Counsels and Maxims - Arthur Schopenhauer
SECTION 29. It is often the case that people of noble character and
great mental gifts betray a strange lack of worldly wisdom and a
deficiency in the knowledge of men, more especially when they are
young; with the result that it is easy to deceive or mislead them; and
that, on the other hand, natures of the commoner sort are more ready
and successful in making their way in the world.
The reason of this is that, when a man has little or no experience,
he must judge by his own antecedent notions; and in matters demanding
judgment, an antecedent notion is never on the same level as
experience. For, with the commoner sort of people, an antecedent
notion means just their own selfish point of view. This is not the
case with those whose mind and character are above the ordinary; for
it is precisely in this respect--their unselfishness--that they differ
from the rest of mankind; and as they judge other people's thoughts
and actions by their own high standard, the result does not always
tally with their calculation.
But if, in the end, a man of noble character comes to see, as the
effect of his own experience, or by the lessons he learns from others,
what it is that may be expected of men in general,--namely, that
five-sixths of them are morally and intellectually so constituted
that, if circumstances do not place you in relation with them, you had
better get out of their way and keep as far as possible from having
anything to do with them,--still, he will scarcely ever attain an
adequate notion of their wretchedly mean and shabby nature: all his
life long he will have to be extending and adding to the inferior
estimate he forms of them; and in the meantime he will commit a great
many mistakes and do himself harm.
Then, again, after he has really taken to heart the lessons that have
been taught him, it will occasionally happen that, when he is in the
society of people whom he does not know, he will be surprised to
find how thoroughly reasonable they all appear to be, both in their
conversation and in their demeanor--in fact, quite honest, sincere,
virtuous and trustworthy people, and at the same time shrewd and
clever.
But that ought not to perplex him. Nature is not like those bad
poets, who, in setting a fool or a knave before us, do their work so
clumsily, and with such evident design, that you might almost
fancy you saw the poet standing behind each of his characters, and
continually disavowing their sentiments, and telling you in a tone of
warning: _This is a knave; that is a fool; do not mind what he says_.
But Nature goes to work like Shakespeare and Goethe, poets who
make every one of their characters--even if it is the devil
himself!--appear to be quite in the right for the moment that they
come before us in their several parts; the characters are described so
objectively that they excite our interest and compel us to sympathize
with their point of view; for, like the works of Nature, every one
of these characters is evolved as the result of some hidden law
or principle, which makes all they say and do appear natural and
therefore necessary. And you will always be the prey or the plaything
of the devils and fools in this world, if you expect to see them going
about with horns or jangling their bells.
And it should be borne in mind that, in their intercourse with others,
people are like the moon, or like hunchbacks; they show you only one
of their sides. Every man has an innate talent for mimicry,--for
making a mask out of his physiognomy, so that he can always look as
if he really were what he pretends to be; and since he makes his
calculations always within the lines of his individual nature, the
appearance he puts on suits him to a nicety, and its effect is
extremely deceptive. He dons his mask whenever his object is to
flatter himself into some one's good opinion; and you may pay just as
much attention to it as if it were made of wax or cardboard, never
forgetting that excellent Italian proverb: _non e si tristo cane che
non meni la coda_,--there is no dog so bad but that he will wag his
tail.
In any case it is well to take care not to form a highly favorable
opinion of a person whose acquaintance you have only recently made,
for otherwise you are very likely to be disappointed; and then you
will be ashamed of yourself and perhaps even suffer some injury.
And while I am on the subject, there is another fact that deserves
mention. It is this. A man shows his character just in the way in
which he deals with trifles,--for then he is off his guard. This will
often afford a good opportunity of observing the boundless egoism of
man's nature, and his total lack of consideration for others; and
if these defects show themselves in small things, or merely in his
general demeanor, you will find that they also underlie his action in
matters of importance, although he may disguise the fact. This is an
opportunity which should not be missed. If in the little affairs of
every day,--the trifles of life, those matters to which the rule _de
minimis non_ applies,--a man is inconsiderate and seeks only what is
advantageous or convenient to himself, to the prejudice of others'
rights; if he appropriates to himself that which belongs to all alike,
you may be sure there is no justice in his heart, and that he would be
a scoundrel on a wholesale scale, only that law and compulsion bind
his hands. Do not trust him beyond your door. He who is not afraid
to break the laws of his own private circle, will break those of the
State when he can do so with impunity.
If the average man were so constituted that the good in him outweighed
the bad, it would be more advisable to rely upon his sense of justice,
fairness, gratitude, fidelity, love or compassion, than to work upon
his fears; but as the contrary is the case, and it is the bad that
outweighs the good, the opposite course is the more prudent one.
If any person with whom we are associated or have to do, exhibits
unpleasant or annoying qualities, we have only to ask ourselves
whether or not this person is of so much value to us that we can put
up with frequent and repeated exhibitions of the same qualities in a
somewhat aggravated form.[1] In case of an affirmative answer to this
question, there will not be much to be said, because talking is very
little use. We must let the matter pass, with or without some notice;
but we should nevertheless remember that we are thereby exposing
ourselves to a repetition of the offence. If the answer is in the
negative, we must break with our worthy friend at once and forever; or
in the case of a servant, dismiss him. For he will inevitably repeat
the offence, or do something tantamount to it, should the occasion
return, even though for the moment he is deep and sincere in his
assurances of the contrary. There is nothing, absolutely nothing,
that a man cannot forget,--but not _himself, his own character_. For
character is incorrigible; because all a man's actions emanate from an
inward principle, in virtue of which he must always do the same thing
under like circumstances; and he cannot do otherwise. Let me refer to
my prize essay on the so-called _Freedom of the Will_, the perusal
of which will dissipate any delusions the reader may have on this
subject.
[Footnote 1: To _forgive and forget_ means to throw away dearly bought
experience.]
To become reconciled to a friend with whom you have broken, is a form
of weakness; and you pay the penalty of it when he takes the first
opportunity of doing precisely the very thing which brought about
the breach; nay, he does it the more boldly, because he is secretly
conscious that you cannot get on without him. This is also applicable
to servants whom you have dismissed, and then taken into your service
again.
For the same reason, you should just as little expect people to
continue to act in a similar way under altered circumstances. The
truth is that men alter their demeanor and sentiments just as fast as
their interest changes; and their resign in this respect is a bill
drawn for short payment that the man must be still more short-sighted
who accepts the bill without protesting it. Accordingly, suppose you
want to know how a man will behave in an office into which you think
of putting him; you should not build upon expectations, on his
promises or assurances. For, even allowing that he is quite sincere,
he is speaking about a matter of which he has no knowledge. The only
way to calculate how he will behave, is to consider the circumstances
in which he will be placed, and the extent to which they will conflict
with his character.
If you wish to get a clear and profound insight--and it is very
needful--into the true but melancholy elements of which most men are
made, you will find in a very instructive thing to take the way they
behave in the pages of literature as a commentary to their doings in
practical life, and _vice versa._ The experience thus gained will be
very useful in avoiding wrong ideas, whether about yourself or about
others. But if you come across any special trait of meanness or
stupidity--in life or in literature,--you must be careful not to let
it annoy or distress you, but to look upon it merely as an addition to
your knowledge--a new fact to be considered in studying the character
of humanity. Your attitude towards it will be that of the mineralogist
who stumbles upon a very characteristic specimen of a mineral.
Of course there are some facts which are very exceptional, and it is
difficult to understand how they arise, and how it is that there come
to be such enormous differences between man and man; but, in general,
what was said long ago is quite true, and the world is in a very bad
way. In savage countries they eat one another, in civilized they
deceive one another; and that is what people call the way of the
world! What are States and all the elaborate systems of political
machinery, and the rule of force, whether in home or in foreign
affairs,--what are they but barriers against the boundless iniquity
of mankind? Does not all history show that whenever a king is firmly
planted on a throne, and his people reach some degree of prosperity,
he uses it to lead his army, like a band of robbers, against adjoining
countries? Are not almost all wars ultimately undertaken for purposes
of plunder? In the most remote antiquity, and to some extent also in
the Middle Ages, the conquered became slaves,--in other words, they
had to work for those who conquered them; and where is the difference
between that and paying war-taxes, which represent the product of our
previous work?
All war, says Voltaire, is a matter of robbery; and the Germans should
take that as a warning.
SECTION 30. No man is so formed that he can be left entirely to
himself, to go his own ways; everyone needs to be guided by a
preconceived plan, and to follow certain general rules. But if this is
carried too far, and a man tries to take on a character which is not
natural or innate in him, but it artificially acquired and evolved
merely by a process of reasoning, he will very soon discover that
Nature cannot be forced, and that if you drive it out, it will return
despite your efforts:--
_Naturam expelles furca, tamen usque recurret_.
To understand a rule governing conduct towards others, even to
discover it for oneself and to express it neatly, is easy enough; and
still, very soon afterwards, the rule may be broken in practice. But
that is no reason for despair; and you need not fancy that as it is
impossible to regulate your life in accordance with abstract ideas
and maxims, it is better to live just as you please. Here, as in all
theoretical instruction that aims at a practical result, the first
thing to do is to understand the rule; the second thing is to learn
the practice of it. The theory may be understand at once by an effort
of reason, and yet the practice of it acquired only in course of time.
A pupil may lean the various notes on an instrument of music, or the
different position in fencing; and when he makes a mistake, as he
is sure to do, however hard he tries, he is apt to think it will be
impossible to observe the rules, when he is set to read music at sight
or challenged to a furious duel. But for all that, gradual practice
makes him perfect, through a long series of slips, blunders and fresh
efforts. It is just the same in other things; in learning to write and
speak Latin, a man will forget the grammatical rules; it is only
by long practice that a blockhead turns into a courtier, that a
passionate man becomes shrewd and worldly-wise, or a frank person
reserved, or a noble person ironical. But though self-discipline of
this kind is the result of long habit, it always works by a sort of
external compulsion, which Nature never ceases to resist and sometimes
unexpectedly overcomes. The difference between action in accordance
with abstract principles, and action as the result of original,
innate tendency, is the same as that between a work of art, say a
watch--where form and movement are impressed upon shapeless and inert
matter--and a living organism, where form and matter are one, and each
is inseparable from the other.
There is a maxim attributed to the Emperor Napoleon, which expresses
this relation between acquired and innate character, and confirms what
I have said: _everything that is unnatural is imperfect_;--a rule of
universal application, whether in the physical or in the moral sphere.
The only exception I can think of to this rule is aventurine,[1] a
substance known to mineralogists, which in its natural state cannot
compare with the artificial preparation of it.
[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_. Aventurine is a rare kind of quartz;
and the same name is given to a brownish-colored glass much resembling
it, which is manufactured at Murano. It is so called from the fact
that the glass was discovered by chance _(arventura)_.]
And in this connection let me utter a word of protest against any and
every form of _affectation_. It always arouses contempt; in the first
place, because it argues deception, and the deception is cowardly,
for it is based on fear; and, secondly, it argues self-condemnation,
because it means that a man is trying to appear what he is not, and
therefore something which he things better than he actually is. To
affect a quality, and to plume yourself upon it, is just to confess
that you have not got it. Whether it is courage, or learning, or
intellect, or wit, or success with women, or riches, or social
position, or whatever else it may be that a man boasts of, you may
conclude by his boasting about it that that is precisely the direction
in which he is rather weak; for if a man really possesses any faculty
to the full, it will not occur to him to make a great show of
affecting it; he is quite content to know that he has it. That is the
application of the Spanish proverb: _herradura que chacolotea clavo le
falta_--a clattering hoof means a nail gone. To be sure, as I said at
first, no man ought to let the reins go quite loose, and show himself
just as he is; for there are many evil and bestial sides to our nature
which require to be hidden away out of sight; and this justifies the
negative attitude of dissimulation, but it does not justify a
positive feigning of qualities which are not there. It should also be
remembered that affectation is recognized at once, even before it is
clear what it is that is being affected. And, finally, affectation
cannot last very long, and one day the mask will fall off. _Nemo
potest personam diu ferre fictam_, says Seneca;[1] _ficta cito in
naturam suam recidunt_--no one can persevere long in a fictitious
character; for nature will soon reassert itself.
[Footnote 1: _De Clementia, I_. 1.]
SECTION 31. A man bears the weight of his own body without knowing it,
but he soon feels the weight of any other, if he tries to move it; in
the same way, a man can see other people's shortcoming's and vices,
but he is blind to his own. This arrangement has one advantage: it
turns other people into a kind of mirror, in which a man can see
clearly everything that is vicious, faulty, ill-bred and loathsome in
his own nature; only, it is generally the old story of the dog barking
at is own image; it is himself that he sees and not another dog, as he
fancies.
He who criticises others, works at the reformation of himself. Those
who form the secret habit of scrutinizing other people's general
behavior, and passing severe judgment upon what they do and leave
undone, thereby improve themselves, and work out their own perfection:
for they will have sufficient sense of justice, or at any rate enough
pride and vanity, to avoid in their own case that which they condemn
so harshly elsewhere. But tolerant people are just the opposite,
and claim for themselves the same indulgence that they extend to
others--_hanc veniam damus petimusque vicissim_. It is all very well
for the Bible to talk about the mote in another's eye and the beam in
one's own. The nature of the eye is to look not at itself but at other
things; and therefore to observe and blame faults in another is a
very suitable way of becoming conscious of one's own. We require a
looking-glass for the due dressing of our morals.
The same rule applies in the case of style and fine writing. If,
instead of condemning, you applaud some new folly in these matters,
you will imitate it. That is just why literary follies have such vogue
in Germany. The Germans are a very tolerant people--everybody can see
that! Their maxim is--_Hanc veniam damns petimusque vicissim._
SECTION 32. When he is young, a man of noble character fancies that
the relations prevailing amongst mankind, and the alliances to which
these relations lead, are at bottom and essentially, _ideal_ in their
nature; that is to say, that they rest upon similarity of disposition
or sentiment, or taste, or intellectual power, and so on.
But, later on, he finds out that it is a _real_ foundation which
underlies these alliances; that they are based upon some _material_
interest. This is the true foundation of almost all alliances: nay,
most men have no notion of an alliance resting upon any other basis.
Accordingly we find that a man is always measured by the office he
holds, or by his occupation, nationality, or family relations--in a
word, by the position and character which have been assigned him
in the conventional arrangements of life, where he is ticketed and
treated as so much goods. Reference to what he is in himself, as a
man--to the measure of his own personal qualities--is never made
unless for convenience' sake: and so that view of a man is something
exceptional, to be set aside and ignored, the moment that anyone finds
it disagreeable; and this is what usually happens. But the more of
personal worth a man has, the less pleasure he will take in these
conventional arrangements; and he will try to withdraw from the sphere
in which they apply. The reason why these arrangements exist at all,
is simply that in this world of ours misery and need are the chief
features: therefore it is everywhere the essential and paramount
business of life to devise the means of alleviating them.
SECTION 33. As paper-money circulates in the world instead of real
coin, so, is the place of true esteem and genuine friendship, you have
the outward appearance of it--a mimic show made to look as much like
the real thing as possible.
On the other hand, it may be asked whether there are any people who
really deserve the true coin. For my own part, I should certainly pay
more respect to an honest dog wagging his tail than to a hundred such
demonstrations of human regard.
True and genuine friendship presupposes a strong sympathy with the
weal and woe of another--purely objective in its character and quite
disinterested; and this in its turn means an absolute identification
of self with the object of friendship. The egoism of human nature is
so strongly antagonistic to any such sympathy, that true friendship
belongs to that class of things--the sea-serpent, for instance,--with
regard to which no one knows whether they are fabulous or really exist
somewhere or other.
Still, in many cases, there is a grain of true and genuine friendship
in the relation of man to man, though generally, of course, some
secret personal interest is at the bottom of them--some one among the
many forms that selfishness can take. But in a world where all is
imperfect, this grain of true feeling is such an ennobling influence
that it gives some warrant for calling those relations by the name of
friendship, for they stand far above the ordinary friendships that
prevail amongst mankind. The latter are so constituted that, were you
to hear how your dear friends speak of you behind your back, you would
never say another word to them.
Apart from the case where it would be a real help to you if your
friend were to make some great sacrifice to serve you, there is no
better means of testing the genuineness of his feelings than the way
in which he receives the news of a misfortune that has just happened
to you. At that moment the expression of his features will either show
that his one thought is that of true and sincere sympathy for you; or
else the absolute composure of his countenance, or the passing trace
of something other than sympathy, will confirm the well-known maxim
of La Rochefoucauld: _Dans l'adversite de nos meilleurs amis, nous
trouvons toujours quelque chose qui ne nous deplait pas_. Indeed, at
such a moment, the ordinary so-called friend will find it hard to
suppress the signs of a slight smile of pleasure. There are few ways
by which you can make more certain of putting people into a good humor
than by telling them of some trouble that has recently befallen you,
or by unreservedly disclosing some personal weakness of yours. How
characteristic this is of humanity!
Distance and long absence are always prejudicial to friendship,
however disinclined a man may be to admit. Our regard for people whom
we do not see--even though they be our dearest friends--gradually
dries up in the course of years, and they become abstract notions;
so that our interest in them grows to be more and more
intellectual,--nay, it is kept up only as a kind of tradition; whilst
we retain a lively and deep interest in those who are constantly
before our eyes, even if they be only pet animals. This shows how
much men are limited by their senses, and how true is the remark that
Goethe makes in _Tasso_ about the dominant influence of the present
moment:--
_Die Gegenwart ist eine maechtige Goettin_[1]
[Footnote 1: Act iv., se. 4.]
_Friends of the house_ are very rightly so called; because they are
friends of the house rather than of its master; in other words, they
are more like cats than dogs.
Your friends will tell you that they are sincere; your enemies are
really so. Let your enemies' censure be like a bitter medicine, to be
used as a means of self-knowledge.
A friend in need, as the saying goes, is rare. Nay, it is just the
contrary; no sooner have you made a friend than he is in need, and
asks for a loan.
SECTION 34. A man must be still a greenhorn in the ways of the
world, if he imagines that he can make himself popular in society by
exhibiting intelligence and discernment. With the immense majority
of people, such qualities excite hatred and resentment, which are
rendered all the harder to bear by the fact that people are obliged to
suppress--even from themselves--the real reason of their anger.
What actually takes place is this. A man feels and perceives that the
person with whom he is conversing is intellectually very much his
superior.[1]
[Footnote 1: Cf. _Welt als Wills und Vorstellung_, Bk. II. p. 256 (4th
Edit.), where I quote from Dr. Johnson, and from Merck, the friend
of Goethe's youth. The former says: _There is nothing by which a man
exasperates most people more, than by displaying a superior ability of
brilliancy in conversation. They seem pleased at the time, but their
envy makes them curse him at their hearts._ (Boswells _Life of
Johnson_ aetat: 74).]
He thereupon secretly and half unconsciously concludes that his
interlocutor must form a proportionately low and limited estimate of
his abilities. That is a method of reasoning--an enthymeme--which
rouses the bitterest feelings of sullen and rancorous hatred. And so
Gracian is quite right in saying that the only way to win affection
from people is to show the most animal-like simplicity of
demeanor--_para ser bien quisto, el unico medio vestirse la piel del
mas simple de los brutos_.[1]
[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--Balthazar Graeian, _Oraculo manual,
y arte de prudencia_, 240. Gracian (1584-1658) was a Spanish prose
writer and Jesuit, whose works deal chiefly with the observation
of character in the various phenomena of life. Schopenhauer, among
others, had a great admiration for his worldly philosophy, and
translated his _Oraculo manual_--a system of rules for the conduct of
life--into German. The same book was translated into English towards
the close of the seventeenth century.]