Counsels and Maxims - Arthur Schopenhauer
The muscles may be strengthened by a vigorous use of them; but not so
the nerves; they are weakened by it. Therefore, while exercising the
muscles in every way that is suitable, care should be taken to spare
the nerves as much as possible. The eyes, for instance, should be
protected from too strong a light,--especially when it is reflected
light,--from any straining of them in the dark, or from the
long-continued examination of minute objects; and the ears from too
loud sounds. Above all, the brain should never be forced, or used too
much, or at the wrong time; let it have a rest during digestion; for
then the same vital energy which forms thoughts in the brain has a
great deal of work to do elsewhere,--I mean in the digestive organs,
where it prepares chyme and chyle. For similar reasons, the brain
should never be used during, or immediately after, violent muscular
exercise. For the motor nerves are in this respect on a par with the
sensory nerves; the pain felt when a limb is wounded has its seat in
the brain; and, in the same way, it is not really our legs and arms
which work and move,--it is the brain, or, more strictly, that part of
it which, through the medium of the spine, excites the nerves in the
limbs and sets them in motion. Accordingly, when our arms and legs
feel tired, the true seat of this feeling is in the brain. This is why
it is only in connection with those muscles which are set in motion
consciously and voluntarily,--in other words, depend for their action
upon the brain,--that any feeling of fatigue can arise; this is not
the case with those muscles which work involuntarily, like the heart.
It is obvious, then, that injury is done to the brain if violent
muscular exercise and intellectual exertion are forced upon it at the
same moment, or at very short intervals.
What I say stands in no contradiction with the fact that at the
beginning of a walk, or at any period of a short stroll, there often
comes a feeling of enhanced intellectual vigor. The parts of the brain
that come into play have had no time to become tired; and besides,
slight muscular exercise conduces to activity of the respiratory
organs, and causes a purer and more oxydated supply of arterial blood
to mount to the brain.
It is most important to allow the brain the full measure of sleep
which is required to restore it; for sleep is to a man's whole nature
what winding up is to a clock.[1] This measure will vary directly with
the development and activity of the brain; to overstep the measure is
mere waste of time, because if that is done, sleep gains only so much
in length as it loses in depth.[2]
[Footnote 1: _Of. Welt als Wille und Vorstellung_, 4th Edition. Bk.
II. pp. 236-40.]
[Footnote: 2: _Cf. loc: cit_: p. 275. Sleep is a morsel of death
borrowed to keep up and renew the part of life which is exhausted by
the day--_le sommeil est un emprunt fait a la mort_. Or it might be
said that sleep is the interest we have to pay on the capital which is
called in at death; and the higher the rate of interest and the
more regularly it is paid, the further the date of redemption is
postponed.]
It should be clearly understood that thought is nothing but the
organic function of the brain; and it has to obey the same laws in
regard to exertion and repose as any other organic function. The brain
can be ruined by overstrain, just like the eyes. As the function of
the stomach is to digest, so it is that of the brain to think. The
notion of a _soul_,--as something elementary and immaterial, merely
lodging in the brain and needing nothing at all for the performance
of its essential function, which consists in always and unweariedly
_thinking_--has undoubtedly driven many people to foolish practices,
leading to a deadening of the intellectual powers; Frederick the
Great, even, once tried to form the habit of doing without sleep
altogether. It would be well if professors of philosophy refrained
from giving currency to a notion which is attended by practical
results of a pernicious character; but then this is just what
professorial philosophy does, in its old-womanish endeavor to keep on
good terms with the catechism. A man should accustom himself to
view his intellectual capacities in no other light than that of
physiological functions, and to manage them accordingly--nursing or
exercising them as the case may be; remembering that every kind of
physical suffering, malady or disorder, in whatever part of the body
it occurs, has its effect upon the mind. The best advice that I know
on this subject is given by Cabanis in his _Rapports du physique et du
moral de l'homme_.[1]
[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_. The work to which Schopenhauer
here refers is a series of essays by Cabanis, a French philosopher
(1757-1808), treating of mental and moral phenomena on a physiological
basis. In his later days, Cabanis completely abandoned his
materialistic standpoint.]
Through neglect of this rule, many men of genius and great scholars
have become weak-minded and childish, or even gone quite mad, as they
grew old. To take no other instances, there can be no doubt that the
celebrated English poets of the early part of this century, Scott,
Wordsworth, Southey, became intellectually dull and incapable towards
the end of their days, nay, soon after passing their sixtieth year;
and that their imbecility can be traced to the fact that, at that
period of life, they were all led on? by the promise of high pay, to
treat literature as a trade and to write for money. This seduced them
into an unnatural abuse of their intellectual powers; and a man who
puts his Pegasus into harness, and urges on his Muse with the whip,
will have to pay a penalty similar to that which is exacted by the
abuse of other kinds of power.
And even in the case of Kant, I suspect that the second childhood of
his last four years was due to overwork in later life, and after he
had succeeded in becoming a famous man.
Every month of the year has its own peculiar and direct influence upon
health and bodily condition generally; nay, even upon the state of the
mind. It is an influence dependent upon the weather.
CHAPTER III.
OUR RELATION TO OTHERS.--SECTION 21.
In making his way through life, a man will find it useful to be ready
and able to do two things: to look ahead and to overlook: the one
will protect him from loss and injury, the other from disputes and
squabbles.
No one who has to live amongst men should absolutely discard any
person who has his due place in the order of nature, even though he is
very wicked or contemptible or ridiculous. He must accept him as an
unalterable fact--unalterable, because the necessary outcome of an
eternal, fundamental principle; and in bad cases he should
remember the words of Mephistopheles: _es muss auch solche Kaeuze
geben[1]_--there must be fools and rogues in the world. If he acts
otherwise, he will be committing an injustice, and giving a challenge
of life and death to the man he discards. No one can alter his
own peculiar individuality, his moral character, his intellectual
capacity, his temperament or physique; and if we go so far as to
condemn a man from every point of view, there will be nothing left him
but to engage us in deadly conflict; for we are practically allowing
him the right to exist only on condition that he becomes another
man--which is impossible; his nature forbids it.
[Footnote 1: Goethe's _Faust_, Part I.]
So if you have to live amongst men, you must allow everyone the right
to exist in accordance with the character he has, whatever it turns
out to be: and all you should strive to do is to make use of this
character in such a way as its kind and nature permit, rather than to
hope for any alteration in it, or to condemn it off-hand for what it
is. This is the true sense of the maxim--Live and let live. That,
however, is a task which is difficult in proportion as it is right;
and he is a happy man who can once for all avoid having to do with a
great many of his fellow creatures.
The art of putting up with people may be learned by practicing
patience on inanimate objects, which, in virtue of some mechanical
or general physical necessity, oppose a stubborn resistance to our
freedom of action--a form of patience which is required every day.
The patience thus gained may be applied to our dealings with men,
by accustoming ourselves to regard their opposition, wherever we
encounter it, as the inevitable outcome of their nature, which sets
itself up against us in virtue of the same rigid law of necessity as
governs the resistance of inanimate objects. To become indignant at
their conduct is as foolish as to be angry with a stone because it
rolls into your path. And with many people the wisest thing you can
do, is to resolve to make use of those whom you cannot alter.
SECTION 22. It is astonishing how easily and how quickly similarity,
or difference of mind and disposition, makes itself felt between one
man and another as soon as they begin to talk: every little trifle
shows it. When two people of totally different natures are conversing,
almost everything said by the one will, in a greater or less degree,
displease the other, and in many cases produce positive annoyance;
even though the conversation turn upon the most out-of-the-way
subject, or one in which neither of the parties has any real interest.
People of similar nature, on the other hand, immediately come to feel
a kind of general agreement; and if they are cast very much in the
same mould, complete harmony or even unison will flow from their
intercourse.
This explain two circumstances. First of all, it shows why it is that
common, ordinary people are so sociable and find good company wherever
they go. Ah! those good, dear, brave people. It is just the contrary
with those who are not of the common run; and the less they are so,
the more unsociable they become; so that if, in their isolation, they
chance to come across some one in whose nature they can find even
a single sympathetic chord, be it never so minute, they show
extraordinary pleasure in his society. For one man can be to another
only so much as the other is to him. Great minds are like eagles, and
build their nest in some lofty solitude.
Secondly, we are enabled to understand how it is that people of like
disposition so quickly get on with one another, as though they were
drawn together by magnetic force--kindred souls greeting each other
from afar. Of course the most frequent opportunity of observing this
is afforded by people of vulgar tastes and inferior intellect, but
only because their name is legion; while those who are better off in
this respect and of a rarer nature, are not often to be met with: they
are called rare because you can seldom find them.
Take the case of a large number of people who have formed themselves
into a league for the purpose of carrying out some practical object;
if there be two rascals among them, they will recognize each other as
readily as if they bore a similar badge, and will at once conspire
for some misfeasance or treachery. In the same way, if you can
imagine--_per impossible_--a large company of very intelligent and
clever people, amongst whom there are only two blockheads, these two
will be sure to be drawn together by a feeling of sympathy, and each
of them will very soon secretly rejoice at having found at least one
intelligent person in the whole company. It is really quite curious
to see how two such men, especially if they are morally and
intellectually of an inferior type, will recognize each other at first
sight; with what zeal they will strive to become intimate; how affably
and cheerily they will run to greet each other, just as though they
were old friends;--it is all so striking that one is tempted to
embrace the Buddhist doctrine of metempsychosis and presume that they
were on familiar terms in some former state of existence.
Still, in spite of all this general agreement, men are kept apart who
might come together; or, in some cases, a passing discord springs up
between them. This is due to diversity of mood. You will hardly
ever see two people exactly in the same frame of mind; for that is
something which varies with their condition of life, occupation,
surroundings, health, the train of thought they are in at the moment,
and so on. These differences give rise to discord between persons of
the most harmonious disposition. To correct the balance properly, so
as to remove the disturbance--to introduce, as it were, a uniform
temperature,--is a work demanding a very high degree of culture. The
extent to which uniformity of mood is productive of good-fellowship
may be measured by its effects upon a large company. When, for
instance, a great many people are gathered together and presented with
some objective interest which works upon all alike and influences them
in a similar way, no matter what it be--a common danger or hope, some
great news, a spectacle, a play, a piece of music, or anything of that
kind--you will find them roused to a mutual expression of thought,
and a display of sincere interest. There will be a general feeling
of pleasure amongst them; for that which attracts their attention
produces a unity of mood by overpowering all private and personal
interests.
And in default of some objective interest of the kind I have
mentioned, recourse is usually had to something subjective. A bottle
of wine is not an uncommon means of introducing a mutual feeling of
fellowship; and even tea and coffee are used for a like end.
The discord which so easily finds its way into all society as an
effect of the different moods in which people happen to be for the
moment, also in part explains why it is that memory always idealizes,
and sometimes almost transfigures, the attitude we have taken up at
any period of the past--a change due to our inability to remember all
the fleeting influences which disturbed us on any given occasion.
Memory is in this respect like the lens of a _camera obscura_: it
contracts everything within its range, and so produces a much finer
picture than the actual landscape affords. And, in the case of a man,
absence always goes some way towards securing this advantageous light;
for though the idealizing tendency of the memory requires times to
complete its work, it begins it at once. Hence it is a prudent thing
to see your friends and acquaintances only at considerable intervals
of time; and on meeting them again, you will observe that memory has
been at work.
SECTION 23. No man can see _over his own height._ Let me explain what
I mean.
You cannot see in another man any more than you have in yourself; and
your own intelligence strictly determines the extent to which he comes
within its grasp. If your intelligence is of a very low order, mental
qualities in another, even though they be of the highest kind,
will have no effect at all upon you; you will see nothing in their
possessor except the meanest side of his individuality--in other
words, just those parts of his character and disposition which are
weak and defective. Your whole estimate of the man will be confined to
his defects, and his higher mental qualities will no more exist for
you than colors exist for those who cannot see.
Intellect is invisible to the man who has none. In any attempt to
criticise another's work, the range of knowledge possessed by the
critic is as essential a part of his verdict as the claims of the work
itself.
Hence intercourse with others involves a process of leveling down. The
qualities which are present in one man, and absent in another, cannot
come into play when they meet; and the self-sacrifice which this
entails upon one of the parties, calls forth no recognition from the
other.
Consider how sordid, how stupid, in a word, how _vulgar_ most men
are, and you will see that it is impossible to talk to them without
becoming vulgar yourself for the time being. Vulgarity is in this
respect like electricity; it is easily distributed. You will then
fully appreciate the truth and propriety of the expression, _to make
yourself cheap_; and you will be glad to avoid the society of people
whose only possible point of contact with you is just that part of
your nature of which you have least reason to be proud. So you will
see that, in dealing with fools and blockheads, there is only one way
of showing your intelligence--by having nothing to do with them. That
means, of course, that when you go into society, you may now and then
feel like a good dancer who gets an invitation to a ball, and on
arriving, finds that everyone is lame:--with whom is he to dance?
SECTION 24. I feel respect for the man--and he is one in a
hundred--who, when he is waiting or sitting unoccupied, refrains from
rattling or beating time with anything that happens to be handy,--his
stick, or knife and fork, or whatever else it may be. The probability
is that he is thinking of something.
With a large number of people, it is quite evident that their power of
sight completely dominates over their power of thought; they seem to
be conscious of existence only when they are making a noise; unless
indeed they happen to be smoking, for this serves a similar end. It is
for the same reason that they never fail to be all eyes and ears for
what is going on around them.
SECTION 25. La Rochefoucauld makes the striking remark that it is
difficult to feel deep veneration and great affection for one and the
same person. If this is so, we shall have to choose whether it is
veneration or love that we want from our fellow-men.
Their love is always selfish, though in very different ways; and the
means used to gain it are not always of a kind to make us proud. A
man is loved by others mainly in the degree in which he moderates
his claim on their good feeling and intelligence: but he must act
genuinely in the matter and without dissimulation--not merely out of
forbearance, which is at bottom a kind of contempt. This calls to mind
a very true observation of Helvetius[1]: _the amount of intellect
necessary to please us, is a most accurate measure of the amount of
intellect we have ourselves_. With these remarks as premises, it is
easy to draw the conclusion.
[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_. Helvetius, Claude-Adrien (1715-71),
a French philosophical writer much esteemed by Schopenhauer. His chief
work, _De l'Esprit_, excited great interest and opposition at the
time of its publication, on account of the author's pronounced
materialism.]
Now with veneration the case is just the opposite; it is wrung from
men reluctantly, and for that very reason mostly concealed. Hence, as
compared with love, veneration gives more real satisfaction; for it is
connected with personal value, and the same is not directly true
of love, which is subjective in its nature, whilst veneration is
objective. To be sure, it is more useful to be loved than to be
venerated.
SECTION 26. Most men are so thoroughly subjective that nothing really
interests them but themselves. They always think of their own case
as soon as ever any remark is made, and their whole attention is
engrossed and absorbed by the merest chance reference to anything
which affects them personally, be it never so remote: with the result
that they have no power left for forming an objective view of things,
should the conversation take that turn; neither can they admit any
validity in arguments which tell against their interest or their
vanity. Hence their attention is easily distracted. They are so
readily offended, insulted or annoyed, that in discussing any
impersonal matter with them, no care is too great to avoid letting
your remarks bear the slightest possible reference to the very worthy
and sensitive individuals whom you have before you; for anything you
may say will perhaps hurt their feelings. People really care about
nothing that does not affect them personally. True and striking
observations, fine, subtle and witty things are lost upon them: they
cannot understand or feel them. But anything that disturbs their petty
vanity in the most remote and indirect way, or reflects prejudicially
upon their exceedingly precious selves--to that, they are most
tenderly sensitive. In this respect they are like the little dog whose
toes you are so apt to tread upon inadvertently--you know it by the
shrill bark it sets up: or, again, they resemble a sick man covered
with sores and boils, with whom the greatest care must be taken to
avoid unnecessary handling. And in some people this feeling reaches
such a pass that, if they are talking with anyone, and he exhibits, or
does not sufficiently conceal, his intelligence and discernment, they
look upon it as a downright insult; although for the moment they hide
their ill will, and the unsuspecting author of it afterwards ruminates
in vain upon their conduct, and racks his brain to discover what he
could possibly have done to excite their malice and hatred.
But it is just as easy to flatter and win them over; and this is why
their judgment is usually corrupt, and why their opinions are swayed,
not by what is really true and right, but by the favor of the party or
class to which they belong. And the ultimate reason of it all is, that
in such people force of will greatly predominates over knowledge; and
hence their meagre intellect is wholly given up to the service of the
will, and can never free itself from that service for a moment.
Astrology furnishes a magnificent proof of this miserable subjective
tendency in men, which leads them to see everything only as bearing
upon themselves, and to think of nothing that is not straightway made
into a personal matter. The aim of astrology is to bring the motions
of the celestial bodies into relation with the wretched _Ego_ and to
establish a connection between a comet in the sky and squabbles and
rascalities on earth.[1]
[Footnote 1: See, for instance, Stobasus, _Eclog. I_. xxii. 9.]
SECTION 27. When any wrong statement is made, whether in public or
in society, or in books, and well received--or, at any rate, not
refuted--that that is no reason why you should despair or think there
the matter will rest. You should comfort yourself with the reflection
that the question will be afterwards gradually subjected to
examination; light will be thrown upon it; it will be thought over,
considered, discussed, and generally in the end the correct view will
be reached; so that, after a time--the length of which will depend
upon the difficulty of the subject--everyone will come to understand
that which a clear head saw at once.
In the meantime, of course, you must have patience. He who can see
truly in the midst of general infatuation is like a man whose watch
keeps good time, when all clocks in the town in which he lives are
wrong. He alone knows the right time; but what use is that to him?
for everyone goes by the clocks which speak false, not even excepting
those who know that his watch is the only one that is right.
SECTION 28. Men are like children, in that, if you spoil them, they
become naughty.
Therefore it is well not to be too indulgent or charitable with
anyone. You may take it as a general rule that you will not lose a
friend by refusing him a loan, but that you are very likely to do
so by granting it; and, for similar reasons, you will not readily
alienate people by being somewhat proud and careless in your
behaviour; but if you are very kind and complaisant towards them, you
will often make them arrogant and intolerable, and so a breach will
ensue.
There is one thing that, more than any other, throws people absolutely
off their balance--the thought that you are dependent upon them. This
is sure to produce an insolent and domineering manner towards you.
There are some people, indeed, who become rude if you enter into any
kind of relation with them; for instance, if you have occasion to
converse with them frequently upon confidential matters, they soon
come to fancy that they can take liberties with you, and so they try
and transgress the laws of politeness. This is why there are so few
with whom you care to become more intimate, and why you should avoid
familiarity with vulgar people. If a man comes to think that I am more
dependent upon him than he is upon me, he at once feels as though I
had stolen something from him; and his endeavor will be to have his
vengeance and get it back. The only way to attain superiority in
dealing with men, is to let it be seen that you are independent of
them.
And in this view it is advisable to let everyone of your
acquaintance--whether man or woman--feel now and then that you
could very well dispense with their company. This will consolidate
friendship. Nay, with most people there will be no harm in
occasionally mixing a grain of disdain with your treatment of them;
that will make them value your friendship all the more. _Chi non
istima vien stimato_, as a subtle Italian proverb has it--to disregard
is to win regard. But if we really think very highly of a person, we
should conceal it from him like a crime. This is not a very gratifying
thing to do, but it is right. Why, a dog will not bear being treated
too kindly, let alone a man!