The Essays of Arthur Schopenhauer; Studies in Pessimism - Arthur Schopenhauer
[Footnote 1: See my treatise on the _Foundation of Morals_, sec. 5.]
[Footnote 2: _Essays on Suicide_ and the _Immortality of the Soul_, by
the late David Hume, Basle, 1799, sold by James Decker.]
In my chief work I have explained the only valid reason existing
against suicide on the score of mortality. It is this: that suicide
thwarts the attainment of the highest moral aim by the fact that, for
a real release from this world of misery, it substitutes one that is
merely apparent. But from a _mistake_ to a _crime_ is a far cry; and
it is as a crime that the clergy of Christendom wish us to regard
suicide.
The inmost kernel of Christianity is the truth that suffering--_the
Cross_--is the real end and object of life. Hence Christianity
condemns suicide as thwarting this end; whilst the ancient world,
taking a lower point of view, held it in approval, nay, in honor.[1]
But if that is to be accounted a valid reason against suicide, it
involves the recognition of asceticism; that is to say, it is valid
only from a much higher ethical standpoint than has ever been adopted
by moral philosophers in Europe. If we abandon that high standpoint,
there is no tenable reason left, on the score of morality, for
condemning suicide. The extraordinary energy and zeal with which the
clergy of monotheistic religions attack suicide is not supported
either by any passages in the Bible or by any considerations of
weight; so that it looks as though they must have some secret reason
for their contention. May it not be this--that the voluntary surrender
of life is a bad compliment for him who said that _all things were
very good_? If this is so, it offers another instance of the crass
optimism of these religions,--denouncing suicide to escape being
denounced by it.
[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--Schopenhauer refers to _Die Welt
als Wille und Vorstellung_, vol. i., sec. 69, where the reader may find
the same argument stated at somewhat greater length. According to
Schopenhauer, moral freedom--the highest ethical aim--is to be
obtained only by a denial of the will to live. Far from being a
denial, suicide is an emphatic assertion of this will. For it is in
fleeing from the pleasures, not from the sufferings of life, that this
denial consists. When a man destroys his existence as an individual,
he is not by any means destroying his will to live. On the contrary,
he would like to live if he could do so with satisfaction to himself;
if he could assert his will against the power of circumstance; but
circumstance is too strong for him.]
It will generally be found that, as soon as the terrors of life reach
the point at which they outweigh the terrors of death, a man will
put an end to his life. But the terrors of death offer considerable
resistance; they stand like a sentinel at the gate leading out of this
world. Perhaps there is no man alive who would not have already put an
end to his life, if this end had been of a purely negative character,
a sudden stoppage of existence. There is something positive about
it; it is the destruction of the body; and a man shrinks from that,
because his body is the manifestation of the will to live.
However, the struggle with that sentinel is, as a rule, not so hard
as it may seem from a long way off, mainly in consequence of the
antagonism between the ills of the body and the ills of the mind. If
we are in great bodily pain, or the pain lasts a long time, we become
indifferent to other troubles; all we think about is to get well. In
the same way great mental suffering makes us insensible to bodily
pain; we despise it; nay, if it should outweigh the other, it
distracts our thoughts, and we welcome it as a pause in mental
suffering. It is this feeling that makes suicide easy; for the bodily
pain that accompanies it loses all significance in the eyes of one
who is tortured by an excess of mental suffering. This is especially
evident in the case of those who are driven to suicide by some purely
morbid and exaggerated ill-humor. No special effort to overcome their
feelings is necessary, nor do such people require to be worked up in
order to take the step; but as soon as the keeper into whose charge
they are given leaves them for a couple of minutes, they quickly bring
their life to an end.
When, in some dreadful and ghastly dream, we reach the moment of
greatest horror, it awakes us; thereby banishing all the hideous
shapes that were born of the night. And life is a dream: when the
moment of greatest horror compels us to break it off, the same thing
happens.
Suicide may also be regarded as an experiment--a question which man
puts to Nature, trying to force her to an answer. The question is
this: What change will death produce in a man's existence and in his
insight into the nature of things? It is a clumsy experiment to make;
for it involves the destruction of the very consciousness which puts
the question and awaits the answer.
IMMORTALITY:[1] A DIALOGUE.
[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--The word
immortality--_Unsterblichkeit_--does not occur in the original; nor
would it, in its usual application, find a place in Schopenhauer's
vocabulary. The word he uses is _Unzerstoerbarkeit--indestructibility_.
But I have preferred _immortality_, because that word is commonly
associated with the subject touched upon in this little debate. If any
critic doubts the wisdom of this preference, let me ask him to try
his hand at a short, concise, and, at the same time, popularly
intelligible rendering of the German original, which runs thus: _Zur
Lehre von der Unzerstoerbarkeit unseres wahren Wesens durch den Tod:
Meine dialogische Schlussbelustigung_.]
THRASYMACHOS--PHILALETHES.
_Thrasymachos_. Tell me now, in one word, what shall I be after my
death? And mind you be clear and precise.
_Philalethes_. All and nothing!
_Thrasymachos_. I thought so! I gave you a problem, and you solve it
by a contradiction. That's a very stale trick.
_Philalethes_. Yes, but you raise transcendental questions, and you
expect me to answer them in language that is only made for immanent
knowledge. It's no wonder that a contradiction ensues.
_Thrasymachos_. What do you mean by transcendental questions and
immanent knowledge? I've heard these expressions before, of course;
they are not new to me. The Professor was fond of using them, but only
as predicates of the Deity, and he never talked of anything else;
which was all quite right and proper. He argued thus: if the Deity was
in the world itself, he was immanent; if he was somewhere outside it,
he was transcendent. Nothing could be clearer and more obvious! You
knew where you were. But this Kantian rigmarole won't do any more:
it's antiquated and no longer applicable to modern ideas. Why, we've
had a whole row of eminent men in the metropolis of German learning--
_Philalethes_. (Aside.) German humbug, he means.
_Thrasymachos_. The mighty Schleiermacher, for instance, and that
gigantic intellect, Hegel; and at this time of day we've abandoned
that nonsense. I should rather say we're so far beyond it that we
can't put up with it any more. What's the use of it then? What does it
all mean?
_Philalethes_. Transcendental knowledge is knowledge which passes
beyond the bounds of possible experience, and strives to determine the
nature of things as they are in themselves. Immanent knowledge, on the
other hand, is knowledge which confines itself entirely with those
bounds; so that it cannot apply to anything but actual phenomena. As
far as you are an individual, death will be the end of you. But your
individuality is not your true and inmost being: it is only the
outward manifestation of it. It is not the _thing-in-itself_, but only
the phenomenon presented in the form of time; and therefore with a
beginning and an end. But your real being knows neither time, nor
beginning, nor end, nor yet the limits of any given individual. It is
everywhere present in every individual; and no individual can
exist apart from it. So when death comes, on the one hand you are
annihilated as an individual; on the other, you are and remain
everything. That is what I meant when I said that after your death
you would be all and nothing. It is difficult to find a more precise
answer to your question and at the same time be brief. The answer is
contradictory, I admit; but it is so simply because your life is in
time, and the immortal part of you in eternity. You may put the matter
thus: Your immortal part is something that does not last in time and
yet is indestructible; but there you have another contradiction! You
see what happens by trying to bring the transcendental within the
limits of immanent knowledge. It is in some sort doing violence to the
latter by misusing it for ends it was never meant to serve.
_Thrasymachos_. Look here, I shan't give twopence for your immortality
unless I'm to remain an individual.
_Philalethes_. Well, perhaps I may be able to satisfy you on this
point. Suppose I guarantee that after death you shall remain an
individual, but only on condition that you first spend three months of
complete unconsciousness.
_Thrasymachos_. I shall have no objection to that.
_Philalethes_. But remember, if people are completely unconscious,
they take no account of time. So, when you are dead, it's all the same
to you whether three months pass in the world of consciousness, or ten
thousand years. In the one case as in the other, it is simply a matter
of believing what is told you when you awake. So far, then, you can
afford to be indifferent whether it is three months or ten thousand
years that pass before you recover your individuality.
_Thrasymachos_. Yes, if it comes to that, I suppose you're right.
_Philalethes_. And if by chance, after those ten thousand years have
gone by, no one ever thinks of awakening you, I fancy it would be
no great misfortune. You would have become quite accustomed to
non-existence after so long a spell of it--following upon such a very
few years of life. At any rate you may be sure you would be perfectly
ignorant of the whole thing. Further, if you knew that the mysterious
power which keeps you in your present state of life had never once
ceased in those ten thousand years to bring forth other phenomena like
yourself, and to endow them with life, it would fully console you.
_Thrasymachos_. Indeed! So you think you're quietly going to do me
out of my individuality with all this fine talk. But I'm up to your
tricks. I tell you I won't exist unless I can have my individuality.
I'm not going to be put off with 'mysterious powers,' and what you
call 'phenomena.' I can't do without my individuality, and I won't
give it up.
_Philalethes_. You mean, I suppose, that your individuality is such a
delightful thing, so splendid, so perfect, and beyond compare--that
you can't imagine anything better. Aren't you ready to exchange your
present state for one which, if we can judge by what is told us, may
possibly be superior and more endurable?
_Thrasymachos_. Don't you see that my individuality, be it what it
may, is my very self? To me it is the most important thing in the
world.
_For God is God and I am I_.
_I_ want to exist, _I, I_. That's the main thing. I don't care about
an existence which has to be proved to be mine, before I can believe
it.
_Philalethes_. Think what you're doing! When you say _I, I, I_ want
to exist, it is not you alone that says this. Everything says it,
absolutely everything that has the faintest trace of consciousness. It
follows, then, that this desire of yours is just the part of you that
is _not individual_--the part that is common to all things without
distinction. It is the cry, not of the individual, but of existence
itself; it is the intrinsic element in everything that exists, nay, it
is the cause of anything existing at all. This desire craves for, and
so is satisfied with, nothing less than existence in general--not any
definite individual existence. No! that is not its aim. It seems to be
so only because this desire--this _Will_--attains consciousness only
in the individual, and therefore looks as though it were concerned
with nothing but the individual. There lies the illusion--an illusion,
it is true, in which the individual is held fast: but, if he reflects,
he can break the fetters and set himself free. It is only indirectly,
I say, that the individual has this violent craving for existence. It
is _the Will to Live_ which is the real and direct aspirant--alike and
identical in all things. Since, then, existence is the free work, nay,
the mere reflection of the will, where existence is, there, too,
must be will; and for the moment the will finds its satisfaction in
existence itself; so far, I mean, as that which never rests, but
presses forward eternally, can ever find any satisfaction at all.
The will is careless of the individual: the individual is not its
business; although, as I have said, this seems to be the case, because
the individual has no direct consciousness of will except in himself.
The effect of this is to make the individual careful to maintain his
own existence; and if this were not so, there would be no surety
for the preservation of the species. From all this it is clear that
individuality is not a form of perfection, but rather of limitation;
and so to be freed from it is not loss but gain. Trouble yourself no
more about the matter. Once thoroughly recognize what you are, what
your existence really is, namely, the universal will to live, and the
whole question will seem to you childish, and most ridiculous!
_Thrasymachos_. You're childish yourself and most ridiculous, like
all philosophers! and if a man of my age lets himself in for a
quarter-of-an-hour's talk with such fools, it is only because it
amuses me and passes the time. I've more important business to attend
to, so Good-bye.
PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.
There is an unconscious propriety in the way in which, in all European
languages, the word _person_ is commonly used to denote a human
being. The real meaning of _persona_ is _a mask_, such as actors were
accustomed to wear on the ancient stage; and it is quite true that no
one shows himself as he is, but wears his mask and plays his part.
Indeed, the whole of our social arrangements may be likened to a
perpetual comedy; and this is why a man who is worth anything finds
society so insipid, while a blockhead is quite at home in it.
* * * * *
Reason deserves to be called a prophet; for in showing us the
consequence and effect of our actions in the present, does it not tell
us what the future will be? This is precisely why reason is such an
excellent power of restraint in moments when we are possessed by some
base passion, some fit of anger, some covetous desire, that will lead
us to do things whereof we must presently repent.
* * * * *
_Hatred_ comes from the heart; _contempt_ from the head; and neither
feeling is quite within our control. For we cannot alter our heart;
its basis is determined by motives; and our head deals with objective
facts, and applies to them rules which are immutable. Any given
individual is the union of a particular heart with a particular head.
Hatred and contempt are diametrically opposed and mutually exclusive.
There are even not a few cases where hatred of a person is rooted in
nothing but forced esteem for his qualities. And besides, if a man
sets out to hate all the miserable creatures he meets, he will not
have much energy left for anything else; whereas he can despise them,
one and all, with the greatest ease. True, genuine contempt is just
the reverse of true, genuine pride; it keeps quite quiet and gives no
sign of its existence. For if a man shows that he despises you, he
signifies at least this much regard for you, that he wants to let
you know how little he appreciates you; and his wish is dictated by
hatred, which cannot exist with real contempt. On the contrary, if it
is genuine, it is simply the conviction that the object of it is a man
of no value at all. Contempt is not incompatible with indulgent and
kindly treatment, and for the sake of one's own peace and safety, this
should not be omitted; it will prevent irritation; and there is no
one who cannot do harm if he is roused to it. But if this pure, cold,
sincere contempt ever shows itself, it will be met with the most
truculent hatred; for the despised person is not in a position to
fight contempt with its own weapons.
* * * * *
Melancholy is a very different thing from bad humor, and of the two,
it is not nearly so far removed from a gay and happy temperament.
Melancholy attracts, while bad humor repels.
Hypochondria is a species of torment which not only makes us
unreasonably cross with the things of the present; not only fills us
with groundless anxiety on the score of future misfortunes entirely
of our own manufacture; but also leads to unmerited self-reproach for
what we have done in the past.
Hypochondria shows itself in a perpetual hunting after things that vex
and annoy, and then brooding over them. The cause of it is an inward
morbid discontent, often co-existing with a naturally restless
temperament. In their extreme form, this discontent and this unrest
lead to suicide.
* * * * *
Any incident, however trivial, that rouses disagreeable emotion,
leaves an after-effect in our mind, which for the time it lasts,
prevents our taking a clear objective view of the things about us, and
tinges all our thoughts: just as a small object held close to the eye
limits and distorts our field of vision.
* * * * *
What makes people _hard-hearted_ is this, that each man has, or
fancies he has, as much as he can bear in his own troubles. Hence, if
a man suddenly finds himself in an unusually happy position, it will
in most cases result in his being sympathetic and kind. But if he has
never been in any other than a happy position, or this becomes his
permanent state, the effect of it is often just the contrary: it so
far removes him from suffering that he is incapable of feeling any
more sympathy with it. So it is that the poor often show themselves
more ready to help than the rich.
* * * * *
At times it seems as though we both wanted and did not want the same
thing, and felt at once glad and sorry about it. For instance, if
on some fixed date we are going to be put to a decisive test about
anything in which it would be a great advantage to us to come off
victorious, we shall be anxious for it to take place at once, and at
the same time we shall tremble at the thought of its approach. And if,
in the meantime, we hear that, for once in a way, the date has been
postponed, we shall experience a feeling both of pleasure and of
annoyance; for the news is disappointing, but nevertheless it affords
us momentary relief. It is just the same thing if we are expecting
some important letter carrying a definite decision, and it fails to
arrive.
In such cases there are really two different motives at work in us;
the stronger but more distant of the two being the desire to stand
the test and to have the decision given in our favor; and the weaker,
which touches us more nearly, the wish to be left for the present in
peace and quiet, and accordingly in further enjoyment of the advantage
which at any rate attaches to a state of hopeful uncertainty, compared
with the possibility that the issue may be unfavorable.
* * * * *
In my head there is a permanent opposition-party; and whenever I take
any step or come to any decision--though I may have given the matter
mature consideration--it afterwards attacks what I have done, without,
however, being each time necessarily in the right. This is, I suppose,
only a form of rectification on the part of the spirit of scrutiny;
but it often reproaches me when I do not deserve it. The same thing,
no doubt, happens to many others as well; for where is the man who
can help thinking that, after all, it were better not to have done
something that he did with great deliberation:
_Quid tam dextro pede concipis ut te
Conatus non poeniteat votique peracti_?
* * * * *
Why is it that _common_ is an expression of contempt? and that
_uncommon, extraordinary, distinguished_, denote approbation? Why is
everything that is common contemptible?
_Common_ in its original meaning denotes that which is peculiar to all
men, _i.e_., shared equally by the whole species, and therefore an
inherent part of its nature. Accordingly, if an individual possesses
no qualities beyond those which attach to mankind in general, he is
a _common man. Ordinary_ is a much milder word, and refers rather
to intellectual character; whereas _common_ has more of a moral
application.
What value can a creature have that is not a whit different from
millions of its kind? Millions, do I say? nay, an infiniture of
creatures which, century after century, in never-ending flow, Nature
sends bubbling up from her inexhaustible springs; as generous with
them as the smith with the useless sparks that fly around his anvil.
It is obviously quite right that a creature which has no qualities
except those of the species, should have to confine its claim to an
existence entirely within the limits of the species, and live a life
conditioned by those limits.
In various passages of my works,[1] I have argued that whilst a lower
animal possesses nothing more than the generic character of its
species, man is the only being which can lay claim to possess an
individual character. But in most men this individual character comes
to very little in reality; and they may be almost all ranged under
certain classes: _ce sont des especes_. Their thoughts and desires,
like their faces, are those of the species, or, at any rate, those
of the class to which they belong; and accordingly, they are of a
trivial, every-day, common character, and exist by the thousand. You
can usually tell beforehand what they are likely to do and say. They
have no special stamp or mark to distinguish them; they are like
manufactured goods, all of a piece.
[Footnote 1: _Grundprobleme der Ethik_, p. 48; _Welt als Wille und
Vorstellung_, vol. i. p. 338.]
If, then, their nature is merged in that of the species, how shall
their existence go beyond it? The curse of vulgarity puts men on a par
with the lower animals, by allowing them none but a generic nature, a
generic form of existence. Anything that is high or great or noble,
must then, as a mater of course, and by its very nature, stand alone
in a world where no better expression can be found to denote what is
base and contemptible than that which I have mentioned as in general
use, namely, _common_.
* * * * *
Will, as the _thing-in-itself_, is the foundation of all being; it
is part and parcel of every creature, and the permanent element in
everything. Will, then, is that which we possess in common with all
men, nay, with all animals, and even with lower forms of existence;
and in so far we are akin to everything--so far, that is, as
everything is filled to overflowing with will. On the other hand, that
which places one being over another, and sets differences between man
and man, is intellect and knowledge; therefore in every manifestation
of self we should, as far as possible, give play to the intellect
alone; for, as we have seen, the will is the _common_ part of us.
Every violent exhibition of will is common and vulgar; in other words,
it reduces us to the level of the species, and makes us a mere type
and example of it; in that it is just the character of the
species that we are showing. So every fit of anger is something
_common_--every unrestrained display of joy, or of hate, or fear--in
short, every form of emotion; in other words, every movement of the
will, if it's so strong as decidedly to outweigh the intellectual
element in consciousness, and to make the man appear as a being that
_wills_ rather than _knows_.
In giving way to emotion of this violent kind, the greatest genius
puts himself on a level with the commonest son of earth. Contrarily,
if a man desires to be absolutely uncommon, in other words, great, he
should never allow his consciousness to be taken possession of
and dominated by the movement of his will, however much he may be
solicited thereto. For example, he must be able to observe that other
people are badly disposed towards him, without feeling any hatred
towards them himself; nay, there is no surer sign of a great mind than
that it refuses to notice annoying and insulting expressions, but
straightway ascribes them, as it ascribes countless other mistakes, to
the defective knowledge of the speaker, and so merely observes without
feeling them. This is the meaning of that remark of Gracian, that
nothing is more unworthy of a man than to let it be seen that he is
one--_el mayor desdoro de un hombre es dar muestras de que es hombre_.