The Essays of Arthur Schopenhauer; The Art of Controversy - Arthur Schopenhauer
With this joy and this pain, it is probable that vanity is more
largely concerned than the senses, because it is only the things
of the mind, and not mere sensuality, that produce such violent
convulsions. The lower animals are familiar with lust, but not with
the passionate pleasures and pains of love.
* * * * *
To be suddenly placed in a strange town or country where the manner of
life, possibly even the language, is very different from our own, is,
at the first moment, like stepping into cold water. We are brought
into sudden contact with a new temperature, and we feel a powerful and
superior influence from without which affects us uncomfortably. We
find ourselves in a strange element, where we cannot move with ease;
and, over and above that, we have the feeling that while everything
strikes us as strange, we ourselves strike others in the same way.
But as soon as we are a little composed and reconciled to our
surroundings, as soon as we have appropriated some of its temperature,
we feel an extraordinary sense of satisfaction, as in bathing in cool
water; we assimilate ourselves to the new element, and cease to have
any necessary pre-occupation with our person. We devote our attention
undisturbed to our environment, to which we now feel ourselves
superior by being able to view it in an objective and disinterested
fashion, instead of being oppressed by it, as before.
* * * * *
When we are on a journey, and all kinds of remarkable objects press
themselves on our attention, the intellectual food which we receive is
often so large in amount that we have no time for digestion; and we
regret that the impressions which succeed one another so quickly leave
no permanent trace. But at bottom it is the same with travelling as
with reading. How often do we complain that we cannot remember one
thousandth part of what we read! In both cases, however, we may
console ourselves with the reflection that the things we see and read
make an impression on the mind before they are forgotten, and so
contribute to its formation and nurture; while that which we only
remember does no more than stuff it and puff it out, filling up its
hollows with matter that will always be strange to it, and leaving it
in itself a blank.
* * * * *
It is the very many and varied forms in which human life is presented
to us on our travels that make them entertaining. But we never see
more than its outside, such as is everywhere open to public view and
accessible to strangers. On the other hand, human life on its
inside, the heart and centre, where it lives and moves and shows its
character, and in particular that part of the inner side which could
be seen at home amongst our relatives, is not seen; we have exchanged
it for the outer side. This is why on our travels we see the world
like a painted landscape, with a very wide horizon, but no foreground;
and why, in time, we get tired of it.
* * * * *
One man is more concerned with the impression which he makes upon
the rest of mankind; another, with the impression which the rest of
mankind makes upon him. The disposition of the one is subjective; of
the other, objective; the one is, in the whole of his existence, more
in the nature of an idea which is merely presented; the other, more of
the being who presents it.
* * * * *
A woman (with certain exceptions which need not be mentioned) will not
take the first step with a man; for in spite of all the beauty she may
have, she risks a refusal. A man may be ill in mind or body, or busy,
or gloomy, and so not care for advances; and a refusal would be a blow
to her vanity. But as soon as he takes the first step, and helps her
over this danger, he stands on a footing of equality with her, and
will generally find her quite tractable.
* * * * *
The praise with which many men speak of their wives is really given
to their own judgment in selecting them. This arises, perhaps, from a
feeling of the truth of the saying, that a man shows what he is by the
way in which he dies, and by the choice of his wife.
* * * * *
If education or warning were of any avail, how could Seneca's pupil be
a Nero?
* * * * *
The Pythagorean[1] principle that _like is known only by like_ is
in many respects a true one. It explains how it is that every man
understands his fellow only in so far as he resembles him, or, at
least, is of a similar character. What one man is quite sure of
perceiving in another is that which is common to all, namely, the
vulgar, petty or mean elements of our nature; here every man has a
perfect understanding of his fellows; but the advantage which one man
has over another does not exist for the other, who, be the talents in
question as extraordinary as they may, will never see anything beyond
what he possesses himself, for the very good reason that this is all
he wants to see. If there is anything on which he is in doubt, it will
give him a vague sense of fear, mixed with pique; because it passes
his comprehension, and therefore is uncongenial to him.
[Footnote 1: See Porphyry, _de Vita Pythagorae_.]
This is why it is mind alone that understands mind; why works of
genius are wholly understood and valued only by a man of genius, and
why it must necessarily be a long time before they indirectly attract
attention at the hands of the crowd, for whom they will never, in any
true sense, exist. This, too, is why one man will look another in the
face, with the impudent assurance that he will never see anything but
a miserable resemblance of himself; and this is just what he will see,
as he cannot grasp anything beyond it. Hence the bold way in which one
man will contradict another. Finally, it is for the same reason that
great superiority of mind isolates a man, and that those of high gifts
keep themselves aloof from the vulgar (and that means every one); for
if they mingle with the crowd, they can communicate only such parts of
them as they share with the crowd, and so make themselves _common_.
Nay, even though they possess some well-founded and authoritative
reputation amongst the crowd, they are not long in losing it, together
with any personal weight it may give them, since all are blind to the
qualities on which it is based, but have their eyes open to anything
that is vulgar and common to themselves. They soon discover the truth
of the Arabian proverb: _Joke with a slave, and he'll show you his
heels_.
It also follows that a man of high gifts, in his intercourse with
others, must always reflect that the best part of him is out of sight
in the clouds; so that if he desires to know accurately how much he
can be to any one else, he has only to consider how much the man in
question is to him. This, as a rule, is precious little; and therefore
he is as uncongenial to the other, as the other to him.
* * * * *
Goethe says somewhere that man is not without a vein of veneration. To
satisfy this impulse to venerate, even in those who have no sense
for what is really worthy, substitutes are provided in the shape of
princes and princely families, nobles, titles, orders, and money-bags.
* * * * *
Vague longing and boredom are close akin.
* * * * *
When a man is dead, we envy him no more; and we only half envy him
when he is old.
* * * * *
Misanthropy and love of solitude are convertible ideas.
* * * * *
In chess, the object of the game, namely, to checkmate one's opponent,
is of arbitrary adoption; of the possible means of attaining it, there
is a great number; and according as we make a prudent use of them, we
arrive at our goal. We enter on the game of our own choice.
Nor is it otherwise with human life, only that here the entrance is
not of our choosing, but is forced on us; and the object, which is to
live and exist, seems, indeed, at times as though it were of arbitrary
adoption, and that we could, if necessary, relinquish it. Nevertheless
it is, in the strict sense of the word, a natural object; that is to
say, we cannot relinquish it without giving up existence itself. If we
regard our existence as the work of some arbitrary power outside us,
we must, indeed, admire the cunning by which that creative mind has
succeeded in making us place so much value on an object which is only
momentary and must of necessity be laid aside very soon, and which we
see, moreover, on reflection, to be altogether vanity--in making, I
say, this object so dear to us that we eagerly exert all our strength
in working at it; although we knew that as soon as the game is over,
the object will exist for us no longer, and that, on the whole, we
cannot say what it is that makes it so attractive. Nay, it seems to be
an object as arbitrarily adopted as that of checkmating our opponent's
king; and, nevertheless, we are always intent on the means of
attaining it, and think and brood over nothing else. It is clear that
the reason of it is that our intellect is only capable of looking
outside, and has no power at all of looking within; and, since this is
so, we have come to the conclusion that we must make the best of it.
ON THE WISDOM OF LIFE: APHORISMS.
The simple Philistine believes that life is something infinite and
unconditioned, and tries to look upon it and live it as though it left
nothing to be desired. By method and principle the learned Philistine
does the same: he believes that his methods and his principles are
unconditionally perfect and objectively valid; so that as soon as he
has found them, he has nothing to do but apply them to circumstances,
and then approve or condemn. But happiness and truth are not to be
seized in this fashion. It is phantoms of them alone that are sent to
us here, to stir us to action; the average man pursues the shadow of
happiness with unwearied labour; and the thinker, the shadow of truth;
and both, though phantoms are all they have, possess in them as much
as they can grasp. Life is a language in which certain truths are
conveyed to us; could we learn them in some other way, we should not
live. Thus it is that wise sayings and prudential maxims will never
make up for the lack of experience, or be a substitute for life
itself. Still they are not to be despised; for they, too, are a part
of life; nay, they should be highly esteemed and regarded as the
loose pages which others have copied from the book of truth as it is
imparted by the spirit of the world. But they are pages which must
needs be imperfect, and can never replace the real living voice. Still
less can this be so when we reflect that life, or the book of truth,
speaks differently to us all; like the apostles who preached at
Pentecost, and instructed the multitude, appearing to each man to
speak in his own tongue.
* * * * *
Recognise the truth in yourself, recognise yourself in the truth; and
in the same moment you will find, to your astonishment, that the home
which you have long been looking for in vain, which has filled your
most ardent dreams, is there in its entirety, with every detail of it
true, in the very place where you stand. It is there that your heaven
touches your earth.
* * * * *
What makes us almost inevitably ridiculous is our serious way of
treating the passing moment, as though it necessarily had all the
importance which it seems to have. It is only a few great minds that
are above this weakness, and, instead of being laughed at, have come
to laugh themselves.
* * * * *
The bright and good moments of our life ought to teach us how to act
aright when we are melancholy and dull and stupid, by preserving the
memory of their results; and the melancholy, dull, and stupid moments
should teach us to be modest when we are bright. For we generally
value ourselves according to our best and brightest moments; and those
in which we are weak and dull and miserable, we regard as no proper
part of us. To remember them will teach us to be modest, humble, and
tolerant.
Mark my words once for all, my dear friend, and be clever. Men are
entirely self-centred, and incapable of looking at things objectively.
If you had a dog and wanted to make him fond of you, and fancied that
of your hundred rare and excellent characteristics the mongrel would
be sure to perceive one, and that that would be sufficient to make him
devoted to you body and soul--if, I say, you fancied that, you would
be a fool. Pat him, give him something to eat; and for the rest, be
what you please: he will not in the least care, but will be your
faithful and devoted dog. Now, believe me, it is just the same with
men--exactly the same. As Goethe says, man or dog, it is a miserable
wretch:
_Denn ein erbaermlicher Schuft, so wie der Mensch, ist der hund_.
If you ask why these contemptible fellows are so lucky, it is just
because, in themselves and for themselves and to themselves, they are
nothing at all. The value which they possess is merely comparative;
they exist only for others; they are never more than means; they are
never an end and object in themselves; they are mere bait, set to
catch others.[1] I do not admit that this rule is susceptible of any
exception, that is to say, complete exceptions. There are, it is true,
men--though they are sufficiently rare--who enjoy some subjective
moments; nay, there are perhaps some who for every hundred subjective
moments enjoy a few that are objective; but a higher state of
perfection scarcely ever occurs. But do not take yourself for an
exception: examine your love, your friendship, and consider if your
objective judgments are not mostly subjective judgments in disguise;
consider if you duly recognise the good qualities of a man who is not
fond of you. Then be tolerant: confound it! it's your duty. As you are
all so self-centred, recognise your own weakness. You know that you
cannot like a man who does not show himself friendly to you; you know
that he cannot do so for any length of time unless he likes you, and
that he cannot like you unless you show that you are friendly to him;
then do it: your false friendliness will gradually become a true one.
Your own weakness and subjectivity must have some illusion.
[Footnote 1: All this is very euphemistically expressed in the
Sophoclean verse:
(Greek: _charis charin gar estin ha tiktous aei_)]
This is really an _a priori_ justification of politeness; but I could
give a still deeper reason for it.
* * * * *
Consider that chance, which, with error, its brother, and folly, its
aunt, and malice, its grandmother, rules in this world; which every
year and every day, by blows great and small, embitters the life of
every son of earth, and yours too; consider, I say, that it is to this
wicked power that you owe your prosperity and independence; for it
gave you what it refused to many thousands, just to be able to give it
to individuals like you. Remembering all this, you will not behave as
though you had a right to the possession of its gifts; but you will
perceive what a capricious mistress it is that gives you her favours;
and therefore when she takes it into her head to deprive you of some
or all of them, you will not make a great fuss about her injustice;
but you will recognise that what chance gave, chance has taken
away; if needs be, you will observe that this power is not quite so
favourable to you as she seemed to be hitherto. Why, she might have
disposed not only of what she gave you, but also of your honest and
hard-earned gains.
But if chance still remains so favourable to you as to give you more
than almost all others whose path in life you may care to examine, oh!
be happy; do not struggle for the possession of her presents; employ
them properly; look upon them as property held from a capricious lord;
use them wisely and well.
* * * * *
The Aristotelian principle of keeping the mean in all things is ill
suited to the moral law for which it was intended; but it may easily
be the best general rule of worldly wisdom, the best precept for a
happy life. For life is so full of uncertainty; there are on all sides
so many discomforts, burdens, sufferings, dangers, that a safe and
happy voyage can be accomplished only by steering carefully through
the rocks. As a rule, the fear of the ills we know drive us into the
contrary ills; the pain of solitude, for example, drives us into
society, and the first society that comes; the discomforts of society
drive us into solitude; we exchange a forbidding demeanour for
incautious confidence and so on. It is ever the mark of folly to avoid
one vice by rushing into its contrary:
_Stulti dum vitant vitia in contraria currunt_.
Or else we think that we shall find satisfaction in something, and
spend all our efforts on it; and thereby we omit to provide for the
satisfaction of a hundred other wishes which make themselves felt at
their own time. One loss and omission follows another, and there is no
end to the misery.
[Greek: Maeden agan] and _nil admirari_ are, therefore, excellent
rules of worldly wisdom.
* * * * *
We often find that people of great experience are the most frank and
cordial in their intercourse with complete strangers, in whom
they have no interest whatever. The reason of this is that men of
experience know that it is almost impossible for people who stand in
any sort of mutual relation to be sincere and open with one another;
but that there is always more or less of a strain between them, due
to the fact that they are looking after their own interests, whether
immediate or remote. They regret the fact, but they know that it
is so; hence they leave their own people, rush into the arms of a
complete stranger, and in happy confidence open their hearts to him.
Thus it is that monks and the like, who have given up the world and
are strangers to it, are such good people to turn to for advice.
* * * * *
It is only by practising mutual restraint and self-denial that we can
act and talk with other people; and, therefore, if we have to converse
at all, it can only be with a feeling of resignation. For if we seek
society, it is because we want fresh impressions: these come from
without, and are therefore foreign to ourselves. If a man fails to
perceive this, and, when he seeks the society of others, is unwilling
to practise resignation, and absolutely refuses to deny himself, nay,
demands that others, who are altogether different from himself,
shall nevertheless be just what he wants them to be for the moment,
according to the degree of education which he has reached, or
according to his intellectual powers or his mood--the man, I say, who
does this, is in contradiction with himself. For while he wants some
one who shall be different from himself, and wants him just because
he is different, for the sake of society and fresh influence, he
nevertheless demands that this other individual shall precisely
resemble the imaginary creature who accords with his mood, and have no
thoughts but those which he has himself.
Women are very liable to subjectivity of this kind; but men are not
free from it either.
I observed once to Goethe, in complaining of the illusion and vanity
of life, that when a friend is with us we do not think the same of him
as when he is away. He replied: "Yes! because the absent friend is
yourself, and he exists only in your head; whereas the friend who is
present has an individuality of his own, and moves according to laws
of his own, which cannot always be in accordance with those which you
form for yourself."
* * * * *
A good supply of resignation is of the first importance in providing
for the journey of life. It is a supply which we shall have to extract
from disappointed hopes; and the sooner we do it, the better for the
rest of the journey.
* * * * *
How should a man be content so long as he fails to obtain complete
unity in his inmost being? For as long as two voices alternately speak
in him, what is right for one must be wrong for the other. Thus he is
always complaining. But has any man ever been completely at one with
himself? Nay, is not the very thought a contradiction?
That a man shall attain this inner unity is the impossible and
inconsistent pretension put forward by almost all philosophers.[1] For
as a man it is natural to him to be at war with himself as long as
he lives. While he can be only one thing thoroughly, he has the
disposition to be everything else, and the inalienable possibility
of being it. If he has made his choice of one thing, all the other
possibilities are always open to him, and are constantly claiming to
be realised; and he has therefore to be continuously keeping them
back, and to be overpowering and killing them as long as he wants to
be that one thing. For example, if he wants to think only, and not
act and do business, the disposition to the latter is not thereby
destroyed all at once; but as long as the thinker lives, he has every
hour to keep on killing the acting and pushing man that is within him;
always battling with himself, as though he were a monster whose head
is no sooner struck off than it grows again. In the same way, if he is
resolved to be a saint, he must kill himself so far as he is a being
that enjoys and is given over to pleasure; for such he remains as long
as he lives. It is not once for all that he must kill himself: he
must keep on doing it all his life. If he has resolved upon pleasure,
whatever be the way in which it is to be obtained, his lifelong
struggle is with a being that desires to be pure and free and holy;
for the disposition remains, and he has to kill it every hour. And so
on in everything, with infinite modifications; it is now one side of
him, and now the other, that conquers; he himself is the battlefield.
If one side of him is continually conquering, the other is continually
struggling; for its life is bound up with his own, and, as a man, he
is the possibility of many contradictions.
[Footnote 1: _Audacter licet profitearis, summum bonum esse animi
concordian_.--Seneca.]
How is inner unity even possible under such circumstances? It exists
neither in the saint nor in the sinner; or rather, the truth is that
no man is wholly one or the other. For it is _men_ they have to be;
that is, luckless beings, fighters and gladiators in the arena of
life.
To be sure, the best thing he can do is to recognise which part of him
smarts the most under defeat, and let it always gain the victory. This
he will always be able to do by the use of his reason, which is an
ever-present fund of ideas. Let him resolve of his own free will to
undergo the pain which the defeat of the other part involves. This
is _character_. For the battle of life cannot be waged free from all
pain; it cannot come to an end without bloodshed; and in any case
a man must suffer pain, for he is the conquered as well as the
conqueror. _Haec est vivendi conditio_.
* * * * *
The clever man, when he converses, will think less of what he is
saying that of the person with whom he is speaking; for then he is
sure to say nothing which he will afterwards regret; he is sure not to
lay himself open, nor to commit an indiscretion. But his conversation
will never be particularly interesting.
An intellectual man readily does the opposite, and with him the person
with whom he converses is often no more than the mere occasion of a
monologue; and it often happens that the other then makes up for his
subordinate _role_ by lying in wait for the man of intellect, and
drawing his secrets out of him.
* * * * *
Nothing betrays less knowledge of humanity than to suppose that, if
a man has a great many friends, it is a proof of merit and intrinsic
value: as though men gave their friendship according to value and
merit! as though they were not, rather, just like dogs, which love the
person that pats them and gives them bits of meat, and never trouble
themselves about anything else! The man who understands how to pat his
fellows best, though they be the nastiest brutes,--that's the man who
has many friends.
It is the converse that is true. Men of great intellectual worth, or,
still more, men of genius, can have only very few friends; for their
clear eye soon discovers all defects, and their sense of rectitude is
always being outraged afresh by the extent and the horror of them. It
is only extreme necessity that can compel such men not to betray their
feelings, or even to stroke the defects as if they were beautiful
additions. Personal love (for we are not speaking of the reverence
which is gained by authority) cannot be won by a man of genius, unless
the gods have endowed him with an indestructible cheerfulness of
temper, a glance that makes the world look beautiful, or unless he has
succeeded by degrees in taking men exactly as they are; that is to
say, in making a fool of the fools, as is right and proper. On the
heights we must expect to be solitary.