imagined as someone else's suffering, empathized with in that way, and then suddenly recognized as our own—we find that Nature expresses itself through this remarkable physical conflict. Crying is therefore self-compassion, or self-directed sympathy. It’s tied to our ability to love and empathize, as well as our imagination. As a result, [pg 487] people who are either cold-hearted or lack imagination don’t cry easily, and weeping is often seen as a sign of a certain level of goodness in character, diffusing anger, because it’s understood that anyone who can still cry must also be capable of love, i.e. empathy towards others, which is part of the disposition that leads to weeping. The description that Petrarch gives of his own tears flowing, naively and honestly reflecting his feelings, aligns perfectly with the explanation we have provided—

I've been thinking: and in my thoughts, it overwhelms me
A deep compassion for myself,
That often leads me,
"To cry out loud, which I never used to."82

What has been said is also confirmed by the fact that children who have been hurt generally do not cry till some one commiserates them; thus not on account of the pain, but on account of the idea of it. When we are moved to tears, not through our own suffering but through that of another, this happens as follows. Either we vividly put ourselves in the place of the sufferer by imagination, or see in his fate the lot of humanity as a whole, and consequently, first of all, our own lot; and thus, in a very roundabout way, it is yet always about ourselves that we weep, sympathy with ourselves which we feel. This seems to be the principal reason of the universal, and thus natural, weeping in the case of death. The mourner does not weep for his loss; he would be ashamed of such egotistical tears, instead of which he is sometimes ashamed of not weeping. First of all he certainly weeps for the fate of the dead, but he also weeps when, after long, heavy, and incurable suffering, death was to this man a wished-for deliverance. Thus, principally, he is seized with sympathy for the lot of all [pg 488] mankind, which is necessarily finite, so that every life, however aspiring, and often rich in deeds, must be extinguished and become nothing. But in this lot of mankind the mourner sees first of all his own, and this all the more, the more closely he is related to him who has died, thus most of all if it is his father. Although to his father his life was misery through age and sickness, and though his helplessness was a heavy burden to his son, yet that son weeps bitterly over the death of his father for the reason which has been given.83

What has been said is also confirmed by the fact that children who get hurt generally don't cry until someone shows them sympathy; they cry not because of the pain, but because of the idea of it. When we cry, it's often not due to our own suffering but because we feel for someone else. This can happen in two ways: we either vividly imagine ourselves in the sufferer's position or recognize in their situation the fate of humanity as a whole, and therefore, our own fate. In this roundabout way, our tears are ultimately about ourselves, a sympathy for our own experiences. This seems to be the main reason for the universal and natural crying that occurs with death. The mourner doesn't cry for his own loss; he would feel embarrassed about such selfish tears. Instead, sometimes he feels awkward for not crying. While he certainly weeps for the deceased, he also mourns because, after long and painful suffering, death became a desired release for that person. Essentially, he feels sympathy for the shared fate of all humanity, which is limited, meaning that every life, no matter how ambitious or full of accomplishments, must eventually end and become nothing. In this shared fate, the mourner first sees his own, especially if he is closely related to the deceased, most intensely if it’s his father. Even though his father’s life was filled with misery from age and illness, and his helplessness was a heavy burden for his son, that son weeps bitterly over his father’s death for the reasons mentioned.

§ 68. After this digression about the identity of pure love and sympathy, the final return of which upon our own individuality has, as its symptom, the phenomenon of weeping, I now take up the thread of our discussion of the ethical significance of action, in order to show how, from the same source from which all goodness, love, virtue, and nobility of character spring, there finally arises that which I call the denial of the will to live.

§ 68. After this digression about the connection between pure love and sympathy, which ultimately leads us to the experience of crying as a sign of our own individuality, I will now continue our discussion on the ethical importance of action. I want to demonstrate how, from the same origin that gives rise to all goodness, love, virtue, and noble character, there eventually comes forth what I refer to as the denial of the will to live.

We saw before that hatred and wickedness are conditioned by egoism, and egoism rests on the entanglement of knowledge in the principium individuationis. Thus we found that the penetration of that principium individuationis is the source and the nature of justice, and when it is carried further, even to its fullest extent, it is the source and nature of love and nobility of character. For this penetration alone, by abolishing the distinction between our own individuality and that of others, renders possible and explains perfect goodness of disposition, extending to disinterested love and the most generous self-sacrifice for others.

We previously observed that hatred and wickedness stem from egoism, which is based on how knowledge gets tangled up in the principle of individuation. Therefore, we discovered that understanding the principle of individuation is the foundation and essence of justice, and when taken further, it becomes the source and essence of love and noble character. This understanding, by eliminating the separation between our individuality and that of others, enables and explains true goodness of character, which includes selfless love and the greatest acts of self-sacrifice for others.

If, however, this penetration of the principium individuationis, this direct knowledge of the identity of will in all its manifestations, is present in a high degree of distinctness, it will at once show an influence upon the will [pg 489] which extends still further. If that veil of Mâyâ, the principium individuationis, is lifted from the eyes of a man to such an extent that he no longer makes the egotistical distinction between his person and that of others, but takes as much interest in the sufferings of other individuals as in his own, and therefore is not only benevolent in the highest degree, but even ready to sacrifice his own individuality whenever such a sacrifice will save a number of other persons, then it clearly follows that such a man, who recognises in all beings his own inmost and true self, must also regard the infinite suffering of all suffering beings as his own, and take on himself the pain of the whole world. No suffering is any longer strange to him. All the miseries of others which he sees and is so seldom able to alleviate, all the miseries he knows directly, and even those which he only knows as possible, work upon his mind like his own. It is no longer the changing joy and sorrow of his own person that he has in view, as is the case with him who is still involved in egoism; but, since he sees through the principium individuationis, all lies equally near him. He knows the whole, comprehends its nature, and finds that it consists in a constant passing away, vain striving, inward conflict, and continual suffering. He sees wherever he looks suffering humanity, the suffering brute creation, and a world that passes away. But all this now lies as near him as his own person lies to the egoist. Why should he now, with such knowledge of the world, assert this very life through constant acts of will, and thereby bind himself ever more closely to it, press it ever more firmly to himself? Thus he who is still involved in the principium individuationis, in egoism, only knows particular things and their relation to his own person, and these constantly become new motives of his volition. But, on the other hand, that knowledge of the whole, of the nature of the thing-in-itself which has been described, becomes a quieter of all and every volition. The will now turns away [pg 490] from life; it now shudders at the pleasures in which it recognises the assertion of life. Man now attains to the state of voluntary renunciation, resignation, true indifference, and perfect will-lessness. If at times, in the hard experience of our own suffering, or in the vivid recognition of that of others, the knowledge of the vanity and bitterness of life draws nigh to us also who are still wrapt in the veil of Mâyâ, and we would like to destroy the sting of the desires, close the entrance against all suffering, and purify and sanctify ourselves by complete and final renunciation; yet the illusion of the phenomenon soon entangles us again, and its motives influence the will anew; we cannot tear ourselves free. The allurement of hope, the flattery of the present, the sweetness of pleasure, the well-being which falls to our lot, amid the lamentations of a suffering world governed by chance and error, draws us back to it and rivets our bonds anew. Therefore Jesus says: “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.”

If, however, this deep understanding of the principle of individuation, this direct awareness of the unity of will in all its forms, is present clearly, it will immediately influence the will [pg 489] in even broader ways. If the veil of Mâyâ, the individualization principle, is lifted from a person’s eyes to the point that they no longer see a selfish distinction between themselves and others, but care just as much about the suffering of others as their own, they will not only be profoundly benevolent but also willing to sacrifice their own individuality to save many others. It follows that such a person, who sees in all beings their own deepest and true self, must also feel the immense pain of all suffering beings as their own and take on the suffering of the world. No suffering feels foreign to them anymore. All the hardships they witness, which they can rarely alleviate, all the pains they experience directly, and even those they only know could exist, weigh on their mind like their own. They are no longer focused on the fluctuating joys and sorrows of their own life, as someone still caught in egoism is; instead, since they see through the principle of individuation, everything feels equally close to them. They comprehend the whole, understand its essence, and realize that it consists of constant loss, futile striving, inner turmoil, and continuous suffering. They see suffering humanity, suffering animals, and a world in decline everywhere they look. But all this now feels as immediate to them as their own existence does to the egoist. Why then should they, with such understanding of the world, cling to this life through constant acts of will, thus binding themselves ever more tightly to it, pressing it closer to themselves? The person still caught in the principle of individuation, in egoism, only recognizes specific things and their connection to their own self, which continually lead to new reasons for their will. However, this broader understanding of the entirety, of the essence of things as they truly are, becomes a more silent of every desire. The will now turns away [pg 490] from life; it now recoils from the pleasures that represent the assertion of life. A person now reaches a state of voluntary renunciation, acceptance, true indifference, and complete lack of willpower. If at times, through the harsh lessons of our own suffering or the vivid awareness of the suffering of others, the realization of the futility and bitterness of life comes close to us, who are still wrapped in the veil of Mâyâ, and we wish to eliminate the pain of desire, shut out all suffering, and purify ourselves through total and final renunciation; yet the illusion of phenomena soon ensnares us again, and its motives influence our will once more; we cannot break free. The lure of hope, the appeal of the present moment, the pleasure we experience, and the comfort that comes our way amidst the cries of a suffering world ruled by chance and mistakes draw us back in and tighten our bonds once more. Therefore, Jesus says: “It’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a wealthy person to enter the kingdom of God.”

If we compare life to a course or path through which we must unceasingly run—a path of red-hot coals, with a few cool places here and there; then he who is entangled in delusion is consoled by the cool places, on which he now stands, or which he sees near him, and sets out to run through the course. But he who sees through the principium individuationis, and recognises the real nature of the thing-in-itself, and thus the whole, is no longer susceptible of such consolation; he sees himself in all places at once, and withdraws. His will turns round, no longer asserts its own nature, which is reflected in the phenomenon, but denies it. The phenomenon by which this change is marked, is the transition from virtue to asceticism. That is to say, it no longer suffices for such a man to love others as himself, and to do as much for them as for himself; but there arises within him a horror of the nature of which his own phenomenal existence [pg 491] is an expression, the will to live, the kernel and inner nature of that world which is recognised as full of misery. He therefore disowns this nature which appears in him, and is already expressed through his body, and his action gives the lie to his phenomenal existence, and appears in open contradiction to it. Essentially nothing else but a manifestation of will, he ceases to will anything, guards against attaching his will to anything, and seeks to confirm in himself the greatest indifference to everything. His body, healthy and strong, expresses through the genitals, the sexual impulse; but he denies the will and gives the lie to the body; he desires no sensual gratification under any condition. Voluntary and complete chastity is the first step in asceticism or the denial of the will to live. It thereby denies the assertion of the will which extends beyond the individual life, and gives the assurance that with the life of this body, the will, whose manifestation it is, ceases. Nature, always true and naïve, declares that if this maxim became universal, the human race would die out; and I think I may assume, in accordance with what was said in the Second Book about the connection of all manifestations of will, that with its highest manifestation, the weaker reflection of it would also pass away, as the twilight vanishes along with the full light. With the entire abolition of knowledge, the rest of the world would of itself vanish into nothing; for without a subject there is no object. I should like here to refer to a passage in the Vedas, where it is said: “As in this world hungry infants press round their mother; so do all beings await the holy oblation.” (Asiatic Researches, vol. viii.; Colebrooke, On the Vedas, Abstract of the Sama-Veda; also in Colebrooke's Miscellaneous Essays, vol. i. p. 79.) Sacrifice means resignation generally, and the rest of nature must look for its salvation to man who is at once the priest and the sacrifice. Indeed it deserves to be noticed as very remarkable, that this thought has also [pg 492] been expressed by the admirable and unfathomably profound Angelus Silesius, in the little poem entitled, “Man brings all to God;” it runs, “Man! all loves thee; around thee great is the throng. All things flee to thee that they may attain to God.” But a yet greater mystic, Meister Eckhard, whose wonderful writings are at last accessible (1857) through the edition of Franz Pfeiffer, says the same thing (p. 459) quite in the sense explained here: “I bear witness to the saying of Christ. I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all things unto me (John xii. 32). So shall the good man draw all things up to God, to the source whence they first came. The Masters certify to us that all creatures are made for the sake of man. This is proved in all created things, by the fact that the one makes the use of the other; the ox makes use of the grass, the fish of the water, the bird of the air, the wild beast of the forest. Thus, all created things become of use to the good man. A good man brings to God the one created thing in the other.” He means to say, that man makes use of the brutes in this life because, in and with himself, he saves them also. It also seems to me that that difficult passage in the Bible, Rom. viii. 21-24, must be interpreted in this sense.

If we think of life as a journey we must constantly run through—a path filled with hot coals, with a few cool spots here and there—then someone who is trapped in illusion finds comfort in the cool spots they stand on or see close by, and they start to run through the journey. But the person who sees through the principle of individuation and understands the true nature of reality is no longer comforted by such things; they see themselves everywhere at once and pull back. Their will shifts, no longer affirming its own nature reflected in what is seen, but instead denying it. The change this brings about is what marks the transition from virtue to asceticism. This means that it’s no longer enough for such a person to love others as they love themselves and do as much for them as for themselves; instead, a horror arises within them, the essence of which their own physical existence [pg 491] expresses, the will to live, the core and inner nature of a world recognized as full of suffering. They reject this nature that appears within them and is already expressed through their body, and their actions contradict their physical existence. Essentially, being a manifestation of will, they stop wanting anything, avoid attaching their will to anything, and seek to cultivate indifference toward everything. Their healthy, strong body expresses through the genitals, the sexual impulse; but they deny the will and contradict the body; they seek no sensual pleasure under any circumstances. Choosing total and voluntary chastity is the first step in asceticism, or the denial of the will to live. This denies the affirmation of will that extends beyond individual life and assures that with the life of this body, the will, which it expresses, ends. Nature, always honest and simple, reminds us that if this principle were to be universal, humanity would cease to exist; I believe I can assume, in line with what was stated in the Second Book about the connection of all expressions of will, that with its highest expression, its weaker reflection would also disappear, just as twilight fades along with full light. With the complete elimination of knowledge, the rest of the world would vanish into nothing; for without a subject, there is no object. I'd like to refer to a passage in the Vedas, which states: "Just as hungry babies gather around their mother in this world, all beings wait for the sacred offering." (Asiatic Researches, vol. viii.; Colebrooke, On the Vedas, Abstract of the Sama-Veda; also in Colebrooke's Miscellaneous Essays, vol. i. p. 79.) Sacrifice means generally resignation, and nature must look to humanity for salvation, as man is both the priest and the sacrifice. It's worth noting that this idea has also been expressed by the remarkable and deeply insightful Angelus Silesius in the short poem titled, “Person brings all to God;” which goes, "Wow! Everyone loves you; there's a huge crowd around you. Everything rushes to you to reach God." Another profound mystic, Meister Eckhart, whose wonderful writings are finally accessible (1857) through Franz Pfeiffer’s edition, expresses the same sentiment (p. 459) in the sense explained here: “I testify to the words of Christ: 'When I am lifted up from the earth, I will draw all people to myself' (John 12:32). Likewise, a good person will draw everything up to God, the source from which they originally came. The Masters affirm that all creatures exist for the benefit of humanity. This is evident in all created things, as they rely on one another; for example, the ox feeds on grass, the fish lives in water, the bird soars through the air, and the wild beast thrives in the forest. Therefore, all created things serve the good person. A good person presents one created thing to God through another.” He means to say that man makes use of animals in this life because, in and through himself, he also saves them. It also seems to me that the challenging passage in the Bible, Rom. viii. 21-24, should be understood in this way.

In Buddhism also, there is no lack of expressions of this truth. For example, when Buddha, still as Bodisatwa, has his horse saddled for the last time, for his flight into the wilderness from his father's house, he says these lines to the horse: “Long hast thou existed in life and in death, but now thou shalt cease from carrying and drawing. Bear me but this once more, O Kantakana, away from here, and when I have attained to the Law (have become Buddha) I will not forget thee” (Foe Koue Ki, trad. p. Abel Rémusat, p. 233).

In Buddhism, there are plenty of expressions of this truth. For instance, when Buddha, still known as Bodhisattva, saddles his horse for the last time, preparing to leave his father's house for the wilderness, he says to the horse: "You've experienced life and death for a long time, but now you won't have to carry or pull anymore. Just take me one last time, O Kantakana, away from here, and once I reach the Law (become Buddha), I won’t forget you." (Foe Koue Ki, trad. p. Abel Rémusat, p. 233).

Asceticism then shows itself further in voluntary and intentional poverty, which not only arises per accidens, because the possessions are given away to mitigate the sufferings of others, but is here an end in itself, is meant [pg 493] to serve as a constant mortification of will, so that the satisfaction of the wishes, the sweet of life, shall not again arouse the will, against which self-knowledge has conceived a horror. He who has attained to this point, still always feels, as a living body, as concrete manifestation of will, the natural disposition for every kind of volition; but he intentionally suppresses it, for he compels himself to refrain from doing all that he would like to do, and to do all that he would like not to do, even if this has no further end than that of serving as a mortification of will. Since he himself denies the will which appears in his own person, he will not resist if another does the same, i.e., inflicts wrongs upon him. Therefore every suffering coming to him from without, through chance or the wickedness of others, is welcome to him, every injury, ignominy, and insult; he receives them gladly as the opportunity of learning with certainty that he no longer asserts the will, but gladly sides with every enemy of the manifestation of will which is his own person. Therefore he bears such ignominy and suffering with inexhaustible patience and meekness, returns good for evil without ostentation, and allows the fire of anger to rise within him just as little as that of the desires. And he mortifies not only the will itself, but also its visible form, its objectivity, the body. He nourishes it sparingly, lest its excessive vigour and prosperity should animate and excite more strongly the will, of which it is merely the expression and the mirror. So he practises fasting, and even resorts to chastisement and self-inflicted torture, in order that, by constant privation and suffering, he may more and more break down and destroy the will, which he recognises and abhors as the source of his own suffering existence and that of the world. If at last death comes, which puts an end to this manifestation of that will, whose existence here has long since perished through free-denial of itself, with the exception of the weak residue of it [pg 494] which appears as the life of this body; it is most welcome, and is gladly received as a longed-for deliverance. Here it is not, as in the case of others, merely the manifestation which ends with death; but the inner nature itself is abolished, which here existed only in the manifestation, and that in a very weak degree;84 this last slight bond is now broken. For him who thus ends, the world has ended also.

Asceticism further reveals itself in voluntary and intentional poverty, which not only occurs by chance because possessions are given away to ease the suffering of others, but is also pursued as an end in itself. It aims to serve as a constant denial of the will, so that the fulfillment of desires and the pleasures of life do not reawaken the will, which he has come to detest through self-awareness. Once a person reaches this state, they still feel, as a living being and a concrete expression of will, the natural tendency towards various desires; however, they deliberately suppress it, forcing themselves to avoid everything they want to do and to engage in activities they would prefer not to, even if it's just for the sake of denying the will. Since they deny the will that appears within themselves, they won't resist if someone else does the same, meaning they accept wrongs done to them. Thus, every external suffering that comes their way, whether by chance or through the malevolence of others, is welcomed. Every injury, humiliation, and insult is embraced as an opportunity to learn with certainty that they no longer assert their will and gladly align with any force opposing their own manifestation of will. As a result, they endure such disgrace and suffering with endless patience and humility, respond to evil with kindness without seeking recognition, and let the fire of anger within them ignite no more than the flames of desire. They suppress not only the will itself but also its visible form and expression—the body. They nourish it sparingly to prevent its excess vigor from energizing and inflaming the will, which is merely its reflection. Thus, they practice fasting, and may even resort to self-punishment and inflicted pain, so that through constant deprivation and suffering, they can progressively dismantle and eradicate the will, which they identify and loathe as the root of their own suffering and that of the world. When death finally comes, ending this manifestation of the will—whose existence long ago faded due to self-denial, except for the feeble remnants that appear as life in the body—it is welcomed and embraced as a longed-for release. Here, unlike for others, it is not merely the manifestation that ends with death; the very essence is abolished, having only existed here in a weak form. This last tenuous connection is now severed. For the one who meets this end, the world has also come to an end.

And what I have here described with feeble tongue and only in general terms, is no philosophical fable, invented by myself, and only of to-day; no, it was the enviable life of so many saints and beautiful souls among Christians, and still more among Hindus and Buddhists, and also among the believers of other religions. However different were the dogmas impressed on their reason, the same inward, direct, intuitive knowledge, from which alone all virtue and holiness proceed, expressed itself in precisely the same way in the conduct of life. For here also the great distinction between intuitive and abstract knowledge shows itself; a distinction which is of such importance and universal application in our whole investigation, and which has hitherto been too little attended to. There is a wide gulf between the two, which can only be crossed by the aid of philosophy, as regards the knowledge of the nature of the world. Intuitively or in concreto, every man is really conscious of all philosophical truths, but to bring them to abstract knowledge, to reflection, is the work of philosophy, which neither ought nor is able to do more than this.

And what I have described here with a weak voice and only in general terms is not a philosophical fable created by me and just for today; no, it was the admirable life of countless saints and beautiful souls among Christians, and even more among Hindus and Buddhists, as well as among followers of other religions. Despite the different beliefs imposed on their minds, the same inward, direct, intuitive understanding, from which all virtue and holiness come, expressed itself in exactly the same way in their way of living. Here, too, the important distinction between intuitive and abstract knowledge becomes clear; a distinction that is crucial and widely applicable in our entire inquiry, which has been given too little attention until now. There is a vast gulf between the two, which can only be crossed with the help of philosophy concerning the understanding of the nature of the world. Intuitively or in practice, every person is truly aware of all philosophical truths, but transforming them into abstract knowledge, into reflection, is the task of philosophy, which should neither aim nor be able to do more than this.

Thus it may be that the inner nature of holiness, self-renunciation, mortification of our own will, asceticism, is [pg 495] here for the first time expressed abstractly, and free from all mythical elements, as denial of the will to live, appearing after the complete knowledge of its own nature has become a quieter of all volition. On the other hand, it has been known directly and realised in practice by saints and ascetics, who had all the same inward knowledge, though they used very different language with regard to it, according to the dogmas which their reason had accepted, and in consequence of which an Indian, a Christian, or a Lama saint must each give a very different account of his conduct, which is, however, of no importance as regards the fact. A saint may be full of the absurdest superstition, or, on the contrary, he may be a philosopher, it is all the same. His conduct alone certifies that he is a saint, for, in a moral regard, it proceeds from knowledge of the world and its nature, which is not abstractly but intuitively and directly apprehended, and is only expressed by him in any dogma for the satisfaction of his reason. It is therefore just as little needful that a saint should be a philosopher as that a philosopher should be a saint; just as it is not necessary that a perfectly beautiful man should be a great sculptor, or that a great sculptor should himself be a beautiful man. In general, it is a strange demand upon a moralist that he should teach no other virtue than that which he himself possesses. To repeat the whole nature of the world abstractly, universally, and distinctly in concepts, and thus to store up, as it were, a reflected image of it in permanent concepts always at the command of the reason; this and nothing else is philosophy. I refer the reader to the passage quoted from Bacon in the First Book.

Thus, it may be that the true essence of holiness, self-denial, mortification of our own will, and asceticism is [pg 495] expressed here for the first time in an abstract way, free from all mythical elements, as rejection of the desire to live, emerging after a complete understanding of its own nature has quieted all desires. On the other hand, it has been known directly and practiced by saints and ascetics, who had the same inner understanding, although they described it using very different language based on the beliefs their reason accepted. Consequently, an Indian, a Christian, or a Lama saint must each explain their actions quite differently, but this difference is not significant regarding the fact. A saint might be steeped in the most ridiculous superstitions, or on the contrary, he might be a philosopher; it makes no difference. His actions alone prove that he is a saint because, morally, they come from a knowledge of the world and its nature, which is not understood only abstractly but is grasped intuitively and directly. He merely expresses this understanding in any doctrine to satisfy his reason. Thus, it is just as unnecessary for a saint to be a philosopher as it is for a philosopher to be a saint; just as it isn't essential for a perfectly beautiful person to be a great sculptor, or for a great sculptor to be a beautiful person. In general, it is a strange expectation for a moralist to teach any virtue other than the one he possesses himself. To repeat the entire nature of the world abstractly, universally, and clearly in concepts, storing up, so to speak, a reflected image of it in permanent concepts always at the ready for reason; this and nothing else is philosophy. I refer the reader to the passage quoted from Bacon in the First Book.

But the description I have given above of the denial of the will to live, of the conduct of a beautiful soul, of a resigned and voluntarily expiating saint, is merely abstract and general, and therefore cold. As the knowledge from which the denial of the will proceeds is intuitive and not abstract, it finds its most perfect expression, not in abstract [pg 496] conceptions, but in deeds and conduct. Therefore, in order to understand fully what we philosophically express as denial of the will to live, one must come to know examples of it in experience and actual life. Certainly they are not to be met with in daily experience: Nam omnia præclara tam difficilia quam rara sunt, Spinoza admirably says. Therefore, unless by a specially happy fate we are made eye-witnesses, we have to content ourselves with descriptions of the lives of such men. Indian literature, as we see from the little that we as yet know through translations, is very rich in descriptions of the lives of saints, penitents, Samanas or ascetics, Sannyâsis or mendicants, and whatever else they may be called. Even the well-known “Mythologie des Indous, par Mad. de Polier,” though by no means to be commended in every respect, contains many excellent examples of this kind (especially in ch. 13, vol. ii.) Among Christians also there is no lack of examples which afford us the illustrations we desire. See the biographies, for the most part badly written, of those persons who are sometimes called saintly souls, sometimes pietists, quietists, devout enthusiasts, and so forth. Collections of such biographies have been made at various times, such as Tersteegen's “Leben heiliger Seelen,” Reiz's “Geschichte der Wiedergeborennen,” in our own day, a collection by Kanne, which, with much that is bad, yet contains some good, and especially the “Leben der Beata Sturmin.” To this category very properly belongs the life of St. Francis of Assisi, that true personification of the ascetic, and prototype of all mendicant friars. His life, described by his younger contemporary, St. Bonaventura, also famous as a scholastic, has recently been republished. “Vita S. Francisci a S. Bonaventura concinnata” (Soest, 1847), though shortly before a painstaking and detailed biography, making use of all sources of information, appeared in France, “Histoire de S. François d'Assise, par Chavin de Mallan” (1845). As an Oriental parallel of these [pg 497] monastic writings we have the very valuable work of Spence Hardy, “Eastern Monachism; an Account of the Order of Mendicants founded by Gotama Budha” (1850). It shows us the same thing in another dress. We also see what a matter of indifference it is whether it proceeds from a theistical or an atheistical religion. But as a special and exceedingly full example and practical illustration of the conceptions I have established, I can thoroughly recommend the “Autobiography of Madame de Guion.” To become acquainted with this great and beautiful soul, the very thought of whom always fills me with reverence, and to do justice to the excellence of her disposition while making allowance for the superstition of her reason, must be just as delightful to every man of the better sort as with vulgar thinkers, i.e., the majority, that book will always stand in bad repute. For it is the case with regard to everything, that each man can only prize that which to a certain extent is analogous to him and for which he has at least a slight inclination. This holds good of ethical concerns as well as of intellectual. We might to a certain extent regard the well-known French biography of Spinoza as a case in point, if we used as a key to it that noble introduction to his very insufficient essay, “De Emendatione Intellectus,” a passage which I can also recommend as the most effectual means I know of stilling the storm of the passions. Finally, even the great Goethe, Greek as he is, did not think it below his dignity to show us this most beautiful side of humanity in the magic mirror of poetic art, for he represented the life of Fräulein Klettenberg in an idealised form in his “Confessions of a Beautiful Soul,” and later, in his own biography, gave us also an historical account of it. Besides this, he twice told the story of the life of St. Philippo Neri. The history of the world, will, and indeed must, keep silence about the men whose conduct is the best and only adequate illustration of this important point of our investigation, [pg 498] for the material of the history of the world is quite different, and indeed opposed to this. It is not the denial of the will to live, but its assertion and its manifestation in innumerable individuals in which its conflict with itself at the highest grade of its objectification appears with perfect distinctness, and brings before our eyes, now the ascendancy of the individual through prudence, now the might of the many through their mass, now the might of chance personified as fate, always the vanity and emptiness of the whole effort. We, however, do not follow here the course of phenomena in time, but, as philosophers, we seek to investigate the ethical significance of action, and take this as the only criterion of what for us is significant and important. Thus we will not be withheld by any fear of the constant numerical superiority of vulgarity and dulness from acknowledging that the greatest, most important, and most significant phenomenon that the world can show is not the conqueror of the world, but the subduer of it; is nothing but the quiet, unobserved life of a man who has attained to the knowledge in consequence of which he surrenders and denies that will to live which fills everything and strives and strains in all, and which first gains freedom here in him alone, so that his conduct becomes the exact opposite of that of other men. In this respect, therefore, for the philosopher, these accounts of the lives of holy, self-denying men, badly as they are generally written, and mixed as they are with superstition and nonsense, are, because of the significance of the material, immeasurably more instructive and important than even Plutarch and Livy.

But the description I’ve given above of the denial of the will to live, of the actions of a beautiful soul, of a resigned and voluntarily penitent saint, is just abstract and general, and therefore cold. Since the understanding from which the denial of the will arises is intuitive rather than abstract, it finds its best expression, not in abstract concepts, but in actions and behavior. Therefore, to fully grasp what we philosophically express as denial of the will to live, one must know examples of it from experience and real life. Certainly, they aren't found in daily life: All great things are as difficult as they are rare, Spinoza says brilliantly. So unless we are fortunate enough to witness them ourselves, we have to be satisfied with descriptions of the lives of such people. Indian literature, from what we know so far through translations, is rich in descriptions of the lives of saints, penitents, Samanas or ascetics, Sannyâsis or beggars, and whatever else they might be called. Even the well-known "Mythology of the Hindus, by Madame de Polier," though not commendable in every way, includes many excellent examples of this kind (especially in ch. 13, vol. ii.) Among Christians as well, there is no shortage of examples that provide the illustrations we need. Look at the biographies, mostly poorly written, of those people sometimes referred to as saintly souls, pietists, quietists, devout enthusiasts, and so forth. Collections of such biographies have been made at different times, like Tersteegen's “Lives of holy souls,” Reiz's “History of the Reborn,” and in our time, a collection by Kanne, which, despite its bad aspects, contains some good material, especially the "Life of Beata Sturmin." The life of St. Francis of Assisi, that true embodiment of the ascetic and model of all mendicant friars, rightly belongs in this category. His life, described by his younger contemporary, St. Bonaventura, who is also known as a scholastic, has recently been republished. "Life of St. Francis by St. Bonaventure" (Soest, 1847), although a thorough and detailed biography using all available resources was published shortly before in France, "History of St. Francis of Assisi, by Chavin de Mallan" (1845). As an Eastern counterpart to these [pg 497] monastic writings, we have the valuable work of Spence Hardy, “Eastern Monasticism: An Account of the Order of Beggars Founded by Gautama Buddha” (1850). It illustrates the same concept in a different context. We also see that it doesn't matter whether it comes from a religious or non-religious perspective. However, as an especially rich example and practical illustration of the ideas I’ve discussed, I highly recommend the “Autobiography of Madame de Guion.” Getting to know this great and beautiful soul, whose very thought always fills me with respect, and recognizing the excellence of her character while considering the superstitions of her reasoning, must be just as enjoyable for every decent person as for common thinkers. i.e. the majority, this book will always be viewed negatively. This is true for everything; each person can only appreciate what is in some way similar to them and for which they have at least a slight inclination. This applies to ethical matters as well as intellectual ones. We could look at the well-known French biography of Spinoza as an example of this if we consider that noble introduction to his quite inadequate essay, “On the Improvement of the Mind,” a passage I can also suggest as the most effective means I know for calming the storm of passions. Finally, even the great Goethe, being Greek, did not find it beneath him to show us this most beautiful side of humanity through the magic of poetic art, as he portrayed the life of Fräulein Klettenberg in an idealized form in his "Confessions of a Beautiful Soul," and later, in his own biography, provided a historical account of it. Additionally, he twice told the story of St. Philippo Neri. The history of the world will, and indeed must, remain silent about the men whose actions best and most adequately illustrate this important aspect of our investigation, [pg 498] since the material of world history is quite different, and indeed opposed, to this. It is not the denial of the will to live, but its assertion and its manifestation in countless individuals that reveals the conflict with itself at its highest level of objectification, bringing before us the rise of the individual through prudence, the power of the many through their mass, and the force of chance personified as fate, always showcasing the emptiness and futility of the whole endeavor. However, we do not track the course of phenomena in time here; instead, as philosophers, we seek to explore the ethical significance of actions, using this as the only standard for what is meaningful and significant to us. Thus, we will not be deterred by any fear of the overwhelming numerical superiority of mediocrity and dullness from acknowledging that the greatest, most important, and most significant phenomenon the world can show is not the conqueror of the world, but the one who subdues it; it is simply the quiet, unnoticed life of a person who has attained understanding which leads them to surrender and deny that will to live which permeates everything and strives in all, which first finds freedom here in them alone, so that their actions become the exact opposite of those of others. In this context, then, for the philosopher, these accounts of the lives of holy, self-denying individuals, however poorly written and muddled with superstition and nonsense, are, due to the significance of the content, immeasurably more instructive and important than even Plutarch and Livy.

It will further assist us much in obtaining a more definite and full knowledge of what we have expressed abstractly and generally, according to our method of exposition, as the denial of the will to live, if we consider the moral teaching that has been imparted with this intention, and by men who were full of this spirit; [pg 499] and this will also show how old our view is, though the pure philosophical expression of it may be quite new. The teaching of this kind which lies nearest to hand is Christianity, the ethics of which are entirely in the spirit indicated, and lead not only to the highest degrees of human love, but also to renunciation. The germ of this last side of it is certainly distinctly present in the writings of the Apostles, but it was only fully developed and expressed later. We find the Apostles enjoining the love of our neighbour as ourselves, benevolence, the requital of hatred with love and well-doing, patience, meekness, the endurance of all possible injuries without resistance, abstemiousness in nourishment to keep down lust, resistance to sensual desire, if possible, altogether. We already see here the first degrees of asceticism, or denial of the will proper. This last expression denotes that which in the Gospels is called denying ourselves and taking up the cross (Matt. xvi. 24, 25; Mark viii. 34, 35; Luke ix. 23, 24, xiv. 26, 27, 33). This tendency soon developed itself more and more, and was the origin of hermits, anchorites, and monasticism—an origin which in itself was pure and holy, but for that very reason unsuitable for the great majority of men; therefore what developed out of it could only be hypocrisy and wickedness, for abusus optimi pessimus. In more developed Christianity, we see that seed of asceticism unfold into the full flower in the writings of the Christian saints and mystics. These preach, besides the purest love, complete resignation, voluntary and absolute poverty, genuine calmness, perfect indifference to all worldly things, dying to our own will and being born again in God, entire forgetting of our own person, and sinking ourselves in the contemplation of God. A full exposition of this will be found in Fénélon's “Explication des Maximes des Saints sur la Vie Interieure.” But the spirit of this development of Christianity is certainly nowhere so fully and powerfully [pg 500] expressed as in the writings of the German mystics, in the works of Meister Eckhard, and in that justly famous book “Die Deutsche Theologie,” of which Luther says in the introduction to it which he wrote, that with the exception of the Bible and St. Augustine, he had learnt more from it of what God, Christ, and man are than from any other book. Yet we only got the genuine and correct text of it in the year 1851, in the Stuttgart edition by Pfeiffer. The precepts and doctrines which are laid down there are the most perfect exposition, sprung from deep inward conviction of what I have presented as the denial of the will. It should therefore be studied more closely in that form before it is dogmatised about with Jewish-Protestant assurance. Tauler's “Nachfolgung des armen Leben Christi,” and also his “Medulla Animæ,” are written in the same admirable spirit, though not quite equal in value to that work. In my opinion the teaching of these genuine Christian mystics, when compared with the teaching of the New Testament, is as alcohol to wine, or what becomes visible in the New Testament as through a veil and mist appears to us in the works of the mystics without cloak or disguise, in full clearness and distinctness. Finally, the New Testament might be regarded as the first initiation, the mystics as the second,—σμικρα και μεγαλα μυστηρια.

It will help us a lot in gaining a clearer and deeper understanding of what we've expressed in a general and abstract way, according to our method, as the denial of the will to live, if we consider the moral teachings shared with this intention by those who embodied this spirit; [pg 499] and this will also show how longstanding our view is, even if the philosophical expression of it might be relatively new. The moral teachings that come to mind most readily are those of Christianity, whose ethics fully reflect this spirit and lead not only to the highest forms of human love but also to self-denial. The essence of this aspect is certainly present in the writings of the Apostles, though it was fully developed and articulated later. We find the Apostles urging us to love our neighbor as ourselves, to show kindness, to repay hatred with love and good deeds, to practice patience and meekness, to endure all possible injuries without fighting back, to practice moderation in food to control desires, and to resist sensual urges as much as possible. Here we can already see the initial steps of asceticism, or the true denial of the will. This last notion refers to what the Gospels describe as denying ourselves and taking up the cross (Matt. xvi. 24, 25; Mark viii. 34, 35; Luke ix. 23, 24, xiv. 26, 27, 33). This tendency soon evolved, giving rise to hermits, anchorites, and monasticism—an origin that was pure and holy but ultimately unsuitable for most people; thus, what emerged from it often resulted in hypocrisy and wrongdoing, for abuse of the best is worst. In more developed Christianity, we see that seed of asceticism bloom fully in the writings of Christian saints and mystics. They preach, along with the purest love, complete resignation, voluntary and total poverty, genuine peace, perfect indifference to worldly matters, dying to our own desires and being reborn in God, completely forgetting ourselves and immersing in the contemplation of God. A thorough exposition of this can be found in Fénélon's "Explanation of the Saints' Maxims on Inner Life." However, the spirit of this development of Christianity is nowhere expressed as fully and powerfully as in the writings of the German mystics, in the works of Meister Eckhart, and in that well-known book "German Theology," which Luther noted in his introduction to it that apart from the Bible and St. Augustine, he learned more about God, Christ, and humanity from it than from any other book. Yet, we only got the authentic text in 1851, in the Stuttgart edition by Pfeiffer. The teachings and doctrines outlined there are the most perfect expression, arising from a deep inner conviction of what I have described as the denial of the will. Therefore, it should be studied more closely in its true form before being dogmatized with the confidence of Jewish-Protestant thought. Tauler's "Following the humble life of Christ," and also his "Spirit of the Soul," are written in the same admirable spirit, though not quite as valuable as that work. In my view, the teachings of these genuine Christian mystics, compared to the New Testament, are like alcohol to wine, with what is visible in the New Testament appearing through a veil and mist, becoming clear and distinct in the works of the mystics. Finally, the New Testament could be seen as the first initiation, and the mystics as the second—σμικρα και μεγαλα μυστηρια.

We find, however, that which we have called the denial of the will to live more fully developed, more variously expressed, and more vividly represented in the ancient Sanscrit writings than could be the case in the Christian Church and the Western world. That this important ethical view of life could here attain to a fuller development and a more distinct expression is perhaps principally to be ascribed to the fact that it was not confined by an element quite foreign to it, as Christianity is by the Jewish theology, to which its sublime author had necessarily to adopt and accommodate it, partly consciously, partly, it may be, unconsciously. Thus Christianity [pg 501] is made up of two very different constituent parts, and I should like to call the purely ethical part especially and indeed exclusively Christian, and distinguish it from the Jewish dogmatism with which it is combined. If, as has often been feared, and especially at the present time, that excellent and salutary religion should altogether decline, I should look for the reason of this simply in the fact that it does not consist of one single element, but of two originally different elements, which have only been combined through the accident of history. In such a case dissolution had to follow through the separation of these elements, arising from their different relationship to and reaction against the progressive spirit of the age. But even after this dissolution the purely ethical part must always remain uninjured, because it is indestructible. Our knowledge of Hindu literature is still very imperfect. Yet, as we find their ethical teaching variously and powerfully expressed in the Vedas, Puranas, poems, myths, legends of their saints, maxims and precepts,85 we see that it inculcates love of our neighbour with complete renunciation of self-love; love generally, not confined to mankind, but including all living creatures; benevolence, even to the giving away of the hard-won wages of daily toil; unlimited patience towards all who injure us; the requital of all wickedness, however base, with goodness and love; voluntary and glad endurance of all ignominy; abstinence from all animal food; perfect chastity and renunciation of all sensual pleasure [pg 502] for him who strives after true holiness; the surrender of all possessions, the forsaking of every dwelling-place and of all relatives; deep unbroken solitude, spent in silent contemplation, with voluntary penance and terrible slow self-torture for the absolute mortification of the will, torture which extends to voluntary death by starvation, or by men giving themselves up to crocodiles, or flinging themselves over the sacred precipice in the Himalayas, or being buried alive, or, finally, by flinging themselves under the wheels of the huge car of an idol drawn along amid the singing, shouting, and dancing of bayaderes. And even yet these precepts, whose origin reaches back more than four thousand years, are carried out in practice, in some cases even to the utmost extreme,86 and this notwithstanding the fact that the Hindu nation has been broken up into so many parts. A religion which demands the greatest sacrifices, and which has yet remained so long in practice in a nation that embraces so many millions of persons, cannot be an arbitrarily invented superstition, but must have its foundation in the nature of man. But besides this, if we read the life of a Christian penitent or saint, and also that of a Hindu saint, we cannot sufficiently wonder at the harmony we find between them. In the case of such radically different dogmas, customs, and circumstances, the inward life and effort of both is the same. And the same harmony prevails in the maxims prescribed for both of them. For example, Tauler speaks of the absolute poverty which one ought to seek, and which consists in giving away and divesting oneself completely of everything from which one might draw comfort or worldly pleasure, clearly because all this constantly affords new nourishment to the will, which it is intended to destroy entirely. [pg 503] And as an Indian counterpart of this, we find in the precepts of Fo that the Saniassi, who ought to be without a dwelling and entirely without property, is further finally enjoined not to lay himself down often under the same tree, lest he should acquire a preference or inclination for it above other trees. The Christian mystic and the teacher of the Vedanta philosophy agree in this respect also, they both regard all outward works and religious exercises as superfluous for him who has attained to perfection. So much agreement in the case of such different ages and nations is a practical proof that what is expressed here is not, as optimistic dulness likes to assert, an eccentricity and perversity of the mind, but an essential side of human nature, which only appears so rarely because of its excellence.

We find, however, that what we've referred to as the denial of the will to live is more thoroughly developed, more variably expressed, and more vividly represented in ancient Sanskrit writings than it could be in the Christian Church and the Western world. The reason this important ethical view of life could reach a fuller development and clearer expression here is mainly because it wasn't restricted by an element foreign to it, as Christianity is restricted by Jewish theology, which its lofty author had to adopt and adapt, sometimes consciously and sometimes, perhaps unconsciously. Thus, Christianity [pg 501] consists of two very different components, and I'd like to call the purely ethical part especially and entirely Christian, keeping it distinct from the Jewish dogmatism with which it is intertwined. If, as has often been feared, especially in recent times, that excellent and beneficial religion were to decline altogether, I would attribute this simply to the fact that it is composed of two originally different elements, which have only been combined due to historical circumstances. In such a case, dissolution is inevitable through the separation of these elements, stemming from their different relationships to and reactions against the progressive spirit of the age. But even after this dissolution, the purely ethical part must always remain intact, because it is indestructible. Our understanding of Hindu literature is still very limited. Yet, as we see their ethical teachings expressed in various powerful ways in the Vedas, Puranas, poems, myths, and legends of their saints, maxims, and precepts,85 it emphasizes love for our neighbor with complete renunciation of self-love; a love that is not limited to humans, but extends to all living beings; kindness, including giving away hard-earned wages; boundless patience toward those who harm us; responding to all wickedness, however despicable, with goodness and love; willingly and gladly enduring all disgrace; abstaining from all animal food; perfect chastity and renunciation of all sensual pleasures [pg 502] for anyone who seeks true holiness; surrendering all possessions, abandoning every living place and all relatives; deep, uninterrupted solitude spent in silent contemplation, with voluntary penance and intense self-torture aimed at the complete mortification of the will; a torture that can lead to voluntary death by starvation, or by people giving themselves up to crocodiles, or throwing themselves off the sacred cliff in the Himalayas, or being buried alive, or finally, by throwing themselves under the wheels of the massive idol's cart pulled along amid the singing, shouting, and dancing of bayaderes. Even now, these teachings, which originate more than four thousand years ago, are still practiced, in some cases to the utmost extreme,86 despite the fact that the Hindu nation has been fragmented into so many parts. A religion that demands the greatest sacrifices and has persisted for so long in a nation of millions cannot be a random superstition, but must be rooted in human nature. Moreover, if we examine the lives of a Christian penitent or saint alongside those of a Hindu saint, we can't help but marvel at the harmony between them. Despite such radically different dogmas, customs, and circumstances, the inner life and striving of both are the same. This harmony also exists in the principles prescribed for both. For instance, Tauler speaks of the absolute poverty one should seek, which involves giving away and completely divesting oneself of anything from which one might derive comfort or worldly pleasure, since all this continually nourishes the will, which is meant to be entirely destroyed. [pg 503] In similar fashion, we find in the teachings of Fo that the Saniassi, who is meant to be without a home and entirely without possessions, is furthermore advised not to rest frequently under the same tree, so he doesn’t develop a preference for it over others. The Christian mystic and the Vedanta philosophy teacher align in this respect as well; both view all outward actions and religious practices as unnecessary for anyone who has achieved perfection. Such considerable agreement between different ages and cultures serves as practical evidence that what is expressed here is not, as optimistic naivety likes to claim, a quirk or perversion of the mind, but an essential aspect of human nature that only appears so infrequently due to its excellence.

I have now indicated the sources from which there may be obtained a direct knowledge, drawn from life itself, of the phenomena in which the denial of the will to live exhibits itself. In some respects this is the most important point of our whole work; yet I have only explained it quite generally, for it is better to refer to those who speak from direct experience, than to increase the size of this book unduly by weak repetitions of what is said by them.

I have now pointed out the sources where you can gain direct knowledge, based on real life, of the ways the denial of the will to live shows up. In some ways, this is the most crucial point of our entire work; however, I’ve only explained it in broad terms because it’s better to refer to those who speak from firsthand experience than to unnecessarily expand this book with weak repetitions of what they have said.

I only wish to add a little to the general indication of the nature of this state. We saw above that the wicked man, by the vehemence of his volition, suffers constant, consuming, inward pain, and finally, if all objects of volition are exhausted, quenches the fiery thirst of his self-will by the sight of the suffering of others. He, on the contrary, who has attained to the denial of the will to live, however poor, joyless, and full of privation his condition may appear when looked at externally, is yet filled with inward joy and the true peace of heaven. It is not the restless strain of life, the jubilant delight which has keen suffering as its preceding or succeeding condition, in the experience of the man who loves life; but it is a [pg 504] peace that cannot be shaken, a deep rest and inward serenity, a state which we cannot behold without the greatest longing when it is brought before our eyes or our imagination, because we at once recognise it as that which alone is right, infinitely surpassing everything else, upon which our better self cries within us the great sapere aude. Then we feel that every gratification of our wishes won from the world is merely like the alms which the beggar receives from life to-day that he may hunger again on the morrow; resignation, on the contrary, is like an inherited estate, it frees the owner for ever from all care.

I just want to add a bit to the overall idea of what this state is like. We previously noted that the wicked person, due to the intensity of their desires, experiences constant, intense inner pain and eventually, when all their desires are fulfilled, finds relief in seeing others suffer. In contrast, someone who has learned to deny their will to live, no matter how poor, joyless, or deprived their situation may seem on the surface, is actually filled with inner joy and true peace from heaven. The restless struggle of life, the cheerful pleasures that come with great suffering before or after, do not define the experience of someone who loves life. Instead, it is a peace that cannot be disturbed, a profound rest and inner calm—a state we can only look at with deep longing when it’s presented to us, because we immediately recognize it as the one true thing that is infinitely greater than all else, prompting our better selves to cry out the great dare to know. We realize that every fulfillment of our desires gained from the world is merely like the handouts a beggar receives today, only to feel hungry again tomorrow; whereas acceptance is like an inherited estate, freeing the owner forever from all worry.

It will be remembered from the Third Book that the æsthetic pleasure in the beautiful consists in great measure in the fact that in entering the state of pure contemplation we are lifted for the moment above all willing, i.e., all wishes and cares; we become, as it were, freed from ourselves. We are no longer the individual whose knowledge is subordinated to the service of its constant willing, the correlative of the particular thing to which objects are motives, but the eternal subject of knowing purified from will, the correlative of the Platonic Idea. And we know that these moments in which, delivered from the ardent strain of will, we seem to rise out of the heavy atmosphere of earth, are the happiest which we experience. From this we can understand how blessed the life of a man must be whose will is silenced, not merely for a moment, as in the enjoyment of the beautiful, but for ever, indeed altogether extinguished, except as regards the last glimmering spark that retains the body in life, and will be extinguished with its death. Such a man, who, after many bitter struggles with his own nature, has finally conquered entirely, continues to exist only as a pure, knowing being, the undimmed mirror of the world. Nothing can trouble him more, nothing can move him, for he has cut all the thousand cords of will which hold us [pg 505] bound to the world, and, as desire, fear, envy, anger, drag us hither and thither in constant pain. He now looks back smiling and at rest on the delusions of this world, which once were able to move and agonise his spirit also, but which now stand before him as utterly indifferent to him, as the chess-men when the game is ended, or as, in the morning, the cast-off masquerading dress which worried and disquieted us in a night in Carnival. Life and its forms now pass before him as a fleeting illusion, as a light morning dream before half-waking eyes, the real world already shining through it so that it can no longer deceive; and like this morning dream, they finally vanish altogether without any violent transition. From this we can understand the meaning of Madame Guion when towards the end of her autobiography she often expresses herself thus: “Everything is alike to me; I cannot will anything more: often I know not whether I exist or not.” In order to express how, after the extinction of the will, the death of the body (which is indeed only the manifestation of the will, and therefore loses all significance when the will is abolished) can no longer have any bitterness, but is very welcome, I may be allowed to quote the words of that holy penitent, although they are not very elegantly turned: Midi de la gloire; jour où il n'y a plus de nuit; vie qui ne craint plus la mort, dans la mort même: parceque la mort a vaincu la mort, et que celui qui a souffert la première mort, ne goutera plus la seconde mort (Vie de Mad. de Guion, vol. ii. p. 13).

It will be remembered from the Third Book that the aesthetic pleasure in beauty comes largely from the fact that when we enter a state of pure contemplation, we are temporarily lifted above all desire, that is, all wishes and worries; we become, in a sense, freed from ourselves. We are no longer the individual whose knowledge is subordinated to the demands of constant desire, the counterpart of the particular thing to which objects serve as motives, but rather the eternal subject of knowing, cleansed of will, corresponding to the Platonic Idea. We understand that these moments, when we are freed from the exhausting strain of desire, allow us to rise out of the heavy atmosphere of earth, represent the happiest experiences we have. From this, we can see how blessed the life of a person must be whose desires are silenced, not just for a moment, as in the enjoyment of beauty, but forever, entirely extinguished, except for the last flickering spark that keeps the body alive, which will also disappear with death. Such a person, who after many bitter struggles with their own nature has completely triumphed, exists only as a pure, knowing being, the clear mirror of the world. Nothing can disturb him anymore; nothing can move him, for he has severed all the countless ties of desire that bind us to the world, which, as desire, fear, envy, and anger, pull us in different painful directions. He now looks back with a smile and peace at the illusions of this world, which once could move and torment his spirit but now appear completely irrelevant to him, like chess pieces after the game is over, or like the discarded costume that troubled and unsettled us during a night of Carnival. Life and its forms now appear before him as a fleeting illusion, like a brief morning dream before half-awake eyes, with the real world already shining through so it can no longer deceive; and like this morning dream, they finally vanish entirely without any harsh transition. From this, we can understand the meaning of Madame Guion when, towards the end of her autobiography, she often expresses it this way: “Everything is alike to me; I cannot will anything more: often I do not know whether I exist or not.” To express how, after the extinguishing of desire, the death of the body (which is really just the manifestation of desire and thus loses all significance when that desire is eliminated) can no longer hold any bitterness but is instead very welcome, I may quote the words of that holy penitent, even if they are not very elegantly phrased: “Midi de la gloire; jour où il n'y a plus de nuit; vie qui ne craint plus la mort, dans la mort même: parceque la mort a vaincu la mort, et que celui qui a souffert la première mort, ne goutera plus la seconde mort” (Vie de Mad. de Guion, vol. ii. p. 13).

We must not, however, suppose that when, by means of the knowledge which acts as a quieter of will, the denial of the will to live has once appeared, it never wavers or vacillates, and that we can rest upon it as on an assured possession. Rather, it must ever anew be attained by a constant battle. For since the body is the will itself only in the form of objectivity or as manifestation in the world as idea, so long as the body lives, the whole [pg 506] will to live exists potentially, and constantly strives to become actual, and to burn again with all its ardour. Therefore that peace and blessedness in the life of holy men which we have described is only found as the flower which proceeds from the constant victory over the will, and the ground in which it grows is the constant battle with the will to live, for no one can have lasting peace upon earth. We therefore see the histories of the inner life of saints full of spiritual conflicts, temptations, and absence of grace, i.e., the kind of knowledge which makes all motives ineffectual, and as an universal quieter silences all volition, gives the deepest peace and opens the door of freedom. Therefore also we see those who have once attained to the denial of the will to live strive with all their might to keep upon this path, by enforced renunciation of every kind, by penance and severity of life, and by selecting whatever is disagreeable to them, all in order to suppress the will, which is constantly springing up anew. Hence, finally, because they already know the value of salvation, their anxious carefulness to retain the hard-won blessing, their scruples of conscience about every innocent pleasure, or about every little excitement of their vanity, which here also dies last, the most immovable, the most active, and the most foolish of all the inclinations of man. By the term asceticism, which I have used so often, I mean in its narrower sense this intentional breaking of the will by the refusal of what is agreeable and the selection of what is disagreeable, the voluntarily chosen life of penance and self-chastisement for the continual mortification of the will.

We shouldn’t think that once we achieve a quieting of the will through knowledge, the denial of our desire to live becomes permanent and unchanging, allowing us to simply rely on it. Instead, it has to be continually earned through a constant struggle. As long as the body is alive, the entire will to live exists in potential and constantly tries to express itself, rekindling its desire with full intensity. Therefore, the peace and bliss we associate with the lives of holy people is merely the result of their ongoing victories over the will, and the environment in which this thrives is the continuous struggle against the will to live, since nobody can attain lasting peace in this world. This is why the inner lives of saints are filled with spiritual battles, temptations, and periods of feeling abandoned by grace, which refers to that kind of understanding that renders all motivations ineffective, silencing all desires and bringing the deepest tranquility, thus offering real freedom. We can also observe that those who have managed to deny the will to live put in tremendous effort to stay on this path through strict renunciation of all kinds, penance, and a choice of what they find uncomfortable, all aimed at suppressing the will that keeps reemerging. Ultimately, since they already understand the value of salvation, they are very careful about keeping their hard-earned blessings, feeling guilt about every innocent pleasure or trivial boost to their ego, which, notably, is the last thing to fade away, remaining the most persistent, influential, and often foolish of all human inclinations. By the term *asceticism*, which I have frequently used, I refer specifically to the intentional breaking of the will by rejecting what is pleasurable and choosing what is unpleasant—this means living a voluntarily chosen life of penance and self-discipline aimed at the continuous restraint of the will.

We see this practised by him who has attained to the denial of the will in order to enable him to persist in it; but suffering in general, as it is inflicted by fate, is a second way (δευτερος πλους87) of attaining to that denial. Indeed, we may assume that most men only attain to it in this way, and that it is the suffering which is personally [pg 507] experienced, not that which is merely known, which most frequently produces complete resignation, often only at the approach of death. For only in the case of a few is the mere knowledge which, seeing through the principium individuationis, first produces perfect goodness of disposition and universal love of humanity, and finally enables them to regard all the suffering of the world as their own; only in the case of a few, I say, is this knowledge sufficient to bring about the denial of the will. Even with him who approaches this point, it is almost invariably the case that the tolerable condition of his own body, the flattery of the moment, the delusion of hope, and the satisfaction of the will, which is ever presenting itself anew, i.e., lust, is a constant hindrance to the denial of the will, and a constant temptation to the renewed assertion of it. Therefore in this respect all these illusions have been personified as the devil. Thus in most cases the will must be broken by great personal suffering before its self-conquest appears. Then we see the man who has passed through all the increasing degrees of affliction with the most vehement resistance, and is finally brought to the verge of despair, suddenly retire into himself, know himself and the world, change his whole nature, rise above himself and all suffering, as if purified and sanctified by it, in inviolable peace, blessedness, and sublimity, willingly renounce everything he previously desired with all his might, and joyfully embrace death. It is the refined silver of the denial of the will to live that suddenly comes forth from the purifying flame of suffering. It is salvation. Sometimes we see even those who were very wicked purified to this degree by great grief; they have become new beings and are completely changed. Therefore their former misdeeds trouble their consciences no more, yet they willingly atone for them by death, and gladly see the end of the manifestation of that will which is now foreign to them and abhorred by them. The great [pg 508] Goethe has given us a distinct and visible representation of this denial of the will, brought about by great misfortunes and despair of all deliverance, in his immortal masterpiece “Faust,” in the story of the sufferings of Gretchen. I know no parallel to this in poetry. It is a perfect example of the second path that leads to the denial of the will, not, as the first, through the mere knowledge of the sufferings of a whole world which one has voluntarily acquired, but through excessive suffering experienced in one's own person. Many tragedies certainly end by conducting their strong-willed heroes to the point of entire resignation, and then generally the will to live and its manifestation end together, but no representation that is known to me brings what is essential to that change so distinctly before us, free from all that is extraneous, as the part of “Faust” I have referred to.

We see this practiced by someone who has reached a point of denying their will so they can maintain it; however, suffering in general, as dealt by fate, is another way (δευτερος πλους87) to achieve that denial. In fact, we can assume most people only reach this state through suffering, specifically the suffering they personally experience—not just what they know about others—which most often leads to full resignation, usually only as death approaches. For only a few can the simple awareness of the principles of individuality lead to perfect goodness and universal love for humanity, allowing them to see all the world's suffering as their own; only a few can have this awareness sufficient enough to achieve denial of the will. Even for those who get close to this realization, it is often the acceptable condition of their own body, momentary pleasures, false hopes, and the ever-present satisfaction of their desires, or lust, that continually obstructs the denial of the will and tempts them to reaffirm it. Thus, in this sense, these illusions are personified as the devil. Therefore, in most instances, the will must be broken by intense personal suffering before true self-mastery emerges. Then we observe a person who has endured rising levels of hardship with intense resistance, and when brought to the brink of despair, suddenly withdraws into themselves, gains insight into themselves and the world, transforms their entire nature, transcends themselves and all suffering, as if purified and sanctified by it, finding unshakeable peace, blessedness, and elevation, willingly letting go of everything they once desired, and joyfully accepting death. It’s the pure essence of the denial of the will to live that emerges from the purifying fire of suffering. It is salvation. Sometimes, we even witness those who have been very wicked cleansed to this degree by profound grief; they become entirely new beings and are completely transformed. Thus, their former wrongdoings no longer trouble their consciences, yet they willingly seek atonement through death and gladly welcome the end of a will that has become alien and repugnant to them. The great [pg 508] Goethe provides a clear and vivid representation of this denial of the will, brought forth by great misfortunes and despair of any relief, in his timeless masterpiece "Faust," illustrated in the tale of Gretchen's suffering. I know no comparable representation in poetry. It is a perfect example of the second path leading to the denial of the will, not merely through the knowledge of the suffering of an entire world that one has chosen to learn about, but through profound suffering experienced firsthand. Many tragedies indeed culminate in strong-willed heroes reaching total resignation, and then typically the will to live and its expression come to an end together, but I have seen no representation that conveys the essence of this transformation so clearly and free from extraneous elements as the section of "Faust" I have mentioned.

In actual life we see that those unfortunate persons who have to drink to the dregs the greatest cup of suffering, since when all hope is taken from them they have to face with full consciousness a shameful, violent, and often painful death on the scaffold, are very frequently changed in this way. We must not indeed assume that there is so great a difference between their character and that of most men as their fate would seem to indicate, but must attribute the latter for the most part to circumstances; yet they are guilty and to a considerable degree bad. We see, however, many of them, when they have entirely lost hope, changed in the way referred to. They now show actual goodness and purity of disposition, true abhorrence of doing any act in the least degree bad or unkind. They forgive their enemies, even if it is through them that they innocently suffer; and not with words merely and a sort of hypocritical fear of the judges of the lower world, but in reality and with inward earnestness and no desire for revenge. Indeed, their sufferings and death at last becomes dear to them, for the denial of the will to live has appeared; they often decline the deliverance [pg 509] when it is offered, and die gladly, peacefully, and happily. To them the last secret of life has revealed itself in their excessive pain; the secret that misery and wickedness, sorrow and hate, the sufferer and the inflicter of suffering, however different they may appear to the knowledge which follows the principle of sufficient reason, are in themselves one, the manifestation of that one will to live which objectifies its conflict with itself by means of the principium individuationis. They have learned to know both sides in full measure, the badness and the misery; and since at last they see the identity of the two, they reject them both at once; they deny the will to live. In what myths and dogmas they account to their reason for this intuitive and direct knowledge and for their own change is, as has been said, a matter of no importance.

In real life, we see that those unfortunate people who have to endure the worst suffering often change in significant ways. When all hope is stripped away, they must confront a shameful, violent, and often painful death with full awareness. We shouldn't assume there's a huge difference between their character and that of most people, as their fate suggests, but rather attribute it mostly to circumstances; however, they are guilty and to a large extent flawed. Yet, many of them, after completely losing hope, change as mentioned. They now exhibit genuine goodness and a pure disposition, truly abhorring any act that is even slightly bad or unkind. They forgive their enemies, even if they are the cause of their innocent suffering, not just out of fear of judgment from higher powers, but sincerely and with no desire for revenge. In fact, their suffering and death eventually become dear to them, as they have turned away from the desire to live; they often refuse the chance for escape when it is offered and die gladly, peacefully, and happily. The ultimate secret of life reveals itself to them in their extreme pain: that misery and wickedness, sorrow and hate, the sufferer and the one causing suffering, despite how different they appear according to rational understanding, are fundamentally one. They embody the same will to live that expresses its conflict through the principle of individuation. They have fully grasped both aspects—the wrongdoing and the suffering; and since they finally recognize the unity of the two, they reject both at once, denying the will to live. What myths and beliefs they use to rationalize this intuitive and direct understanding and their own transformation is, as has been said, of no importance.

Matthias Claudius must without doubt have witnessed a change of mind of this description when he wrote the remarkable essay in the “Wandsbecker Boten” (pt. i. p. 115) with the title “Bekehrungsgeschichte des ***” (“History of the Conversion of ***”), which concludes thus: “Man's way of thinking may pass from one point of the periphery to the opposite point, and again back to the former point, if circumstances mark out for him the path. And these changes in a man are really nothing great or interesting, but that remarkable, catholic, transcendental change in which the whole circle is irreparably broken up and all the laws of psychology become vain and empty when the coat is stripped from the shoulders, or at least turned outside in, and as it were scales fall from a man's eyes, is such that every one who has breath in his nostrils forsakes father and mother if he can hear or experience something certain about it.”

Matthias Claudius must have definitely experienced a change of perspective when he wrote the remarkable essay in the “Wandsbecker Messenger” (pt. i. p. 115) titled "Conversion story of ***" ("History of the Conversion of ***"), which ends with: A person's thinking can shift drastically, swinging from one extreme to the opposite and back again, depending on the situations that influence their journey. These changes in a person aren’t particularly significant or interesting, but that remarkable, universal, transformative change—where everything is completely upended and all psychological norms become irrelevant when the coat is removed or at least flipped inside out, and the scales fall from someone's eyes—is such that everyone alive will leave their parents behind if they can truly hear or experience something real about it.

The approach of death and hopelessness are in other respects not absolutely necessary for such a purification through suffering. Even without them the knowledge of the contradiction of the will to live with itself can, through [pg 510] great misfortune and pain, force an entrance, and the vanity of all striving become recognised. Hence it has often happened that men who have led a very restless life in the full strain of the passions, kings, heroes, and adventurers, suddenly change, betake themselves to resignation and penance, become hermits or monks. To this class belong all true accounts of conversions; for example, that of Raymond Lully, who had long wooed a fair lady, and was at last admitted to her chamber, anticipating the fulfilment of all his wishes, when she, opening her bodice, showed him her bosom frightfully eaten with cancer. From that moment, as if he had looked into hell, he was changed; he forsook the court of the king of Majorca, and went into the desert to do penance.88 This conversion is very like that of the Abbé Rancé, which I have briefly related in the 48th chapter of the Supplement. If we consider how in both cases the transition from the pleasure to the horror of life was the occasion of it, this throws some light upon the remarkable fact that it is among the French, the most cheerful, gay, sensuous, and frivolous nation in Europe, that by far the strictest of all monastic orders, the Trappists, arose, was re-established by Rancé after its fall, and has maintained itself to the present day in all its purity and strictness, in spite of revolutions, Church reformations, and encroachments of infidelity.

The presence of death and hopelessness isn’t always necessary for a kind of purification through suffering. Even without these elements, the awareness of the contradiction of the will to live can, through significant misfortune and pain, break through and reveal the futility of all striving. As a result, it's not uncommon for individuals who have lived restless lives in the midst of intense passions—like kings, heroes, and adventurers—to suddenly change. They might turn to resignation and penance, eventually becoming hermits or monks. This includes all true accounts of conversions; for instance, there's the story of Raymond Lully, who had long pursued a beautiful woman. Just when he anticipated fulfilling all his desires after being welcomed into her room, she opened her bodice to reveal her chest horrifically ravaged by cancer. From that moment, as if he had glimpsed hell, he transformed; he abandoned the court of the king of Majorca and retreated to the desert to repent. This conversion is quite similar to that of Abbé Rancé, which I briefly mentioned in the 48th chapter of the Supplement. If we reflect on how, in both cases, the shift from pleasure to the horror of life prompted the change, it sheds light on the interesting fact that it is among the French—who are generally the most cheerful, carefree, sensual, and frivolous nation in Europe—that the strictest monastic order, the Trappists, originated. Rancé reestablished it after its decline, and it has remained untainted and rigorous to this day, despite revolutions, church reforms, and challenges from disbelief.

But a knowledge such as that referred to above of the nature of this existence may leave us again along with the occasion of it and the will to live, and with it the previous character may reappear. Thus we see that the passionate Benvenuto Cellini was changed in this way, once when he was in prison, and again when very ill; but when the suffering passed over, he fell back again into his old state. In general, the denial of the will to live by no means proceeds from suffering with the necessity of an effect from its cause, but the will remains free; [pg 511] for this is indeed the one point at which its freedom appears directly in the phenomenon; hence the astonishment which Asmus expresses so strongly at the “transcendental change.” In the case of every suffering, it is always possible to conceive a will which exceeds it in intensity and is therefore unconquered by it. Thus Plato speaks in the “Phædon” of men who up to the moment of their execution feast, drink, and indulge in sensuous pleasure, asserting life even to the death. Shakespeare shows us in Cardinal Beaufort the fearful end of a profligate, who dies full of despair, for no suffering or death can break his will, which is vehement to the extreme of wickedness.89

But a understanding of the nature of this existence may leave us, along with the circumstances surrounding it and the desire to live, and with that, the previous character can resurface. We see that the passionate Benvenuto Cellini experienced this change, once while in prison and again when he was very ill; but once his suffering passed, he reverted to his old state. Generally, the denial of the will to live does not emerge from suffering with the necessity of cause and effect, but the will remains free; [pg 511] for this is truly the one point where its freedom is directly evident in the phenomenon; hence the astonishment that Asmus expresses so strongly at the "transformative change." In any case of suffering, it's always possible to imagine a will that surpasses it in intensity and is therefore unyielding. Thus, Plato speaks in the “Phaedo” of men who, up until their execution, celebrate, drink, and indulge in sensory pleasures, affirming life right up to death. Shakespeare shows us in Cardinal Beaufort the grim end of a depraved man who dies filled with despair, for no amount of suffering or death can break his will, which is vehement to the extreme of wickedness.89

The more intense the will is, the more glaring is the conflict of its manifestation, and thus the greater is the suffering. A world which was the manifestation of a far more intense will to live than this world manifests would produce so much the greater suffering; would thus be a hell.

The stronger the will, the more obvious the conflict in how it shows itself, and that leads to greater suffering. A world that displayed a much stronger will to live than this one would create even greater suffering; it would therefore be like hell.

All suffering, since it is a mortification and a call to resignation, has potentially a sanctifying power. This is the explanation of the fact that every great misfortune or deep pain inspires a certain awe. But the sufferer only really becomes an object of reverence when, surveying the course of his life as a chain of sorrows, or mourning some great and incurable misfortune, he does not really look at the special combination of circumstances which has plunged his own life into suffering, nor stops at the single great misfortune that has befallen him; for in so doing his knowledge still follows the principle of sufficient reason, and clings to the particular phenomenon; he still wills life only not under the conditions which have happened to him; but only then, I say, he is truly worthy of reverence when he raises his glance from the particular to the universal, when he regards his suffering as merely an example of the whole, [pg 512] and for him, since in a moral regard he partakes of genius, one case stands for a thousand, so that the whole of life conceived as essentially suffering brings him to resignation. Therefore it inspires reverence when in Goethe's “Torquato Tasso” the princess speaks of how her own life and that of her relations has always been sad and joyless, and yet regards the matter from an entirely universal point of view.

All suffering, since it’s a source of humility and a prompt to acceptance, has the potential to be uplifting. This explains why every significant misfortune or deep pain evokes a sense of awe. But the person who suffers only truly becomes worthy of respect when, looking back at their life as a series of sorrows, or grieving over a major and unchangeable hardship, they don’t focus on the specific circumstances that have caused their suffering, nor do they get stuck on the one major misfortune that has happened to them; because in doing so, their understanding remains tied to the principle of sufficient reason and is attached to the particular situation. They still wish for life, just not under the conditions they’ve experienced; but only then, I say, are they truly deserving of respect when they lift their gaze from the specific to the universal, when they see their suffering as just one instance of a greater whole, [pg 512] and for them, since morally they share in genius, one case represents a thousand, so that life as a whole, understood as fundamentally suffering, leads them to acceptance. Thus, it inspires respect when in Goethe's "Torquato Tasso" the princess describes how her life and that of her family has always been sorrowful and devoid of joy, yet she views it all from a completely universal perspective.

A very noble character we always imagine with a certain trace of quiet sadness, which is anything but a constant fretfulness at daily annoyances (this would be an ignoble trait, and lead us to fear a bad disposition), but is a consciousness derived from knowledge of the vanity of all possessions, of the suffering of all life, not merely of his own. But such knowledge may primarily be awakened by the personal experience of suffering, especially some one great sorrow, as a single unfulfilled wish brought Petrarch to that state of resigned sadness concerning the whole of life which appeals to us so pathetically in his works; for the Daphne he pursued had to flee from his hands in order to leave him, instead of herself, the immortal laurel. When through some such great and irrevocable denial of fate the will is to some extent broken, almost nothing else is desired, and the character shows itself mild, just, noble, and resigned. When, finally, grief has no definite object, but extends itself over the whole of life, then it is to a certain extent a going into itself, a withdrawal, a gradual disappearance of the will, whose visible manifestation, the body, it imperceptibly but surely undermines, so that a man feels a certain loosening of his bonds, a mild foretaste of that death which promises to be the abolition at once of the body and of the will. Therefore a secret pleasure accompanies this grief, and it is this, as I believe, which the most melancholy of all nations has called “the joy of grief.” But here also lies the danger of sentimentality, both in life itself and in the representation of it in poetry; when a man is always mourning and [pg 513] lamenting without courageously rising to resignation. In this way we lose both earth and heaven, and retain merely a watery sentimentality. Only if suffering assumes the form of pure knowledge, and this, acting as a quieter of the will, brings about resignation, is it worthy of reverence. In this regard, however, we feel a certain respect at the sight of every great sufferer which is akin to the feeling excited by virtue and nobility of character, and also seems like a reproach of our own happy condition. We cannot help regarding every sorrow, both our own and those of others, as at least a potential advance towards virtue and holiness, and, on the contrary, pleasures and worldly satisfactions as a retrogression from them. This goes so far, that every man who endures a great bodily or mental suffering, indeed every one who merely performs some physical labour which demands the greatest exertion, in the sweat of his brow and with evident exhaustion, yet with patience and without murmuring, every such man, I say, if we consider him with close attention, appears to us like a sick man who tries a painful cure, and who willingly, and even with satisfaction, endures the suffering it causes him, because he knows that the more he suffers the more the cause of his disease is affected, and that therefore the present suffering is the measure of his cure.

A very noble character is often imagined to carry a hint of quiet sadness, which isn’t just constant irritation over daily annoyances (that would be an ignoble trait, making us wary of a bad temperament), but rather an awareness stemming from understanding the futility of all possessions and the suffering inherent in life, not just in his own. This understanding can often be sparked by personal experiences of suffering, especially a significant sorrow, like how a single unfulfilled desire brought Petrarch to a state of resigned sadness about life as a whole, which resonates powerfully in his works; after all, the Daphne he pursued had to escape his grasp to leave him the immortal laurel instead of herself. When faced with such a profound and irretrievable denial of fate, a person's will is somewhat broken, leading to a diminished desire for much else, revealing a character that is mild, just, noble, and resigned. When grief becomes objectless and encompasses all of life, it turns into a kind of introspection, a withdrawal, a gradual fading of the will, which subtly but surely undermines its physical manifestation, the body, making a person feel a loosening of their ties, a gentle preview of that death which promises to end both the body and the will. Consequently, there’s a hidden pleasure that accompanies this grief, which I believe is what the saddest of all nations has termed “the joy in grief.” However, this also carries the risk of sentimentality, both in life itself and in its poetic representation; when someone is perpetually mourning and [pg 513] lamenting without the courage to rise to resignation. In this way, we lose both earthly and heavenly pursuits, keeping only a shallow sentimentality. Only when suffering takes the form of pure understanding, acting as a quieter of the will that leads to resignation is it worthy of respect. In this context, we feel a certain reverence when witnessing great sufferers, similar to the feelings evoked by virtue and nobility of character, which also tends to reproach our own fortunate circumstances. We cannot help but view every sorrow, both our own and that of others, as at least a possible step towards virtue and holiness, while earthly pleasures and satisfactions appear to detract from them. This reaches a point where anyone enduring significant physical or mental suffering, indeed anyone engaging in intense physical labor that requires considerable effort, visibly exhausted yet patient and without complaint, appears to us as someone undergoing a painful treatment, who willingly and even gratefully endures the discomfort because they know that the more they suffer, the more they address the root of their affliction, and thus the current pain serves as a measure of their healing.

According to what has been said, the denial of the will to live, which is just what is called absolute, entire resignation, or holiness, always proceeds from that quieter of the will which the knowledge of its inner conflict and essential vanity, expressing themselves in the suffering of all living things, becomes. The difference, which we have represented as two paths, consists in whether that knowledge is called up by suffering which is merely and purely known, and is freely appropriated by means of the penetration of the principium individuationis, or by suffering which is directly felt by a man himself. True salvation, deliverance from life and suffering, cannot even be imagined without complete denial of the will. Till [pg 514] then, every one is simply this will itself, whose manifestation is an ephemeral existence, a constantly vain and empty striving, and the world full of suffering we have represented, to which all irrevocably and in like manner belong. For we found above that life is always assured to the will to live, and its one real form is the present, from which they can never escape, since birth and death reign in the phenomenal world. The Indian mythus expresses this by saying “they are born again.” The great ethical difference of character means this, that the bad man is infinitely far from the attainment of the knowledge from which the denial of the will proceeds, and therefore he is in truth actually exposed to all the miseries which appear in life as possible; for even the present fortunate condition of his personality is merely a phenomenon produced by the principium individuationis, and a delusion of Mâyâ, the happy dream of a beggar. The sufferings which in the vehemence and ardour of his will he inflicts upon others are the measure of the suffering, the experience of which in his own person cannot break his will, and plainly lead it to the denial of itself. All true and pure love, on the other hand, and even all free justice, proceed from the penetration of the principium individuationis, which, if it appears with its full power, results in perfect sanctification and salvation, the phenomenon of which is the state of resignation described above, the unbroken peace which accompanies it, and the greatest delight in death.90

According to what has been said, denying the will to live—which is what's known as absolute, complete resignation, or holiness—always comes from a deeper understanding of the inner conflict and essential emptiness that leads to the suffering of all living things. The difference we’ve illustrated as two paths comes down to whether this understanding is triggered by suffering that is merely and purely known, a knowledge that is freely embraced through grasping the principle of individuation, or by suffering that is directly felt by an individual. True salvation, or freedom from life and suffering, cannot even be imagined without a total denial of the will. Until then, everyone is simply this will itself, whose expression is a fleeting existence marked by constant vain and empty striving, and we have illustrated a world full of suffering, to which everyone irrevocably belongs. We found above that life is always guaranteed to the will to live, and its only real form is the present, from which no one can escape, since birth and death govern the phenomenal world. The Indian myth expresses this by saying “they’re born again.” The significant ethical difference implies that the bad person is infinitely distant from achieving the understanding that leads to the denial of the will, and thus they are in reality actually subject to all the miseries that life can offer; even their current fortunate state is just a phenomenon created by the principle of individuation, and a delusion of Mâyâ, the happy dream of a beggar. The pain they cause others, out of the intensity and fervor of their will, is a reflection of their own suffering, which cannot break their will, instead merely leading it away from self-denial. On the other hand, all true and pure love, and even all true justice, arise from deep understanding of the principle of individuation, which, when fully realized, leads to complete sanctification and salvation. The resulting state is that of the resignation described earlier, accompanied by unbroken peace and the greatest joy in death.

§ 69. Suicide, the actual doing away with the individual manifestation of will, differs most widely from the denial of the will to live, which is the single outstanding act of free-will in the manifestation, and is therefore, as Asmus calls it, the transcendental change. This last has been fully considered in the course of our work. Far from being denial of the will, suicide is a phenomenon of strong assertion of will; for the essence of negation lies [pg 515] in this, that the joys of life are shunned, not its sorrows. The suicide wills life, and is only dissatisfied with the conditions under which it has presented itself to him. He therefore by no means surrenders the will to live, but only life, in that he destroys the individual manifestation. He wills life—wills the unrestricted existence and assertion of the body; but the complication of circumstances does not allow this, and there results for him great suffering. The very will to live finds itself so much hampered in this particular manifestation that it cannot put forth its energies. It therefore comes to such a determination as is in conformity with its own nature, which lies outside the conditions of the principle of sufficient reason, and to which, therefore, all particular manifestations are alike indifferent, inasmuch as it itself remains unaffected by all appearing and passing away, and is the inner life of all things; for that firm inward assurance by reason of which we all live free from the constant dread of death, the assurance that a phenomenal existence can never be wanting to the will, supports our action even in the case of suicide. Thus the will to live appears just as much in suicide (Siva) as in the satisfaction of self-preservation (Vishnu) and in the sensual pleasure of procreation (Brahma). This is the inner meaning of the unity of the Trimurtis, which is embodied in its entirety in every human being, though in time it raises now one, now another, of its three heads. Suicide stands in the same relation to the denial of the will as the individual thing does to the Idea. The suicide denies only the individual, not the species. We have already seen that as life is always assured to the will to live, and as sorrow is inseparable from life, suicide, the wilful destruction of the single phenomenal existence, is a vain and foolish act; for the thing-in-itself remains unaffected by it, even as the rainbow endures however fast the drops which support it for the moment may change. But, more than this, it is also the masterpiece of Mâyâ, as the most [pg 516] flagrant example of the contradiction of the will to live with itself. As we found this contradiction in the case of the lowest manifestations of will, in the permanent struggle of all the forces of nature, and of all organic individuals for matter and time and space; and as we saw this antagonism come ever more to the front with terrible distinctness in the ascending grades of the objectification of the will, so at last in the highest grade, the Idea of man, it reaches the point at which, not only the individuals which express the same Idea extirpate each other, but even the same individual declares war against itself. The vehemence with which it wills life, and revolts against what hinders it, namely, suffering, brings it to the point of destroying itself; so that the individual will, by its own act, puts an end to that body which is merely its particular visible expression, rather than permit suffering to break the will. Just because the suicide cannot give up willing, he gives up living. The will asserts itself here even in putting an end to its own manifestation, because it can no longer assert itself otherwise. As, however, it was just the suffering which it so shuns that was able, as mortification of the will, to bring it to the denial of itself, and hence to freedom, so in this respect the suicide is like a sick man, who, after a painful operation which would entirely cure him has been begun, will not allow it to be completed, but prefers to retain his disease. Suffering approaches and reveals itself as the possibility of the denial of will; but the will rejects it, in that it destroys the body, the manifestation of itself, in order that it may remain unbroken. This is the reason why almost all ethical teachers, whether philosophical or religious, condemn suicide, although they themselves can only give far-fetched sophistical reasons for their opinion. But if a human being was ever restrained from committing suicide by purely moral motives, the inmost meaning of this self-conquest (in whatever ideas his reason may [pg 517] have clothed it) was this: “I will not shun suffering, in order that it may help to put an end to the will to live, whose manifestation is so wretched, by so strengthening the knowledge of the real nature of the world which is already beginning to dawn upon me, that it may become the final quieter of my will, and may free me for ever.”

§ 69. Suicide, the act of intentionally ending one’s own life, is very different from the rejection of the will to live, which represents a significant act of free will and is what Asmus refers to as a transcendental change. We have already explored this topic throughout our work. Rather than being a denial of the will, suicide is a powerful affirmation of will; negation fundamentally involves avoiding the joys of life, not the sorrows. The person who commits suicide desires life but is dissatisfied with how it has manifested for them. They do not give up on the will to live; instead, they relinquish their life by destroying their individual existence. They desire life—want the unfettered existence and expression of their body—yet the complexity of circumstances prevents this, resulting in immense suffering. The will to live feels so constrained by this specific existence that it can’t exert its energy. Consequently, it arrives at a decision consistent with its nature, which lies beyond the conditions of the principle of sufficient reason, rendering all particular instances indifferent since it remains unaffected by the temporary and fleeting, encapsulating the inner essence of all things. This inner certainty, which allows us to live without constant fear of death, along with the belief that our will will never lack a form of existence, motivates our actions even in the context of suicide. Thus, the will to live is present in suicide (Siva), just as it is in the instinct for self-preservation (Vishnu) and in the sensual pleasure of reproduction (Brahma). This highlights the deeper significance of the unity of the Trimurtis, which exists in everyone, even though over time it emphasizes one of its three aspects at a time. Suicide relates to the denial of the will just as an individual thing relates to the Idea. The act of suicide only denies the individual existence, not the species. As we've noted, since life is always assured to the will to live and sorrow is inseparable from life, suicide—an intentional destruction of one specific existence—is ultimately a futile and foolish act; the essence of being remains unaffected by it, just as a rainbow persists regardless of the changing raindrops that temporarily support it. Moreover, it starkly illustrates the contradiction inherent in the will to live. We previously observed this contradiction in the simplest expressions of will, seen in the ongoing struggle of natural forces and all living beings for materials, time, and space; and we witnessed this conflict become increasingly pronounced with greater clarity in the evolutionary development of the will, culminating in humanity—the highest degree of will’s objectification. Here, not only do the individuals expressing the same essential Idea conflict with one another, but even the same individual fights against itself. The intense desire for life and the resistance to suffering can lead it to the point of self-destruction; thus, the individual will, through its own action, ends the very body that merely represents it instead of allowing suffering to triumph over the will. The suicide cannot stop wanting, and in doing so, they forfeit living. The will finds a way to assert itself even by ending its own manifestation since it feels unable to assert itself through any other means. However, it is precisely the suffering that it strives to escape, which, by disavowing the will, can lead it to freedom. This reflects the plight of a patient who, after enduring a painful operation intended to cure their ailment, refuses to let it be completed, choosing to hold onto their illness instead. Suffering presents itself as a chance for the will to withdraw, but the will rejects it, destroying the body—the manifestation of itself—so it can remain intact. This explains why nearly all ethical teachers, whether philosophical or religious, denounce suicide, even if they can only offer convoluted arguments for their stance. However, if a person were ever dissuaded from committing suicide purely for moral reasons, the true meaning of this personal struggle (regardless of how their reasoning may frame it) would be: "I won't avoid suffering if it helps diminish the despair that comes from wanting to live, by deepening my understanding of the true nature of the world that's starting to reveal itself to me. This will allow it to become my ultimate source of peace, freeing me forever."

It is well known that from time to time cases occur in which the act of suicide extends to the children. The father first kills the children he loves, and then himself. Now, if we consider that conscience, religion, and all influencing ideas teach him to look upon murder as the greatest of crimes, and that, in spite of this, he yet commits it, in the hour of his own death, and when he is altogether uninfluenced by any egotistical motive, such a deed can only be explained in the following manner: in this case, the will of the individual, the father, recognises itself immediately in the children, though involved in the delusion of mistaking the appearance for the true nature; and as he is at the same time deeply impressed with the knowledge of the misery of all life, he now thinks to put an end to the inner nature itself, along with the appearance, and thus seeks to deliver from existence and its misery both himself and his children, in whom he discerns himself as living again. It would be an error precisely analogous to this to suppose that one may reach the same end as is attained through voluntary chastity by frustrating the aim of nature in fecundation; or indeed if, in consideration of the unendurable suffering of life, parents were to use means for the destruction of their new-born children, instead of doing everything possible to ensure life to that which is struggling into it. For if the will to live is there, as it is the only metaphysical reality, or the thing-in-itself, no physical force can break it, but can only destroy its manifestation at this place and time. It itself can never be transcended except through [pg 518] knowledge. Thus the only way of salvation is, that the will shall manifest itself unrestrictedly, in order that in this individual manifestation it may come to apprehend its own nature. Only as the result of this knowledge can the will transcend itself, and thereby end the suffering which is inseparable from its manifestation. It is quite impossible to accomplish this end by physical force, as by destroying the germ, or by killing the new-born child, or by committing suicide. Nature guides the will to the light, just because it is only in the light that it can work out its salvation. Therefore the aims of Nature are to be promoted in every way as soon as the will to live, which is its inner being, has determined itself.

It is well known that sometimes cases arise where a parent’s act of suicide extends to their children. The father first kills the children he loves and then takes his own life. If we think about it, conscience, religion, and all influential ideas teach him to see murder as the worst crime, and yet, despite this, he commits it at the moment of his own death, completely free of any selfish motives. This act can only be understood as follows: in this situation, the father’s will recognizes itself in the children, even though he is caught in the illusion of mistaking appearance for reality. At the same time, he is profoundly aware of the misery of all existence, so he believes he is ending the inner nature itself, along with the appearance, in an attempt to free himself and his children—whom he sees as a part of himself—from life and its suffering. It would be just as misguided to think that one could achieve the same outcome as voluntary chastity by undermining nature’s purpose in reproduction; or if, considering life’s unbearable suffering, parents were to destroy their newborns instead of doing everything they can to support the life struggling to begin. For if the will to live exists, as it is the only metaphysical reality or the essence of being, no physical force can break it; it can only destroy its manifestation in this time and place. It cannot be transcended except through knowledge. Thus, salvation can only be achieved by allowing the will to express itself freely. In this individual expression, it may come to understand its true nature. Only with this understanding can the will transcend itself and thus end the suffering that is inseparable from its manifestation. It is completely impossible to achieve this through physical force, whether by destroying the germ, killing the newborn, or committing suicide. Nature guides the will toward the light because only in the light can it work out its salvation. Therefore, the aims of nature should always be supported as soon as the will to live, which is its inner essence, has made a decision.

There is a species of suicide which seems to be quite distinct from the common kind, though its occurrence has perhaps not yet been fully established. It is starvation, voluntarily chosen on the ground of extreme asceticism. All instances of it, however, have been accompanied and obscured by much religious fanaticism, and even superstition. Yet it seems that the absolute denial of will may reach the point at which the will shall be wanting to take the necessary nourishment for the support of the natural life. This kind of suicide is so far from being the result of the will to live, that such a completely resigned ascetic only ceases to live because he has already altogether ceased to will. No other death than that by starvation is in this case conceivable (unless it were the result of some special superstition); for the intention to cut short the torment would itself be a stage in the assertion of will. The dogmas which satisfy the reason of such a penitent delude him with the idea that a being of a higher nature has inculcated the fasting to which his own inner tendency drives him. Old examples of this may be found in the “Breslauer Sammlung von Natur- und Medicin-Geschichten,” September 1799, p. 363; in Bayle's “Nouvelles de la République [pg 519] des Lettres,” February 1685, p. 189; in Zimmermann, “Ueber die Einsamkeit,” vol. i. p. 182; in the “Histoire de l'Académie des Sciences” for 1764, an account by Houttuyn, which is quoted in the “Sammlung für praktische Aerzte,” vol. i. p. 69. More recent accounts may be found in Hufeland's “Journal für praktische Heilkunde,” vol. x. p. 181, and vol. xlviii. p. 95; also in Nasse's “Zeitschrift für psychische Aerzte,” 1819, part iii. p. 460; and in the “Edinburgh Medical and Surgical Journal,” 1809, vol. v. p. 319. In the year 1833 all the papers announced that the English historian, Dr. Lingard, had died in January at Dover of voluntary starvation; according to later accounts, it was not he himself, but a relation of his who died. Still in these accounts the persons were generally described as insane, and it is no longer possible to find out how far this was the case. But I will give here a more recent case of this kind, if it were only to ensure the preservation of one of the rare instances of this striking and extraordinary phenomenon of human nature, which, to all appearance at any rate, belongs to the category to which I wish to assign it and could hardly be explained in any other way. This case is reported in the “Nürnberger Correspondenten” of the 29th July 1813, in these words:—“We hear from Bern that in a thick wood near Thurnen a hut has been discovered in which was lying the body of a man who had been dead about a month. His clothes gave little or no clue to his social position. Two very fine shirts lay beside him. The most important article, however, was a Bible interleaved with white paper, part of which had been written upon by the deceased. In this writing he gives the date of his departure from home (but does not mention where his home was). He then says that he was driven by the Spirit of God into the wilderness to pray and fast. During his journey he had fasted seven days and then he had again taken food. After this he had begun again to fast, and continued to do so for [pg 520] the same number of days as before. From this point we find each day marked with a stroke, and of these there are five, at the expiration of which the pilgrim presumably died. There was further found a letter to a clergyman about a sermon which the deceased heard him preach, but the letter was not addressed.” Between this voluntary death arising from extreme asceticism and the common suicide resulting from despair there may be various intermediate species and combinations, though this is hard to find out. But human nature has depths, obscurities, and perplexities, the analysis and elucidation of which is a matter of the very greatest difficulty.

There is a type of suicide that seems quite different from the usual kind, although its occurrence may not yet be fully established. It involves starvation, willingly chosen due to extreme self-denial. However, all cases of this have been surrounded and complicated by a lot of religious fervor and even superstition. Yet it appears that the complete denial of one's will can reach a point where a person no longer wants to take the necessary nourishment to sustain their life. This kind of suicide is so far removed from the desire to live that a deeply resigned ascetic only stops living because they have completely stopped willing. No other form of death besides starvation is conceivable in this case (unless it results from some specific superstition); for the intention to end their suffering would itself indicate a stage in the exercise of will. The beliefs that satisfy the reasoning of such a penitent deceive them into thinking that a higher being has commanded the fasting that their inner drive compels them to follow. Old examples of this can be found in the "Breslauer Collection of Natural and Medical Histories," September 1799, p. 363; in Bayle's "News from the Republic of Letters," February 1685, p. 189; in Zimmermann, "About Loneliness," vol. i. p. 182; in the “History of the Academy of Sciences” for 1764, an account by Houttuyn, which is quoted in the “Collection for Practical Doctors,” vol. i. p. 69. More recent accounts can be found in Hufeland's "Journal for Practical Healing," vol. x. p. 181, and vol. xlviii. p. 95; as well as in Nasse's “Journal for Mental Physicians,” 1819, part iii. p. 460; and in the “Edinburgh Medical and Surgical Journal” 1809, vol. v. p. 319. In 1833, all the newspapers reported that the English historian, Dr. Lingard, had died in January at Dover from voluntary starvation; according to later reports, it was not him but a relative who died. Even in those accounts, the individuals were generally described as insane, and it’s impossible to determine how accurate that was. But I will present a more recent case of this kind, just to ensure that one of the rare instances of this striking and extraordinary phenomenon of human nature is preserved, which certainly fits into the category I wish to place it in and could hardly be explained any other way. This case is reported in the "Nuremberg Correspondents" of July 29, 1813, in these words:—We’ve heard from Bern that in a dense forest near Thurnen, a hut has been discovered where the body of a man who had been dead for about a month was found. His clothing offered little or no indication of his social status. Next to him were two very nice shirts. However, the most important item was a Bible with blank pages inserted, some of which had been written on by the deceased. In this writing, he notes the date he left home (but doesn't specify where home was). He then mentions that he was guided by the Spirit of God into the wilderness to pray and fast. During his journey, he fasted for seven days and then ate again. After that, he started fasting again and continued for the same number of days as before. From that point, each day is marked with a stroke, and there are five strokes, after which the pilgrim presumably died. Additionally, a letter to a clergyman was found regarding a sermon that the deceased attended, but the letter had no address. Between this voluntary death due to extreme self-denial and the common suicide resulting from despair, there may be various intermediate types and combinations, though it's difficult to identify them. But human nature has depths, ambiguities, and complexities that are incredibly challenging to analyze and clarify.

§ 70. It might be supposed that the entire exposition (now terminated) of that which I call the denial of the will is irreconcilable with the earlier explanation of necessity, which belongs just as much to motivation as to every other form of the principle of sufficient reason, and according to which, motives, like all causes, are only occasional causes, upon which the character unfolds its nature and reveals it with the necessity of a natural law, on account of which we absolutely denied freedom as liberum arbitrium indifferentiæ. But far from suppressing this here, I would call it to mind. In truth, real freedom, i.e., independence of the principle of sufficient reason, belongs to the will only as a thing-in-itself, not to its manifestation, whose essential form is everywhere the principle of sufficient reason, the element or sphere of necessity. But the one case in which that freedom can become directly visible in the manifestation is that in which it makes an end of what manifests itself, and because the mere manifestation, as a link in the chain of causes, the living body in time, which contains only phenomena, still continues to exist, the will which manifests itself through this phenomenon then stands in contradiction to it, for it denies what the phenomenon expresses. In such a case the organs of generation, for example, as the visible form of the sexual impulse, are [pg 521] there and in health; but yet, in the inmost consciousness, no sensual gratification is desired; and although the whole body is only the visible expression of the will to live, yet the motives which correspond to this will no longer act; indeed, the dissolution of the body, the end of the individual, and in this way the greatest check to the natural will, is welcome and desired. Now, the contradiction between our assertions of the necessity of the determination of the will by motives, in accordance with the character, on the one hand, and of the possibility of the entire suppression of the will whereby the motives become powerless, on the other hand, is only the repetition in the reflection of philosophy of this real contradiction which arises from the direct encroachment of the freedom of the will-in-itself, which knows no necessity, into the sphere of the necessity of its manifestation. But the key to the solution of these contradictions lies in the fact that the state in which the character is withdrawn from the power of motives does not proceed directly from the will, but from a changed form of knowledge. So long as the knowledge is merely that which is involved in the principium individuationis and exclusively follows the principle of sufficient reason, the strength of the motives is irresistible. But when the principium individuationis is seen through, when the Ideas, and indeed the inner nature of the thing-in-itself, as the same will in all, are directly recognised, and from this knowledge an universal quieter of volition arises, then the particular motives become ineffective, because the kind of knowledge which corresponds to them is obscured and thrown into the background by quite another kind. Therefore the character can never partially change, but must, with the consistency of a law of Nature, carry out in the particular the will which it manifests as a whole. But this whole, the character itself, may be completely suppressed or abolished through the change of knowledge referred to above. It is this [pg 522] suppression or abolition which Asmus, as quoted above, marvels at and denotes the “catholic, transcendental change;” and in the Christian Church it has very aptly been called the new birth, and the knowledge from which it springs, the work of grace. Therefore it is not a question of a change, but of an entire suppression of the character; and hence it arises that, however different the characters which experience the suppression may have been before it, after it they show a great similarity in their conduct, though every one still speaks very differently according to his conceptions and dogmas.

§ 70. One might think that the entire discussion (

In this sense, then, the old philosophical doctrine of the freedom of the will, which has constantly been contested and constantly maintained, is not without ground, and the dogma of the Church of the work of grace and the new birth is not without meaning and significance. But we now unexpectedly see both united in one, and we can also now understand in what sense the excellent Malebranche could say, La liberté est un mystère,” and was right. For precisely what the Christian mystics call the work of grace and the new birth, is for us the single direct expression of the freedom of the will. It only appears if the will, having attained to a knowledge of its own real nature, receives from this a quieter, by means of which the motives are deprived of their effect, which belongs to the province of another kind of knowledge, the objects of which are merely phenomena. The possibility of the freedom which thus expresses itself is the greatest prerogative of man, which is for ever wanting to the brute, because the condition of it is the deliberation of reason, which enables him to survey the whole of life independent of the impression of the present. The brute is entirely without the possibility of freedom, as, indeed, it is without the possibility of a proper or deliberate choice following upon a completed conflict of motives, which for this purpose would have to be abstract ideas. Therefore with the same necessity with which [pg 523] the stone falls to the earth, the hungry wolf buries its fangs in the flesh of its prey, without the possibility of the knowledge that it is itself the destroyed as well as the destroyer. Necessity is the kingdom of nature; freedom is the kingdom of grace.

In this way, the old philosophical belief in free will, which has always been debated but also defended, has some merit, and the Church’s teachings on grace and being born again hold real significance. Now we unexpectedly see both ideas come together, and we can understand what the remarkable Malebranche meant when he said, “Freedom is a mystery,” and how he was right. What Christian mystics refer to as the grace of work and the new beginning represents for us the essential direct expression of free will. This freedom only becomes evident when the will, having understood its true nature, gains a more relaxed state, leading to a situation where motivations lose their impact, which belongs to a different kind of understanding focused solely on appearances. The potential for this freedom is humanity's greatest privilege, which animals lack entirely, as it depends on reasoned deliberation that allows one to consider life as a whole, independent of immediate influences. Animals have no capacity for freedom; they can't make intentional or thoughtful choices after considering competing motivations, which would require abstract concepts. Thus, just as surely as [pg 523] a stone falls to the ground, a hungry wolf instinctively sinks its teeth into its prey, without realizing that it is both the killer and the killed. Necessity is the rule of nature; freedom is the rule of grace.

Now because, as we have seen, that self-suppression of the will proceeds from knowledge, and all knowledge is involuntary, that denial of will also, that entrance into freedom, cannot be forcibly attained to by intention or design, but proceeds from the inmost relation of knowing and volition in the man, and therefore comes suddenly, as if spontaneously from without. This is why the Church has called it the work of grace; and that it still regards it as independent of the acceptance of grace corresponds to the fact that the effect of the quieter is finally a free act of will. And because, in consequence of such a work of grace, the whole nature of man is changed and reversed from its foundation, so that he no longer wills anything of all that he previously willed so intensely, so that it is as if a new man actually took the place of the old, the Church has called this consequence of the work of grace the new birth. For what it calls the natural man, to which it denies all capacity for good, is just the will to live, which must be denied if deliverance from an existence such as ours is to be attained. Behind our existence lies something else, which is only accessible to us if we have shaken off this world.

Now, as we have seen, the willpower suppression comes from knowledge, and all knowledge is involuntary. This denial of will, this entry into freedom, cannot be achieved through deliberate intention or planning; it arises from the deepest relationship between knowing and willing within a person, and often it appears suddenly, as if it comes from outside. This is why the Church refers to it as the power of grace; it still views it as independent of the acceptance of grace, which aligns with the fact that the outcome of this stillness is ultimately a free act of will. Because of such a work of grace, a person’s entire nature is altered and transformed from the ground up, so that they no longer desire any of the things they once wanted so strongly, as if a new person has truly taken the place of the old one. The Church has called this result of the work of grace the new life. What it considers the natural person, to which it assigns no capacity for good, is merely the will to live, which must be rejected if we are to find deliverance from an existence like ours. Beneath our existence lies something else, accessible only once we have shed this world.

Having regard, not to the individuals according to the principle of sufficient reason, but to the Idea of man in its unity, Christian theology symbolises nature, the assertion of the will to live in Adam, whose sin, inherited by us, i.e., our unity with him in the Idea, which is represented in time by the bond of procreation, makes us all partakers of suffering and eternal death. On the other hand, it symbolises grace, the denial of the will, salvation, in the incarnate God, who, as free from all sin, that is, [pg 524] from all willing of life, cannot, like us, have proceeded from the most pronounced assertion of the will, nor can he, like us, have a body which is through and through simply concrete will, manifestation of the will; but born of a pure virgin, he has only a phantom body. This last is the doctrine of the Docetæ, i.e., certain Church Fathers, who in this respect are very consistent. It is especially taught by Apelles, against whom and his followers Tertullian wrote. But even Augustine comments thus on the passage, Rom. viii. 3, “God sent his Son in the likeness of sinful flesh:” Non enim caro peccati erat, quæ non de carnali delectatione nata erat: sed tamen inerat ei similitudo carnis peccati, quia mortalis caro erat (Liber 83, quæst. qu. 66). He also teaches in his work entitled Opus Imperfectum,” i. 47, that inherited sin is both sin and punishment at once. It is already present in new-born children, but only shows itself if they grow up. Yet the origin of this sin is to be referred to the will of the sinner. This sinner was Adam, but we all existed in him; Adam became miserable, and in him we have all become miserable. Certainly the doctrine of original sin (assertion of the will) and of salvation (denial of the will) is the great truth which constitutes the essence of Christianity, while most of what remains is only the clothing of it, the husk or accessories. Therefore Jesus Christ ought always to be conceived in the universal, as the symbol or personification of the denial of the will to live, but never as an individual, whether according to his mythical history given in the Gospels, or according to the probably true history which lies at the foundation of this. For neither the one nor the other will easily satisfy us entirely. It is merely the vehicle of that conception for the people, who always demand something actual. That in recent times Christianity has forgotten its true significance, and degenerated into dull optimism, does not concern us here.

Considering not individuals based on the principle of sufficient reason, but the unified concept of humanity, Christian theology symbolizes nature, the will to live as expressed by Adam, whose sin we inherit, i.e. our unity with him in this concept, represented in time through procreation, makes us all share in suffering and eternal death. On the flip side, it symbolizes gracefulness, the denial of the will, saving, embodied in the incarnate God, who, being free from all sin, that is, [pg 524] entirely free from the will to live, cannot, like us, come from a strong assertion of the will, nor can he, like us, possess a body that is solely a manifestation of the will; rather, born of a pure virgin, he has only an illusory body. This belief is held by the Docetæ, i.e. certain Church Fathers who are quite consistent in this regard. Apelles particularly taught this, against whom Tertullian wrote. Even Augustine commented on the verse, Rom. viii. 3, “God sent his Son in the form of sinful flesh:” For the flesh of sin was not one that was born of carnal delight: yet it still had the likeness of sinful flesh, because it was mortal flesh (Liber 83, q. e. d. 66). He also teaches in his work titled Imperfect Work,” i. 47, that inherited sin is both sin and punishment simultaneously. It is present in newborns, but only reveals itself as they grow. Nonetheless, the origin of this sin can be traced back to the will of the sinner. That sinner was Adam, but we all existed in him; Adam fell into misery, and we all became miserable through him. Certainly, the concept of original sin (assertion of the will) and salvation (denial of the will) embodies the great truth that forms the core of Christianity, while most of what surrounds it is merely its outer layer, the husk or accessories. Therefore, Jesus Christ should always be understood universally, as the symbol or embodiment of the denial of the will to live, rather than as an individual, whether based on the mythical narrative found in the Gospels or the likely true history underlying it. Neither narrative will easily satisfy us completely. They merely serve as the means for that concept to reach the people, who always seek something tangible. The fact that modern Christianity has lost its true significance and devolved into dull optimism is not our concern here.

It is further an original and evangelical doctrine of [pg 525] Christianity—which Augustine, with the consent of the leaders of the Church, defended against the platitudes of the Pelagians, and which it was the principal aim of Luther's endeavour to purify from error and re-establish, as he expressly declares in his book, De Servo Arbitrio,”—the doctrine that the will is not free, but originally subject to the inclination to evil. Therefore according to this doctrine the deeds of the will are always sinful and imperfect, and can never fully satisfy justice; and, finally, these works can never save us, but faith alone, a faith which itself does not spring from resolution and free will, but from the work of grace, without our co-operation, comes to us as from without.

It is also a unique and foundational teaching of Christianity—which Augustine, with the agreement of the Church leaders, defended against the simplistic views of the Pelagians. This was also the main goal of Luther's efforts to remove error and restore it, as he clearly states in his book, “*De Servo Arbitrio*”—the teaching that *the will is not free*, but originally inclined toward evil. Thus, according to this teaching, the actions of the will are always sinful and flawed, and can never completely fulfill justice; ultimately, these actions cannot save us. Instead, it is faith alone—faith that does not come from our own determination and free will, but from the work of grace, which comes to us without our effort.

Not only the dogmas referred to before, but also this last genuine evangelical dogma belongs to those which at the present day an ignorant and dull opinion rejects as absurd or hides. For, in spite of Augustine and Luther, it adheres to the vulgar Pelagianism, which the rationalism of the day really is, and treats as antiquated those deeply significant dogmas which are peculiar and essential to Christianity in the strictest sense; while, on the other hand, it holds fast and regards as the principal matter only the dogma that originates in Judaism, and has been retained from it, and is merely historically connected with Christianity.91 We, however, [pg 526] recognise in the doctrine referred to above the truth completely agreeing with the result of our own investigations. We see that true virtue and holiness of disposition have their origin not in deliberate choice (works), but in knowledge (faith); just as we have in like manner developed it from our leading thought. If it were works, which spring from motives and deliberate intention, that led to salvation, then, however one may turn it, virtue would always be a prudent, methodical, far-seeing egoism. But the faith to which the Christian Church promises salvation is this: that as through the fall of the first man we are all partakers of sin and subject to death and perdition, through the divine substitute, through grace and the taking upon himself of our fearful guilt, we are all saved, without any merit of our own (of the person); since that which can proceed from the intentional (determined by motives) action of the person, works, can never justify us, from its very nature, just because it is intentional, action induced by motives, opus operatum. Thus in this faith there is implied, first of all, [pg 527] that our condition is originally and essentially an incurable one, from which we need salvation; then, that we ourselves essentially belong to evil, and are so firmly bound to it that our works according to law and precept, i.e., according to motives, can never satisfy justice nor save us; but salvation is only obtained through faith, i.e., through a changed mode of knowing, and this faith can only come through grace, thus as from without. This means that the salvation is one which is quite foreign to our person, and points to a denial and surrender of this person necessary to salvation. Works, the result of the law as such, can never justify, because they are always action following upon motives. Luther demands (in his book De Libertate Christiana) that after the entrance of faith the good works shall proceed from it entirely of themselves, as symptoms, as fruits of it; yet by no means as constituting in themselves a claim to merit, justification, or reward, but taking place quite voluntarily and gratuitously. So we also hold that from the ever-clearer penetration of the principium individuationis proceeds, first, merely free justice, then love, extending to the complete abolition of egoism, and finally resignation or denial of the will.

Not only the dogmas mentioned earlier but also this last genuine evangelical dogma are among those that, today, ignorant and dull opinions dismiss as absurd or conceal. Despite Augustine and Luther, it sticks to the common Pelagianism that characterizes today’s rationalism and dismisses the deeply meaningful dogmas that are unique and essential to Christianity in the strictest sense. Meanwhile, it clings to the dogma that stems from Judaism and has carried over into Christianity, viewing it as the main issue. We, however, [pg 526] recognize in the doctrine mentioned above a truth that fully aligns with the results of our own investigations. We believe that true virtue and holiness come not from deliberate choice (works), but from knowledge (faith), just as we have similarly developed it from our core thought. If salvation depended on works, born of motives and deliberate intention, virtue would always be a calculated, methodical, self-serving act. But the faith that the Christian Church promises for salvation is this: that just as through the fall of the first man we all share in sin and are subject to death and destruction, through the divine substitute and grace, taking upon Himself our heavy guilt, we are all saved without any merit on our part; because anything that arises from intentional (motive-driven) actions, meaning works, can never justify us by its very nature, simply because it is deliberate, action driven by motives, ritual action. Thus, this faith implies, first of all, [pg 527] that our condition is originally and fundamentally an incurable one from which we need redemption; then, that we ourselves inherently belong to evil and are so firmly bound to it that our works according to law and command, i.e. according to motives, can never satisfy justice or save us; instead, salvation can only be achieved through faith, i.e. through a transformed way of knowing, which can only come through grace and thus from an external source. This means that the salvation we receive is completely separate from our person and requires a denial and surrender of this person for salvation. Works, the outcomes of the law as such, can never justify, because they are always actions that follow motives. Luther demands (in his book On Christian Liberty) that after faith is established, good works should arise naturally as symptoms, as fruits of that faith; yet they should never be viewed as earning merit, justification, or reward, but should occur entirely voluntarily and freely. Likewise, we maintain that from the ever-clear understanding of the principle of individuation, first comes purely free justice, then love that completely abolishes egoism, and finally resignation or denial of the will.

I have here introduced these dogmas of Christian theology, which in themselves are foreign to philosophy, merely for the purpose of showing that the ethical doctrine which proceeds from our whole investigation, and is in complete agreement and connection with all its parts, although new and unprecedented in its expression, is by no means so in its real nature, but fully agrees with the Christian dogmas properly so called, and indeed, as regards its essence, was contained and present in them. It also agrees quite as accurately with the doctrines and ethical teachings of the sacred books of India, which in their turn are presented in quite different forms. At the same time the calling to mind of the dogmas of the Christian Church serves to explain and illustrate [pg 528] the apparent contradiction between the necessity of all expressions of character when motives are presented (the kingdom of Nature) on the one hand, and the freedom of the will in itself, to deny itself, and abolish the character with all the necessity of the motives based upon it (the kingdom of grace) on the other hand.

I have introduced these beliefs of Christian theology, which are generally separate from philosophy, simply to demonstrate that the ethical principles arising from our entire discussion, and which connect perfectly with all its aspects, while being new and unique in how they are expressed, are not novel in their true nature but are fully in line with traditional Christian beliefs. In fact, they were inherently present in those beliefs. They also align closely with the doctrines and ethical teachings found in the sacred texts of India, which are expressed in quite different ways. Moreover, recalling the doctrines of the Christian Church helps clarify and illustrate the seeming contradiction between the necessity of all expressions of character when motives are presented (the kingdom of Nature) on one hand, and the freedom of the will to deny itself and change that character along with the necessity of the motives based on it (the kingdom of grace) on the other hand.

§ 71. I now end the general account of ethics, and with it the whole development of that one thought which it has been my object to impart; and I by no means desire to conceal here an objection which concerns this last part of my exposition, but rather to point out that it lies in the nature of the question, and that it is quite impossible to remove it. It is this, that after our investigation has brought us to the point at which we have before our eyes perfect holiness, the denial and surrender of all volition, and thus the deliverance from a world whose whole existence we have found to be suffering, this appears to us as a passing away into empty nothingness.

§ 71. I now conclude the overall discussion of ethics, along with the entire development of the single idea I aimed to convey. I definitely want to highlight an objection related to this final part of my explanation, rather than hide it. It lies in the very nature of the issue, and it's impossible to eliminate. This objection is that after our exploration has led us to see perfect holiness, which involves denying and giving up all desires, and thus freeing ourselves from a world whose entire existence we've discovered to be suffering, this seems to us like fading away into empty nothingness.

On this I must first remark, that the conception of nothing is essentially relative, and always refers to a definite something which it negatives. This quality has been attributed (by Kant) merely to the nihil privativum, which is indicated by - as opposed to +, which -, from an opposite point of view, might become +, and in opposition to this nihil privativum the nihil negativum has been set up, which would in every reference be nothing, and as an example of this the logical contradiction which does away with itself has been given. But more closely considered, no absolute nothing, no proper nihil negativum is even thinkable; but everything of this kind, when considered from a higher standpoint or subsumed under a wider concept, is always merely a nihil privativum. Every nothing is thought as such only in relation to something, and presupposes this relation, and thus also this something. Even a logical contradiction is only a relative nothing. It is no thought of the reason, but it is not on that account an absolute nothing; [pg 529] for it is a combination of words; it is an example of the unthinkable, which is necessary in logic in order to prove the laws of thought. Therefore if for this end such an example is sought, we will stick to the nonsense as the positive which we are in search of, and pass over the sense as the negative. Thus every nihil negativum, if subordinated to a higher concept, will appear as a mere nihil privativum or relative nothing, which can, moreover, always exchange signs with what it negatives, so that that would then be thought as negation, and it itself as assertion. This also agrees with the result of the difficult dialectical investigation of the meaning of nothing which Plato gives in the “Sophist” (pp. 277-287): Την του ἑτερου φυσιν αποδειξαντες ουσαν τε, και κατακεκερματισμενην επι παντα τα οντα προς αλληλα, το προς το ον ἑκαστου μοριου αυτης αντιτιθεμενον, ετολμησαμεν ειπειν, ὡς αυτο τουτο εστιν οντως το μη ον (Cum enim ostenderemus, alterius ipsius naturam esse perque omnia entia divisam atque dispersam in vicem; tunc partem ejus oppositam ei, quod cujusque ens est, esse ipsum revera non ens asseruimus).

I must first point out that the idea of nothing is fundamentally relative and always refers to a specific something that it negates. This characteristic has been attributed (by Kant) solely to the negative nothingness, which is indicated by - as opposed to +; this - could, from a different perspective, become +. In contrast to this nihil privativum, the nothing negative has been proposed, which would represent nothing in every instance, with the logical contradiction that negates itself serving as an example. However, when examined more closely, no absolute nothing or true nothing negative is even conceivable; rather, everything of this kind, when viewed from a higher perspective or classified under a broader concept, is always simply a no deprivation. Every concept of nothing exists only in relation to something and inherently assumes this relationship, along with this something. Even a logical contradiction is just a relative nothing. It’s not a thought of reason, but that doesn’t make it an absolute nothing; [pg 529] because it’s a combination of words; it’s an example of the unthinkable, which is necessary in logic to demonstrate the laws of thought. Therefore, if we need such an example, we will focus on the nonsense as the positive we're looking for and overlook the sense as the negative. Thus, every nothing negative, when subordinated to a higher concept, will seem like just a nothing removed or relative nothing, which can, moreover, always swap signs with what it negates, so that the negation would then be thought of as assertion, and itself as negation. This aligns with the conclusion of Plato's challenging dialectical investigation into the meaning of nothing in the “Sophist” (pp. 277-287): Την του ἑτερου φυσιν αποδειξαντες ουσαν τε, και κατακεκερματισμενην επι παντα τα οντα προς αλληλα, το προς το ον ἑκαστου μοριου αυτης αντιτιθεμενον, ετολμησαμεν ειπειν, ὡς αυτο τουτο εστιν οντως το μη ον (When we showed that the nature of another is divided and scattered throughout all beings in a reciprocal way; then we asserted that the part opposite to it, which is what each being is, is in reality not a being at all.).

That which is generally received as positive, which we call the real, and the negation of which the concept nothing in its most general significance expresses, is just the world as idea, which I have shown to be the objectivity and mirror of the will. Moreover, we ourselves are just this will and this world, and to them belongs the idea in general, as one aspect of them. The form of the idea is space and time, therefore for this point of view all that is real must be in some place and at some time. Denial, abolition, conversion of the will, is also the abolition and the vanishing of the world, its mirror. If we no longer perceive it in this mirror, we ask in vain where it has gone, and then, because it has no longer any where and when, complain that it has vanished into nothing.

What is generally accepted as positive, which we refer to as the real, and its negation expressed by the concept of nothing in its broadest sense, is simply the world as an idea, which I have demonstrated to be the objectivity and reflection of the will. Furthermore, we ourselves are this will and this world, and the idea in general is one aspect of them. The form of the idea is space and time, so from this perspective, everything that is real must exist in a specific place and at a specific time. Denial, rejection, or transformation of the will also means the elimination and disappearance of the world, its reflection. If we no longer recognize it in this reflection, we futilely search for where it has gone, and then, because it no longer has a where or when, we lament that it has vanished into nothing.

A reversed point of view, if it were possible for us, [pg 530] would reverse the signs and show the real for us as nothing, and that nothing as the real. But as long as we ourselves are the will to live, this last—nothing as the real—can only be known and signified by us negatively, because the old saying of Empedocles, that like can only be known by like, deprives us here of all knowledge, as, conversely, upon it finally rests the possibility of all our actual knowledge, i.e., the world as idea; for the world is the self-knowledge of the will.

A different perspective, if it were possible for us, [pg 530] would flip the signs and show the real as nothing, and that nothing as the real. But as long as we are the will to live, this last—nothing seen as the real—can only be understood and described by us in a negative way, because the old saying by Empedocles, that like can only be recognized by like, limits our knowledge here, while conversely, it underpins the possibility of all our actual knowledge, i.e., the world as an idea; because the world is the self-awareness of the will.

If, however, it should be absolutely insisted upon that in some way or other a positive knowledge should be attained of that which philosophy can only express negatively as the denial of the will, there would be nothing for it but to refer to that state which all those who have attained to complete denial of the will have experienced, and which has been variously denoted by the names ecstasy, rapture, illumination, union with God, and so forth; a state, however, which cannot properly be called knowledge, because it has not the form of subject and object, and is, moreover, only attainable in one's own experience and cannot be further communicated.

If, however, it is absolutely necessary to achieve a clear understanding of what philosophy can only describe negatively as the denial of the will, we would have to refer to that state experienced by those who have fully attained the denial of the will. This state has been referred to by various names such as ecstasy, rapture, illumination, union with God, and so on. However, this state cannot truly be called knowledge, because it lacks the form of subject and object and can only be experienced individually, making it impossible to effectively share with others.

We, however, who consistently occupy the standpoint of philosophy, must be satisfied here with negative knowledge, content to have reached the utmost limit of the positive. We have recognised the inmost nature of the world as will, and all its phenomena as only the objectivity of will; and we have followed this objectivity from the unconscious working of obscure forces of Nature up to the completely conscious action of man. Therefore we shall by no means evade the consequence, that with the free denial, the surrender of the will, all those phenomena are also abolished; that constant strain and effort without end and without rest at all the grades of objectivity, in which and through which the world consists; the multifarious forms succeeding each other in gradation; the whole manifestation of the will; and, finally, also the universal forms of this manifestation, time and space, and [pg 531] also its last fundamental form, subject and object; all are abolished. No will: no idea, no world.

We, on the other hand, who consistently take a philosophical approach, must settle for negative knowledge here, pleased to have reached the farthest point of the positive. We have recognized the deepest nature of the world as will, and all its phenomena as merely the expression of will; we have traced this manifestation from the unconscious operation of obscure forces of Nature right up to the fully conscious actions of humanity. Thus, we cannot avoid the conclusion that with the free denial and the relinquishing of the will, all those phenomena are also eradicated; that constant tension and endless effort across all levels of objectivity, in which and through which the world exists; the diverse forms that succeed one another in hierarchy; the entire manifestation of will; and, ultimately, the universal forms of this manifestation, time and space, and [pg 531] as well as its final fundamental form, subject and object; all are erased. No will: no idea, no world.

Before us there is certainly only nothingness. But that which resists this passing into nothing, our nature, is indeed just the will to live, which we ourselves are as it is our world. That we abhor annihilation so greatly, is simply another expression of the fact that we so strenuously will life, and are nothing but this will, and know nothing besides it. But if we turn our glance from our own needy and embarrassed condition to those who have overcome the world, in whom the will, having attained to perfect self-knowledge, found itself again in all, and then freely denied itself, and who then merely wait to see the last trace of it vanish with the body which it animates; then, instead of the restless striving and effort, instead of the constant transition from wish to fruition, and from joy to sorrow, instead of the never-satisfied and never-dying hope which constitutes the life of the man who wills, we shall see that peace which is above all reason, that perfect calm of the spirit, that deep rest, that inviolable confidence and serenity, the mere reflection of which in the countenance, as Raphael and Correggio have represented it, is an entire and certain gospel; only knowledge remains, the will has vanished. We look with deep and painful longing upon this state, beside which the misery and wretchedness of our own is brought out clearly by the contrast. Yet this is the only consideration which can afford us lasting consolation, when, on the one hand, we have recognised incurable suffering and endless misery as essential to the manifestation of will, the world; and, on the other hand, see the world pass away with the abolition of will, and retain before us only empty nothingness. Thus, in this way, by contemplation of the life and conduct of saints, whom it is certainly rarely granted us to meet with in our own experience, but who are brought before our eyes by their written history, and, with the stamp of inner truth, by [pg 532] art, we must banish the dark impression of that nothingness which we discern behind all virtue and holiness as their final goal, and which we fear as children fear the dark; we must not even evade it like the Indians, through myths and meaningless words, such as reabsorption in Brahma or the Nirvana of the Buddhists. Rather do we freely acknowledge that what remains after the entire abolition of will is for all those who are still full of will certainly nothing; but, conversely, to those in whom the will has turned and has denied itself, this our world, which is so real, with all its suns and milky-ways—is nothing.92

Before us, there's really just nothingness. But what resists this slide into nothingness, our essence, is actually the will to live, which is what we are and what our world is. Our strong fear of annihilation is just another way of saying that we fiercely want to live, and that we are nothing but this will, knowing nothing beyond it. However, if we shift our focus from our needy and awkward condition to those who have transcended the world—those in whom the will, upon achieving perfect self-awareness, found itself in everything and then freely denied itself, who are now just waiting for the last vestiges of it to disappear with the body they inhabit—we will see, instead of constant striving and effort, instead of the endless cycle of desire and fulfillment, and from joy to sorrow, instead of the insatiable and eternal hope that defines the life of the willing, we will witness a peace that surpasses all understanding, a perfect tranquility of spirit, a deep rest, an unshakeable confidence and calmness. The mere reflection of this in their expressions, as captured by Raphael and Correggio, speaks volumes; only knowledge remains, as the will has vanished. We gaze with profound and painful desire at this state, which starkly highlights the misery and wretchedness of our own lives by contrast. Yet, this is the only thought that offers us lasting comfort when, on one hand, we recognize perpetual suffering and endless misery as fundamental to the manifestation of will—the world—and, on the other hand, witness the world fading away with the eradication of will, leaving us with only empty nothingness. Thus, by contemplating the lives and actions of saints, whom we rarely encounter in our own lives, but who are made vivid to us through their written stories and the authentic portrayal of art, we must dispel the dark impression of nothingness that lurks behind all virtue and holiness as their ultimate goal, a fear we share like children fear the dark. We should not even try to avoid this truth like the Indians do, with myths and empty words about reabsorption in Brahma or the Nirvana of Buddhists. Instead, we must openly admit that what remains after the complete abolition of will is, for those still full of will, absolutely nothing; conversely, for those in whom the will has turned and denied itself, this very real world, with all its suns and galaxies—means nothing.


Notes

1.
F. H. Jacobi.
2.
The Hegelian Philosophy.
3.
Fichte and Schelling.
4.
Hegel.
5.
Kant is the only writer who has confused this idea of reason, and in this connection I refer the reader to the Appendix, and also to my "Fundamental Issues of Ethics": Grundl. dd. Moral. § 6, pp. 148-154, first and second editions.
6.
Mira in quibusdam rebus verborum proprietas est, et consuetudo sermonis antiqui quædam efficacissimis notis signat. Seneca, epist. 81.
7.
It is shown in the Appendix that matter and substance are one.
8.
This shows the ground of the Kantian explanation of matter, that it is "what can move in space," for motion consists simply in the union of space and time.
9.
Not, as Kant holds, from the knowledge of time, as will be explained in the Appendix.
10.
On this see "The Fourfold Root of the Principle of Sufficient Reason," § 49.
11.
The first four chapters of the first of the supplementary books belong to these seven paragraphs.
12.
Compare with this paragraph §§ 26 and 27 of the third edition of the essay on the principle of sufficient reason.
13.
Cf. Ch. 5 and 6 of the Supplement.
14.
Cf. Ch. 9 and 10 of the Supplement.
15.
Cf. Ch. 11 of Supplement.
16.
I am therefore of opinion that a science of physiognomy cannot, with certainty, go further than to lay down a few quite general rules. For example, the intellectual qualities are to be read in the forehead and the eyes; the moral qualities, the expression of will, in the mouth and lower part of the face. The forehead and the eyes interpret each other; either of them seen alone can only be half understood. Genius is never without a high, broad, finely-arched brow; but such a brow often occurs where there is no genius. A clever-looking person may the more certainly be judged to be so the uglier the face is; and a stupid-looking person may the more certainly be judged to be stupid the more beautiful the face is; for beauty, as the approximation to the type of humanity, carries in and for itself the expression of mental clearness; the opposite is the case with ugliness, and so forth.
17.
Cf. Ch. 7 of the Supplement.
18.
Cf. Ch. 8 of Supplement.
19.
Suarez, Disput. Metaphysicæ, disp. iii. sect. 3, tit. 3.
20.
Cf. Ch. 12 of Supplement.
21.
The reader must not think here of Kant's misuse of these Greek terms, which is condemned in the Appendix.
22.
Spinoza, who always boasts that he proceeds more geometrically, has actually done so more than he himself was aware. For what he knew with certainty and decision from the immediate, perceptive apprehension of the nature of the world, he seeks to demonstrate logically without reference to this knowledge. He only arrives at the intended and predetermined result by starting from arbitrary concepts framed by himself (substance cause of itself, &c.), and in the demonstrations he allows himself all the freedom of choice for which the nature of the wide concept-spheres afford such convenient opportunity. That his doctrine is true and excellent is therefore in his case, as in that of geometry, quite independent of the demonstrations of it. Cf. ch. 13 of supplementary volume.
23.
Cf. Ch. 17 of Supplement.
24.
Omnes perturbationes judicio censent fieri et opinione. Cic. Tusc., 4, 6. Ταρασσει τους ανθρωπους ου τα πραγματα, αλλα τα περι των πραγματων δογματα (Perturbant homines non res ipsæ, sed de rebus opiniones). Epictet., c. v.
25.
Τουτο γαρ εστι το αιτιον τοις ανθρωποις παντων των κακων, το τας προληψεις τας κοινας μη δυνασθαι εφαρμοξειν ταις επι μερους (Hæc est causa mortalibus omnium malorum, non posse communes notiones aptare singularibus). Epict. dissert., ii., 26.
26.
Cf. Ch. 16 of Supplement.
27.
Cf. Ch. xviii. of the Supplement.
28.
We can thus by no means agree with Bacon if he (De Augm. Scient., L. iv. in fine.) thinks that all mechanical and physical movement of bodies has always been preceded by perception in these bodies; though a glimmering of truth lies at the bottom of this false proposition. This is also the case with Kepler's opinion, expressed in his essay The Planet of Mars, that the planets must have knowledge in order to keep their elliptical courses so correctly, and to regulate the velocity of their motion so that the triangle of the plane of their course always remains proportional to the time in which they pass through its base.
29.
Cf. Ch. xix. of the Supplement.
30.
Cf. Ch. xx. of the Supplement, and also in my work, On the Will in Nature,” the chapters on Physiology and Comparative Anatomy, where the subject I have only touched upon here is fully discussed.
31.
This is specially treated in the 27th Ch. of the Supplement.
32.
This subject is fully worked out in my prize essay on the freedom of the will, in which therefore (pp. 29-44 of the "Fundamental Issues of Ethics") the relation of reason, incentive, and motive has also been fully explained.
33.
Cf. Ch. xxiii. of the Supplement, and also the Ch. on the physiology of plants in my work "On the Will in Nature," and the Ch. on physical astronomy, which is of great importance with regard to the kernel of my metaphysic.
34.
Wenzel, De Structura Cerebri Hominis et Brutorum, 1812, ch. iii.; Cuvier, Leçons d'Anat., comp. leçon 9, arts. 4 and 5; Vic. d'Azyr, Hist. de l'Acad. de Sc. de Paris, 1783, pp. 470 and 483.
35.
On the 16th of September 1840, at a lecture upon Egyptian Archæology delivered by Mr. Pettigrew at the Literary and Scientific Institute of London, he showed some corns of wheat which Sir G. Wilkinson had found in a grave at Thebes, in which they must have lain for three thousand years. They were found in an hermetically sealed vase. Mr. Pettigrew had sowed twelve grains, and obtained a plant which grew five feet high, and the seeds of which were now quite ripe.—Time, 21st September 1840. In the same way in 1830 Mr. Haulton produced in the Medical Botanical Society of London a bulbous root which was found in the hand of an Egyptian mummy, in which it was probably put in observance of some religious rite, and which must have been at least two thousand years old. He had planted it in a flower-pot, in which it grew up and flourished. This is quoted from the Medical Journal of 1830 in the Journal of the Royal Institute of Great Britain, October 1830, p. 196.—“In the garden of Mr. Grimstone at the Herbarium in Highgate, London, there is a pea producing fruit, which has grown from a pea that Mr. Pettigrew and the staff of the British Museum took from a vase discovered in an Egyptian sarcophagus, where it must have been for 2844 years.”Times, 16th August 1844. Indeed, the living toads found in limestone lead to the conclusion that even animal life is capable of such a suspension for thousands of years, if this is begun in the dormant period and maintained by special circumstances.
36.
Cf. Chap. xxii. of the Supplement, and also my work "About the Will in Nature," p. 54 and following, and pp. 70-79 of the first edition, or p. 46 et seq., and pp. 63-72 of the second, or p. 48 et seq., and pp. 69-77 of the third edition.
37.
The Scholastics therefore said very truly: The final cause moves not according to its real existence, but according to its known existence. Cf. Suarez, Disp. Metaph. disp. xxiii., sec. 7 and 8.
38.
Cf. "Critique of Pure Reason. Resolution of the Cosmological Ideas Regarding the Totality of the Deduction of Events in the Universe," pp. 560-586 of the fifth, and p. 532 and following of first edition; and “Critique of Practical Reason,” fourth edition, pp. 169-179; Rosenkranz' edition, p. 224 and following. Cf. my Essay on the Principle of Sufficient Reason, § 43.
39.
Cf. "About the Will in Nature," at the end of the section on Comparative Anatomy.
40.
Cf. "About the Will in Nature," the section on Comparative Anatomy.
41.
Chatin, Sur la Valisneria Spiralis, in the Comptes Rendus de l'Acad. de Sc., No. 13, 1855.
42.
Cf. Chaps. xxvi. and xxvii. of the Supplement.
43.
Cf. Chap. xxviii. of the Supplement.
44.
F. H. Jacobi.
45.
See for example, "Immanuel Kant: A Reminiscence by Fr. Bouterweck" pg. 49, and Buhle's "Philosophy Through the Ages," vol. vi. pp. 802-815 and 823.
46.
Cf. Chap. xxix. of Supplement.
47.
I also recommend the perusal of what Spinoza says in his Ethics (Book II., Prop. 40, Schol. 2, and Book V., Props. 25-38), concerning the third-order knowledge, or intuitive, in illustration of the kind of knowledge we are considering, and very specially Prop. 29, Schol.; prop. 36, Schol., and Prop. 38, Demonst. et Schol.
48.
Cf. Chap. xxx. of the Supplement.
49.
This last sentence cannot be understood without some acquaintance with the next book.
50.
Cf. Chap. xxxi. of the Supplement.
51.
I am all the more delighted and astonished, forty years after I so timidly and hesitatingly advanced this thought, to discover that it has already been expressed by St. Augustine: The shrub presents various shapes, which make the visible structure of this world beautiful, appealing to the senses; in accordance with that nosse non possunt, quasi innotescere let them be seen.—De civ. Dei, xi. 27.
52.
Cf. Chap. 35 of Supplement.
53.
Jakob Böhm in his book, “de Signatura Rerum,” ch. i., § 13-15, says, "Nothing in nature fails to show its inner form outwardly; the internal is always trying to express itself. Everything has its own language through which it reveals itself. This is the language of nature, where everything speaks from its own attributes and continuously shows and declares itself, because each thing reveals its origin, which then provides the essence and the will to the form."
54.
The last sentence is the German of the only the mind senses the mind, of Helvetius. In the first edition there was no occasion to point this out, but since then the age has become so degraded and ignorant through the stupefying influence of the Hegelian sophistry, that some might quite likely say that an antithesis was intended here between “spirit and nature.” I am therefore obliged to guard myself in express terms against the suspicion of such vulgar sophisms.
55.
This digression is worked out more fully in the 36th Chapter of the Supplement.
56.
In order to understand this passage it is necessary to have read the whole of the next book.
57.
Clearly, there are rare things, floating in the vast whirlpool.
58.
Cf. Ch. xxxiv. of Supplement.
59.

It is scarcely necessary to say that wherever I speak of poets I refer exclusively to that rare phenomenon the great true poet. I mean no one else; least of all that dull insipid tribe, the mediocre poets, rhymsters, and inventors of fables, that flourishes so luxuriantly at the present day in Germany. They ought rather to have the words shouted in their ears unceasingly from all sides—

It’s hardly necessary to mention that whenever I talk about poets, I’m referring specifically to that rare phenomenon: the great true poet. I’m not talking about anyone else, especially not about that boring, bland group of mediocre poets, rhymers, and makers of fables that thrives so abundantly nowadays in Germany. They should instead have those words shouted at them constantly from all sides—

Mediocribus esse poëtis
Non homines, non Dî, non concessere columnæ.

Mediocribus esse poëtis
Neither humans nor gods have allowed for mediocre poets.

It is worthy of serious consideration what an amount of time—both their own and other people's—and paper is lost by this swarm of mediocre poets, and how injurious is their influence. For the public always seizes on what is new, and has naturally a greater proneness to what is perverse and dull as akin to itself. Therefore these works of the mediocre poets draw it away and hold it back from the true masterpieces and the education they afford, and thus working in direct antagonism to the benign influence of genius, they ruin taste more and more, and retard the progress of the age. Such poets should therefore be scourged with criticism and satire without indulgence or sympathy till they are induced, for their own good, to apply their muse rather to reading what is good than to writing what is bad. For if the bungling of the incompetent so raised the wrath of the gentle Apollo that he could flay Marsyas, I do not see on what the mediocre poets will base their claim to tolerance.

It's worth seriously considering how much time—both their own and others'—and paper is wasted by this flood of average poets, and how harmful their influence is. The public is always drawn to what's new and tends to have a greater attraction to what's dull and misguided, as it's similar to itself. As a result, these works by mediocre poets pull people away and keep them from true masterpieces and the education they offer. By doing this, they actively oppose the positive influence of genius, further degrading taste and slowing down the progress of the time. Such poets should be rigorously critiqued and satirized without leniency or sympathy until they're led, for their own good, to focus more on reading quality works than on writing poor ones. If the clumsiness of the unskilled upset the gentle Apollo so much that he could flay Marsyas, I don’t understand what grounds mediocre poets have to expect tolerance.

60.
Cf. Ch. xxxviii. of Supplement.
61.
Cf. Ch. xxxvii. of the Supplement.
62.
Leibnitii epistolæ, collectio Kortholti, ep. 154.
63.
Cf. Ch. xxxix. of Supplement.
64.
The following remark may assist those for whom it is not too subtle to understand clearly that the individual is only the phenomenon, not the thing in itself. Every individual is, on the one hand, the subject of knowing, i.e., the complemental condition of the possibility of the whole objective world, and, on the other hand, a particular phenomenon of will, the same will which objectifies itself in everything. But this double nature of our being does not rest upon a self-existing unity, otherwise it would be possible for us to be conscious of ourselves in ourselves, and independent of the subjects of knowledge and intention. Now this is by no means possible, for as soon as we turn into ourselves to make the attempt, and seek for once to know ourselves fully by means of introspective reflection, we are lost in a bottomless void; we find ourselves like the hollow glass globe, from out of which a voice speaks whose cause is not to be found in it, and whereas we desired to comprehend ourselves, we find, with a shudder, nothing but a vanishing spectre.
65.
"The Scholastics taught that eternity is not a sequence of time without beginning or end; rather, it is the Now standing, i.e., the same for us as the Now being, which was Now for Adam, i.e., that there is no difference between now and then."—Hobbes, Leviathan, c. 46.
66.
In Eckermann's "Talks with Goethe" (vol. i. p. 161), Goethe says: "Our spirit is an indestructible being, and its activity lasts from eternity to eternity. It's like the sun, which appears to set only to our human eyes, but in reality, it never sets; it shines on continuously." Goethe has taken the simile from me; not I from him. Without doubt he used it in this conversation, which was held in 1824, in consequence of a (possibly unconscious) reminiscence of the above passage, for it occurs in the first edition, p. 401, in exactly the same words, and it is also repeated at p. 528 of that edition, as at the close of § 65 of the present work. The first edition was sent to him in December 1818, and in March 1819, when I was at Naples, he sent me his congratulations by letter, through my sister, and enclosed a piece of paper upon which he had noted the places of certain passages which had specially pleased him. Thus he had read my book.
67.
This is expressed in the Veda by saying, that when a man dies his sight becomes one with the sun, his smell with the earth, his taste with water, his hearing with the air, his speech with fire, &c., &c. (Oupnek'hat, vol. i. p. 249 et seq.) And also by the fact that, in a special ceremony, the dying man gives over his senses and all his faculties singly to his son, in whom they are now supposed to live on (Oupnek'hat, vol. ii. p. 82 etc.)
68.
Cf. Chap. xli.-xliv. of Supplement.
69.
"Critique of Pure Reason," first edition, pp. 532-558; fifth edition, pp. 560-586; and “Critique of Practical Reason,” fourth edition, pp. 169-179; Rosenkranz's edition, pp. 224-231.
70.
Cart. Medit. 4.—Spin. Eth., pt. ii. prop. 48 et 49, cæt.
71.
Herodot. vii. 46.
72.
Cf. Ch. xlvi. of Supplement.
73.
Cf. Ch. xlv. of the Supplement.
74.
Thus the basis of natural right of property does not require the assumption of two grounds of right beside each other, that based on detention center and that based on formation; but the latter is itself sufficient. Only the name formation is not very suitable, for the spending of any labour upon a thing does not need to be a forming or fashioning of it.
75.
The further exposition of the philosophy of law here laid down will be found in my prize-essay, "On the Foundation of Morality," § 17, pp. 221-230 of 1st ed., pp. 216-226 of 2d ed.
76.
Cf. Ch. xlvii. of Supplement.
77.
Oupnek'hat, vol. i. p. 60 et seq.
78.
That Spanish bishop who, in the last war, poisoned both himself and the French generals at his own table, is an instance of this; and also various incidents in that war. Examples are also to be found in Montaigne, Bk. ii. ch. 12.
79.
Observe, in passing, that what gives every positive system of religion its great strength, the point of contact through which it takes possession of the soul, is entirely its ethical side. Not, however, the ethical side directly as such, but as it appears firmly united and interwoven with the element of mythical dogma which is present in every system of religion, and as intelligible only by means of this. So much is this the case, that although the ethical significance of action cannot be explained in accordance with the principle of sufficient reason, yet since every mythus follows this principle, believers regard the ethical significance of action as quite inseparable, and indeed as absolutely identical, and regard every attack upon the mythus as an attack upon right and virtue. This goes so far that among monotheistic nations atheism or godlessness has become synonymous with the absence of all morality. To the priests such confusions of conceptions are welcome, and only in consequence of them could that horrible monstrosity fanaticism arise and govern, not merely single individuals who happen to be specially perverse and bad, but whole nations, and finally embody itself in the Western world as the Inquisition (to the honour of mankind be it said that this only happened once in their history), which, according to the latest and most authentic accounts, in Madrid alone (in the rest of Spain there were many more such ecclesiastical dens of murderers) in 300 years put 300,000 human beings to a painful death at the stake on theological grounds—a fact of which every zealot ought to be reminded whenever he begins to make himself heard.
80.
The Church would say that these are merely done deal, which do not avail unless grace gives the faith which leads to the new birth. But of this farther on.
81.
The right of man over the life and powers of the brutes rests on the fact that, because with the growing clearness of consciousness suffering increases in like measure; the pain which the brute suffers through death or work is not so great as man would suffer by merely denying himself the flesh, or the powers of the brutes. Therefore man may carry the assertion of his existence to the extent of denying the existence of the brute, and the will to live as a whole endures less suffering in this way than if the opposite course were adopted. This at once determines the extent of the use man may make of the powers of the brutes without wrong; a limit, however, which is often transgressed, especially in the case of beasts of burden and dogs used in the chase; to which the activity of societies for the prevention of cruelty to animals is principally devoted. In my opinion, that right does not extend to vivisection, particularly of the higher animals. On the other hand, the insect does not suffer so much through its death as a man suffers from its sting. The Hindus do not understand this.
82.
As I wander sunk in thought, so strong a sympathy with myself comes over me that I must often weep aloud, which otherwise I am not wont to do.
83.
Cf. Ch. xlvii. of Supplement. It is scarcely necessary to remind the reader that the whole ethical doctrine given in outline in §§ 61-67 has been explained fully and in detail in my prize-essay on the foundation of morals.
84.
This thought is expressed by a beautiful simile in the ancient philosophical Sanscrit writing, “Sankhya Karica:” "But the soul stays connected to the body for a time; just like the potter's wheel keeps spinning after the pot is made, due to the momentum it was given earlier. When the informed soul finally separates from its physical form and nature no longer applies to it, then complete and final liberation is achieved." Colebrooke, "On the Philosophy of the Hindus: Miscellaneous Essays," vol i. p. 271. Also in the “Sankhya Karica by Horace Wilson” § 67, p. 184.
85.
See, for example, “Oupnek'hat, Anquetil du Perron studio,” vol. ii., Nos. 138, 144, 145, 146. "Mythology of the Hindus," par Mad. de Polier, vol. ii., ch. 13, 14, 15, 16, 17. “Asian Magazine,” by Klaproth: in the first volume, “About the Fo-Religion,” also “Baghnat Geeta” or "Conversations between Krishna and Arjoon;" in the second volume, “Moha-Mudgava.” Also, "Institutes of Hindu Law, or the Laws of Manu," from the Sanscrit, by Sir William Jones (German by Hüttner, 1797), especially the sixth and twelfth chapters. Finally, many passages in the “Asian Researches.” (In the last forty years Indian literature has grown so much in Europe, that if I were now to complete this note to the first edition, it would occupy several pages.)
86.
At the procession of Jagganath in June 1840, eleven Hindus threw themselves under the wheels, and were instantly killed. (Letter of an East Indian proprietor in the Time of 30th December 1840.)
87.
On δευτερος πλους cf. Stob. Floril., vol. ii. p. 374.
88.
Bruckeri Hist. Philos., tomi iv. pars. i. p. 10.
89.
Henry VI., Part ii. act 3, sc. 3.
90.
Cf. Ch. xlviii. of the Supplement.
91.
How truly this is the case may be seen from the fact that all the contradictions and inconceivabilities contained in the Christian dogmatics, consistently systematised by Augustine, which have led to the Pelagian insipidity which is opposed to them, vanish as soon as we abstract from the fundamental Jewish dogma, and recognize that man is not the work of another, but of his own will. Then all is at once clear and correct: then there is no need of freedom in the operating, for it lies in the esse; and there also lies the sin as original sin. The work of grace is, however, our own. To the rationalistic point of view of the day, on the contrary, many doctrines of the Augustinian dogmatics, founded on the New Testament, appear quite untenable, and indeed revolting; for example, predestination. Accordingly Christianity proper is rejected, and a return is made to crude Judaism. But the miscalculation or the original weakness of Christian dogmatics lies—where it is never sought—precisely in that which is withdrawn from all investigation as established and certain. Take this away and the whole of dogmatics is rational; for this dogma destroys theology as it does all other sciences. If any one studies the Augustinian theology in the books "City of God" (especially in the Fourteenth Book), he experiences something analogous to the feeling of one who tries to make a body stand whose centre of gravity falls outside it; however he may turn it and place it, it always tumbles over again. So here, in spite of all the efforts and sophisms of Augustine, the guilt and misery of the world always falls back on God, who made everything and everything that is in everything, and also knew how all things would go. That Augustine himself was conscious of the difficulty, and puzzled by it, I have already shown in my prize-essay on the Freedom of the Will (ch. iv. pp. 66-68 of the first and second editions). In the same way, the contradiction between the goodness of God and the misery of the world, and also between the freedom of the will and the foreknowledge of God, is the inexhaustible theme of a controversy which lasted nearly a hundred years between the Cartesians, Malebranche, Leibnitz, Bayle, Clarke, Arnauld, and many others. The only dogma which was regarded as fixed by all parties was the existence and attributes of God, and they all unceasingly move in a circle, because they seek to bring these things into harmony, i.e., to solve a sum that will not come right, but always shows a remainder at some new place whenever we have concealed it elsewhere. But it does not occur to any one to seek for the source of the difficulty in the fundamental assumption, although it palpably obtrudes itself. Bayle alone shows that he saw this.
92.
This is also just the Prajna—Paramita of the Buddhists, the "beyond all knowledge," i.e., the point at which subject and object are no more. (Cf. J. J. Schmidt, "About Mahayana and Prajnaparamita.")


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