Parerga and Paralipomena: Short Philosophical Essays

That's French for "the ancient system," as in the ancient system of feudal privileges and the exercise of autocratic power over the peasants. The ancien regime never goes away, like vampires and dinosaur bones they are always hidden in the earth, exercising a mysterious influence. It is not paranoia to believe that the elites scheme against the common man. Inform yourself about their schemes here.

Re: Parerga and Paralipomena: Short Philosophical Essays

Postby admin » Fri Feb 02, 2018 5:43 am

CHAPTER 25: On Language and Words

§ 298

The voice of animals serves only to express the will in its stirrings and movements; but that of man serves also the expression of knowledge. In this connection, the voice of animals, with the exception of a few birds, almost invariably makes a disagreeable impression on us.

With the origin of human speech, it is quite certain that interjections were the first things to express not concepts but, like the noises of animals, feelings or movements of the will. Their different forms appeared at once and from their variety there occurred the transition to substantives, verbs, personal pronouns, and so on.

The word of man is the most durable material. If a poet has incorporated in exactly suitable words his most momentary and transient feeling, such lives in them for thousands of years and is aroused afresh in every reader who is susceptible to it.

§ 298a

It is well known that languages, especially from a grammatical point of view, are the more perfect the older they are, and that by degrees they become ever inferior, from the lofty Sanskrit down to English jargon, that cloak of ideas which is patched and compiled from scraps of different materials. This gradual degradation is a serious argument against the favourite theories of our fatuous and ridiculous optimists concerning 'mankind's steady and constant progress to something better'. For this purpose, they would like to distort and falsify the history of the race of bipeds, but this is indeed a problem that is very difficult to solve. However, we cannot help picturing to ourselves the first race of men, sprung somehow from the womb of nature, as in a state of complete and childish ignorance and consequently as crude and dull. Now how is such a race supposed to have invented these extremely ingenious structures of language, these many different and complex grammatical forms, even assuming that the vocabulary was gradually accumulated? On the other hand, we see men everywhere adhere to the language of their fathers and only very gradually make minor alterations in it. Experience, however, does not tell us that languages are perfected grammatically in the course of successive generations, but rather, as I have said, the very opposite of this; thus they are for ever becoming simpler and worse. Nevertheless, are we to assume that the life of a language is like that of a plant which, sprouting from a single seed, a simple, insignificant, young shoot, slowly develops, reaches its zenith, and then gradually grows old and declines, but that, in the case of language, we have information only of this decline and not of the previous growth? This is only a figurative hypothesis and, moreover, one that is quite arbitrary; a simile, but not an explanation! Now to arrive at such an explanation, the most plausible thing seems to me the assumption that man invented language instinctively, since there is originally in him an instinct by virtue whereof he produces, without reflection and conscious intention, the instrument that is absolutely necessary for the use of his faculty of reason and the organ thereof. When language once exists and that instinct is no longer brought into use, the latter is in the course of generations gradually lost. Now all works that are produced from mere instinct, such as the cell-structures of bees and wasps, the lodges of beavers, and the nests of birds, appearing in such a variety of always appropriate and suitable forms, have their own characteristic completeness and perfection, in that they are and achieve precisely what their purpose demands, so that we marvel at the profound wisdom inherent in them. It is the same with the first and original language that had the great perfection of all works of instinct. To trace this for the purpose of bringing it into the light of reflection and clear consciousness, is the work of grammar which first appeared thousands of years later.

§ 299

The learning of several languages is not only an indirect, but also a direct, means of acquiring culture; an intellectual means that is profoundly effective. Hence the utterance of Charles V: 'When one knows many languages, just as many times is one a man. (Quot linguas quis callet, tot homines valet.) The thing itself is due to the following.

For every word in a given language there is not the exact equivalent in every other; and so not all the concepts described by the words of one language are exactly the same as those expressed by the words of another; although this is often the case, sometimes surprisingly so, as for example with uu;>v"TJtJ;tC; and conceptio, Schneider and tailleur; but they are often concepts that are merely similar and cognate, yet different through some modification. Meanwhile, the following examples may help to make clear what I mean:

[x], rudis, roh, coarse.
[x], impetus, Andrang, pressure.
[x], Mittel, medium, means.
seccatore, Qualgeist, importun, tiresome person.
ingenieux, sinnreich, clever.
Geist, esprit, wit.
Witzig, facetus, plaisant, funny.
Malice, Bosheit, wickedness.


Countless other, and certainly even more striking, examples may be added to the list. With the method, usual in logic, of rendering concepts perceptible through circles, this close identity could be expressed by circles which cover one another approximately, but yet are not quite concentric, thus:

Image

Sometimes the word for a concept is wanting in one language, whereas it is to be found in most, if not all, other languages. A positively scandalous example of this is furnished in French by the absence of a word for the verb to stand. Again, for some concepts there is only in one language a word which then passes into the others, such as the Latin 'affect', the French naif, and the English' comfortable', 'disappointment', 'gentleman', and many others. Sometimes a foreign language expresses a concept with a nuance which our own language does not give to it and with which we then exactly conceive it. Everyone, who is concerned with the precise expression of his own ideas, will then use the foreign word without paying any attention to the yelping of pedantic purists. In all cases where, in one language, not exactly the same concept is expressed by a definite word as in the others, the dictionary renders this by several expressions that are akin to one another, all of which aim at the meaning of the word, yet not concentrically, but close to it on different sides, as in the above figure. In this way, the limits between which it lies are plotted; thus, for example, the Latin word honestum will be rendered by 'fair', 'decent', 'respectable', 'honourable', 'glorious', 'esteemed', 'virtuous', and so on. The Greek word [x] can be treated analogously.* This is the reason for the necessarily defective nature of all translations. We are hardly ever able to translate from one language into another any characteristic, pregnant, and significant passage in such a way that it would produce the same effect precisely and completely. Poems cannot be translated, but merely recast, which is always a precarious proceeding. Even in mere prose the best of all translations will at most be related to the original as the transposition of a given piece of music into another key is to the piece itself. Those who understand music know the importance of this. Every translation, therefore, remains dead and its style is forced, stiff, and unnatural; or it becomes free, in other words, rests content with an it peu pres and is, therefore, incorrect. A library of translations is like a picture gallery of copies. Even the translations of the authors of antiquity are a substitute for them just as is chicory coffee for the real thing.

Accordingly in learning a language, the chief difficulty lies in getting to know every concept for which it has a word, even when our own language does not possess a word that corresponds exactly to this, as is often the case. When learning a foreign language we must, therefore, mark out in our minds several entirely new spheres of concepts. Consequently concept-spheres arise where there were previously none; and so we learn not merely words, but gain concepts and ideas. This is especially the case when we learn the ancient languages, since the mode of expression of the ancients is much more different from our own than is that of modem languages from one another. This is shown by the fact that, when we translate into Latin, we must resort to turns of phrase quite different from those possessed by the original. In fact in many cases, the idea to be rendered into Latin has to be entirely remoulded and recast; here it is broken down into its ultimate elements and is again recomposed. The great improvement derived by the mind from learning the ancient languages is due precisely to this process of recasting. Only after we have correctly grasped all the concepts which the language to be learnt expresses through separate individual words; only when we directly call to mind in the case of each word of the language exactly the concept that corresponds thereto and do not first translate the word into a word of our own language and then think of the concept expressed by this word-a concept that never corresponds exactly to the first one and likewise in respect of whole phrases-only then have we grasped the spirit of the language to be learnt and have made a great step forward in our knowledge of the nation that speaks it. For just as the style of the individual is related to his spirit, so is the language related to the spirit of the nation that speaks it.* But a man is a complete master of a language only when he is capable of translating into it not merely books but himself, so that, without suffering a loss of individuality, he is able to convey in it what he wants to say and is then just as agreeable and interesting to foreigners as he is to his own countrymen.

Those of limited ability will not readily master a foreign language in the real sense of the term. They learn the foreign words, it is true, but always use them only in the sense of their approximate equivalent in their own tongue, and invariably retain the idioms and phrases peculiar thereto. However, it is the spirit of the foreign language which they are unable to master; and this is really due to the fact that their thinking itself does not take place from their own resources, but is for the most part borrowed from their mother tongue, whose current idioms and phrases are for them equivalent to original ideas. And so even in their own language they always merely make use of hackneyed phrases (phrases banales, abgenutzte Redensarten); and even these are put together with so little skill that we see how imperfectly aware they are of their meaning and how little their whole thinking goes beyond the mere words, so that it is not very much more than parrot chatter. For the opposite reason, originality of idiom and individual fitness of every expression used by a man are an infallible symptom of outstanding intellect.

From all this it is clear that, with the learning of every foreign language, new concepts are formed to give meaning to new symbols; that concepts are separated which previously combined to form a wider, and thus less definite, concept simply because only one word existed for them; that connections and references, previously not known, are discovered because the foreign language expresses the concept of its own characteristic trope or metaphor; that accordingly by means of the newly acquired language, we become conscious of an immense number of nuances, analogies, variations, differences, and relations of things; and that we thus obtain a more comprehensive view of everything. Now it follows from this that in each language we think differently; that in consequence, through the study of each new language, our thinking undergoes a fresh modification, a new shading; and that polyglottism with its many indirect uses is, therefore, a direct means if mental culture, since it corrects and perfects our views through the striking number of the aspects and nuances of concepts. It also increases the skill and quickness of our thinking since through our learning many languages the concept becomes ever more separated from the word. The ancient languages, by virtue of their great difference from our own, achieved this to an incomparably greater degree than the modern, a difference that does not allow us to translate word for word, but requires that we shall remould our whole idea and recast it in another form. (This is one of the many reasons for the importance of learning ancient languages.) Or, if I may use a chemical simile, whereas translation from one modern language into another demands at most that the period to be translated is decomposed into its nearest and first ingredients and is recomposed therefrom, translation into Latin very often requires a decomposition into its remotest and ultimate elements (the pure content of thoughts), whence it is then regenerated into entirely different forms. For example, what is expressed by substantives in the one case is expressed by verbs in the other, and vice versa. The same process takes place when we translate from ancient into modern languages; and from this we can see how remote is an acquaintance with ancient authors which is made by means of such translations.

The Greeks dispensed with the advantage of language study, whereby they certainly saved a great deal of time, which they then spent less economically, as is testified by the long daily saunterings of the free citizens in the [x]. [1] This reminds us even of the lazzaroni and of all the stir and movement in the Italian piazza.

Finally from what has been said, it can readily be seen that imitating the style of the ancients in their languages, which in grammatical perfection far surpass our own, is the best possible way of preparing ourselves for the expression of our ideas skilfully and perfectly in our own mother tongue. In fact, this is absolutely necessary if a man is to become a great author; just as it is necessary for the budding sculptor and painter, before proceeding to works of their own, to train and educate themselves by imitating the models and examples of antiquity. It is only through writing Latin that we learn to treat diction as a work of art whose material is language which must, therefore, be treated with the greatest care and caution. Accordingly, increased attention is then given to the meaning and value of words, their combination and grammatical forms. We learn to weigh these carefully and exactly and thus to handle the precious material which is capable of assisting the expression and preservation of valuable ideas. We learn to have respect for the language in which we write, so that we do not set about it in an arbitrary and capricious fashion for the purpose of remodelling it. Without this preliminary schooling, writing readily degenerates into mere jargon.

The man who does not understand Latin resembles one who happens to be in a fine country during foggy weather; his horizon is extremely limited. He sees clearly only those things that are quite near to him; a few steps beyond and everything is lost in vagueness and indefiniteness. The horizon of the Latin scholar, on the other hand, is very wide and covers recent centuries, the Middle Ages, and antiquity. Greek and also Sanskrit naturally extend the horizon very much further. Those who do not understand Latin belong to the crowd, even if they are great virtuosi on the electrical machine and have in their crucibles the basic ingredient of hydrofluoric acid.

In your authors who understand no Latin, you will soon have none but blustering barber's assistants. They are well on the way to this with their Gallicisms and their phrases that must be light and facile. Well, my noble Germans, to coarseness and vulgarity you have turned and coarseness and vulgarity are what you will find. A positive indication of indolence and a hotbed of ignorance are the editions of Greek, and even (horribile dictu) [2] Latin, authors which have the audacity to appear with German notes! What an infamous business! How can any pupil learn Latin if in the meantime he is always spoken to in his mother tongue? In schola nil nisi latine [3] was, therefore, a good old rule. The humour of the situation is that the professor cannot write Latin with ease and the pupil cannot read it with ease, whatever stand you may take. Behind them, therefore, are indolence and her daughter ignorance, nothing else; and it is scandalous. The one has learnt nothing, and the other will learn nothing. Cigar smoking and pot-house politics have in our day ousted scholarship and learning, just as for big children picture-books have taken the place of critical reviews and literary journals.

§ 299a

The French, including the academies, treat the Greek language scandalously. They take over its words for the purpose of disfiguring them. For example, they write etiologie, esthetique, and so on, whereas it is in French alone that the two letters ai are together pronounced as in Greek. Again we have bradype, Oedipe, Andromaque, and many others; that is to say, they write Greek words as would a French peasant youth who had caught them from the lips of a foreigner. It would really be quite pleasant if French scholars would at any rate try to look as though they understood Greek. To see the noble Greek language recklessly mutilated for the benefit of a nauseating jargon, such as is French by itself (this shockingly spoilt Italian with the long hideous end-syllables and the nasal sound), is like watching a large West Indian spider devour a humming bird, or a toad a butterfly. Now as the gentlemen of the Academy always address one another with the title mon illustre confrere, [4] which through mutal reflection has an impressive effect especially at a distance, I request the illustres confreres for once to consider the matter carefully. And so I ask them either to leave Greek alone and to manage with their own jargon, or to use Greek words without mutilating them; the more so as, when they contract and distort these, we frequently have great difficulty in guessing the Greek word that is so expressed, and thus in unravelling the meaning of the expression. I ought to mention in this connection the exceedingly barbarous practice, customary among French scholars, of fusing together a Greek and a Latin word; pomologie for example. Well, my illustres confreres, such things savour of barber's assistants. In this censure I am perfectly justified, for in the republic of learning political boundaries are of as little consequence as they are in physical geography; and the boundaries of languages exist only for those who are ignorant; but louts and Philistines should not be tolerated in this republic.

§ 300

It is right and even necessary that an increase of concepts should be accompanied by an addition to the vocabulary of a language. If, on the other hand, the latter occurs without the former, it is merely a sign of poorness of intellect which would indeed like to produce something and, as it has no new ideas, comes forward with new words. The enrichment of the language in this way is now very much the order of the day and a sign of the times. But new words for old concepts are like a new dye on an old garment.

Incidentally, and merely because the example happens to be under discussion, we should use the words 'former and latter' only when, as above, each of these expressions represents several words and not when it represents only one, where it is better to repeat that one word. Generally speaking, the Greeks did not hesitate to do this, whereas the French are most anxious to avoid it. The Germans sometimes get mixed up with their formers and latters to such an extent that we no longer know what is before and what behind.

§ 301

We look down on the written characters if the Chinese; but as the task of all these is to create in the rational minds of others concepts through visible signs, it is obviously a very roundabout proceeding first to present to the eye only a symbol of their audible symbol and first of all to make this the supporter of the concept, whereby our written character is only a symbol of the symbol. And so the question is asked what advantage the audible symbol has over the visible to induce us to leave the straight path from the eye to the faculty of reason and to go the long way round of letting the visible symbol speak to the mind of another first by means of the audible; whereas it would obviously be simpler to make the visible symbol, after the manner of the Chinese, the direct supporter of the concept and not the mere symbol of the sound. It would be simpler because the sense of sight is susceptible to more and finer modifications than is that of hearing and also because it permits a co-existence of impressions whereof the affections of hearing, on the other hand, as being given exclusively in time, are not capable. Now the reasons, here asked for, would probably be the following: (1) By nature, we resort first of all to the audible symbol in order to express primarily our emotions, but subsequently also our ideas. In this way, we arrive at a language for the ear before we have even thought of inventing one for the eye. But later on, where it becomes necessary, it is shorter to reduce the visible language to the audible than to invent, or let us say learn, an entirely new, and indeed quite different, language for the eye, especially as it was soon discovered that the thousands of words could be reduced to very few sounds and thus be easily expressed by means thereof. (2) It is true that the eye can apprehend a greater diversity of modifications than can the ear; but without organs we cannot produce such modifications for the eye as we can for the ear. Moreover, we could never produce the visible symbols and make them change as rapidly as we can the audible by virtue of the tongue's volubility. Evidence of this is given also by the imperfect nature of the finger-language of deaf-mutes. Therefore from the very first, this makes hearing the essential sense of language and thus of our faculty of reason. Accordingly, at bottom, there are only external and accidental grounds, not those that have sprung from the essential nature of the question itself, why the direct path is here, by way of exception, not the best one. Consequently, if we consider the matter in the abstract, purely theoretically, and a priori, the method of the Chinese would be the really correct one; so that one could reproach them only with a little pedantry in so far as they have here taken no account of the empirical circumstances that recommend a different path. Meanwhile, experience has brought to light a very great advantage of the Chinese characters, namely that, to express ourselves therein, we do not need to know Chinese, but everyone reads them off in his own language, just as we read off our numerical symbols which in general are for numerical concepts what the Chinese characters are for all concepts, and algebraical signs are even for abstract concepts of quantities. Therefore, as I was assured by an English tea-merchant who had been to China five times, Chinese characters are throughout the Indian Ocean the common medium whereby merchants of very different nations understand one another, although they have no language in common. My English friend was even definitely of the opinion that in this capacity those characters would one day spread all over the world. An account which agrees entirely with this is given by J. F. Davis in his work The Chinese, London, 1836, chap. 15.

§ 302

The deponent verbs are the only irrational and even absurd feature of the language of the Romans; and it is much the same as regards the middle voice in Greek.

But a special defect in Latin is that fieri represents the passive of facere. This implies and implants in the rational mind of the person learning the language the fatal error that everything which is or at any rate has come into existence, is something made [ein Gemachtes]. In Greek and German, on the other hand, [x] and werden are not regarded directly as the passives of [x] and machen. In Greek I can say: [x]; but this could not be rendered literally into Latin as it can be into German: nicht jedes Gewordene ist ein Gemachtes [not everything that has originated is something that has been made].

§ 303

The consonants are the skeleton and the vowels the flesh of words. The former (in the individual) is unchangeable, the latter very changeable, in colour, character, and quantity. Therefore in the course of centuries or even when passing from one language into another, words generally preserve their consonants but readily change their vowels; and so in etymology we should pay much more attention to the consonants than to the vowels.

Of the word superstitio we find all kinds of etymologies collected in Delrio's Libri disquisitionum magicarum, lib. I, c. I, and also in Wegscheider's Institutiones theologiae christianae dogmaticae, Prolegomena, c. I, § 5, d. I suspect however, the origin of the word to be in its having from the first expressed merely a belief in ghosts, namely: defunctorum manes circumvagari, ergo mortuos adhuc SUPERSTITES esse. [5]

I hope I am not saying anything new when I observe that [x] and forma are the same word and are related in the same way as are renes and Nieren, horse and Ross. Likewise of the similarities between Greek and German, one of the most significant is that in both the superlative is formed by st (-[x]), whereas such is not the case in Latin. I would sooner doubt that we already know the etymology of the word arm [poor], namely that it comes from [x], eremus, Italian ermo; for arm means 'where there is nothing' and hence 'deserted', 'empty'. (Jesus ben Sirach 12: 4: [x] for 'to make poor', 'to impoverish'.) On the other hand, I trust that it is already known that Unterthan [subject, vassal] comes from the Old English Thane, vassal, which is frequently used in Macbeth. The German Luft [air] comes from the Anglo-Saxon, preserved in the English words lofty, the loft, le grenier, since originally the upper part, the top, the atmosphere, was expressed by the word Luft just as we still have in der Luft for oben. The Anglo- Saxon first has retained in English its more general meaning, but in German it survives in the word Furst, princeps.

Further, I consider the words Aberglauben [superstitions] and Aberwitz [mania, craziness] to have come from Ueberglauben and Ueberwitz by way of Oberglauben and Oberwitz (like Ueberrock, Oberrock; Ueberhand, Oberhand), the O being then corrupted into A, as conversely A has been corrupted into O in Argwohn [suspicion] instead of Argwahn. I also believe that Hahnrei [cuckold] is a corruption of Hohnrei, an expression that we see retained in English as an exclamation of derision, o hone-a-rie! It occurs in Letters and Journals of Lord Byron: With Notices of his Life, by Thomas Moore, London, 1830, vol. i, p. 441. Generally speaking, English is the storehouse where we again find archaic German words and also the original meaning of those German words that are still in use; for example, the above-mentioned Furst in its original meaning of 'the first', princeps. In the new edition of the original text of Deutsche Theologie I know and therefore understand many words merely from the English. It is surely no new idea that Epheu comes from Evoe.

Es kostet MICH is nothing but a solemn, affected, and time-honoured error of speech. Kosten, like the Italian costare, comes from constare. Therefore es kostet mich is me constat instead of mihi constat. Dieser Lowe kostet mich cannot be said by the owner of the menagerie, but only by the man who is being eaten by the lion. [6]

The resemblance between coluber [serpent] and Kolibri [humming-bird] must be entirely fortuitous, or else, since humming-birds are to be found only in America, we should have to look for its source in the earliest history of the human race. Different or even antagonistic as the two animals are, since the Kolibri [humming-bird] is often the praeda colubri, [7] a confusion is conceivable in this case, analogous to that in consequence whereof aceite in Spanish means 'oil', not 'vinegar' [Essig]. Moreover, we find an even more striking agreement between many names, originally American, and those of European antiquity, for example between the Atlantis of Plato and Aztlan, the ancient indigenous name for Mexico, which is still to be found in the names of the Mexican towns of Mazatlan and Tomatlan; and between the name of the mountain Sorata in Peru and Soractes (Italian Sorate) in the Appennines.

§ 303a

Our German scholars of today (according to an article in the Deutsche Vierteljahrs-Schrift October-December 1855) divide the German (diuske) language into the following branches: (1) the Gothic; (2) the Norse, i.e. Icelandic, whence we get Swedish and Danish; (3) the North German, whence we have Low German and Dutch; (4) the Friesian; (5) the Anglo-Saxon; (6) the High German, which is said to have appeared at the beginning of the seventh century and is divided into Old, Middle, and Modern High German. This entire system is by no means new, but has already been proposed, also with a denial of Gothic origin, by Wachter, Specimen glosarii germanici, Leipzig, 1727. (See Lessing's Kollektanea, vol. ii, p. 384) But I believe that in this system there is more patriotism than truth, and I back that of the honest and discerning Rask. Coming from Sanskrit, Gothic is divided into three dialects, Swedish, Danish, and German. Nothing is known of the language of the ancient Germans and I venture to surmise that such a language was entirely different from the Gothic and so also from modern German. The Germans are Goths, at any rate so far as language is concerned. Nothing annoys me more than the expression Indo-Germanic languages, that is, the language of the Vedas brought into line with some jargon of the aforesaid idlers. Ut nos poma natamus! [8] The so-called Germanic, more correctly Gothic, mythology together with the myth of the Nibelungen and so on, was to be found much more highly developed and genuine in Iceland and Scandinavia than among our German idlers, and indeed Norse antiquities, objects found in tombs, runic characters, and so forth, when compared with the German, are evidence of every kind of higher cultural development in Scandinavia.

It is remarkable that no German words are found in French as they are in English, for in the fifth century France was occupied by Visigoths, Burgundians, and Franks, and was ruled by Frankish kings.

Niedlich [neat, dainty] from Old German Neidlich = Beneidenswerth [to be envied]. Teller [plate] from patella. Viande from the Italian vivanda. Spada, espada, epee, from [x], sword, used in this sense, [or example, by Theophrastus in Ethici characteres, chap. 24, [x]. Affe [ape] from Afer because the first apes introduced to the Germans by the Romans were described by this word. Kram [goods, chattels] from [x] [mixture], [x] [to mix, to compound]. Taumeln [to stagger] from temulentus [intoxicated]. Vulpes and Wolf are probably connected in some way due to the confusion of two species of the genus canis. It is highly probable that Welsch is merely a different pronunciation of Galisch [Gaelic], i.e. Celtic, and meant to the ancient Germans the non-German, or rather non-Gothic, language; whence it now means Italian in particular, thus the Romance language. Brod [bread] comes from [x]. Volo and [x] or rather [x] are radically the same word. Heute [today] and oggi both come from hodie, and yet do not bear any resemblance to one another. The German Gift [poison] is the same as the English gift; thus it comes from geben [to give] and states what is administered [eingegeben]; hence also vergeben [to confer, bestow] instead of vergiften [to poison]. Parlare probably comes from perlator, bearer, messenger; hence the English word parley. To dye is evidently connected with [x], [x] [to wet, to smear], just as tree is with [x]. Geier [vulture] is from Garhuda, the eagle of Vishnu. Maul [muzzle] from mala. Katze [cat] is the contracted form of catus. Schande [disgrace] is from scandalum which is probably related to the Sanskrit chandala. Ferkel [young pig] is from ferculum [dish, course] because it comes on to the table whole. Plarren [to snivel] is from pleurer and plorare. Fullen, Fohlen is from pullus. Poison and Ponzonna from Potio. Baby from Bambino. Brand, Old English; brando, Italian. Knife and canif are the same word, possibly of Celtic origin. Ziffer, cifra, chiffre, ciphre, probably come from the Welsh and hence Celtic Cyfrinach, Mystery. (Pictet, Mystere des bardes, p. 14.) The Italian tuffare [mergere] and the German taufen [to baptize] are the same word. Ambrosia appears to be related to Amriti; the Aesir are probably akin to [x] [fate, destiny]. [x] is identical with labbern [to gabble] both as regards the word and the sense. [x] is Aile. Seve is Saft [sap]. It is strange that the word Geiss [she-goat] is Zieg [goat] reversed. The English bower, Laube, is the German Bauer meaning 'cage' as in Vogelbauer.

I know that Sanskrit scholars and philologists are inclined to derive etymology from its sources in quite a different way; nevertheless I hope that it is still possible to glean many a fruitful morsel from my dilettantism in the subject.

________________

Notes:

* The Greek [x] [prudence] has no adequate equivalent in any language.

* To be really master of several modern languages and to read them with ease is a way of setting ourselves free from that national narrow-mindedness which usually sticks to everyone.
 
1 ['Market-place'.]

2 ['Horrible to relate'.]

3 ['In school only Latin should be spoken.']
 
* ['My illustrious colleague'.]

5 ['That the spirits of the departed wander about and hence the dead are still  standing near or surviving'.]

6 [The transitive verb kosten means 'to taste', 'to sample'.]

7 ['The prey of the serpent'.]
 
8 ['See how we apples swim!']
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Re: Parerga and Paralipomena: Short Philosophical Essays

Postby admin » Fri Feb 02, 2018 6:08 am

Part 1 of 2

CHAPTER 26: Psychological Remarks

§ 304

Every animal, especially every human being, needs a certain fitness and proportion between his will and his intellect in order to be able to exist and make his way in the world. Now the more precisely and correctly this has been arranged by nature, the more safely and agreeably will he go through the world. Meanwhile, a mere approximation to the really correct point is enough to protect him from ruin. There is, accordingly, a certain latitude within the limits of the correctness and fitness of the aforesaid proportion. Now in this connection the following is the recognized standard. As the destiny of the intellect is to light and guide the steps of the will, the more vehement, impetuous, and passionate the inner impulse of a will, the more perfect and penetrating must be the intellect which is assigned to it. This must be so in order that the vehemence of striving and willing, the ardour of passions, and the intensity of emotions may not lead a man astray or precipitate him into ill-considered, false, and ruinous action. All this will inevitably be the case if the will is very violent and the intellect very weak. A phlegmatic character, on the other hand, and thus a weak and dull will, can manage to exist with a limited intellect; a moderate man requires a moderate intellect. Generally speaking, every case of a want of proportion between a will and its intellect, that is to say, every deviation from the above-mentioned normal proportion, tends to make a man unhappy, whether the want of proportion be due to an excess of intellect or to an excess of will. Thus an abnormally strong and superior development of the intellect and its resultant disproportionate preponderance over the will, such as constitute the essential nature of real genius, are not merely superfluous to the needs and aims of life but are positively detrimental thereto. Then in youth, excessive energy in apprehending the objective world, accompanied by a lively imagination and lacking all experience, will cause the mind to become susceptible to extravagant notions and even chimeras and will easily cram it therewith. The result of all this will then be an eccentric and even fantastic character. Now even when this has been given up and, through the teaching of experience, has later disappeared, the genius will never really feel at home in the ordinary outside world, will not fit conveniently into the life of the ordinary citizen and move about as comfortably as does the man of normal intellect; on the contrary, he will often make curious mistakes. For the commonplace intellect is so thoroughly at home in the narrow sphere of its ideas and its apprehension of the world that no one can get the better of it in that sphere and its knowledge remains always faithful to its original purpose of serving the will. Therefore it constantly attends to this without ever giving way to extravagant aims. The genius, on the other hand, is at bottom a monstrum per excessum, as I have already mentioned in the discussion of that subject, just as, conversely, the passionate and impetuous man without intellect and understanding is a brainless barbarian, a monstrum per difectum.

§ 305

The will-lo-live, as constituting the innermost core of everything that lives, manifests itself most conspicuously and can, therefore, be observed and looked at most distinctly, as regards its true nature, in the highest and cleverest animals. For below this stage it does not appear so clearly and has a lower degree of objectification; but above and thus in man, prudence and discretion have made their appearance along with the faculty of reason and with this the ability to dissimulate, which at once casts a veil over him. In him, therefore, the will appears naked and undisguised only in the outbursts of emotions and passions. This is the very reason why passion always finds credence when it speaks, no matter what it may be, and rightly so. For the same reason, the passions are the main theme of poets and the show-piece of actors. But our pleasure in dogs, monkeys, cats, and others rests on what I said at first about the higher and cleverer animals; the complete naivete of all their expressions is what affords so much amusement and delight.

What a characteristic and peculiar pleasure there is at the sight of every free animal pursuing its business without let or hindrance, going in search of its food, tending its young, or consorting with others of its species! With all this it is so entirely what it should and can be. It may be only a tiny bird, yet I am long able to watch it with pleasure; or it may be a water-rat, frog, or better still a hedgehog, weasel, roe, or stag! That the sight of animals is so pleasant is due mainly to the fact that we are very delighted to see before us our own true nature so greatly simplified.

There is in the world only one mendacious and hypocritical being, namely man. Every other is true and sincere, in that it frankly and openly declares itself to be what it is and expresses itself as it feels. An emblematic or allegorical expression of this fundamental difference is that all animals go about in a state of nature; and this greatly contributes to the delightful impression on us when we look at them. At the sight of animals, especially when they are free, my heart always goes out to them. Man, on the other hand, has through his clothes become a caricature, a fright, a monster, a creature repulsive to look at, the sight of whom is made even more repulsive by the white colour that is not natural to him and by all the loathsome consequences of an unnatural flesh diet, spiritous liquors, tobacco, debaucheries, and diseases. There he stands as a blot on nature! The Greeks felt this and reduced their clothing to the minimum.

§ 306

Mental anguish causes palpitations of the heart and these cause mental anguish. Grief, care, and mental agitation have an embarrassing and painful effect on the vital process and the working of the organism, whether it be blood circulation, secretions, or digestion. Conversely, if the workings of the organism are impeded, obstructed, or otherwise disturbed by physical causes in the heart, the intestines, the vena portarum, [1] the seminal vesicles, or elsewhere, there arise uneasiness of mind, anxiety, morose humour, groundless melancholy; and we therefore have the state called hypochondria. Again, anger also makes one shout, stamp, and gesticulate violently; on the other hand, these bodily manifestations increase anger or kindle it on the slightest provocation. I need hardly say how much all this confirms my doctrine of the unity and identity of the will with the body, according to which the body is nothing but the will manifesting itself in the spatial intuitive perception of the brain.

§ 307

Very many things that are attributed to force of habit are due rather to the constancy and unchangeable nature of the original and inborn character. According to this, we always do under similar circumstances the same thing which, therefore, takes place with the same necessity the first time as it does the hundredth. Real force of habit, on the other hand, actually rests on indolence or inertia which seeks to spare the intellect and the will the trouble, difficulty, and even danger of a fresh choice. Such indolence, therefore, makes us do today what we did yesterday and a hundred times before and of which we know that it leads to the attainment of its object.

But the truth of the matter lies deeper; for it is to be understood in a meaning stricter and more literal than at first sight appears. The power of inertia is for bodies, in so far as they are moved merely by mechanical causes, precisely what force of habit is for bodies that are moved by motives. The actions we perform from mere habit really occur without any separate individual motive that operates for the particular case; and so during such actions we do not really think about them. Of every action that has become a habit, only the first instances have had a motive whose secondary after-effect is the present habit. This now suffices to enable the action to continue, just as a body that is moved by a thrust needs no further thrust to continue its motion but goes on moving to all eternity, provided the motion is not impeded by anything. The same applies to animals in that their training is an enforced habit. The horse continues quite calmly to pull its cart without being driven. This motion is still always the effect of the strokes of the whip by which it was initially driven, and it is perpetuated as a habit in accordance with the law of inertia. All this is actually more than a mere simile; it is the identity of the thing, namely the will, at widely different stages of its objectification according to which the same law of motion now assumes such different forms.

§ 308

Viva muchos anos! [2] is a usual greeting in Spanish, and all over the world it is quite customary to wish anyone a long life. This indeed cannot be explained from a knowledge of what life is, but rather from what man is by nature, namely will-to-live.

The wish which everyone has that he may be remembered after his death and which rises to a desire for posthumous fame in the case of those who aim high, seems to spring from an attachment to life. When this sees itself cut off from all possibility of real existence, it then seizes the only kind of existence that is left, although such is only ideal; and thus it grasps a shadow.

§ 309

With everything that we do, we desire more or less the end; we are impatient to be done with it and are glad when it is finished. Only the end in general, the end of all ends, do we wish, as a rule, to put off as long as possible.

§ 310

Every parting gives us a foretaste of death, and every time we again meet someone we have a foretaste of resurrection. This is why even those who were indifferent to one another are so pleased when they again meet after twenty or thirty years.

§ 311

The deep pain that is felt at the death of every friendly soul arises from the feeling that there is in every individual something which is inexpressible, peculiar to him alone, and is, therefore, absolutely and irretrievably lost. Omne individuum ineffabile. [3] This applies even to the individual animal, where it is most acutely felt by one who has accidentally caused the death of a favourite pet. The parting look given by the animal then causes him heart-rending grief.

§311a

It may happen that, even after a short time, we mourn the loss of our enemies and opponents almost as much as that of our friends, namely when we miss them as witnesses of our brilliant successes.

§ 312

The sudden announcement of a great stroke of good fortune can easily have a fatal effect. This is due to the fact that our happiness and unhappiness are merely a proportional number between our claims and what has fallen to our lot; and accordingly, we do not feel as such the good things which we possess or of which we are quite certain in advance. For all pleasure is really only negative and has only the effect of eliminating pain, whereas pain or evil is the really positive thing and is directly felt. With the possession of things or with the certain prospect thereof, our claims at once rise and our capacity for further possessions and prospects increases. If, on the other hand, our spirits are depressed by constant misfortune and our claims are reduced to a minimum, sudden good fortune here finds no capacity for its reception. Thus as such good fortune is not neutralized by any pre-existing claims, it now apparently acts positively and consequently with all its force, whereby it may have a disruptive effect on our feelings, in other words, prove fatal. Hence the well-known caution in announcing good fortune; first we cause the man to hope for it, then offer him the prospect, and finally make it known to him only piecemeal and gradually. For each part of the good news thus loses its strength, in that it was anticipated by a claim, and still leaves room for more. As a result of all this, it might be said that our stomach for good fortune is indeed bottomless, but has a narrow opening. The foregoing remarks are not directly applicable to sudden misfortune; and so its fatal effect is much rarer because hope here is still always opposed to it. In cases of good fortune, fear does not play an analogous part because we are instinctively more inclined to hope than to fear, just as our eyes automatically turn to light and not to darkness.

§ 313

Hope is the confusion of the wish for an event with its probability. But perhaps no man is free from the folly of the heart which so deranges the intellect's correct appreciation of probability that a case of a thousand to one against is regarded as easily possible. And yet a hopeless misfortune is like a quick death-blow, whereas a hope that is always frustrated and constantly revived resembles a kind of slow death by torture.*

Whoever is abandoned by hope has also been abandoned by fear; this is the meaning of the word 'desperate'. Thus it is natural for a man to believe what he wants and to believe it because he wants it. Now if this beneficial and soothing characteristic of his nature is eradicated by the very hard and repeated blows of fate and he is even brought to believe conversely that what he does not want is bound to happen, and what he wants can never happen just because he wants it, then this is really the state which has been called desperation.

§ 314

That we are so often mistaken in others is not always entirely the fault of our own judgement, but in most cases arises from Bacon's intellectus luminis sicci non est, sed recipit infusionem a voluntate et affectibus; [4] for without knowing it, we are at the very outset prejudiced for or against them by trifles. It is often due also to the fact that we do not stop at the qualities actually discovered in them, but from these infer others, which we regard as inseparable from the former, or else as incompatible with them. For example, from perceiving generosity we infer justice, from godliness, honesty, from lying, deception, from deception, stealing, and so on. This opens the door to many errors partly because of the strangeness of human characters and also because of the one-sidedness of our point of view. It is true that character is generally consistent and coherent, but the roots of all its qualities lie too deep for us to be able to determine from isolated data which qualities can coexist in a given case, and which cannot.

§ 315

The ordinary use of the word person in all European languages for describing the human individual is unconsciously striking and to the point. For persona really means a mask as worn by actors; and it is certain that no one shows himself as he is, but everyone wears a mask and plays a part. Generally speaking, the whole of our social life is the continuous performance of a comedy. This renders it insipid for men of substance and merit, whereas blockheads take a real delight in it.

§ 316

We often happen to blurt out something which might in some way be dangerous to us; but we are not deserted by our reticence and discretion in the case of those things that might make us ridiculous, because here the effect follows close on the cause.

§ 317

Unjust treatment kindles in the natural man an ardent thirst for revenge, and it has often been said that revenge is sweet. This is confirmed by the many sacrifices that are made, merely in order to enjoy it and without any intention of thereby obtaining amends. The painful death of the Centaur Nessus was made sweet by the certain prevision of an exceedingly clever revenge for the preparation of which he used his last moments; and the same idea, in a modern plausible account, is contained in Bertolotti's novel Le due sorelle, which has been translated into three languages. Sir Walter Scott expresses this same human tendency both forcibly and appropriately: 'Revenge is the sweetest morsel to the mouth that ever was cooked in hell.' I will now attempt to give a psychological explanation of the craving for revenge.

All suffering that is inflicted on us by nature, chance, or fate, is not, ceteris paribus, [5] so painful as that brought upon us by the arbitrary action of others. This is because we acknowledge nature and chance to be the original masters of the world. We see that what has befallen us through them would likewise have befallen everyone else; and so in sufferings from this source we bewail the common lot of mankind rather than our own fate. On the other hand, the suffering caused by the arbitrary action of another has, in addition to the pain or damage itself, something quite peculiar and bitter, namely the consciousness of the other man's superiority, whether through force or cunning, and of our own impotence. If possible, the damage inflicted is made good by reparation, but that additional bitterness, namely the thought: 'I have to put up with this from you', which often causes more pain than does the injury itself, can be neutralized only by revenge. Thus by inflicting injury, either by force or cunning, on the man who has injured us, we show our superiority and thereby annul evidence of his. This gives our feelings the satisfaction for which they thirsted. Accordingly, there will be a great thirst for revenge where there is much pride or vanity. But just as every fulfilled desire reveals itself more or less as a disappointment, so too does the desire for revenge. In most cases, the pleasure to be hoped for from revenge will through compassion be gall and wormwood to us. Indeed, the revenge we have taken will afterwards often wring our hearts and torment our conscience. The motive for revenge no longer operates and we are left with the evidence of our own wickedness.

§ 318

The pain of an unfulfilled desire is small in comparison with that of remorse; for the former stands before the ever-open and immeasurable future, whereas the latter stands before the irrevocably closed past.

§ 319

Patience, patientia, Geduld, but in particular the Spanish sufrimiento, is so called from suffering;6 consequently, it is passivity, the opposite of the activity of the mind. Where such activity is great, it can hardly be reconciled with patience. It is the inborn virtue of phlegmatic persons and also of the mentally indolent and mentally poor and of women. Nevertheless, the fact that patience is so very useful and necessary betokens a melancholy state of affairs in this world.

§ 320

Money is human happiness in abstracto; and so the man who is no longer capable of enjoying such happiness in concreto, sets his whole heart on money.

§ 321

All obstinacy is due to the fact that the will has forced itself into the place of knowledge.

§ 322

Peevishness or bad temper is something very different from melancholy. From cheerfulness to melancholy is a much shorter path than from bad temper to melancholy.

Melancholy attracts; bad temper repels.

Hypochondria torments us not only with anger and annoyance without cause over the things of the present; not only with groundless anxiety over artificially invented misfortunes of the future, but also with unmerited reproaches concerning our own actions in the past.

The immediate effect of hypochondria is a constant seeking and speculating on what might make us angry or annoyed. The cause is an inner morbid discontent, frequently with the addition of an inner restlessness or uneasiness due to temperament. If the two reach the highest degree, they lead to suicide.

§ 323

The following remarks may help to elucidate more fully juvenal's verse which was cited in § 114:

Quantulacunque adeo est occasio, sufficit irae. [7]


Anger at once creates a deception which consists in a monstrous exaggeration and distortion of its cause. Again this deception itself intensifies the anger and is once more magnified by this intensified anger itself. The intensification of action and reaction thus continues until the furor brevis [8] is reached.

To guard against this, men of quick and impulsive temper should endeavour to prevail on themselves to dismiss the matter from their minds for the time being as soon as they begin to feel annoyed. For when after an hour they return to it, it will long since have ceased to appear so bad and will perhaps seem to be of no importance.

§ 324

Hatred is an affair of the heart; contempt that of the head. The ego does not have either in its power; for its heart is unchangeable and is moved by motives and its head judges in accordance with immutable rules and objective data. The ego is merely the association of a particular heart with a particular head, the [x]. [9]

Hatred and contempt are definitely antagonistic and mutually exclusive. There are even many cases where one man's hatred has no source other than the esteem and respect that are enforced by another's excellent qualities. On the other hand, if we attempted to hate all the miserable creatures we met, we should have too much to do; whereas we can despise them, one and all, with the greatest ease. True genuine contempt is the very reverse of true genuine pride; it remains entirely concealed and gives no hint of its existence. For whoever shows contempt, thereby gives a sign of some regard in so far as he wants to let the other man know how little he esteems him. In this way, he betrays hatred which excludes and only feigns contempt. Genuine contempt, on the other hand, is a firm conviction of the other man's worthlessness and is compatible with consideration and indulgence. By means of these, we avoid irritating the object of our contempt and do so for the sake of peace and security; for everyone can do harm. If, however, this pure, cold, and sincere contempt once shows itself, it is reciprocated with the fiercest hatred, since the man who is held in scorn does not have it in his power to retaliate with the same weapon.

§ 324a

Every incident, even if very insignificant, which stirs a disagreeable emotion, will leave in our mind an after-effect which, as long as it lasts, obstructs a clear and objective view of things and circumstances; in fact, it tinges all our thoughts, just as a very small object, brought close to our eyes, limits and distorts our field of vision.

§ 325

What makes people hard-hearted is the fact that everyone has enough troubles of his own to bear, or thinks he has. Therefore an unusual state of happiness makes most people sympathetic and benevolent. But a state of happiness that has always existed, and has become permanent, often has the opposite effect since it removes men so far from suffering that they are no longer able to feel any sympathy therewith. The result is that the poor show themselves more ready to help than the wealthy.

On the other hand, what makes people so very inquisitive, as can be seen from their peeping and prying into the affairs of others, is boredom, the opposite pole of life to suffering; although there is often some envy at work as well.

§ 326

If we wish to discover our own sincere feelings for a man, we should note the impression made on us by the first sight of an unexpected letter from him.

§ 327

It seems at times that we both want and do not want something and are accordingly simultaneously pleased and worried about the same event. If, for example, in some matter we have to pass a decisive test, where to come off victorious will be very much to our advantage, we both want and fear the moment of this trial. Now if, while waiting for it, we hear that it has been postponed for the time being, we shall be simultaneously pleased and worried; for it is contrary to our intention and yet affords us momentary relief. It is the same when we expect an important and decisive letter and it fails to arrive.

In such cases, there are really two different motives acting on us, namely the stronger but more distant, the desire to pass the test and obtain a decision; and the weaker but nearer, the desire to be left in peace for the present and to continue to enjoy the advantage that the state of hopeful uncertainty has at any rate over the possible unsuccessful outcome of the affair. Accordingly, there occurs here in the moral that which happens in the physical when in our range of vision a smaller but nearer object conceals the larger but more remote.

§ 328

The faculty of reason merits also the name of prophet; for it holds before us the future occurrence as the eventual consequence and effect of our present actions. It is precisely in this way that it is calculated to keep us in check when desires of sensual passion, outbursts of anger, or cupidity and covetousness are likely to lead us astray into doing what we should inevitably regret in times to come.

§ 329

The course and events of our individual lives are, as regards their true meaning and connection, comparable to the rougher works in mosaic. So long as we stand close to such works, we do not really recognize the objects depicted and do not perceive either their significance or beauty; only at a distance do these stand out. In the same way, we frequently do not understand the true connection of important events in our own lives while they are going on or shortly after they have occurred, but only long afterwards.*

Is this because we need the magnifying glass of the imagination; or the whole can be surveyed only at a distance; or the passions must be cooled off; or only the school of experience matures our judgement? Perhaps all of these together; but it is certain that the correct light concerning the actions of others and sometimes even our own, often dawns on us only after many years. And just as it is in our own lives, so is it also in history.

§ 330

States of human happiness often resemble certain groups of trees which look very beautiful when seen from a distance; but, if we go up to them and walk among the trees, that beauty vanishes. We do not know where it was and are standing between trees. This is the reason why we so often envy the position of others.

§ 331

Why is it that, in spite of all mirrors, a man does not really know what he looks like and therefore cannot picture to himself his own features as he can those of every acquaintance? This is a difficulty that faces [x] [10] at the very outset.

Undoubtedly this is due partly to the fact that he never sees himself in the mirror except with his face turned straight towards it and perfectly motionless, whereby the very significant play of the eyes, but with it the really characteristic feature of his face, is for the most part lost. But together with this physical impossibility, there appears to be at work an ethical that is analogous thereto. A man cannot look in the mirror at his own image with the ryes of a stranger; and yet this is the condition for an objective view of it. For this look rests ultimately on moral egoism with its deeply felt not-I (cf. Two Fundamental Problems of Ethics, 'Basis of Ethics', § 22); and yet these are necessary if he is to perceive purely objectively all the defects and as they really are, whereby only then does the image truly and faithfully present itself. Instead of this, whenever a man sees himself in the mirror, that very egoism at all times whispers in his ear a precautionary' it is not another ego but my ego that I see.' This acts as a noli me tangere [11] and prevents him from taking the purely objective view which apparently cannot be brought about without the ferment of a grain of malice.

§ 332

No one knows what forces for suffering and acting he has within himself until an occasion puts them into operation; just as from the calm water, lying like a mirror in the pond, we do not see with what raging and roaring it is capable of rushing down intact from the rocks, or how high it can rise as a fountain; and we also do not suspect the heat that is latent in ice-cold water.

§ 333

Existence without consciousness has reality only for other beings in whose consciousness it manifests itself; immediate reality is conditioned by one's own consciousness. Therefore man's real individual existence also resides primarily in his consciousness. But as such, this is necessarily a consciousness which forms representations and is, therefore, conditioned by the intellect and by the sphere and material of the intellect's activity. Accordingly, the degrees of clearness of consciousness, and thus of thoughtfulness and reflection, can be regarded as those of the reality of existence. But in the human race itself, these degrees of reflectiveness or clear consciousness of our own and other people's existence, are very varied according to the natural powers of the mind, their cultivation, and the amount of leisure for meditation.

Now as regards the real and original difference of mental powers, a comparison between them cannot very well be made as long as we do not consider particulars, but stick to what is general. For this difference cannot be seen from a distance and is not so easily apparent externally as are the differences in education, leisure, and occupation. But even proceeding merely in accordance with these, we have to admit that many a man has a degree of existence at least ten times higher than that of another and, therefore, exists ten times as much.

Here I will not speak of savages whose life is often only one stage above that of the apes in trees; but let us consider, say, a porter in Naples or Venice (in the North concern over the winter makes man more thoughtful and therefore more reflective), and survey the course of his life from beginning to end. Driven by need and poverty, borne by his own strength, meeting the needs of the day and even of the hour by hard work, great effort, constant tumult, privation in its many forms, no thought for the morrow, relaxation and rest after exhaustion, much bickering and quarrelling with others, not a moment for reflection, sensual pleasure in a mild climate and with food just bearable, and then finally, as the metaphysical element, some crass superstitions of his Church; on the whole, therefore, a fairly dull consciousness of driving, or rather of being driven, through life. This troubled, restless, and confused dream constitutes the lives of many millions. They know only for the purpose of what at the moment they will. They do not reflect on the connection and sequence in their existence, not to mention that of existence itself; to a certain extent, they exist without really becoming aware of it. Accordingly, the existence of the proletarian or slave who goes on living without thinking, is considerably nearer than is ours to that of the animal, which is confined entirely to the present. Such a proletarian existence, however, is for that very reason less harrowing and distressing. In fact, since by its nature all pleasure is negative, that is, consists in our being freed from want or pain, the constant and rapid interchange between difficulties and their removal which always accompanies the work of the proletarian and then appears in a stronger form with the final exchange of his work for rest and the satisfaction of his needs, is a constant source of pleasure. The cheerfulness, seen much more often in the faces of the poor than in those of the wealthy, is a sure proof of the richness and fertility of that source.

Now let us consider the rational and reflective merchant who spends his life speculating, cautiously carries out carefully considered plans, establishes a firm, provides for wife, family, and descendants, and also takes an active part in the life of the community. It is obvious that this man exists with a much greater degree of consciousness than does the other; that is to say, his existence has a higher degree of reality.

Let us then look at the scholar who investigates, say, the history of the past. Such a man is already conscious of existence as a whole; he sees beyond the period of his own life and person and reflects on the course of the world.

Finally, let us think of the poet or even philosopher in whom reflectiveness has reached so high a degree that, instead of being urged to investigate some particular phenomenon in existence, he stands in astonishment before existence itself, this great sphinx, and makes this his problem. In him consciousness has been enhanced to a degree of clearness where it has become a consciousness of the world. Thus in him the mental picture or representation has gone beyond all reference to the service of his will and now holds before him a world that calls upon him to investigate and consider much more than to take part in its affairs. Now if the degrees of consciousness are those of reality, then when we describe such a man as the 'most real of all beings', this expression will have sense and significance.

Between the extremes here sketched and the intervening stages everyone will be able to find his own position.
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Re: Parerga and Paralipomena: Short Philosophical Essays

Postby admin » Fri Feb 02, 2018 6:08 am

Part 2 of 2

§ 334

Ovid's verse

Pronaque cum spectent animalia cetera terram, [12]


applies in the real and physical sense only to animals; but in the figurative and spiritual, alas, it applies also to almost all human beings. Their musings, thoughts, and aspirations are identified entirely with a desire for physical pleasure and wellbeing, or indeed with personal interests whose sphere often embraces many different things, it is true, but which nevertheless ultimately derive their importance only from the relation to those thoughts. Beyond this, however, they do not go. This is testified not only by their mode of life and conversation, but even by their mere look, the expression on their faces, the way in which they walk, and their gesticulations. Everything about them exclaims: in terram prona! [13] Accordingly, Ovid's next lines:

Os homini sublime dedit, coelumque tueri
Jussit, et erectos ad sidera toltere vultus, [14]


apply not to such people, but only to nobler and more highly gifted natures, to those who think and really look about them, and who occur only as the exceptions of the race.

§ 335

Why is common an expression of contempt, and 'uncommon', 'extraordinary', 'distinguished' are expressions of approbation? Why is everything common contemptible?

Common means originally that which is peculiar and common to all, that is, to the whole species, and hence that which is already associated therewith. Accordingly, whoever possesses no other qualities than those of the human species generally, is a common man. 'Ordinary person' is a much milder expression intended more for intellectual qualities, whereas the expression 'common person' is concerned rather with moral qualities.

What value, indeed, can a being have who is no different from millions of his kind? Millions? nay an infinitude of beings, an endless number, whom nature incessantly bubbles forth from her inexhaustible spring, in secula seculorum; [15] she is as generous with them as is a blacksmith with the sparks flying round him.

It is obviously quite right that a being who has no other qualities than just those of the species, shall not be entitled to any existence other than that in and through the species.

I have discussed more than once (e.g. Two Fundamental Problems of Ethics, 'Freedom of the Will', Pt. III (2); World as Will and Representation, volume I, § 55) that, whereas animals have only the character of the species, to man alone belongs the individual character in the proper sense of the term. In most people, however, there is only very little that is really individual; they can be sorted entirely into classes. Ce sont des especes. [16] Their thinking and willing, like their faces, are that of the whole species, or at all events of the class to which they belong. For this reason, they are trivial, trite, and common, and exist in thousands. We can also say fairly accurately in advance what they are doing and talking about. They have no characteristic hall-mark; they are like manufactured articles mass-produced.

Should not their existence, like their true nature, be merged also in that of the species? The curse of vulgarity reduces man to the level of the animal by granting him an essential nature and existence only in the species.

But it goes without saying that everything great, exalted, and noble will, by its very nature, exist in isolation in a world where no better expression could be found for describing what is mean and objectionable than the one that declares everything ordinarily existing to be 'common'.

§ 336

The will, as the thing-in-itself, is the common substance of all beings, the universal element of things. Accordingly, we have it in common with everyone else, even with the animals and with still lower forms of existence. In the will as such we are, therefore, like everything, in so far as each and every thing is filled to overflowing therewith. On the other hand, what raises one being above another, one human being above another, is knowledge, to which our assertions and observations should, therefore, be restricted as far as possible, and which alone should be in evidence. For the will, as that which we all have, is precisely what is common; and so every violent manifestation thereof is common, that is, it reduces us to a mere sample of the species; for we then reveal merely the character thereof. Hence all anger is common, boisterous hilarity, all hatred, all fear, in short, every emotion, that is, every movement of the will, when it becomes so strong that in consciousness it decidedly outweighs knowledge, and causes one to appear more as a willing than a knowing being. In giving way to such an emotion, the greatest genius becomes like the commonest son of earth. On the other hand, whoever wishes to be positively uncommon and therefore great, must never let the predominant movements of the will take complete possession of his consciousness, however much he may be solicited to do so. For instance, he must be capable of perceiving the spiteful and malicious attitude of others without feeling his own provoked thereby. Indeed, there is no surer sign of greatness than when a man refuses to take any notice of offensive or insulting remarks, in that he simply attributes them, as he does countless other errors, to the poor knowledge of the speaker and, therefore, merely perceives them without feeling them. Gracian's words can also be explained from this: 'Nothing lowers a man so much as when he shows himself to be simply a human being' (el mayor desdoro de un hombre es dar muestras de que es hombre).

According to the foregoing, a man has to conceal his will as he does his genitals, although both are the very root of our true nature. We should merely display knowledge, just as we show only our faces, on pain of becoming common.

Even in the drama, where passions and emotions are its special and peculiar theme, these nevertheless readily appear common and vulgar. This is particularly noticeable in the French tragedians who have aimed at nothing higher than a description of the passions and attempt to conceal the vulgarity of their subject first behind a fatuous and ridiculous pathos and then behind epigrammatic witticisms. The famous Mademoiselle Rachel, as Mary Stuart in her outburst against Elizabeth, reminded me of a Billingsgate woman, although she played the part superbly. In her performance, the last scene of farewell also lost everything sublime, that is, everything truly tragic, of which the French have not the least conception. The same part was played incomparably better by the Italian actress Ristori; for, in spite of great differences in many respects, Italians and Germans nevertheless agree as regards their feelings for what in art is profound, serious, and true, and are thus opposed to the French who everywhere betray their want of such feelings. What is noble, i.e. what is uncommon and indeed sublime, is brought into the drama primarily through knowing as opposed to willing. For the sublime element hovers freely over all those movements of the will and makes them even the material of its contemplation. Shakespeare, in particular, shows this everywhere, especially in Hamlet. Now if knowledge reaches the point where the vanity of all willing and striving dawns on it and the will consequently abolishes itself, it is then that the drama becomes really tragic and hence truly sublime and attains its supreme purpose.

§ 337

According as the energy of the intellect is exerted or relaxed, life seems to it so short, petty, and fleeting that no event therein can be worth our interest, but everything remains insignificant, even pleasure, wealth, and fame; and this to such an extent that, however a man may have failed, he cannot possibly have lost much in this way. On the other hand, life may seem to the intellect so long and important, so all in all momentous and difficult, that we accordingly devote ourselves to it body and soul in order to share in its good things, to make sure of the prizes of its struggles, and to carry out our plans. This is the immanent view of life and is what Gracian meant when he said, tomar muy de veras el vivir (to take life very seriously). But for the other view, the transcendent, Ovid's words are a good expression: non est tanti; [17] and an even better expression is Plato's [x], (nihil, in rebus humanis, magno studio dignum est). [18]

The first attitude results really from the fact that in consciousness knowledge has gained the ascendancy where it now frees itself from the mere service of the will, objectively apprehends the phenomenon of life, and cannot fail to see clearly the vanity and futility thereof. In the second attitude, however, willing is uppermost and knowledge exists merely to illuminate the objects thereof and to shed light on the paths to them. A man is great or small according as the one view of life predominates or the other.

§ 338

Everyone regards the limits of his field of vision as those of the world; this is the illusion, as inevitable intellectually as it is in physical vision, which regards heaven and earth as touching at the horizon. To this, among other things, is due the fact that everyone measures us with his own standard, which is often that of a mere tailor, and we have to put up with this; as also the fact that everyone falsely imputes to us his own mediocrity and insignificance, a fiction that is acknowledged once for all.

§ 339

There are some concepts which very rarely exist in any mind with clearness and precision, but manage to exist merely through their name. This then really indicates only the place of such a concept yet without it they would be entirely lost. For instance, the concept wisdom is of this kind. How vague it is in almost all minds! We have only to look at the explanations of philosophers.

Wisdom seems to indicate not merely theoretical but also practical perfection. I would define it as the complete and correct knowledge of things, as a whole and in general, with which a man is so thoroughly imbued that it now appears even in his actions, in that they are everywhere guided by it.

§ 340

Everything original, and thus everything genuine, in man as such operates unconsciously, like the forces of nature. That which has passed through consciousness has thus become a representation or mental picture; consequently its expression is, to a certain extent, the communication of a representation. Accordingly, all genuine and sound qualities of character and intellect are originally unconscious and only as such do they make a profound impression. Everything that is done consciously is something touched up and intentional and, therefore, degenerates into affectation, i.e. deception. What a man does unconsciously costs him no effort, but no amount of effort can take its place. Of this sort is the birth of original conceptions which underlie all genuine achievements and constitute their very core. Therefore only what is inborn is genuine and sound; and everyone who wants to achieve something must comply with the rules without knowing them in everything he undertakes, whether in conduct, writing, or mental culture.

§ 341

Many a man certainly owes good fortune in his life simply to the circumstance that he has a pleasant smile with which he wins hearts. Yet it would be better to be careful and to realize from Hamlet's memorial' that one may smile, and smile, and be a villain'.

§ 342

Men of great and brilliant qualities think little of admitting their shortcomings and weaknesses or of letting them be seen. They regard them as something for which they have paid; or they even think that they will do their shortcomings an honour rather than that these will bring discredit to them. But this will be particularly the case when they are shortcomings that are directly connected with their great qualities, as conditiones sine quibus non, [19] according to the words of George Sand already quoted: chacun a les dieauts de ses vertus. [20]

On the other hand, there are those of good character and faultless intellect who never admit their few and trifling weaknesses but carefully conceal them, and who are very sensitive to any hint of their existence. This is because their whole merit consists in the absence of defects and infirmities and is at once impaired by any defect that is brought to light.

§ 343

With moderate abilities modesty is mere honesty; but with great talent it is hypocrisy. It is, therefore, just as becoming for great talent openly to express its own feelings of superiority and not to conceal its awareness of unusual powers, as it is for moderate ability to be modest. Very fine examples of this are furnished by Valerius Maximus in the chapter De fiducia sui.

§ 344

Even in his ability to be trained, man surpasses all animals. Mohammedans are trained to pray five times a day with their faces turned to Mecca and never fail to do so. Christians are trained to cross themselves, to bow, and to do other things on certain occasions. Indeed, speaking generally, religion is the chef d'oeuvre of training, namely training the ability to think; and so, as we know, a beginning in it cannot be made too early. There is no absurdity, however palpable, which cannot be firmly implanted in the minds of all, if only one begins to inculcate it before the early age of six by constantly repeating it to them with an air of great solemnity. For the training of man, like that of animals, is completely successful only at an early age.

Noblemen are trained to hold nothing sacred but their word of honour, to believe rigidly, firmly, and quite seriously in the grotesque code of knightly honour, to set their seal to it by dying for it if required to do so, and to regard the king actually as a being of a higher order. Our compliments and expressions of politeness, especially the respectful attentions paid to ladies, are due to training, as also is our esteem for birth, rank, and titles. In the same way, we take due umbrage at anything said against us; for instance, Englishmen are trained to regard as a deadly insult the reproach that they are not gentlemen and still more that they are liars; Frenchmen resent the reproach of cowardice (lache), Germans that of stupidity, and so on. Many are trained to a strict and inviolable integrity in one respect, but boast of little honour in every other. Thus many a man does not steal money, but will take everything that can be directly enjoyed. Many a merchant deceives without the least scruple, but would certainly not steal.

§ 344a

The doctor sees man in all his weakness; the lawyer sees him in all his wickedness; and the theologian sees him in all his folly and stupidity.

§ 345

There is in my mind a standing opposition party which subsequently attacks everything I have done or decided, even after mature consideration, yet without its always being right on that account. It is, I suppose, only a form of the corrective spirit of investigation; but it often casts an unmerited slur on me. I suspect that it also happens to many another; for who does not have to say to himself

quid tam dextro pede concipis, ut te
Conatus non poeniteat, votique peracti? [21]


§ 346

That man has great power of imagination whose cerebral activity in intuitive perception is strong enough not to be always in need of sense stimulation in order to become active.

Accordingly, the power of imagination is the more active, the less external intuitive perception is brought to us through the senses. Long periods of solitude in prison or in a sick-room, quiet, twilight, and darkness promote its activity and under their influence it begins to play of its own accord. Conversely, when much real material is given to intuitive perception from without as on a journey, in the tumult and turmoil of the world, or in broad daylight, the power of imagination ceases to work and, even when urged to, does not become active; it seems to realize that this is not its proper time.

Yet, to be fruitful, that power must have received much material from the external world; for this alone fills its storehouse. But it is the same with the nourishment of the imagination as with that of the body. When this has just received from without much food which it has to digest, it is at that moment least capable of doing any work and prefers to rest from its labours. Yet the body is indebted to this very nourishment for all the powers which it afterwards manifests at the right time.

§ 347

Opinion observes the law of oscillation; if it goes beyond the centre of gravity on the one side, it must afterwards go as far on the other. Only with time does it find and stop at the real point of rest.

§ 348

In space distance diminishes everything by contracting it, whereby its defects and drawbacks vanish; and so in a convex mirror or camera obscura everything appears to be more beautiful than it is in reality. In time the past has just the same effect; scenes and events of long ago together with those who took part in them, seem most delightful in our memory, where everything inessential and disturbing is dropped. The present, that is without such advantages, always seems to be defective.

Again in space small objects close to us appear to be large; and if they are very near, they occupy our whole field of vision. But as soon as we are some distance from them, they become small and insignificant. It is the same as regards time; the little incidents and accidents that occur in our daily lives appear to be large, significant, and important so long as they are present and close to us and accordingly stir our emotions, anxiety, annoyance, and passions. But as soon as the restless stream of time has made them more remote, they are unimportant, not worth considering, and are quickly forgotten; for their size depended merely on their being close to us.

§ 349

As joy and sorrow are not representations or mental pictures but affections of the will, they do not lie in the domain of memory and we cannot recall those affections themselves, which means that we cannot renew them. On the contrary, we can again bring to mind merely the representations by which they were accompanied, but in particular recall our expressions that were at the time provoked by them in order to gauge from them what those emotions were. And so our memory of joys and sorrows is always imperfect and, when they are over, they are to us a matter of indifference. This is why it is always futile when we try sometimes to revive the pleasures or pains of the past; for the real and essential nature of both lies in the will. In itself and as such, however, the will has no memory, such being a function of the intellect which by its nature furnishes and contains nothing but mere representations; but these are not the subject we are considering. It is strange that on our bad days we can very vividly recall the happy days that are past; on the other hand, we have on our good days only a very imperfect and bleak picture of the bad.

§ 350

So far as memory is concerned, a confusion rather than a real congestion of what has been learnt is to be feared. Its capacity is not reduced by what has been learnt, just as the forms into which sand has been successively moulded do not diminish its capacity to be moulded into fresh forms. In this sense memory is unfathomable; yet the greater and more varied a man's knowledge, the more time he will need to find out what is suddenly demanded of him. For he is like a merchant who has to hunt for the required article from a large and miscellaneous store; or properly speaking, he has to recall from the many trains of thought which are possible to him that one which, in consequence of previous training and practice, leads to the required subject. For memory is not a reservoir for preserving things, but merely an ability to exercise mental powers. Therefore the mind always possesses all its knowledge only potentia, not actu; and on this subject I refer to § 45 of the second edition of my essay On the Principle of Sufficient Reason.

§ 350a

On occasions my memory will not reproduce a word of a foreign language, a name, or a technical term, although I know it quite well. After I have worried about it for a longer or shorter time, I dismiss the matter entirely from my mind. Then within an hour or two, in rare instances even later and sometimes only after four to six weeks, the word I have been looking for usually occurs to me while I am thinking of something quite different; and it occurs as suddenly as ifit had been whispered by someone. (It is then a good thing to fix it for the time being by a mnemonic sign until it is again stamped on the memory proper.) After observing and admiring for very many years this phenomenon, I have now come to the following as its probable explanation. After a painful and fruitless search, my will retains the craving for the word and therefore appoints for it a watcher in the intellect. Now as soon as, in the course and play of my thoughts, a word having the same initial letter or some other resemblance to the one sought accidentally occurs, the watcher springs forward and supplies what is required to make up the word sought; it seizes it and suddenly drags it forward in triumph without my knowing how and where this was done; and so it comes as ifit had been whispered in my ear. It is the same as when a child cannot repeat a word and the teacher finally suggests the first or even second 1ctter, whereupon the word comes to him. Where this method fails, the word in the end is systematically sought by our going through all the letters of the alphabet.

Images and pictures of intuitive perception are more firmly retained in the memory than are mere concepts; and so those gifted with imagination learn languages more easily than others; for they at once associate the intuitively perceptual image of the thing with the new word, whereas others connect it only with the equivalent word in their own language.

We should endeavour as far as possible to refer to an intuitively perceptual image or picture that which we wish to assimilate in our memory, whether it be direct, or an example of the thing, a mere simile, analogue, or anything else. For everything intuitively perceptual sticks much more firmly than do things that are thought only in abstracto, or even mere words. What we have experienced is, therefore, very much better retained than what we have read.

The word mnemonics appertains not only to the art of converting the direct retention into an indirect by means of a witticism, but also to a systematic theory of memory which would explain all its peculiarities, and derive these from its essential nature and then from one another.

§ 351

Only now and then do we learn something; but all day long we are forgetting.

In this connection, our memory is like a sieve that holds less and less through use and with the passage of time. Thus the older we grow, the more rapidly does what we still commit to memory vanish therefrom; whereas what was fixed in it in our early years is still retained. An old man's reminiscences are, therefore, the more distinct, the further they go back into the past; and they become less and less clear, the nearer they approach the present; so that his memory, like his eyes, has become long-sighted ([x]). [22]

§ 352

There are moments in life when the sensuous perception of the present and our environment reaches a rare and higher degree of clearness without any special external cause, but rather through an enhanced susceptibility coming from within and explainable only physiologically. In this way, such moments subsequently remain indelibly impressed on the memory and are preserved in their entire individuality. We do not know why it should be just these moments out of so many thousands like them. On the contrary, they seem to be quite as accidental as are the solitary specimens of complete extinct animal species which are preserved in layers of rock, or the insects that were once accidentally crushed between the pages of a book when it was shut. However, memories of this nature are always delightful and pleasant.

How fine and significant many of the scenes and events of our early life appear to be when we recall them, although at the time we let them pass without attaching to them any particular value! But, whether appreciated or not, they were bound to pass away; they are just the pieces of mosaic whence the picture of recollection of our lives is composed.

§ 353

Scenes long past sometimes start up suddenly and vividly in the memory, apparently without cause. In many cases, this may be due to a faint odour of which we are not clearly conscious, but which we now detect precisely as we did previously. For it is well known that odours awaken memory with particular ease and that everywhere the nexus idearum23 needs only an exceedingly small impulse. Incidentally, the eye is the sense of the understanding (Fourfold Root qf the Principle of Sufficient Reason, § 21); the ear that of the faculty of reason (see above § 301); and here, as we see, the sense of smell is that of memory. Touch and taste are realistic and tied to contact; they have no ideal side.

§ 354

One of the peculiarities of memory is that slight intoxication enhances the recollection of past times and scenes to such a degree that we recall all their circumstances more perfectly than we could have done in a state of soberness. On the other hand, the recollection of what we ourselves said or did while intoxicated is less perfect than it would otherwise be; in fact, it does not exist at all after we have been really drunk. Thus intoxication enhances recollection, but furnishes it with little material.

§ 355

Delirium falsifies intuitive perception; madness thoughts and ideas.

§ 356

That the lowest of all mental activities is arithmetic is proved by the fact that it is the only one that can be performed even by a machine. In England at the present time, calculating machines are frequently used for the sake of convenience. Now all analysis finitorum et infinitorum [24] ultimately amounts to repeated reckoning. It is on these lines that we should gauge the' mathematical profundity', about which Lichtenberg is very amusing when he says: 'The so-called professional mathematicians, supported by the childish immaturity of the rest of mankind, have earned a reputation for profundity of thought that bears a strong resemblance to that for godliness which the theologians claim for themselves.'

§ 357

Men of very great ability will, as a rule, get on better with those of very limited intellect than with ordinary people, for the same reason that the tyrant and the mob, grandparents and grandchildren, are natural allies.

§ 358

Men are in need of external activity because they have none that is internal. On the other hand, where the latter takes place, the former is rather an inopportune and indeed often confounded disturbance and hindrance, and the prevailing desire is for leisure and peace and quiet from without. From that need for external activity can also be explained a restlessness and pointless mania for travel on the part of those who have nothing to do. What chases them through all the countries of their travels is the same boredom that in their own country drives and herds them together in a way that is really quite comic to watch.* An excellent confirmation of the truth of this was once afforded by a stranger, a man about fifty, who told me all about his two-year pleasure trip to distant countries and continents. When I remarked that he must have endured great hardships, privations, and dangers, he gave me the extremely naive reply, at once and without any ceremony but with the assumption of the enthymemes, that not for one moment was he bored.

§ 359

I am not surprised that people are bored when they are alone; they cannot laugh when they are by themselves; even the very idea of such a thing seems to them absurd. Is laughter, then, only a signal for others and a mere sign, like a word? Lack of imagination and of mental keenness generally, (dullness, [x] [25] as Theophrastus says, Ethici characteres, c. 27) is what prevents them from laughing when they are alone. The animals do not laugh either alone or m company.

Myson, the misanthrope, when laughing to himself, was once surprised by one of those men. He was then asked why he was laughing, since he was alone. 'That is the very reason why I am laughing' was Myson's reply.

§ 360

Nevertheless, a man who with a phlegmatic temperament is merely a blockhead would with a sanguine nature be a fool.

§ 361

Whoever does not go to the theatre resembles a man who dresses without a mirror; but worse still is he who makes his decisions without consulting a friend. For a man may have the most excellent and accurate judgement in everything except in his own affairs because here the will at once confuses the intellect. We should, therefore, consult others for the same reason that a doctor cures everyone but himself; when ill he calls in a colleague.

§ 361a

The everyday natural gesticulation, such as accompanies any lively conversation, is a language of its own and indeed one that is much more universal than that of words, in so far as it is independent of the latter and is the same in all countries. It is true that each nation makes use of it according to its vivacity and that in the case of some, the Italians, for example, such language has been supplemented by a few merely conventional gesticulations of its own which are, therefore, of only local application. Its universal nature is analogous to logic and grammar since it is due to the fact that the gesticulation expresses the formal, and not the material part of any conversation. Yet it is distinguished from them by the fact that it relates not merely to what is intellectual, but also to what is moral, i.e. the stirrings of the will. Accordingly, it accompanies the conversation as does a correctly progressive ground-bass the melody; and, like this bass, it helps to enhance the effect of the conversation. Now the most interesting thing about this is the absolute identity of the particular gesture in use whenever the formal part of the conversation is the same, however different its material part and thus its subject-matter, namely the business under discussion. And so when from my window I see two men carrying on a lively conversation without hearing what they are saying, I am well able to understand its general, i.e. merely formal and typical, sense. For I infallibly perceive that the speaker is now arguing, advancing his reasons, then limiting them, then driving them home, and drawing his conclusions in triumph. Or else I see him giving an account and a palpable description of some wrong that has been done to him, the lively way in which he complains of the callous, stupid, and intractable nature of opponents. Again, I can see him telling the other man about the fine plan he made and carried out, or complaining how through an unkind fate he failed. I can now see him admitting his helplessness in the present case or saying how, in the nick of time, he noticed the machinations of others, saw through them, and, by asserting his rights or applying force, frustrated them and punished their authors; and a hundred similar things. But what the mere gesticulation gives me is really the essential substance of the conversation in abstracto, either morally or intellectually, thus its quintessence, its true subject-matter, which, in spite of the most different occasions and thus of the most varied material, is identical. It is related to this as the concept to the individual things that are covered by it. As I have said, the most interesting and amusing thing is the absolute identity and stability of the gestures for expressing the same circumstances, even when they are used by men of very different temperament. Thus the gestures are absolutely like the words of a language and the same for everyone and, like these, undergo only such modifications as do words through minor differences of pronunciation or even of education. Yet there is certainly no convention or agreement underlying these standing and universally observed forms of gesticulation. On the contrary, they are natural and original, a true language of nature, although they may be established by imitation and custom. It is well known that an actor, and to a lesser extent a public speaker, has to make a careful study of them which, however, must consist mainly in observation and imitation. For the matter cannot be reduced to abstract rules, with the exception of a few quite general leading principles, as for example the one that the gesture must not come after the word, but rather just before it, announcing it, as it were, and thus attracting attention.

The English have a characteristic contempt for gesticulation and regard it as something vulgar and beneath their dignity. But this seems to be just one of those silly prejudices of English prudery. For here we are speaking of a language which nature gives everyone and everyone understands. Accordingly, to do away with it summarily merely out of deference to that much-lauded gentlemanly feeling and to declare it taboo might be a precarious proceeding.

_______________

Notes:

1 ['Portal veins'.]

2 ['May you live many years!']

3 ['Every individual is unfathomable and inscrutable.']

* Hope is a state to which our whole being (namely will and intellect) tends; the will by its desiring the object of hope; the intellect by its reckoning such object as probable. The greater the share of the latter factor and the smaller that of the former, the better it will be for hope. If the ratios are reversed, the worse it will be.

4 ['The intellect is no light that would burn dry (without oil), but receives its supply from the will and from the passions.']

5 ['Other things being equal'.]

6 [Pati, to suffer.]

7 ['An opportunity, however small, suffices to make us angry.']
 
8 ['Brief paroxysm of rage' (Horace, Epistles, I. 2. 62).]

9 ['Bond', 'bridge'.]

* We do not easily recognize the significance of events and persons when they are actually present. It is only when they lie in the past that they stand out in all their significance after being given prominence by recollection, narrative, and description.

10 [' Know thyself ']

11 ['Touch me not!']

12 ['While the animals bend down and turn their faces to the earth' (Metamorphoses, I. 84).]

13 [' Bent down to the earth!' (Sallust, Catalina.)]

14 ['To man alone he gave a sublime countenance and bade him look up with exalted gaze to the stars in the heavens.' (Metamorphoses, I. 85-6.)]

15 ['Century after century'.]

16 ['They are specimens.']

17 ['It is not so important.' (Metamorphoses, VI. 386.)]

18 ['No human affair is worth our troubling ourselves very much about it.']

19 ['Essential conditions'.]

20 ['Everyone has the failings of his virtues.']

21 ['What have you begun with such skill that you ought not to regret the attempt  and the success of the wish?' (Juvenal, Satires, 10. 5-6.)]

22 [As an old man ([x]) he suffers from presbyopia, or long-sightedness.]
 
23 ['Association of ideas'.]
 
24 ['Analysis of finite and infinite numbers'.]
 
* Moreover, boredom is the source of the gravest evils; if we go to the root of the matter, gambling, drinking, extravagance, intrigues, and so on, have their origin in boredom.

25 ['Mental apathy and dullness'.]
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Re: Parerga and Paralipomena: Short Philosophical Essays

Postby admin » Fri Feb 02, 2018 6:26 am

CHAPTER 27: On Women

§ 362

The true praise of women is in my opinion better expressed by Jouy's few words than by Schiller's well-considered poem, Wurde der Frauen, which produces its effect by means of antithesis and contrast. Jouy says: Sans les femmes, le commencement de notre vie seroit prive de secours, le milieu de plaisirs, et la fin de consolation. [1] The same thing is expressed more pathetically by Byron in his Sardanapalus, Act I, Sc. 2:

The very first
Of human life must spring from woman's breast,
Your first small words are taught you from her lips,
Your first tears quench'd by her, and your last sighs
Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing,
When men have shrunk from the ignoble care
Of watching the last hour of him who led them.


Both express the right point of view for the value of women.

§ 363

The sight of the female form tells us that woman is not destined for great work, either intellectual or physical. She bears the guilt of life not by doing but by suffering; she pays the debt by the pains of childbirth, care for the child, submissiveness to her husband, to whom she should be a patient and cheerful companion. The most intense sufferings, joys, and manifestations of power do not fall to her lot; but her life should glide along more gently, mildly, and with less importance than man's, without being essentially happier or unhappier.

§ 364

Women are qualified to be the nurses and governesses of our earliest childhood by the very fact that they are themselves childish, trifling, and short-sighted, in a word, are all their lives grown-up children; a kind of intermediate stage between the child and the man, who is a human being in the real sense. Just see how, for days on end, a girl will fondle and dance with a child and sing to it, and imagine what a man with the best will in the world could do in her place!

§ 365

With girls nature has had in view what in a dramaturgic sense is called a stage-effect or sensation. For she has endowed them for a few years with lavish beauty, charm, and fullness at the expense of the rest of their lives. This she has done so that, during those few years, they might capture a man's imagination to the extent that he is carried away into giving in some form an honourable undertaking to look after them for the rest of their lives. Mere rational deliberation would not appear to give a sufficiently adequate guarantee to induce him to take such a step. Accordingly, nature has endowed women, as she has every other creature, with the weapons and instruments needed for the security of their existence and for as long as they require them, a course wherein she has proceeded with her usual parsimony. For just as the female ant after copulation loses her wings which are now superfluous and, as regards breeding, even dangerous, so does the woman generally lose her beauty after one or two confinements, and probably for the same reason.

Accordingly, young girls in their hearts regard their domestic or business affairs as something secondary and indeed as a mere piece of fun. They consider love, conquests, and everything connected therewith, such as dress, cosmetics, dancing, and so on, to be their only serious vocation.

§ 366

The nobler and more perfect a thing is, the later and more slowly does it come to maturity. A man does not arrive at a maturity of his rational faculty and mental powers much before his twenty-eighth year; woman attains it at the age of eighteen. But it is, in consequence, a very meagre and limited faculty of reason. And so throughout their lives women remain children, always see only what is nearest to them, cling to the present, take the appearance of things for the reality, and prefer trivialities to the most important affairs. Thus it is the faculty of reason by virtue whereof man does not, like the animal, live merely in the present, but surveys and considers the past and future; and from all this spring his foresight, wariness, care, anxiety, and frequent uneasiness. In consequence of her weaker faculty of reason, woman shares less in the advantages and disadvantages that this entails. Rather is she an intellectual myope, since her intuitive understanding sees quite clearly what is near, but has a narrow range of vision into which the distant object does not enter. Thus everything that is absent, past, or future has a much feebler effect on women than on men, whence arises the tendency to extravagance which occurs much more frequently in women and occasionally borders on craziness. [x]. [2] In their hearts, women imagine that men are born to earn money, whilst they are meant to get through it, if possible during the man's lifetime, but at any rate after his death. They are strengthened in this belief by the fact that the man hands over to them for housekeeping what he has earned. However many disadvantages all this may entail, there is yet one good point, namely that woman is more absorbed in the present than man and, therefore, enjoys this better if only it is bearable. The result of this is that cheerfulness which is peculiar to woman and makes her suited for the recreation, and if necessary the consolation, of the man who is burdened with cares.

In difficult and delicate matters, it is by no means a bad thing to consult women, after the manner of the ancient Germans. For their way of apprehending things is quite different from man's, more particularly as they like to go the shortest way to the goal and generally keep in view what lies nearest to them. But just because this lies under men's noses, it is generally overlooked by them, in which case it is then necessary for them to be brought back to it so that they may regain the near and simple view. Moreover, women are decidedly more matter-of-fact than men and thus do not see in things more than actually exists, whereas when the passions of men are aroused, they easily magnify what is present or add something imaginary.

From the same source may be traced the fact that women show more compassion and thus more loving kindness and sympathy for the unfortunate than do men; on the other hand, they are inferior to men in the matter of justice, honesty, and conscientiousness. For in consequence of their weak faculty of reason, that which is present, intuitively perceptual, immediately real, exercises over them a power against which abstract ideas, established maxims, fixed resolves, and generally a consideration for the past and future, the absent and distant, are seldom able to do very much. Accordingly, they certainly have the first and fundamental thing for virtue; on the other hand, they lack the secondary, the often necessary instrument for it. In this respect, they might be compared to an organism which had liver, it is true, but no gall-bladder. Here I refer to my essay 'On the Basis of Ethics', § 17. In accordance with the foregoing, we find that injustice is the fundamental failing of the female character. It arises primarily from the above-mentioned want of reasonableness and reflection and is further supported by the fact that, as the weaker, they are by nature dependent not on force but cunning; hence their instinctive artfulness and ineradicable tendency to tell lies. For just as nature has armed the lion with claws and teeth, the elephant and boar with tusks, the bull with horns, and the cuttle-fish with ink that blackens water, so for their defence and protection has she endowed women with the art of dissimulation. She has bestowed on them in the form of this gift all the force she has given to men in the form of physical strength and power of reason. Dissimulation is, therefore, inborn in women and is thus almost as characteristic of the stupid as of the clever woman; and so to make use of it on every occasion is as natural to her as it is to the above-mentioned animals to make immediate use of their weapons when they are attacked, and to a certain extent she feels that here she is exercising her right. Therefore an entirely truthful and unaffected woman is perhaps impossible. For the same reason, they so easily see through dissimulation in others that it is not advisable to try it on them. But from that fundamental failing and its attendant qualities arise falseness, faithlessness, treachery, ingratitude, and so on. Women are much more often guilty of perjury than men; and in general it might be questioned whether they should be allowed to take the oath. From time to time one repeatedly comes across the case where in a shop a lady, who wants for nothing, secretly pilfers and pockets things.

§ 367

Young, strong, and handsome men are called by nature for the propagation of the human race so that it may not degenerate. Herein is nature's firm will and the passions of women are its expression. In age and force, that law comes before any other. Therefore woe to him who so arranges his rights and interests that they stand in its way; whatever he may say or do, they will be mercilessly crushed on the first important occasion. For the secret, unexpressed, indeed unconscious but innate, morality of women is as follows: 'We are justified in deceiving those who imagine they have acquired a right over the species by the fact that they barely provide for us, the individuals. The constitution, and consequently the welfare, of the species are placed in our hands and entrusted to our care by means of the next generation coming from us; we will conscientiously carry this out.' Women, however, are by no means conscious of this supreme principle in abstracto but only in concreto; and for it they have no other expression than their course of action when the opportunity occurs. Here their conscience is generally less disturbed than we suppose, for in the darkest recesses of their hearts they feel that, through a breach of duty to the individual, they have so much better fulfilled that to the species, whose rights are infinitely greater. The more detailed discussion of this is given in volume ii, chapter 44 of my chief work.

Because, at bottom, women exist solely for the propagation of the race with which their destiny is identified, they live generally more in the species than in individuals. At heart, they take more seriously the affairs of the species than those of individuals. This gives to their whole nature and action a certain frivolity and generally an attitude which is fundamentally different from that of the man and gives rise to that discord and disharmony which are so frequent and almost normal in marriage.

§ 368

Between men there is by nature merely indifference; but between women there is already by nature hostility. This is due to the fact that with men the odium figulinum [3] is limited to their particular guild, whereas with women it embraces the whole sex since they all have only one line of business. Even when they meet in the street, they look at one another like Guelphs and Ghibellines. Moreover on first acquaintance, two women meet each other obviously with more stiffness and dissimulation than do two men in a similar situation. Therefore the compliments between two women prove to be far more ridiculous than those between men. Again, whereas the man, as a rule, speaks with a certain consideration and humanity, even to one who is far beneath him in rank, it is intolerable to see how proudly and disdainfully, for the most part, a woman of rank and position behaves towards one in a lower position (who is not in her service) when she speaks to her. It may be due to the fact that all difference of rank is much more precarious with women than with men and can much more rapidly be altered and abolished. For whereas with men a hundred things turn the scale, with women only one thing decides, namely what man they have charmed. There is also the fact that, on account of the one-sidedness of their calling, they stand much nearer to one another than do men and for that reason endeavour to stress class distinctions.

§ 369

Only the male intellect, clouded by the sexual impulse, could call the undersized, narrow-shouldered, broad-hipped, and short-legged sex the fair sex; for in this impulse is to be found its whole beauty. The female sex could be more aptly called the unaesthetic. They really and truly have no bent and receptivity either for music, poetry, or the plastic arts; but when they affect and profess to like such things, it is mere aping for the sake of their keen desire to please. This is why they are incapable of taking a purely objective interest in anything, and I think the following is the reason for this. In everything man aspires to a direct mastery over things, either by understanding or controlling them. But woman is always and everywhere driven to a merely indirect mastery by means of the man who alone has to be directly mastered by her. It therefore lies in the nature of women to regard everything merely as a means to win the man; and their interest in anything else is always only simulated, a mere roundabout way; in other words, it ends in coquetry and aping. Thus even Rousseau said: les femmes, en general, n' aiment aucun art, ne se connoissent a aucun, et n' ont aucun genie [4] (Lettre a d'Alembert, note xx). Everyone who has gone beyond appearances will also have noticed it. We need only observe the direction and nature of their attention at a concert, an opera, and a play, and see, for instance, the childlike ingenuousness with which they carry on their chatting during the finest passages of the greatest masterpieces. If the Greeks did not really admit women to the play, they were right; at least it would have been possible to hear something in their theatres. For our own times it would be proper to add to the taceat mulier in ecclesia [5] a taceat mulier in theatro, or to substitute it and put it in large letters on the curtain in the theatre. We cannot expect anything else from women when we reflect that the most eminent minds of the whole sex have never been able to produce a single, really great, genuine, and original achievement in the fine arts, or to bring anywhere into the world a work of permanent value. This is most striking in regard to painting, for its technique is at any rate just as suited to them as it is to men and thus they pursue it with diligence; yet they cannot boast of a single great painting, just because they lack all objectivity of mind, the very thing that is most directly demanded of painting. Everywhere they remain in the subjective. In keeping with this, is the fact that the average woman is not even susceptible to painting in the real sense; for natura non facit saltus. [6] In his book, Examen de ingenios para las sciencias (Amberes, 1603) which has been famous for three hundred years, Huarte denies women all higher abilities. In the preface (p. 6) he says: la compostura natural, que la muger tiene en el celebro, no es capaz de mucho ingenio ni de mucha sabiduria; then c. 15 (p. 382): quedando la muger en su disposicion natural, todo genero de letras y sabiduria, es repugnante a su ingenio; -- (pp. 397, 398): las hembras (por razon de la frialdad y humedad de su sexo) no pueden alcancar ingenio profundo: solo veemos que hablan con alguna aparencia de habilidad, en materias livianas y faciles, [7] and so on. Isolated and partial exceptions do not alter the case but, generally speaking, women are and remain the most downright and incurable Philistines. And so with the positively absurd arrangement whereby they share the position and title of the man, they are constantly spurring him on in his ignoble ambition. Moreover, on account of the same quality, their predominance and the way they set the fashion are the ruin of modern society. In respect of the first, we should be guided by the saying of Napoleon I: Les femmes n' ont pas de rang; [8] and for the rest, Chamfort quite rightly says: Elles sont faites pour commercer avec nos faiblesses, avec notre folie, mais non avec notre raison. Il existe entre elles et les hommes des sympathies d' epiderme, et tres-peu de sympathies d' esprit, d' ame et de caratere. [9] They are the sexus sequior, ['Inferior sex'] [10] the sex that takes second place in every respect. We should accordingly treat their weakness with forbearance; but to show them excessive reverence and respect is ridiculous and lowers us in their own eyes. When nature split the human race into two halves, she did not make the division precisely through the middle. In spite of all polarity, the difference between the positive and negative poles is not merely qualitative but also quantitative. Thus did the ancients and oriental races regard woman; and her proper place was accordingly much more correctly recognized by them than by us with our old French gallantry and absurd veneration of women, this culminating point of Christian-Germanic stupidity. It has merely served to make women so arrogant and inconsiderate that we are sometimes reminded of the sacred apes at Benares who, conscious of their sanctity and invulnerability, think that they are at liberty to do anything and everything.

Woman in the West, especially what is called the 'lady', finds herself in a fausse position; for woman, rightly called by the ancients the sexus sequior, ['Inferior sex'] is by no means qualified to be the object of our respect and veneration, to carry her head higher than man and have equal rights with him. We see well enough the consequences of this fausse position. It would accordingly be very desirable even in Europe for this number two of the human race to be again assigned to her natural place and for this lady-nonsense to be stopped, which not only the whole of Asia ridicules, but Greece and Rome would also have laughed at. From a social, civil, and political point of view, the consequences of this would be of incalculable benefit. As a superfluous truism, the Salic law ought not to be necessary. The European lady proper is a being who should not exist at all; on the contrary, there should be housewives and girls who hope to become so and thus are brought up not to arrogance, but to domesticity and submissiveness. Just because there are ladies in Europe, the women of the lower classes, and thus the great majority of the sex, are much more unhappy than those in the East. Even Lord Byron says (Letters and Journals by Th. Moore, vol. ii, p. 454): 'Thought of the state of women under the ancient Greeks -- convenient enough. Present state, a remnant of the barbarism of the chivalry and feudal ages -- artificial and unnatural. They ought to mind home -- and be well fed and clothed -- but not mixed in society. Well educated, too, in religion -- but to read neither poetry nor politics -- nothing but books of piety and cookery. Music -- drawing -- dancing -- also a little gardening and ploughing now and then. I have seen them mending the roads in Epirus with good success. Why not, as well as hay-making and milking?'

§ 370

In our monogamous continent, to marry means to halve one's rights and double one's duties. Yet when the laws conceded to women equal rights with men, they should also have endowed them with a man's faculty of reason. On the other hand, the more the rights and honours which the laws confer on woman exceed her natural position, the more they reduce the number of women who actually share these privileges; and they deprive all the rest of as many natural rights as they have given in excess to those privileged women. For with the unnaturally favourable position which is given to woman by the monogamous institution and the marriage laws connected therewith, in that they generally regard the woman as the absolute equal of man, which she in no sense is, prudent and cautious men very often hesitate to make so great a sacrifice and to enter into so unequal an agreement.* And so whereas among the polygamous races every woman is provided for, among the monogamous the number of married women is limited and many women are left without support. In the upper classes they vegetate as useless old maids, but in the lower they have to do hard and unsuitable work, or become prostitutes who lead a life as joyless as it is disreputable, but who in such circumstances become necessary for the satisfaction of the male sex. They thus appear as a publicly recognized class or profession whose special purpose is to protect from being seduced those women who are favoured by fortune and have found or hope to find husbands. In London alone there are eighty thousand women of this class. What, then, are they but women who have become the most fearful losers through the monogamous institution, actual human sacrifices on the altar of monogamy? All such women who are so badly off are the inevitable offset to the European lady with her pretensions and arrogance. Accordingly for the female sex, considered as a whole, polygamy is a real benefit. On the other hand, no valid reason can be given why a man should not have a second wife when his first is suffering from chronic illness, is barren, or has gradually become too old. What gains so many converts for the Mormons seems to be precisely the removal of this unnatural monogamy.* Moreover, giving woman unnatural rights has also imposed on her unnatural duties whose breach, however, makes her unhappy. Thus considerations of position or means render marriage inexpedient to many a man, unless perhaps there are brilliant conditions attached thereto. He will then want to obtain a woman of his choice under different conditions that will place on a firm footing her lot and that of the children. Now even if these are ever so fair, reasonable, and suited to the case, and she consents by not insisting on the disproportionate rights that marriage alone offers, she thus becomes, to a certain extent, disreputable, because marriage is the basis of civil society, and she must lead a sad life. For, human nature being what it is, we attach a wholly exaggerated value to the opinion of others. If, on the other hand, she does not consent, she runs the risk either of having to be married to a man she detests or of drying up as an old maid; for the time during which a man is willing to provide for her is very limited. As regards this side of our monogamous institution, Thomasius' profound essay De concubinatu is well worth reading. From it we see that, among all cultured peoples and at all times down to the Lutheran Reformation, concubinage was a permitted institution; in fact it was, to a certain extent, even legally recognized, with no dishonour attaching to it. From this position it was overthrown merely by the Lutheran Reformation which recognized in its abolition a further means for justifying marriage of the clergy; whereupon the Catholic side could not be left behind.

Polygamy is not a matter of dispute at all, but is to be taken as a fact that is met with everywhere; its mere regulation is the problem. For where are there actual monogamists? We all live in polygamy at any rate for a time, but in most cases always. Consequently, as every man needs many women, nothing is more just than that it should be open to him, indeed incumbent on him, to provide for many women. In this way, woman is also brought back to her correct and natural standpoint as a subordinate being and the lady, that monster of European civilization and Christian-Germanic stupidity with her ridiculous claims to respect and veneration, disappears from the world. There are then only women, but of course no longer any unfortunate women of whom Europe is now full. The Mormons are right.

§ 371

In Hindustan no woman is ever independent, but each is under the guardianship of a father, husband, brother, or son, in accordance with the Law of Manu, chap. 5, 1. 148. That widows burn themselves on the corpses of their husbands is of course shocking; but that they squander on their lovers the fortune which has been acquired by the husband through the incessant hard work of a lifetime, and in the belief that he was working for his children, is also shocking. Mediam tenuere beati. [11] As in animals, so in man, the original maternal love is purely instinctive and therefore ceases with the physical helplessness of the children. In its place, there should then appear one based on habit and reasoning; but often it fails to appear, especially when the mother has not loved the father. The father's love for his children is of a different kind and is more enduring. It rests on his again recognizing in them his own innermost self and is thus of metaphysical origin.

With almost all ancient and modern races on earth, even with the Hottentots,* property is inherited merely by the male descendants; only in Europe has a departure been made from this, yet not with the nobility. Property acquired by the long and constant hard work of men subsequently passes into the hands of women who in their folly get through it or otherwise squander it in a short time. This is an enormity, as great as it is frequent, which should be prevented by restricting woman's right of inheritance. It seems that the best arrangement would be for women, whether as widows or daughters, always to inherit only a life annuity secured by mortgage, not landed property or capital, unless there are no male descendants at all. Those who earn and acquire wealth and property are men, not women; and therefore women are not entitled to their absolute possession, nor are they capable of managing them. At any rate, women should never be free to dispose of inherited property in the real sense, namely capital, houses, and land. They always need a guardian; and so in no case whatever should they receive the guardianship of their children. The vanity of women, even if it may not be greater than that of men, is bad because it is centred entirely on material things, on their personal beauty, and then on finery, pomp, and display; and hence society is so very much their element. This makes them inclined to extravagance, especially with their weak powers of reasoning; thus an ancient writer has said: [x] [12] (S. Brunck's Gnomici poetae graeci, 1. I 15). The vanity of men, on the other hand, is often centred on non-material virtues and merits, such as understanding, intellect, learning, courage, and the like. In the Politics, II. 9, Aristotle explains what great disadvantages arose for the Spartans from the fact that too much was conceded to their women who had the right of inheritance, the dowry, and great freedom and independence, and how all this greatly contributed to the decline of Sparta. Was not the ever-growing influence of women in France from the time of Louis XIII responsible for the gradual corruption of the court and government which produced the first revolution, the consequences of this being all the subsequent upheavals? At all events, a false position of the female sex, such as has its most acute symptom in our lady-business, is a fundamental defect of the state of society. Proceeding from the heart of this, it is bound to spread its noxious influence to all parts.

That woman by nature is meant to obey may be recognized from the fact that every woman placed in the position of complete independence, which to her is unnatural, at once attaches herself to some man by whom she allows herself to be guided and ruled, because she needs a master. If she is young, he is a lover and if old, a father confessor.

_______________

Notes:

1 ['Without women the beginning of our life would be cut off from help, the middle from pleasures, and the end from consolation.']

2 ['Woman is by nature extravagant.' (Menander, Monostichoi, 97.)]

3 ['Professional jealousy'; literally 'one potter's hatred of another'.]
 
4 ['Women in general do not like any art, are no judges of any, and have no genius.']

5 ['Let your women keep silence in the churches.' (I Corinthians, 14:34.)]

6 ['Nature makes no jumps (she proceeds very gradually from one species to another).']

7 ['The natural organization that woman has in her brain is not suitable for much intellect, or even for much learning ... in so far as woman keeps to her natural disposition, every kind of literature and knowledge is repugnant to her mind ... Women (on account of the frigidity and humidity peculiar to their sex), cannot attain to profound intellect; and we merely see them talk with a certain appearance of deftness about trivial and easy things.']

8 ['Women have no station in life.']

9 ['They are made to deal with our weaknesses, our folly, but not with our faculty of reason. Between them and men there is only a superficial sympathy and very little sympathy of mind, soul, and character.']

10 ['Inferior sex'.]

* Much greater, however, is the number of those who are in no position to marry. Each of such men produces an old maid who is often without means of subsistence and in any case is more or less unhappy, because she has missed the proper vocation of her sex. On the other hand, many a man has a wife who, soon after the marriage, contracts a chronic disease that lasts for thirty years; what is he to do? For another man his wife has become too old; for a third, his wife has now become thoroughly hateful to him. All these in Europe are not allowed to have a second wife, as indeed they are in the whole of Asia and Africa. If, in spite of the monogamous institution, a strong healthy man always [feels] his sexual impulse ... Haec nimis vulgaria et omnibus nota sunt.

['Such things, however, are trivial and known to all.']

* As regards the sexual relation, no continent is so immoral as Europe in consequence  of unnatural monogamy.

* Chez les Hottentots, tous les biens d'un pere descendent a l' arne des fils, au passent dans la meme famille au plus proche des males. Jamais ils ne sont divises, jamais les femmes ne sont appelees a la succession. (Ch. G. Leroy, Lettres philosophiques sur l'intelligence et la perfectibiliti des animaux, avec quelques lettres sur l'homme. Nouvelle Edit., Paris, an X (1802), page 298.)

['With the Hottentots all the property of a father passes to the eldest son, or in the same family to the nearest male relations. Never is it divided, and never do the women inherit it.']

11 ['The fortunate and happy keep to the mean.']

12 ['Woman is by nature extravagant.']
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Re: Parerga and Paralipomena: Short Philosophical Essays

Postby admin » Fri Feb 02, 2018 6:31 am

CHAPTER 28: On Education

§ 372

In consequence of the nature of our intellect, concepts should arise through abstraction from intuitive perceptions, and hence the latter should exist before the former. If this course is actually taken, as is the case with the man who has for his teacher and book merely his own experience, then he knows quite well what intuitive perceptions there are which belong to, and are represented by, each of his concepts. He knows both exactly, and accordingly deals accurately with everything that happens to him. We can call this way the natural education.

On the other hand, with artificial education, the head is crammed full of concepts by being lectured and taught and through reading, before there is yet any extended acquaintance with the world of intuitive perception. Experience is then supposed subsequently to furnish the intuitive perceptions to all those concepts; but until then, the latter are falsely applied and accordingly people and things are judged from the wrong point of view, seen in the wrong light, and treated in the wrong way. In this manner, education produces distorted and biased minds, which is the reason why in our youth, after much learning and reading, we enter the world partly as simpletons and partly as cranks, and then behave nervously at one moment and rashly at another. For our minds are full of concepts which we now attempt to apply, but almost invariably introduce in an ill-judged and absurd way. This is the consequence of that [x] [1] whereby we obtain first of all concepts and last of all intuitive perceptions, in direct opposition to the natural course of our mental development. For instead of developing in the child the capacity to discern, judge, and think for himself, teachers are merely concerned to cram his head full of the ready-made ideas of others. A long experience has then to correct all those judgements which have resulted from a false application of concepts. Seldom is this entirely successful; and thus very few scholars have the ordinary common sense that is frequently found among the quite illiterate.

§ 373

According to what has been said, the chief point in education is that an acquaintance with the world, to obtain which can be described as the purpose of all education, may be started at the right end. But this depends, as I have shown, mainly on the fact that in each thing intuitive perception precedes the concept; further that the narrower concept precedes the wider; and that the whole instruction thus takes place in the order in which the concepts of things presuppose one another. But as soon as in this sequence something is skipped, there result defective concepts and from these come false ones and finally a distorted view of the world peculiar to the individual, which almost everyone entertains for some time and many all their lives. Whoever applies the test to himself will discover that a correct or clear understanding of many fairly simple things and circumstances dawned on him only at a very mature age and sometimes quite suddenly. Till then there had been here in his acquaintance with the world an obscure point which had arisen from his skipping the subject in the early period of his education, whether such had been artificial through instructors or merely natural through his own experience.

Accordingly, one should try to examine the really natural sequence of knowledge, so that children may be made acquainted with the things and circumstances of the world methodically and in accordance with that sequence, without getting into their heads absurd ideas which often cannot again be dislodged. Here one would first have to prevent children from using words with which they did not associate any clear concept.* But the main point should be always that intuitive perceptions precede concepts, and not vice versa, as is usually and unfortunately the case; as if a child were to come into the world feet first, or a verse be written down rhyme first! Thus while the child's mind is still quite poor in intuitive perceptions, concepts and judgements, or rather prejudices, are impressed on it. He then applies this ready-made apparatus to intuitive perception and experience. Instead of this, the concepts and judgements should have crystallized out from intuitive perception and experience. Such perception is rich and varied and, therefore, cannot compete in brevity and rapidity with the abstract concept which is soon finished and done with everything; and so it will be a long time in correcting such preconceived notions, or perhaps it may never bring this to an end. For whichever of its aspects it shows to be contradictory to those preconceived notions, its declaration is rejected in advance as being one-sided, or is even denied; and people shut their eyes to it so that the preconceived notion may not come to any harm. And so it happens that many a man carries round throughout his life a burden of absurd notions, whims, crotchets, fancies, and prejudices that ultimately become fixed ideas. Indeed, he has never attempted to abstract for himself fundamental concepts from intuitive perception and experience, because he has taken over everything ready-made; and it isjust this that makes him and countless others so shallow and insipid. Therefore instead of this, the natural course of forming knowledge should be kept up in childhood. No concept must be introduced except by means of intuitive perception; at any rate it must not be substantiated without this. The child would then obtain few concepts, but they would be well grounded and accurate. He would then learn to measure things by his own standard instead of with someone else's. He would never conceive a thousand caprices and prejudices whose eradication is bound to require the best part of subsequent experience and the school of life; and his mind would once for all be accustomed to the thoroughness and clearness of its own judgement and freedom from prejudice.

Children generally should not become acquainted with life in every respect from the copy before getting to know it from the original. Therefore instead of hastening to place only books in their hands, let us make them gradually acquainted with things and human circumstances. Above all, we should endeavour to introduce them to a clear grasp of real life and to enable them to draw their concepts always directly from the world of reality. They should form such concepts in accordance with reality and not get them from anywhere else, from books, fairy-tales, or the talk of others, and subsequently apply them ready-made to real life. For in that case, their heads will be full of chimeras and to some extent they will falsely interpret reality, or vainly attempt to remodel it in accordance with such chimeras and thus go astray theoretically or even practically. For it is incredible how much harm is done by early implanted chimeras and by the prejudices arising therefrom. The later education which is given to us by the world and real life must then be used mainly for eradicating such prejudices. Even the answer, given by Antisthenes according to Diogenes Laertius, rests on this (VI. 7): [x]. (Interrogatus quaenam esset disciplina maxime necessaria, Mala, inquit, dediscere.) [2]

§ 374

Just because early imbibed errors are often deeply engraved and indelible and the power of judgement is the last thing to reach maturity, we should keep children up to the age of sixteen free from all theories and doctrines where there may be great errors. Thus they should be kept from all philosophy, religion, and general views of all kinds and be allowed to pursue only those subjects where either no errors are possible as in mathematics, or none is very dangerous as in languages, natural science, history, and so on. Generally they should at every age study only those branches of knowledge which are accessible and thoroughly intelligible thereto. Childhood and youth are the time for collecting data and making a special and thorough acquaintance with individual and particular things. On the other hand, judgement generally must still remain suspended and ultimate explanations be deferred. As power of judgement presupposes maturity and experience, it should be left alone and care should be taken not to anticipate it by inculcating prejudices, whereby it is for ever paralysed.

On the other hand, since memory is strongest and most tenacious in youth, it should be specially taxed; yet this should be done with the most careful selection and scrupulous forethought. For what is well learnt in youth sticks for all time; and so this precious faculty should be used for the greatest possible gain. If we call to mind how deeply engraved in our memory are those whom we knew in the first twelve years of our life and how the events of those years and generally most of what we experienced, heard, and learnt at the time, are also indelibly impressed on the memory, it is a perfectly natural idea to base education on that receptivity and tenacity of the youthful mind by strictly, methodically, and systematically guiding all impressions thereon in accordance with precept and rule. Now since only a few years of youth are allotted to man and the capacity of the memory generally, and even more so that of the individual, is always limited, it is all-important to fill it with what is most essential and vital in any branch of knowledge to the exclusion of everything else. This selection should be made and its results fixed and settled after the most mature deliberation by the most capable minds and masters in every branch of learning. Such a selection would have to be based on a sifting of what is necessary and important for a man to know generally and what is important and necessary for him in any particular profession or branch of knowledge. Again, knowledge of the first kind would have to be classified into graduated courses or encyclopedias, adapted to the degree of general education that is intended for everyone in accordance with his external circumstances. It would begin with a course limited to the barest primary education and end with the comprehensive list of all the subjects taught by the philosophical faculty. Knowledge of the second kind, however, would be left to the selection of the real masters in each branch. The whole would provide a specially-worked-out canon of intellectual education which would naturally need to be revised every ten years. Thus by such arrangements, youth's power of memory would be used to the greatest possible advantage and would furnish excellent material for the power of judgement when this subsequently appeared.

§ 375

Maturity of knowledge, that is, the perfection this can reach in every individual, consists in the fact that a precise connection has been brought about between all his abstract concepts and his intuitively perceiving faculty. Thus each of his concepts rests, directly or indirectly, on a basis of intuitive perception and only through this does such a concept have any real value. Moreover, this maturity consists in his being able to bring under the correct and appropriate concept every intuitive perception that happens to him; it is the work of experience alone and consequently of time. For as we often acquire our knowledge of intuitive perception and our abstract knowledge separately, the former in the natural way and the latter through instruction and what others tell us whether good or bad, there is often in our youth little agreement and connection between our concepts that are fixed by mere words and our real knowledge that has been obtained through intuitive perception. Only gradually do the two approach and mutually correct each other; and maturity of knowledge exists only when they have completely grown together. Such maturity is quite independent of the other greater or less perfection of everyone's abilities which rests not on the connection between abstract and intuitive knowledge, but on the intensive degree of both.

§ 376

For the practical man the most necessary study is the attainment of an exact and thorough knowledge of the real ways of the world. But it is also the most wearisome, since it continues until he is very old without his coming to the end of his study; whereas in the sciences he masters the most important facts when he is still young. In that knowledge the boy and the youth have to learn as novices the first and most difficult lessons; but even the mature man often has to make up for many lessons. This difficulty in itself is serious, but it is doubled by novels which describe a state of affairs and a course of human actions, such as, in fact, do not occur in real life. These are now accepted with the credulity of youth and are assimilated in the mind, whereby the place of mere negative ignorance is now taken by a whole tissue of false assumptions, as positive error, which afterwards confuses even the school of experience itself and causes the teachings thereof to appear in a false light. If previously the youth groped about in the dark, he is now misled by a will-o'-the-wisp; and even more often is this the case with a girl. Through novels a thoroughly false view of life is foisted on them and expectations have been aroused which can never be fulfilled. In many cases, this has the most pernicious influence on their whole life. In this respect, those who in their youth have had neither the time nor the opportunity to read novels, such as artisans, mechanics, and the like, have a decided advantage. There are a few novels which are exceptions and do not merit the above reproach; in fact they have the opposite effect. For example, we have above all Gil Blas and the other works of Le Sage (or rather their Spanish originals); then the Vicar of Wakefield, and to some extent the novels of Sir Walter Scott. Don Quixote may be regarded as a satirical presentation of that false path itself.

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Notes:

1 ['Confusion of the earlier with the later or of ground with consequent'.]

* Even children frequently have the fatal tendency to be satisfied with words  instead of trying to understand things, and a desire to learn by heart such words in  order to get themselves out of a difficulty when the occasion arises. Such tendency  afterwards remains when they grow up, and this is why the knowledge of many  scholars is mere verbiage.

2 ['When asked what was the most necessary thing to take up, he replied "to  unlearn what is bad"'.]
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Re: Parerga and Paralipomena: Short Philosophical Essays

Postby admin » Fri Feb 02, 2018 6:37 am

CHAPTER 29: On Physiognomy

§ 377

That the outer man is a graphic reproduction of the inner and the face the expression and revelation of his whole nature, is an assumption whose a priori nature and hence certainty are shown by the universal desire, plainly evident on every occasion, to see a man who has distinguished himself in something good or bad, or has produced an extraordinary work; or, failing this, at least to learn from others what he looks like. Therefore, on the one hand, people rush to the places where they think he is; on the other, newspapers, especially the English, endeavour to give minute and striking descriptions of him. Thereafter, painters and engravers give us a graphic representation of him and finally Daguerre's invention, so highly valued on that account, affords the most complete satisfaction of that need. Likewise in ordinary life, we all test the physiognomy of everyone we meet and secretly try to know in advance from his features his moral and intellectual nature. Now all this could not be the case if, as some foolish people imagine, a man's appearance were of no importance; if, in fact, the soul were one thing and the body another, the body being related to the soul as the coat to the man himself.

On the contrary, every human face is a hieroglyphic which can certainly be deciphered, in fact whose alphabet we carry about ready-made. As a rule, a man's face says more of interest than does his tongue; for it is the compendium of all that he will ever say, since it is the monogram of all this man's thoughts and aspirations. The tongue also expresses only the thoughts of one man, but the face expresses a thought of nature herself. Everyone is, therefore, worth attentive observation, although he may not be worth talking to. Now if every individual is worth looking at as a particular thought or idea of nature, so is beauty in the highest degree; for it is a higher and more general concept of nature, her idea of the species. This is why beauty so powerfully catches the eye; it is nature's principal and fundamental thought, whereas the individual is only a subordinate idea, a corollary.

All tacitly start from the principle that everyone is what he looks like. This principle is correct, but the difficulty lies in its application. The ability to apply it is partly innate and partly to be gained from experience; yet no one is master of it and even the most practised are caught unawares. However, whatever Figaro may say, the face does not lie; it is we who read from it what is not there. To decipher the face is certainly a great and difficult art and its principles can never be learnt in abstracto. The first condition is for us to look at our man with a purely objective eye, which is not so easy. Thus as soon as the slightest trace of dislike or affection, fear or hope, or even the thought of the impression we ourselves are making on him, in short, anything subjective, is mixed up with our view of him, the hieroglyphic becomes confused and false. Just as the sound of a language is heard only by the man who does not understand it, since otherwise the thing described would at once displace from consciousness the sign describing it, so a man's physiognomy is seen only by one who is still a stranger to him, in other words, has not become accustomed to his face by frequently seeing or even speaking to him. Accordingly, it is, strictly speaking, only at the first glance that we have the purely objective impression of a face and thus the possibility of deciphering it. Just as odours affect us only when they first occur and we obtain the taste of a wine really only with the first glass, so faces make their full impression on us only the first time. We should, therefore, pay careful attention to such impression and should make a note of it and even write it down in the case of those who are personally of importance to us, that is, if we can trust our own sense of physiognomy. Subsequent acquaintance and intercourse will obliterate that impression, but the sequel will one day confirm it.

Meanwhile, we will not conceal from ourselves the fact that that first sight is usually extremely unpleasant. But then how worthless the majority are! With the exception of beautiful, good-natured, and intellectual faces and thus of the exceedingly few and rare, I believe there will often be stirred in those of fine feelings a sensation akin to a shock at the sight of a new face, since it presents something unpleasant in a new and surprising combination. Actually it is, as a rule, a sorry sight. Indeed, there are some whose faces bear the stamp of so naIve a vulgarity and baseness of character, as well as such animal limitation of intelligence, that one wonders how they like to go about with such a face and not prefer to wear a mask. In fact, there are faces the mere sight of which makes us feel defiled. And so we cannot blame those whose privileged position permits them to withdraw and cut themselves off so that they are entirely removed from the painful sensation of 'seeing new faces'. With the metaphysical explanation of the matter, one must also take into account the fact that everyone's individuality is precisely that whereby he is to be reclaimed and corrected through his existence itself. On the other hand, if we wish to be satisfied with the psychological explanation, let us ask ourselves what kind of physiognomy we are to expect from those in whose hearts there has very rarely arisen throughout their lives anything but petty, mean, and miserable thoughts, and vulgar, selfish, envious, wicked, and malicious desires. Each of these has set its mark on the face during the time that it lasted. Through much repetition, all these marks have in the course of time become deeply wrinkled and furrowed, so to speak. Therefore the sight of most men is such that they startle us when we first see them and only gradually do we become accustomed to such faces, that is, so dead to their impression, that it no longer has any effect on us.

But that slow process of forming the permanent facial expression through innumerable, fleeting, and characteristic strainings and contractions of the features is the very reason why intellectual countenances are only of gradual formation. Only in old age do men of intellect attain their exalted expression, whereas the portraits of them in their youth show only the first traces of this. On the other hand, what I have just said about the first shock is in keeping with the previous remark that only the first time does a face make its true and full impression. Thus to get a purely objective and genuine impression, we must not yet stand in any relation to the person; in fact, where possible, we must not yet have spoken to him. For every conversation puts us to some extent on a friendly footing, introduces a certain rapport, a mutual subjective relation, and this has at once a detrimental effect on the objective nature of our perception. Moreover, as everyone is anxious to gain for himself esteem or friendship, so will the man to be observed at once apply all the different arts of dissimulation already familiar to him. With his airs he will play the hypocrite, flatter us, and thereby so corrupt us that soon we shall no longer see what the first glance had clearly shown us. Accordingly, it is then said that' most people gain on closer acquaintance', yet it should be 'delude on closer acquaintance'. But when serious instances later occur, the judgement of our first glance is often justified and scornfully vindicates itself. If, on the other hand, the' closer acquaintance' is at once hostile, it will not be found that men have gained thereby. Another cause of the so-called gain on closer acquaintance is that, as soon as we converse with the man whose first sight warned us of him, he no longer shows us merely his own true nature and character, but also his education, that is, not merely what he really is by nature, but also what he has appropriated to himself from the common property of the whole of mankind. Three-quarters of what he says do not belong to him, but have come to him from without. We are then often surprised to hear such a Minotaur speak so humanly. But if we come to an even 'closer acquaintance', his 'bestiality', promised by his face, will soon 'make a brilliant revelation'.[1] Whoever is gifted with a keen sense of physiognomy must, therefore, carefully note its utterances which preceded all closer acquaintance and were thus pure and genuine. For a man's face states exactly what he is, and if it deceives us, the fault is ours not his. On the other hand, a man's words say merely what he thinks, more often only what he has learnt, or even what he merely pretends to think. There is also the fact that, when we speak to him, or merely hear him speak to others, we disregard his real physiognomy since we ignore it as the substratum, as that which is positively given, and note merely its pathognomical side, the play of his features when he is speaking; but he so arranges this aspect that the good side is always turned outwards.

Now when Socrates said to a young man who was introduced to him for the purpose of having his abilities tested: 'Speak so that I may see you', he was indeed right (assuming that by 'seeing' he understood not merely 'hearing'), in so far as, only when a man speaks, do his features especially his eyes become animated and his intellectual resources and abilities set their mark on the play of his countenance. In this way, we are then in a position to make a provisional estimate of the degree and capacity of his intelligence, which was precisely the aim of Socrates. On the other hand, it must be emphasized first that this does not extend to the man's moral qualities which lie deeper, and secondly that what we gain objectively in the clearer development of his countenance through the play of his features when we speak to him, we again lose subjectively through the personal relation into which he at once enters with us and which produces a slight fascination; and this, as I have already explained, does not leave us dispassionate and unprejudiced. Therefore from this last point of view, it might be more correct to say: 'Do not speak so that I may see you.'

For to get a pure and fundamental conception of a man's physiognomy, we must observe him when he is alone and left to himself. Society of every kind and conversation with others cast on him a reflection which is not his own and is often to his advantage, since he is set going by action and reaction and thereby becomes flushed. On the other hand, alone and left to himself, plunged in the depths of his own thoughts and sensations, only then is he entirely and absolutely himself. A penetrating eye for physiognomy can then take in at a glance a general view of his entire inner nature. For in and by itself, his face bears the stamp of the fundamental tone of all his thoughts and aspirations, the arret irrevocable [2] of what he has to be and of which he is wholly aware only when he is alone.

The study of physiognomy is, therefore, one of the principal means to a knowledge of mankind, since in the narrower sense it is the only thing wherein the arts of dissimulation are not enough; for only mimicry, the pathognomical, lies within their province. For this reason, I recommend that we observe everyone when he is alone and is given up to his own thoughts and before anyone has spoken to him. One of the reasons for this is that only then do we have before us, pure and unalloyed, the physiognomical element, since in conversation the pathognomical at once slips in, and he then applies all the arts of dissimulation he has learnt by heart. Another reason is that every personal relation, even the most fleeting, makes us biased and thus subjectively vitiates our judgement.

I have still to observe that, on the path of physiognomy generally, it is much easier to discover a man's intellectual abilities than his moral character. Thus they tend to have a much more outward direction and have their expression not only in the face and the play of its features, but also in the gait, in every movement in fact, however slight. It might be possible to distinguish from behind a blockhead, a fool, and a man of intellect. The blockhead would be characterized by a leaden sluggishness of all his movements; folly is stamped on every gesture; so too are intellect and a studious nature. The words of La Bruyere are based on this: Il n'y a rien de si delie, de si simple, et de si imperceptible, ou ils n'y entrent des manieres qui nous dicelent: un sot ni n' entre, ni ne sort, ni ne s' assied, ni ne se leve, ni ne se tait, ni n'est sur ses jambes, comme un homme d'esprit. [3] This, incidentally, is the explanation of that instinct sur et prompt [4] which, according to Helvetius, commonplace minds have for the purpose of recog!lizing and running away from men of intellect. But the matter itself rests primarily on the fact that the larger and more developed the brain and the thinner in relation thereto the spinal cord and nerves, the greater are the intelligence and also at the same time the mobility and suppleness of all the limbs. For these are then controlled by the brain more directly and definitely, and consequently everything is drawn more on a single thread whereby the purpose of every movement is precisely expressed therein. The whole thing is analogous to, and indeed connected with, the fact that, the higher an animal stands in the scale of beings, the more easily it can be killed by injury to a single spot. Take for example the batrachia and see how sluggish, lethargic, and slow they are in their movements; they are also unintelligent and at the same time extremely tenacious of life. All this is explained from the fact that in spite of a very small brain, they have very thick spinal cord and nerves. Generally speaking, gait and movement of the arms are mainly a function of the brain because, by means of the nerves of the spinal cord, the external limbs obtain their movement, and even the smallest modification thereof, from the brain. This is why voluntary and arbitrary movements fatigue us and like the pain, such fatigue has its seat in the brain, not, as we imagine, in the limbs themselves; and it therefore induces sleep. On the other hand, movements of organic life, of the heart, lungs, and so on, which are not stimulated by the brain and are, therefore, spontaneous and involuntary, proceed without causing fatigue. Now as the one brain is concerned with both thinking and controlling the limbs, the character of its activity is expressed in the one as in the other, according to the individual's constitution; stupid people move like automata, whereas in those of intellect every joint is eloquent. Mental qualities, however, are not nearly so well recognized from gestures and movements as they are from the face, the shape and size of the brow, the contraction and mobility of the features, and above all the eye, ranging from the small, dull, lustreless pig's eye through all gradations up to the radiant and flashing eye of the genius. The look of sagacity and prudence, even of the most acute, differs from that of genius in that the former bears the stamp of service to the will, whereas the latter is free therefrom. One can accordingly well believe the anecdote which is narrated by Squarzafichi in his life of Petrarch and is taken from Joseph Brivius, a contemporary of the poet. Once at the court of the Visconti when Petrarch was present with many noblemen and gentlemen, Galeazzo Visconti told his son who was then still a boy and later became the first Duke of Milan, to pick out the wisest of those present. The boy looked at them all for a while, then seized Petrarch by the hand, and led him to his father, to the great admiration of all present. For so clearly does nature set the seal of her dignity on the privileged of mankind, that a child recognizes it. I would, therefore, like to advise my discriminating countrymen that, when they again feel inclined to trumpet abroad for thirty years a commonplace head as a great mind, they will not choose for the purpose such a publican's physiognomy as Hegel's, on whose countenance nature had written in her most legible handwriting the words 'commonplace fellow', so familiar to her.

Now the question concerning the intellectual is different from that of the moral, the man's character, which physiognomically is much more difficult to recognize. Being metaphysical, it lies incomparably deeper and, indeed, is connected with the constitution and the organism, yet not so directly with a definite part and system thereof as is the intellect. There is also the fact that, whereas everyone openly exhibits and endeavours on every occasion to show his intellect as something with which he is generally satisfied, moral qualities are rarely exposed quite freely to the light of day, but are often intentionally concealed. Long practice in this makes a man a great master of the art. But, as I have explained, evil thoughts and unworthy aspirations gradually leave their mark on the face, especially in the eyes. Accordingly, if we judge by physiognomy, we can easily guarantee that a man will never produce an immortal work, but not that he will never commit a serious crime.

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Notes:

1 [From Goethe's Faust, Pt. I.]

2 ['Irrevocable decree' (Legal term).]
 
3 ['There is nothing so subtle, so simple, and so imperceptible wherein manners and demean our are not to be found which reveal and betray us. A blockhead cannot enter, go out, sit down, get up, be quiet, or stand on his feet as can a man of intelligence.']

4 ['Sure and prompt instinct'.]
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Re: Parerga and Paralipomena: Short Philosophical Essays

Postby admin » Fri Feb 02, 2018 6:40 am

CHAPTER 30: On Din and Noise

§ 378

Kant wrote an essay on the living forces; but I would like to write a dirge and threnode thereon, for their excessively frequent use in knocking, hammering, and banging has been throughout my life a daily torment to me. There are certainly those, quite a number in fact, who smile at such things because they are not sensitive to noise. Yet they are the very people who are also not sensitive to arguments, ideas, poetry, and works of art, in short, to mental impressions of every kind; for this is due to the toughness and solid texture of their brain substance. On the other hand, in the biographies or other accounts of the personal statements of almost all great authors, such as Kant, Goethe, Lichtenberg, Jean Paul, I find complaints about the torture which thinkers have to endure from noise. If such complaints are not to be found in some authors, this is merely because the context did not lead up to them. I explain the matter as follows. A large diamond cut up into pieces is equal in value to just so many small ones; and an army dispersed and scattered, in other words disbanded into small bodies, is no longer capable of anything. In the same way a great mind is no more capable than an ordinary one, the moment it is interrupted, disturbed, distracted, and diverted. For its superiority is conditioned by its concentrating all its powers, as does a concave mirror all its rays, on to one point and object; and it is precisely here that it is prevented by a noisy interruption. This is why eminent minds have always thoroughly disliked every kind of disturbance, interruption, and diversion, but above all the violent disturbance caused by din and noise. Others, on the contrary, are not particularly upset by such things. The most sensible and intelligent of all European nations has even laid down an eleventh commandment, the rule 'never interrupt!' [1] Din is the most impertinent of all forms of interruption, for it interrupts, in fact disrupts, even our own thoughts. However, where there is nothing to interrupt, din will naturally not be particularly felt. At times, I am tormented and disturbed for a while by a moderate and constant noise before I am clearly conscious thereof, since I feel it merely as a constant increase in the difficulty of thinking, like a weight tied to my foot, until I become aware of what it is.

Passing now from the genus to the species, I have to denounce as the most inexcusable and scandalous noise the truly infernal cracking of whips in the narrow resounding streets of towns; for it robs life of all peace and pensiveness. Nothing gives me so clear an idea of the apathy, stupidity, and thoughtlessness of men as the toleration of this whip-cracking. This sudden sharp crack which paralyses the brain, tears and rends the thread of reflection and murders all thoughts, must be painfully felt by anyone who carries in his head anything resembling an idea. All such cracks must, therefore, disturb hundreds in their mental activity, however humble its nature; but they shoot through a thinker's meditations as painfully and fatally as the executioner's axe cuts the head from the body. No sound cuts through the brain so sharply as does this cursed whip-cracking; one feels in one's brain the very sting of the lash and it affects the brain as does touch the mimosa pudica, and lasts as long. With all due respect to the most sacred doctrine of utility, I really do not see why a fellow, fetching a cart-load of sand or manure, should thereby acquire the privilege of nipping in the bud every idea that successively arises in ten thousand heads (in the course of half an hour's journey through a town). Hammering, the barking of dogs, and the screaming of children are terrible, but the real murderer of ideas is only the crack of a whip. It is meant to crush every good moment for meditation which anyone may at times have. If to urge on draught animals there existed no means other than this most abominable of all noises, there would be some excuse for it, but quite the contrary is the case. This cursed whip-cracking is not only unnecessary, but even useless. Thus the intended psychic effect on the horses is entirely blunted and fails to occur because, through constant abuse of the whip, they have grown accustomed thereto. The horses, accordingly, do not go any faster; and this is also seen especially in the case of cabmen who are on the look-out for a fare and incessantly crack their whips while driving at the slowest pace. The slightest touch of the whip has more effect. But assuming that it were absolutely necessary constantly to remind the horses of the whip's presence by sounding it, then a sound a hundred times quieter would suffice for the purpose. For it is well known that animals notice the slightest scarcely perceptible indications, both audible and visible, the most surprising examples being furnished by trained dogs and canaries. Accordingly, the matter proves to be a piece of pure wantonness and in fact an insolent disregard for those who work with their heads on the part of those members of the community who work with their hands. That such an infamy is tolerated in towns is a crude barbarity and an iniquity, the more so as it could very easily be stopped by a police order to the effect that every whip-cord should have a knot at the end. There can be no harm in drawing the attention of the proletarians to the mental work of the classes above them, for they have a mortal dread of all such work. A fellow who rides through the narrow streets of a populous town with free post-horses or on a free cart-horse, or even accompanies animals on foot, and keeps on cracking with all his might a whip several yards long, deserves to be taken down at once and given five really good cuts with a stick. All the philanthropists in the world, and all the legislative assemblies which on good grounds abolish all corporal punishment, will not persuade me to the contrary. But something even worse can often enough be seen, namely a carter who, alone and without horses, walks through the streets and incessantly cracks his whip. This fellow has become so accustomed to the crack of a whip, thanks to inexcusable leniency and toleration. With the universal tenderness [or the body and all its gratifications, is the thinking mind to be the only thing that never experiences the slightest consideration or protection, to say nothing of respect? Carters, porters, messengers, and the like are the beasts of burden of the human community; they should certainly be treated humanely with justice, fairness, consideration, and care, but they should not be allowed to thwart the higher endeavours of the human race by wantonly making a noise. I would like to know how many great and fine thoughts have already been cracked out of the world by these whips. If I had to give an order, there would soon be established in the heads of carmen an indelible nexus idearum [2] between cracking a whip and getting a whipping. Let us hope that the more intelligent and refined nations will make a start in this direction and that, by way of example, the Germans will then be made to follow suit.* Meanwhile, Thomas Hood (Up the Rhine) says: 'For a musical people, they are the most noisy I ever met with.' That they are so, however, is not due to their being more inclined than others to make a noise, but to the apathy and insensibility (the result of obtuseness) of those who have to listen to it. They are not thereby disturbed in their thinking or reading for the very reason that they do not think, but merely smoke, such being for them a substitute for thinking. The universal toleration of unnecessary noise, for example the extremely vulgar and ill-mannered slamming of doors, is simply a sign of mental bluntness and a general want of thought. In Germany it seems as though it were positively the intention that no one should come to his senses on account of noise; pointless drumming, for example.

Finally, as regards the literature that deals with the subject of this chapter, I can recommend only one work, but it is a fine one, namely a poetical epistle in terze rime by the famous painter Bronzino entitled De' romori, a Messer Luca Martini. Here a detailed and amusing description is given in a tragicomic style of the torment that one has to endure from the many different noises of an Italian town. This epistle is found on page 258 of the second volume of the Opere burlesche del Berni, Aretino ed altri, apparently published at Utrecht in 177I.

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Notes:

1 [Schopenhauer's actual words.]

* According to a Bekanntmaehung des Miinchener Thiersehutzvereins of Dec. 1858, unnecessary whipping and cracking of whips are most strictly forbidden in Nuremberg.

2 [' Association of ideas'.]
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Re: Parerga and Paralipomena: Short Philosophical Essays

Postby admin » Fri Feb 02, 2018 6:46 am

CHAPTER 31: Similes, Parables, and Fables

§ 379

The concave mirror can be used for many different similes; for example, it can be compared to genius, as has been done already, in so far as this too concentrates its force on to one spot in order, like the mirror, to cast outwards a deceptive but embellished picture of things, or generally to add light and warmth to astonishing effects. The elegant scholar of varied learning, on the other hand, is like the convex diverging mirror which simultaneously displays just beneath its surface all objects and also a reduced image of the sun, and casts these at everyone in all directions. The concave mirror, on the other hand, is effective in only one direction and requires that the person looking at it shall take up a definite position.

In the second place, every genuine work of art can be compared to a concave mirror in so far as what it really communicates is not its own tangible self, its empirical substance, but something lying outside it which cannot be grasped with the hands, but only pursued by the imagination, as the real spirit of the thing that is hard to catch. In this connection see my chief work volume ii, chapter 34.

Finally, a despairing lover may also compare his heartless beloved epigrammatically to a concave mirror. Like her it shines, kindles, and consumes, yet itself remains cold.

§ 380

Switzerland is like a genius; beautiful and elevated; yet little suited to bearing nutritious fruits. On the other hand, Pomerania and the fens of Holstein are extremely fertile and productive, but flat, tedious, and dull, like useful Philistines.

§ 380a

In a field of ripening corn I stood at a spot where some thoughtless foot had trampled a gap. There amid the countless heavy-eared cornstalks, all exactly alike and perfectly straight, I saw a variety of blue, red, and violet flowers which in their natural setting and with their foliage were very beautiful to look at. But, I thought, they are useless, unproductive, and really mere weeds, which are only tolerated here because they cannot be got rid of. Yet it is they alone that lend beauty and charm to this scene. Thus their role is in every respect the same as that played by poetry and the fine arts in serious, useful, and productive civil life; and so they can be regarded as the emblem of these.

§ 381

There are on earth some really beautiful landscapes; but in them human affairs and figures are everywhere in a bad way, and so one must not dwell on them.

§ 381a

A town with architectural embellishments, monuments, obelisks, fountains, and so on, and yet having wretched and miserable pavements, as is usual in Germany, resembles a woman who is decked out in gold and jewelry, but wears a tattered and dirty dress. If you want to make your towns as beautiful as those of Italy, then first pave them as the Italians pave theirs. Incidentally, do not put statues on pedestals as tall as houses, but in this respect copy the Italians.

§ 382

We should take the fly as the symbol of brazen impudence and effrontery. For whereas all animals are more afraid of man than of anything else and get as far away from him as possible, the fly sits on his nose.

§ 383

Two Chinamen in Europe went to the theatre for the first time. One was busy endeavouring to understand the working of the machinery and succeeded in his efforts. The other, in spite of his ignorance of the language, tried to unravel the meaning of the piece. The astronomer resembles the former, the philosopher the latter.

§ 384

I stood on a mercury trough and with an iron ladle drew off a few drops. I threw them up and again caught them in the ladel. When I missed, they fell back into the trough and nothing was lost except their momentary form; and so success and failure left me somewhat indifferent. Thus is the natura naturans or inner nature of all things related to the life and death of individuals.

§ 385

Wisdom that exists in a man only theoretically without becoming practical is like a double rose which by its colour and perfume delights others, but drops away and dies without going to seed.

No rose without a thorn. But many a thorn without a rose.

§ 386

The dog is quite rightly the symbol of faithfulness; but among plants the fir-tree should be. For it alone stays with us in fine weather as in foul. It does not forsake us when the sun withdraws his favours, as do all the other trees, plants, insects, and birds, to return when the heavens again smile at us.

§ 386a

Behind a wide-spreading apple-tree in full bloom, a straight fir-tree raised its dark and tapering head. Said the apple-tree to the fir: 'Look at the thousands of gay blossoms that completely cover me! What have you to show by comparison? Dark green needles!' 'That is quite true', replied the fir, 'but when winter comes, you will be denuded of your foliage and I shall be as I am now.'

§ 387

As I was botanizing one day under an oak, I found among the other plants and of the same height as they one which was dark in colour and had tightly closed leaves and a straight stiff stem. When I touched it, it said to me in a firm voice: 'Leave me alone! I am not a plant for your herbarium as are the others to whom nature has granted only one year of life. My life is measured in centuries, for I am a little oak tree.' It is the same for the man whose effect is to endure for centuries. As a child, a youth, or often even as a man, and indeed throughout his life, he appears to be like his fellows and is just as unimportant as they. But let time come and bring those who will appreciate him! He will not die like the others.

§ 388

I came across a wild flower, marvelled at its beauty and at the perfection of all its parts, and exclaimed: 'But all this in you and in thousands like you blossoms and fades; it is not noticed by anyone and in fact is often not even seen by any eye.' But the flower replied: ' You fool! Do you imagine I blossom in order to be seen? I blossom for my own sake because it pleases me, and not for the sake of others; my joy and delight consist in my being and in my blossoming.'

§ 389

At the time when the earth's surface still consisted of an even and uniform crust of granite and no germ as yet existed for the formation of any living thing, the sun rose one morning. Iris, the messenger of the gods, came flying along in the name of Juno and, while hurrying past, exclaimed to the sun: 'Why do you bother to rise? There exists no eye to perceive you and no pillar of Memnon to resound!' To which he replied: 'But I am the sun and I rise because it is I; let anyone see me who can!'

§ 390

A beautiful, verdant, and flowering oasis looked around and saw nothing but the desert. In vain did she try to perceive another like herself and burst out lamenting: 'Luckless and lonely oasis that I am! I must remain alone! Nowhere is there the like of me! Nowhere is there even an eye that would see me and rejoice in my meadows, springs, palm trees, and shrubs! Nothing surrounds me but the dreary lifeless desert of sand and rock! Of what use to me in my loneliness are my excellent qualities, beauties, and riches?'

The old grey mother desert then replied: ' My child, if things were different, if I were not the dreary arid desert, but were flourishing, green, and covered with life, then you would not be an oasis, a favoured spot, whereof the traveller speaks highly while he is still far off. On the contrary, you would be just a small part of me and, as such, insignificant and unnoticed. And so endure with patience that which is the condition of your distinction and glory.'

§ 391

Whoever ascends in a balloon does not feel himself rise, but sees the earth sink more and more beneath him. What can this be? A mystery that is understood only by those who share the feeling.

§ 392

As regards the estimation of a man's greatness, opposite laws apply to mental and physical greatness. Through distance the latter is diminished, whereas the former is enlarged.

§ 393

Nature has covered all things with the varnish of beauty, just as she has breathed a delicate bloom on dark plums. Painters and poets are most anxious to strip off this varnish in order to store it up and offer it to us to be enjoyed at our leisure. We then greedily take it in before we enter into real life. But when subsequently we do enter it, it is then natural for us to see things stripped of that varnish with which nature had covered them. For the artists have used it all up and we have enjoyed it in advance. Accordingly, things now seem to us unfriendly and devoid of charm; in fact they are often repulsive. It would be better, therefore, to leave that varnish on things, so that we should find it for ourselves. It is true that we should then not enjoy it all at once in large doses, accumulated in the form of complete paintings or poems. Instead of this, we should see all things in that serene and beautiful light in which even now a child of nature sometimes sees them, one who has not, by means of the fine arts, enjoyed in advance his aesthetic pleasures and the charm of life.

§ 394

Mainz cathedral is so shut in by the houses built round it, that there is no spot from which we can see it as a whole. To me this is a symbol of everything great and beautiful in the world, which should exist only for its own sake, but is soon misused by needs and wants. These come from all directions in order to lean on it and support themselves by it; and in this way they mask it and spoil its effect. Naturally this is not surprising in a world of want and need to which everything must always be of service and which seize on all things for the purpose of making their instruments. Not even that is excepted which could have been produced only by their momentary absence. I refer to beauty and to the truth that is sought for its own sake.

We find a special illustration and confirmation of this when we consider the institutions, great and small, rich and poor, which are founded in all ages and countries for the maintenance and advancement of human knowledge and generally of those intellectual efforts that ennoble our race. Wherever such institutions may be, it is not long before crude animal wants and needs stealthily approach in order to get possession of the emoluments that are allotted for the purpose, under the pretence of wanting to serve those ends. This is the origin of the charlatanry that is frequently met with in all branches of knowledge. However varied the forms it takes, its true nature is that the charlatan cares nothing for the subject itself, but strives merely for the semblance thereof, for the sake of his own personal, egoistical, and material ends.

§ 395

For the education and improvement of her children a mother had given them Aesop's fables to read. But they very soon returned the book to her and the eldest, wise beyond his years, expressed himself as follows: 'This is no book for us! It is far too childish and stupid. No longer can we be made to believe that foxes, wolves, and ravens can speak; we have long since got beyond such stuff!' Who does not recognize in these young hopefuls the enlightened rationalists of the future?

§ 396

One cold winter's day, a number of porcupines huddled together quite closely in order through their mutual warmth to prevent themselves from being frozen. But they soon felt the effect of their quills on one another, which made them again move apart. Now when the need for warmth once more brought them together, the drawback of the quills was repeated so that they were tossed between two evils, until they had discovered the proper distance from which they could best tolerate one another. Thus the need for society which springs from the emptiness and monotony of men's lives, drives them together; but their many unpleasant and repulsive qualities and insufferable drawbacks once more drive them apart. The mean distance which they finally discover, and which enables them to endure being together, is politeness and good manners. Whoever does not keep to this, is told in England to 'keep his distance'. By virtue thereof, it is true that the need for mutual warmth will be only imperfectly satisfied, but, on the other hand, the prick of the quills will not be felt. Yet whoever has a great deal of internal warmth of his own will prefer to keep away from society in order to avoid giving or receiving trouble and annoyance.
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Re: Parerga and Paralipomena: Short Philosophical Essays

Postby admin » Fri Feb 02, 2018 6:56 am

SOME VERSES

I am conscious of an act of self-denial in offering to the public verses that cannot claim to have any poetical merit, for it is not possible to be simultaneously a poet and a philosopher. It is done simply for the benefit of those who, in the course of time, will take so lively an interest in my philosophy that they will want to have some personal acquaintance with its author; but it will then no longer be possible to make this. Now as a man under the guise of metre and rhyme ventures to show his true subjective inner nature more freely in poems than in prose, and generally communicates his feelings in a more purely human and personal way, at any rate in a manner quite different from that of philosophemes, and thus to some extent comes nearer to the reader, so to those of the future who will take an interest in my work I make the sacrifice of setting down here some attempts at poetry, mainly from the years of my youth. I do so in the expectation that they will feel grateful, and here I request the others to regard this as a private matter between us which here happens to be made public. To have verses printed is in literature what singing solo is in company, namely an act of personal sacrifice. It is solely the foregoing consideration that has induced me to do this.

Weimar, 1808
Sonnet


Perpetual winter's night will never end;
And tarries the sun as though he ne'er would come;
The tempest emulates the hooting owls;
And weapons clank on crumbling walls.
And open tombs their ghosts dispatch:
And spread around, they try to scare my soul,
That it may never be redeemed;-
Yet to them I will not turn my gaze.
The day, the day I will with strident voice proclaim!
Night and ghosts from it will flee:
The morning star is ushering it in.
Soon it is light e'en in the darkest depths:
Radiant colour will the world suffuse,
And boundless space is bathed in brightest blue.

Rudolstadt, 1813
The Rocks in the Valley of Schwarzburg


As I was strolling one sunny day alone in the vale of the woodland hill,
I saw the jagged crags grey and torn from the throng of the forest's offspring.
Behold through the murmuring foaming sylvan brook a mighty rock the others greets:
'Brothers, oldest sons of creation, rejoice with me that today
The light of the quickening sun plays round us warmly and graciously
As when at first he rose and warned us on the birthday of the world.
Many a lingering winter has vested us with a cap of snow and beard of icicles.
Many of our mighty brethren have since been deeply covered and engulfed
By the common foe, thick-growing plants,- fleeting sons of time,
For ever pullulating anew.
Alas, those mighty brethren are for ever robbed of that fair light
They saw with us aeons before this brood of plants from putrefaction came.
Brothers, this brood pushes and presses on all sides
And threatens us with ruin and decay. Stand and hold fast with all your strength;
Unite and raise your heads to the sun,
That he may long throw light on you!'

Sunbeam through Cloud and Storm

How peaceful thou art in the storm that bends and scatters all,
Ray of the bright and warming sun, firm, unshaken, and calm!
Smiling like thee, gentle, firm, and eternally clear like thee,
The sage is calm and serene in the storm and stress of troubled and tormented life.

Morning in the Harz

Heavy with mist and black with cloud,
The Harz did wear a sombre look;
Grey and lowering did the world appear.-
And then came forth the sun to smile,
And all was filled with mirth and love.
He hovers on the mountain slope,
And there he rests in peace and calm,
In deep and blissful rapture.
And then he shines on mountain top,
And circles round the crest;
How he is cherished by the peak!

Dresden, 1815
To the Sistine Madonna


She bears him to the world, and startled
He beholds the chaos of its abominations,
The frenzy and fury of its turmoil,
The never-cured folly of its striving,
The never-stilled pain of its distress,-
Startled: yet calm and confident hope and
Triumphant glory radiate from his eye, already
Heralding the abiding certainty of salvation.

1819
Bold Verses


(written on the journey from Naples to Rome in April 1819. My chief work had appeared in November 1818)

From long and deeply harboured pains 'twas unfolded from my very heart.
Long did I strive to hold it firm; and yet I know success is finally mine.
Howe'er you view the work, its life you cannot imperil.
It you may hold up but never will destroy.
Posterity will erect a monument to me.

1820
To Kant*


With my eyes I followed thee into the blue sky,
And there thy flight dissolved from view.
Alone I stayed in the crowd below,
Thy word and thy book my only solace.-
Through the strains of thy inspiring words
I sought to dispel the dreary solitude.

Strangers on all sides surround me.
The world is desolate and life interminable.
(Unfinished.)

Berlin, 1829
The Riddle of Turandot [1]


'Tis a goblin engaged to serve us,
To aid us in our many cares and wants.
In ruin we should all have died,
Were he not daily at our beck and call.
Yet training we must strictly have to steer him
That his strength may be always shackled.
Not for one hour dare we let him out of sight or mind.
For devilish ruse and perfidy are his way.
Mischief he broods and treachery he plots.
Our life and luck he ensnares
And slowly the grisly deed he prepares.
If he succeeds in bursting his chains,
And is rid of his long-lamented fetters,
He hastens to avenge the thraldom,
And his rage is equal to his joy.
Then he is master and we are his slaves.
And now we vainly try to regain our ancient rights.
The curb is off and the spell is broken.
The slave's wild fury is unleashed,
And now fills all with terror and death.
In a brief span and a few short hours of horror
It greedily devours the master and his house.

1830
The Lydian Stone, a Fable


On a black stone the gold was rubbed,
Yet no yellow streak was left.
"'Tis not fine gold!" they all exclaimed.
And as base metal it was cast aside.
'Twas later found that this black stone
Despite its colour no touchstone was.
The gold unearthed was now to honour restored.
Genuine stone alone can genuine gold essay.

1831
The Flower Vase


'Behold, only for a few days or hours do we bloom',
Exclaimed a lustrous bunch of flowers.
'Yet to be so near to Orcus strikes us not with terror.
At all times we exist and have like thee eternal life.'

Frankfurt am Main, 1837

In a copy of the tragedy Numancia by Cervantes which I picked up at an auction, the previous owner had written the following sonnet by A. W. von Schlegel. After reading the tragedy I wrote beside the sonnet the stanza and called it 'Chest-voice', the former being called 'Falsetto' .

Falsetto

Wearied with endless battles Rome's legions
Were by Numancia fearlessly and freely opposed.
The hour of invincible fate was drawing nigh,
As Scipio was training his warriors afresh.
Arms favour not the brave, surrounded by bastions and pining away.
In league with death and to rob the triumph of its spoils,
They dedicate themselves and wife and child
To the yawning chasm of a flame.
Thus falling a victim does Hispania triumph.
Worthily buskined and having shed their blood
Her heroes proudly wander to the shades below.
He weeps whom neither Libya nor Hyrcania bred;
Here on the last Numantian's urn wept the last of Rome.

-- A. W. v. Schlegel.

Chest-voice

A city's suicide has Cervantes here portrayed.
When all is broken and destroyed,
A return to nature's fount is all we have.

1845
Antistrophe to the 73rd Venetian Epigram


I need not marvel that dogs by many are maligned;
For alas too often does the dog put man to shame.

1857
Power of Attraction


Wilt thou waste wit and wisdom to gain a retinue of men?
Give them what's good to gorge and guzzle,
And they will throng to thee in crowds.

1856
Finale


I now stand weary at the end of the road;
The jaded brow can hardly bear the laurel.
And yet I gladly see what I have done,
Ever undaunted by what others say.

_______________

Notes:

* 'When Kant died, it was one of those clear and cloudless days, of which we have only a few. Only a small light speck of cloud floated in the zenith of the azure blue sky. It was related that a soldier drew the attention of all on the Schmiedebrucke with these words: "Look, there is Kant's soul soaring to heaven!'" (C. F. Reusch, Kant und seine Tischgenossen, p. 11.)

1 [See Gerhard Klamp's remarks in Schopenhauer-Jahrbuch, xlii. 121-4.]
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Re: Parerga and Paralipomena: Short Philosophical Essays

Postby admin » Fri Feb 02, 2018 7:15 am

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

Works of Schopenhauer

German Editions:


Schopenhauers samtliche Werke. Ed. Paul Deussen. 13 vols. Munich: R. Piper, 1911-42.

Schopenhauers samtliche Werke. Ed. Arthur Hubscher. 7 vols. Wiesbaden: F. A. Brockhaus, 1946-50. The best edition for scholars and students.

Schopenhauers handschriftlicher Nachlass. Ed. Arthur Hubscher. 5 vols. Frankfurt am Main: Waldemar Kramer, 1966-. (vols. 1, 2, 3, and 5 already published.)

Translations:

On the Fourfold Root of the Principle of Sufficient Reason. Trans. E. F. J. Payne. La Salle, Illinois: Open Court Publishing Co., 1974.

On the Will in Nature. Trans. Madame K. Hillebrand. London: G. Bell & Sons, 1897. Ably translated but out of print.

The World as Will and Representation. Trans. E. F. J. Payne. New York: Dover Publications, Inc., 1966.

On the Freedom of the Will. Trans. Konstantin Kolenda. New York: Library of Liberal Arts, Bobbs-Merrill, 1960.

On the Basis of Morality. Trans. E. F. J. Payne. New York: Library of Liberal Arts, Bobbs-Merrill, 1965.

The Pessimist's Handbook: A Collection of Popular Essays. Trans. T. Bailey Saunders. Ed. Hazel Barnes. Bison Books. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1964.

Works on Schopenhauer

Beer, Margrieta. Schopenhauer. London: T. C. & E. C. Jack, 1914. Copleston, Frederick, S. J., Arthur Schopenhauer: Philosopher of Pessimism. London: Burns, Oates, and Washbourne, 1947.

Deussen, Paul. Elements of Metaphysics. London: Macmillan & Co., 1894.

Doring, W. O. Schopenhauer. Hamburg: Hansischer Gildenverlag, 1947·

Gardiner, Patrick. Schopenhauer. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1963. An excellent introduction.

Hubscher, Arthur. Arthur Schopenhauer: Mensch und Philosoph in seinen Brefen. Wiesbaden: F. A. Brockhaus, 1960.

-- Schopenhauer: Biographie eines Weltbildes. Stuttgart: Reclam, 1967.

-- Schopenhauer-Bildnisse: Eine Ikonographie. Frankfurt am Main: Waldemar Kramer, 1968. Contains over sixty reproductions of portraits.

Pfeiffer, K. Arthur Schopenhauer: Personlichkeit und Werk. Leipzig: A. Kroner, 1925.

Richter, Peyton E. Perspectives in Aesthetics: Plato to Camus. New York: The Odyssey Press, Inc., 1967. A useful work of reference.

Saltus, Edgar E. The Philosophy of Disenchantment. New York: Belford Co., 1885 (New York: A.M.S. Press, Inc.).

Schmidt, K. O. Das Erwachen aus dem Lebens-Traum. Pfullingen: Baum Verlag, 1957.

Taylor, Richard. The Will to Live. New York: Anchor Books, 1962. A fine introduction.

Wagner, G. F. Schopenhauer-Register. Stuttgart: Fr. Frommann, 1960. A splendid concordance of Schopenhauer's works. Essential to the student.

Whittaker, Thomas. Schopenhauer. London: Constable, 1920.

Zimmern, Helen. Arthur Schopenhauer: His Life and His Philosophy. London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1876.

Zint, Hans. Schopenhauer als Erlebnis. Munich: E. Reinhardt, 1954.

Jahrbucher der Schopenhauer-Gesellschaft (first Yearbook published in 1912). An international journal edited since 1937 by Dr. Arthur Hubscher, President of the Schopenhauer-Gesellschaft.
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