Essays

RELIGIQK
ART OF LITERATUHE

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PROFESSOR E.B. SHORE

ESSAYS OF

RTHUR SCHOPENHAUER

TRANSLATED BY

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T. BAILEY SAUNDERS, M.A,

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RELIGION
ART OF LITERATURE

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RELIGION: A DIALOGUE, ETC,

CONTENTS.

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PREFATORY NOTE iii

RELIGION : A DIALOGUE 1

A FEW WORDS ON PANTHEISM 47

ON BOOKS AND READING 51

ON PHYSIOGNOMY 61

PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS 71

THE CHRISTIAN SYSTEM.. 83

PREFATORY NOTE.

SCHOPENHAUER is one of the few philosophers
who can be generally understood without a com
mentary. All his theories claim to be drawn direct
from the facts, to be suggested by observation, and
to interpret the world as it is; and whatever view
he takes, he is constant in his appeal to the experi
ence of common life. This characteristic endows
his style with a freshness and vigor which would be
difficult to match in the philosophical writing of
any country, and impossible in that of Germany.
If it were asked whether there were any circum
stances apart from heredity, to which he owed his
mental habit, the answer might be found in the ab
normal character of his early education, his ac
quaintance with the world rather than with books,
the extensive travels of his boyhood, his ardent
pursuit of knowledge for its own sake and without
regard to the emoluments and endowments of learn
ing. He was trained in realities even more than
in ideas; and hence he is original, forcible, clear,
an enemy of all philosophic indefiniteness and ob
scurity; so that it may well be said of him, in the
words of a writer in the Revue Contemporaine, ce
riest pas un philosophe comme les autres, c'est un
philosophe qui a vn le monde.

It is not my purpose, nor would it be possible
within the limits of a prefatory note, to attempt
an account of Schopenhauer's philosophy, to indi
cate its sources, or to suggest or rebut the objec
tions which may be taken to it. M. Ribot, in his

ui

VI PREFATORY NOTE

polytheism or pantheism, but in so far as they
recognize pessimism or optimism as the true de
scription of life. Hence any religion which looked
upon the world as being radically evil appealed to
him as containing an indestructible element of
truth. I have endeavored to present his view of
two of the great religions of the world in the extract
which concludes this volume, and to which I have
given the title of The Christian System. The tenor
of it is to show that, however little he may have
been in sympathy with the supernatural element,
he owed much to the moral doctrines of Christianity
and of Buddhism, between which he traced great
resemblance. In the following Dialogue he applies
himself to a discussion of the practical efficacy of
religious forms; and though he was an enemy of
clericalism, his choice of a method which allows both
the affirmation and the denial of that efficacy to be
presented with equal force may perhaps have been
directed by the consciousness that he could not side
with either view to the exclusion of the other. In
any case his practical philosophy was touched with
the spirit of Christianity. It was more than artistic
enthusiasm which led him in profound admiration
to the Madonna di San Sisto:

Sie tragt zur Welt ihn, und er schaut entsetzt
In ihrer Grau'l chaotische Verwirrung,
In ihres Tobens wilde Raserei,
In ihres Treibens nie geheilte Thorheit,
In ihrer Quaalen nie gestillten Schmerz;
Entsetzt: doch strahlet Ruh' and Zuversicht
Und Siegesglanz sein Aug', verktindigend
Schon der Erlosung ewige gewissheit.

Pessimism is commonly and erroneously sup
posed to be the distinguishing feature of Schopen
hauer's system. It is right to remember that the
same fundamental view of the world is presented

PREFATORY NOTE Vll

by Christianity, to say nothing of Oriental re
ligions.

That Schopenhauer conceives life as an evil is a
deduction, arid possibly a mistaken deduction, from
his metaphysical theory. Whether his scheme of
things is correct or not — and it shares the common
fate of all metaphysical systems in being unveri-
fiable, and to that extent unprofitable — he will in
the last resort have made good his claim to be read
by his insight into the varied needs of human life.
It may be that a future age will consign his meta
physics to the philosophical lumber-room; but he is
a literary artist as well as a philosopher, and he can
make a "bid for fame in either capacity. What is
remarked with much truth of many another writer,
that he suggests more than he achieves, is in the
highest degree applicable to Schopenhauer; and his
obiter dicta, his sayings by the way, will always
find an audience.

T. B. SAUNDERS.

RELIGION.
A DIALOGUE.

Demopheles. Between ourselves, my dear fel
low, I don't care about the way you sometimes
have of exhibiting your talent for philosophy; you
make religion a subject for sarcastic remarks, and
even for open ridicule. Every one thinks his re
ligion sacred, and therefore you ought to respect it.

Philalethes. That doesn't follow! I don't see
why, because other people are simpletons, I should
have any regard for a pack of lies. I respect
truth everywhere, and so I can't respect what is
opposed to it. My maxim is Vigeat veritas et
per eat mundus, like the lawyers' Fiat justitia et
per eat mundus. Every profession ought to have an
analogous advice.

Demopheles. Then I suppose doctors should
say Fiant pilulae et pereat mundus, — there
wouldn't be much difficulty about that!

Philalethes. Heaven forbid! You must take
everything cum grano satis.

Demopheles. Exactly; that's why I want you
to take religion cum grano salis. I want you to
see that one must meet the requirements of the
people according to the measure of their compre
hension. Where you have masses of people of
crude susceptibilities and clumsy intelligence,
sordid in their pursuits and sunk in drudgery, re
ligion provides the only means of proclaiming and

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

making them feel the hight import of life. For
the average man takes an interest, primarily, in
nothing but what will satisfy his physical needs and
hankerings, and beyond this, give him a little
amusement and pastime. Founders of religion and
philosophers come into the world to rouse him from
his stupor and point to the lofty meaning of ex
istence; philosophers for the few, the emancipated,
founders of religion for the many, for humanity at
large. For, as your friend Plato has said, the
multitude can't be philosophers, and you shouldn't
forget that. Religion is the metaphysics of the
masses; by all means let them keep it: let it there
fore command external respect, for to discredit it
is to take it away. Just as they have popular
poetry, and the popular wisdom of proverbs, so
they must have popular metaphysics too: for man
kind absolutely needs an interpretation of life; and
this, again, must be suited to popular comprehen
sion. Consequently, this interpretation is always
an allegorical investiture of the truth : and in prac
tical life and in its effects on the feelings, that is
to say, as a rule of action and as a comfort and
consolation in suffering and death, it accomplishes
perhaps just as much as the truth itself could
achieve if we possessed it. Don't take offense at
its unkempt, grotesque and apparently absurd
form; for with your education and learning, you
have no idea of the roundabout ways by which
people in their crude state have to receive their
knowledge of deep truths. The various religions
are only various forms in which the truth, which
taken by itself is above their comprehension, is
grasped and realized by the masses; and truth be
comes inseparable from these forms. Therefore,
my dear sir, don't take it amiss if I say that to

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE 3

make a mockery of these forms is both shallow and
unjust.

Philalethes. But isn't it every bit as shallow and
unjust to demand that there shall be no other sys
tem of metaphysics but this one, cut out as it is
to suit the requirements and comprehension of the
masses ? that its doctrine shall be the limit of human
speculation, the standard of all thought, so that
the metaphysics of the few, the emancipated, as
you call them, must be devoted only to confirming,
strengthening, and explaining the metaphysics of
the masses? that the highest powers of human in
telligence shall remain unused and undeveloped,
even be nipped in the bud, in order that their ac
tivity may not thwart the popular metaphysics?
And isn't this just the very claim which religion
sets up ? Isn't it a little too much to have tolerance
and delicate forbearance preached by what is in
tolerance and cruelty itself? Think of the heretical
tribunals, inquisitions, religious wars, crusades,
Socrates' cup of poison, Bruno's and Vanini's death
in the flames! Is all this to-day quite a thing of
the past? How can genuine philosophical effort,
sincere search after truth, the noblest calling of
the noblest men, be let and hindered more com
pletely than by a conventional system of meta
physics enjoying a State monopoly, the principles
of which are impressed into every head in earliest
youth, so earnestly, so deeply, and so firmly, that,
unless the mind is miraculously elastic, they remain
indelible. In this way the groundwork of all
healthy reason is once for all deranged; that is to
say, the capacity for original thought and unbiased
judgment, which is weak enough in itself, is, in
regard to those subjects to which it might be ap
plied, for ever paralyzed and ruined.

4 RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

Demopheles. Which means, I suppose, that
people have arrived at a conviction which they
won't give up in order to embrace yours instead.

Philalethcs. Ah! if it were only a conviction
based on insight. Then one could bring arguments
to bear, and the battle would be fought with equal
weapons. But religions admittedly appeal, not to
conviction as the result of argument, but to belief
as demanded by revelation. And as the capacity
for believing is strongest in childhood, special care
is taken to make sure of this tender age. This has
much more to do with the doctrines of belief taking
root than threats and reports of miracles. If, in
early childhood, certain fundamental views and
doctrines are paraded with unusual solemnity, and
an air of the greatest earnestness never before
visible in anything else; if, at the same time, the
possibility of a doubt about them be completely
passed over, or touched upon only to indicate that
doubt is the first step to eternal perdition, the
resulting impression will be so deep that, as a rule,
that is, in almost every case, doubt about them will
be almost as impossible as doubt about one's own
existence. Hardly one in ten thousand will have
the strength of mind to ask himself seriously and
earnestly — is that true? To call such as can do
it strong minds, esprits forts, is a description more
apt than is generally supposed. But for the or
dinary mind there is nothing so absurd or revolting
but what, if inculcated in that way, the strongest
belief in it will strike root. If, for example, the
killing of a heretic or infidel were essential to the
future salvation of his soul, almost every one would
make it the chief event of his life, and in dying
would draw consolation and strength from the re
membrance that he had succeeded. As a matter of

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE o

fact, almost every Spaniard in days gone by used
to look upon an auto da fe as the most pious of all
acts and one most agreeable to God. A parallel
to this may be found in the way in which the Thugs
(a religious sect in India, suppressed a short time
ago by the English, who executed numbers of
them) express their sense of religion and their
veneration for the goddess Kali; they take every
opportunity of murdering their friends and travel
ing companions, with the object of getting posses
sion of their goods, and in the serious conviction
that they are thereby doing a praiseworthy action,
conducive to their eternal welfare.1 The power of
religious dogma, when inculcated early, is such as
to stifle conscience, compassion, and finally every
feeling of humanity. But if you want to see with
your own eyes and close at hand what timely in
oculation will accomplish, look at the English.
Here is a nation favored before all others by nature ;
endowed, more than all others, with discernment,
intelligence, power of judgment, strength of char
acter; look at them, abased and made ridiculous,
beyond all others, by their stupid ecclesiastical
superstition, which appears amongst their other
abilities like a fixed idea or monomania. For this
they have to thank the circumstance that education
is in the hands of the clergy, whose endeavor it is
to impress all the articles of belief, at the earliest
age, in a way that amounts to a kind of paralysis
of the brain ; this in its turn expresses itself all their
life in an idiotic bigotry, which makes otherwise
most sensible and intelligent people amongst them
degrade themselves so that one can't make head or
tail of them. It you consider how essential to such

1 Cf . Illustrations of the history and practice of the Thugs,
London, 1837; also the Edinburg Review, Oct.-Jan., 1836-7,

6 RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

a masterpiece is inoculation in the tender age of
childhood, the missionary system appears no longer
only as the acme of human importunity, arrogance
and impertinence, but also as an absurdity, if it
doesn't confine itself to nations which are still in
their infancy, like Caffirs, Hottentots, South Sea
Islanders, etc. Amongst these races it is success
ful; but in India, the Brahmans treat the discourses
of the missionaries with contemptuous smiles of
approbation, or simply shrug their shoulders. And
one may say generally that the proselytizing ef
forts of the missionaries in India, in spite of the
most advantageous facilities, are, as a rule, a fail
ure. An authentic report in the Vol. XXI. of
the Asiatic Journal (1826) states that after so
many years of missionary activity not more than
three hundred living converts were to be found in
the whole of India, where the population of the
English possessions alone comes to one hundred
and fifteen millions; and at the same time it is ad
mitted that the Christian converts are distinguished
for their extreme immorality. Three hundred
venal and bribed souls out of so many millions!
There is no evidence that things have gone better
with Christianity in India since then, in spite of
the fact that the missionaries are now trying, con
trary to stipulation and in schools exclusively de
signed for secular English instruction, to work
upon the children's minds as they please, in order
to smuggle in Christianity; against which the
Hindoos are most jealously on their guard. As
I have said, childhood is the time to sow the seeds
of belief, and not manhood; more especially where
an earlier faith has taken root. An acquired con
viction such as is feigned by adults is, as a rule,
only the mask for some kind of personal interest.

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE 7

And it is the feeling that this is almost bound to
be the case which makes a man who has changed
his religion in mature years an object of contempt
to most people everywhere; who thus show that
they look upon religion, not as a matter of reasoned
conviction, but merely as a belief inoculated in
childhood, before any test can be applied. And
that they are right in their view of religion is also
obvious from the way in which not only the masses,
who are blindly credulous, but also the clergy of
every religion, who, as such, have faithfully and
zealously studied its sources, foundations, dogmas
and disputed points, cleave as a body to the re
ligion of their particular country; consequently for
a minister of one religion or confession to go over
to another is the rarest thing in the world. The
Catholic clergy, for example, are fully convinced
of the truth of all the tenets of their Church, and
so are the Protestant clergy of theirs, and both
defend the principles of their creeds with like zeal.
And yet the conviction is governed merely by the
country native to each; to the South German ec
clesiastic the truth of the Catholic .dogma is quite
obvious, to the North German, the Protestant. If
then, these convictions are based on objective rea
sons, the reasons must be climatic, and thrive, like
plants, some only here, some only there. The con
victions of those who are thus locally convinced are
taken on trust and believed by the masses every
where.

Demopheles. Well, no harm is done, and it
doesn't make any real difference. As a fact,
Protestantism is more suited to the North, Catholi
cism to the South.

PMlalethes. So it seems. Still I take a higher
standpoint, and keep in view a more important

8 RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

object, the progress, namely, of the knowledge of
truth among mankind. And from this point of
view, it is a terrible thing that, wherever a man is
born, certain propositions are inculcated in him in
earliest youth, and he is assured that he may never
have any doubts about them, under penalty of
thereby forfeiting eternal salvation; propositions,
I mean, which affect the foundation of all our
other knowledge and accordingly determine for
ever, and, if they are false, distort for ever, the
point of view from which our knowledge starts;
and as, further, the corollaries of these propositions
touch the entire system of our intellectual attain
ments at every point, the whole of human knowl
edge is thoroughly adulterated by them. Evidence
of this is afforded by every literature; the most
striking by that of the Middle Age, but in a too
considerable degree by that of the fifteenth and
sixteenth centuries. Look at even the first minds
of all those epochs ; how paralyzed they are by false
fundamental positions like these; how, more espe
cially, all insight into the true constitution and
working of nature is, as it were, blocked up. Dur
ing the whole of the Christian period Theism lies
like a mountain on all intellectual, and chiefly on
all philosophical efforts, and arrests or stunts all
progress. For the scientific men of these ages God,
devil, angels, demons hid the whole of nature; no
inquiry was followed to the end, nothing ever thor
oughly examined; everything which went beyond
the most obvious casual nexus was immediately set
down to those personalities. "It was at once ex
plained by a reference to God, angels or demons'3
as Pomponatius expressed himself when the matter
was being discussed, "and philosophers at any rate
have nothing analogous." There is, to be sure, 9

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE 9

suspicion of irony in this statement of Pomponatius,
as his perfidy in other matters is known; still, he
is only giving expression to the general way of
thinking of his age. And if, on the other hand,
any one possessed the rare quality of an elastic
mind, which alone could burst the bonds, his writ
ings and he himself with them were burnt; as hap
pened to Bruno and Vanini. How completely an
ordinary mind is paralyzed by that early prepara
tion in metaphysics is seen in the most vivid way
and on its most ridiculous side, where such a one
undertakes to criticise the doctrines of an alien
creed. The efforts of the ordinary man are gen
erally found to be directed to a careful exhibition
of the incongruity of its dogmas with those of his
own belief: he is at great pains to show that not
only do they not say, but certainly do not mean,
the same thing; and with that he thinks, in his
simplicity, that he has demonstrated the falsehood
of the alien creed. He really never dreams of
putting the question which of the two may be
right; his own articles of belief he looks upon as
a priori true and certain principles.

Demopheles. So that's your higher point of
view? I assure you there is a higher still. First
live, then philosophize is a maxim of more compre
hensive import than appears at first sight. The
first thing to do is to control the raw and evil dis
positions of the masses, so as to keep them from
pushing injustice to extremes, and from commit
ting cruel, violent and disgraceful acts. If you
were to wait until they had recognized and grasped
the truth, you would undoubtedly come too late;
and truth, supposing that it had been found, would
surpass their powers of comprehension. In any
case an allegorical investiture of it, a parable or

10 RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

myth, is all that would be of any service to them.
As Kant said, there must be a public standard of
Right and Virtue ; it must always flutter high over
head. It is a matter of indifference what heraldic
figures are inscribed on it, so long as they signify
what is meant. Such an allegorical representation
of truth is always and everywhere, for humanity at
large, a serviceable substitute for a truth to which
it can never attain, — for a philosophy which it can
never grasp ; let alone the fact that it is daily chang
ing its shape, and has in no form as yet met with
general acceptance. Practical aims, then, my good
Philalethes, are in every respect superior to theo
retical.

Philalethes. What you say is very like the an
cient advice of Timaeus of Locrus, the Pythagorean,
stop the mind with falsehood if you can't speed it
with truth. I almost suspect that your plan is the
one which is so much in vogue just now, that you
want to impress upon me that

The hour is nigh
When we may feast in quiet.

You recommend us, in fact, to take timely precau
tions, so that the waves of the discontented raging
masses mayn't disturb us at table. But the whole
point of view is as false as it is now-a-days popular
and commended; and so I make haste to enter a
protest against it. It is false,, that state, justice,
law cannot be upheld without the assistance of
religion and its dogmas; and that justice and public
order need religion as a necessary complement, if
legislative enactments are to be carried out. It is
false, were it repeated a hundred times. An ef
fective and striking argument to the contrary is
afforded by the ancients, especially the Greeks.

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE 11

They had nothing at all of what we understand hy
religion. They had no sacred documents, no dogma
to be learned and its acceptance furthered by
every one, its principles to be inculcated early on
the young. Just as little was moral doctrine
preached by the ministers of religion, nor did the
priests trouble themselves about morality or about
what the people did or left undone. Not at all.
The duty of the priests was confined to temple-
ceremonial, prayers, hymns, sacrifices, processions,
lustrations and the like, the object of which was
anything but the moral improvement of the indi
vidual. What was called religion consisted, more
especially in the cities, in giving temples here and
there to some of the gods of the greater tribes, in
which the worship described was carried on as a
state matter, and was consequently, in fact, an
affair of police. No one, except the functionaries
performing, was in any way compelled to attend,
or even to believe in it. In the whole of antiquity
there is no trace of any obligation to believe in any
particular dogma. Merely in the case of an open
denial of the existence of the gods, or any other
reviling of them, a penalty was imposed, and that
on account of the insult offered to the state, which
served those gods ; beyond this it was free to every
one to think of them what he pleased. If anyone
wanted to gain the favor of those gods privately,
by prayer or sacrifice, it was open to him to do so
at his own expense and at his own risk ; if he didn't
do it, no one made any objection, least of all the
state. In the case of the Romans, everyone had
his own Lares and Penates at home; they were,
however, in reality, only the venerated busts of
ancestors. Of the immortality of the soul and a life
beyond the grave, the ancients had no firm, clear

12 RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

or, least of all, dogmatically fixed idea, but very
loose, fluctuating, indefinite and problematical no
tions, everyone in his own way: and the ideas about
the gods were just as varying, individual and
vague. There was, therefore, really no religion, in
our sense of the word, amongst the ancients. But
did anarchy and lawlessness prevail amongst them
on that account? Is not law and civil order, rather,
so much their work, that it still forms the founda
tion of our own? Was there not complete protec
tion for property, even though it consisted for the
most part of slaves? And did not this state of
things last for more than a thousand years? So
that I can't recognize, I must even protest against
the practical aims and the necessity of religion in
the sense indicated by you, and so popular now-
a-days, that is, as an indispensable foundation of
all legislative arrangements. For, if you take that
point of view, the pure and sacred endeavor after
truth would, to say the least, appear quixotic, and
even criminal, if it ventured, in its feeling of
justice, to denounce the authoritative creed as a
usurper who had taken possession of the throne of
truth and maintained his position by keeping up the
deception.

Demopheles. But religion is not opposed to
truth; it itself teaches truth. And as the range of
its activity is not a narrow lecture room, but the
world and humanity at large, religion must con
form to the requirements and comprehension of an
audience so numerous and so mixed. Religion must
not let truth appear in its naked form; or, to use a
medical simile, it must not exhibit it pure, but must
employ a mythical vehicle, a medium, as it were.
You can also compare truth in this respect to cer
tain chemical stuffs which in themselves are gas-

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE Io

ecus, but which for medicinal uses, as also for
preservation or transmission, must be bound to a
stable, solid base, because they would otherwise
volatilize. Chlorine gas, for example, is for all
purposes applied only in the form of chlorides.
But if truth, pure, abstract and free from all
mythical alloy, is always to remain unattainable,
even by philosophers, it might be compared to
fluorine, which cannot even be isolated, but must
always appear in combination with other elements.
Or, to take a less scientific simile, truth, which is
inexpressible except by means of myth and allegory,
is like water, which can be carried about only in
vessels; a philosopher who insists on obtaining it
pure is like a man who breaks the jug in order to
get the water by itself. This is, perhaps, an exact
analogy. At any rate, religion is truth allegorically
and mythically expressed, and so rendered attain
able and digestible by mankind in general. Man
kind couldn't possibly take it pure and unmixed,
just as we can't breathe pure oxygen; we require
an addition of four times its bulk in nitrogen. In
plain language, the profound meaning, the high
aim of life, can only be unfolded and presented to
the masses symbolically, because they are incapable
of grasping it in its true signification. Philosophy,
on the other hand, should be like the Eleusinian
mysteries, for the few, the elite.

Philalethes. I understand. It comes, in short,
to truth wearing the garment of falsehood. But
in doing so it enters on a fatal alliance. What a
dangerous weapon is put into the hands of those
who are authorized to employ falsehood as the
vehicle of truth! If it is as you say, I fear the
damage caused by the falsehood will be greater
than any advantage the truth could ever produce,

14 RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

Of course, if the allegory were admitted to be such,
I should raise no objection; but with the admission
it would rob itself of all respect, and consequently,
of all utility. The allegory must, therefore, put in
a claim to be true in the proper sense of the word,
and maintain the claim; while, at the most, it is
true only in an allegorical sense. Here lies the
irreparable mischief, the permanent evil; and this
is why religion has always been and always will be
in conflict with the noble endeavor after pure
truth.

Demopheles. Oh no! that danger is guarded
against. If religion mayn't exactly confess its al
legorical nature, it gives sufficient indication of it.

Philalethes. How so?

Demopheles. In its mysteries. "Mystery," is
in reality only a technical theological term for re
ligious allegory. All religions have their mysteries.
Properly speaking, a mystery is a dogma which
is plainly absurd, but which, nevertheless, conceals
in itself a lofty truth, and one which by itself would
be completely incomprehensible to the ordinary
understanding of the raw multitude. The multi
tude accepts it in this disguise on trust, and be
lieves it, without being led astray by the absurdity
of it, which even to its intelligence is obvious; and
in this way it participates in the kernel of the matter
so far as it is possible for it to do so. To explain
what I mean, I may add that even in philosophy
an attempt has been made to make use of a
mystery. Pascal, for example, who was at once
a pietist, a mathematician, and a philosopher, says
in this threefold capacity : God is everywhere center
and nowhere periphery. Malebranche has also the
just remark: Liberty is a mystery. One could go
a step further and maintain that in religions every-

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE 15

thing is mystery. For to impart truth, in the
proper sense of the word, to the multitude in its
raw state is absolutely impossible; all that can fall
to its lot is to be enlightened by a mythological
reflection of it. Naked truth is out of place before
the eyes of the profane vulgar; it can only make
its appearance thickly veiled. Hence, it is unrea
sonable to require of a religion that it shall be true
in the proper sense of the word; and this, I may
observe in passing, is now-a-days the absurd con
tention of Rationalists and Supernaturalists alike.
Both start from the position that religion must be
the real truth; and while the former demonstrate
that it is not the truth, the latter obstinately main
tain that it is; or rather, the former dress up and
arrange the allegorical element in such a way, that,
in the proper sense of the word, it could be true,
but would be, in that case, a platitude; while the
latter wish to maintain that it is true in the proper
sense of the word, without any further dressing; a
belief, which, as we ought to know is only to be
enforced by inquisitions and the stake. As a fact,
however, myth and allegory really form the proper
element of "religion; and under this indispensable
condition, which is imposed by the intellectual
limitation of the multitude, religion provides a suffi
cient satisfaction for those metaphysical require
ments of mankind which are indestructible. It takes
the place of that pure philosophical truth which is
infinitely difficult and perhaps never attainable.

Philalethes. Ah! just as a wooden leg takes the
place of a natural one ; it supplies what is lacking,
barely does duty for it, claims to be regarded as
a natural leg, and is more or less artfully put to
gether. The only difference is that, whilst a natural

16 RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

leg as a rule preceded the wooden one, religion
has everywhere got the start of philosophy.

Demopheles. That may be, but still for a man
who hasn't a natural leg, a wooden one is of great
service. You must bear in mind that the meta
physical needs of mankind absolutely require sat
isfaction, because the horizon of men's thoughts
must have a background and not remain un
bounded. Man has, as a rule, no faculty for weigh
ing reasons and discriminating between what is
false and what is true ; and besides, the labor which
nature and the needs of nature impose upon him,
leaves him no time for such enquiries, or for the
education which they presuppose. In his case,
therefore, it is no use talking of a reasoned convic
tion; he has to fall back on belief and authority.
If a really true philosophy were to take the place
of religion, nine-tenths at least of mankind would
have to receive it on authority; that is to say, it too
would be a matter of faith, for Plato's dictum,
that the multitude can't be philosophers, will al
ways remain true. Authority, however, is an affair
of time and circumstance alone, and so it can't be
bestowed on that which has only reason in its favor,
it must accordingly be allowed to nothing but what
has acquired it in the course of history, even if it
is only an allegorical representation of truth.
Truth in this form, supported by authority, appeals
first of all to those elements in the human consti
tution which are strictly metaphysical, that is to
say, to the need man feels of a theory in regard to
the riddle of existence which forces itself upon his
notice, a need arising from the consciousness that
behind the physical in the world there is a meta
physical, something permanent as the foundation
of constant change. Then it appeals to the will,

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE 17

to the fears and hopes of mortal beings living in
constant struggle ; for whom, accordingly, religion
creates gods and demons whom they can cry to,
appease and win over. Finally, it appeals to that
moral consciousness which is undeniably present in
man, lends to it that corroboration and support
without which it would not easily maintain itself
in the struggle against so many temptations. It is
just from this side that religion affords an inex
haustible source of consolation and comfort in the
innumerable trials of life, a comfort which does not
leave men in death, but rather then only unfolds
its full efficacy. So religion may be compared to
one who takes a blind man by the hand and leads
him, because he is unable to see for himself, whose
concern it is to reach his destination, not to look at
everything by the way.

Philalethes. That is certainly the strong point
of religion. If it is a fraud, it is a pious fraud;
that is undeniable. But this makes priests some
thing between deceivers and teachers of morality;
they daren't teach the real truth, as you have quite
rightly explained, even if they knew it, which is not
the case. A true philosophy, then, can always
exist, but not a true religion; true, I mean, in the
proper understanding of the word, not merely in
that flowery or allegorical sense which you have
described; a sense in which all religions would be
true, only in various degrees. It is quite in keep
ing with the inextricable mixture of weal and woe,
honesty and deceit, good and evil, nobility and base
ness, which is the average characteristic of the
world everywhere, that the most important, the
most lofty, the most sacred truths can make their
appearance only in combination with a lie, can even
borrow strength from a lie as from something that

18 RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

works more powerfully on mankind; and, as revela
tion, must be ushered in by a lie. This might,
indeed, be regarded as the cachet of the moral
world. However, we won't give up the hope that
mankind will eventually reach a point of maturity
and education at which it can on the one side pro
duce, and on the other receive, the true philosophy.
Simplex sigillum veri: the naked truth must be so
simple and intelligible that it can be imparted to
all in its true form, without any admixture of
myth and fable, without disguising it in the form
of religion.

Demopheles. You've no notion how stupid
most people are.

Philalethes. I am only expressing a hope which
I can't give up. If it were fulfilled, truth in its
simple and intelligible form would of course drive
religion from the place it has so long occupied
as its representative, and by that very means kept
open for it. The time would have come when re
ligion would have carried out her object and com
pleted her course : the race she had brought to years
of discretion she could dismiss, and herself depart
in peace: that would be the euthanasia of religion.
But as long as she lives, she has two faces, one of
truth, one of fraud. According as you look at one
or the other, you will bear her favor or ill-will.
Religion must be regarded as a necessary evil, its
necessity resting on the pitiful imbecility of the
great majority of mankind, incapable of grasping
the truth, and therefore requiring, in its pressing
need, something to take its place.

Demopheles. Really, one would think that you
philosophers had truth in a cupboard, and that all
you had to do was to go and get it!

Philalethes. Well, if we haven't got it, it is

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE 19

chiefly owing to the pressure put upon philosophy
by religion at all. times and in all places. People
have tried to make the expression and communica
tion of truth, even the contemplation and discovery
of it, impossible, by putting children, in their
earliest years, into the hands of priests to be
manipulated; to have the lines, in which their
fundamental thoughts are henceforth to run, laid
down with such firmness as, in essential matters, to
be fixed and determined for this whole life. When
I take up the writings even of the best intellects
of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, (more
especially if I have been engaged in Oriental
studies,) I am sometimes shocked to see how they
are paralyzed and hemmed in on all sides by Jewish
ideas. How can anyone think out the true philoso
phy when he is prepared like this?

Demopheles. Even if the true philosophy were
to be discovered, religion wouldn't disappear from
the world, as you seem to think. There can't be
one system of metaphysics for everybody; that's
rendered impossible by the natural differences of
intellectual power between man and man, and the
differences, too, which education makes. It is a
necessity for the great majority of mankind to
engage in that severe bodily labor which cannot be
dispensed with if the ceaseless requirements of the
whole race are to be satisfied. Not only does this
leave the majority no time for education, for learn
ing, for contemplation; but by virtue of the hard
and fast antagonism between muscles and mind, the
intelligence is blunted by so much exhausting bodily
labor, and becomes heavy, clumsy, awkward, and
consequently incapable of grasping any other than
quite simple situations. At least nine-tenths of the
human race falls under this category. But still the

20 RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

people require a system of metaphysics, that is, an
account of the world and our existence, because
such an account belongs to the most natural needs
of mankind, they require a popular system; and to
be popular it must combine many rare qualities.
It must be easily understood, and at the same time
possess, on the proper points, a certain amount of
obscurity, even of impenetrability; then a correct
and satisfactory system of morality must be bound
up with its dogmas; above all, it must afford inex
haustible consolation in suffering and death; the
consequence of all this is, that it can only be true
in an allegorical and not in a real sense. Further,
it must have the support of an authority which is
impressive by its great age, by being universally
recognized, by its documents, their tone and utter
ances; qualities which are so extremely difficult to
combine that many a man wouldn't be so ready,
if he considered the matter, to help to undermine
a religion, but would reflect that what he is attack
ing is a people's most sacred treasure. If you want
to form an opinion on religion, you should always
bear in mind the character of the great multitude
for which it is destined, and form a picture to your
self of its complete inferiority, moral and intel
lectual. It is incredible how far this inferiority
goes, and how perseveringly a spark of truth will
glimmer on even under the crudest covering of
monstrous fable or grotesque ceremony, clinging
indestructibly, like the odor of musk, to everything
that has once come into contact with it. In illustra
tion of this, consider the profound wisdom of the
Upanishads, and then look at the mad idolatry in
the India of to-day, with its pilgrimages, proces
sions and festivities, or at the insane and ridiculous
goings-on of the Saniassi. Still one can't deny that

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

in all this insanity and nonsense there lies some ob
scure purpose which accords with, or is a reflection
of the profound wisdom I mentioned. But for the
brute multitude, it had to be dressed up in this
form. In such a contrast as this we have the two
poles of humanity, the wisdom of the individual
and the bestiality of the many, both of which find
their point of contact in the moral sphere. That
saying from the Kurral must occur to everybody.
Base people look like men., but I have never seen
their exact counterpart. The man of education
may, all the same, interpret religion to himself cum
grano salts; the man of learning, the contemplative
spirit may secretly exchange it for a philosophy.
But here again one philosophy wouldn't suit every
body; by the laws of affinity every system would
draw to itself that public to whose education and
capacities it was most suited. So there is always an
inferior metaphysical system of the schools for the
educated multitude, and a higher one for the elite.
Kant's lofty doctrine, for instance, had to be de
graded to the level of the schools and ruined by
such men as Fries, Krug and Salat. In short, here,
if anywhere, Goethe's maxim is true, One does not
suit all. Pure faith in revelation and pure meta
physics are for the two extremes, and for the inter
mediate steps mutual modifications of both in in
numerable combinations and gradations. And this
is rendered necessary by the immeasurable differ
ences which nature and education have placed be
tween man and man.

Philalethes. The view you take reminds me
seriously of the mysteries of the ancients, which
you mentioned just now. Their fundamental pur
pose seems to have been to remedy the evil arising
from the differences of intellectual capacity and

22 RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

education. The plan was, out of the great multi
tude utterly impervious to unveiled truth, to select
certain persons who might have it revealed to them
up to a given point; out of these, again, to choose
others to whom more would he revealed, as being
able to grasp more; and so on up to the Epopts.
These grades correspond to the little, greater and
greatest mysteries. The arrangement was founded
on a correct estimate of the intellectual inequality
of mankind.

Demopheles. To some extent the education in
our lower, middle and high schools corresponds to
the varying grades of initiation into the mysteries.

Pliilalethes. In a very approximate way; and
then only in so far as subjects of higher knowledge
are written about exclusively in Latin. But since
that has ceased to be the case, all the mysteries are
profaned.

Demoplielcs. However that may be, I wanted
to remind you that you should look at religion
more from the practical than from the theoretical
side. Personified metaphysics may be the enemy
of religion, but all the same personified morality
will be its friend. Perhaps the metaphysical ele
ment in all religions is false ; but the moral element
in all is true. This might perhaps be presumed
from the fact that they all disagree in their meta
physics, but are in accord as regards morality.

Philalethes. Which is an illustration of the rule
of logic that false premises may give a true con
clusion.

Demopheles. Let me hold you to your conclu
sion : let me remind you that religion has two sides.
If it can't stand when looked at from its theoretical,
that is, its intellectual side ; on the other hand, from
the moral side, it proves itself the only means of

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE 23

guiding, controlling and mollifying those races of
animals endowed with reason, whose kinship with
the ape does not exclude a kinship with the tiger.
But at the same time religion is, as a rule, a suffi
cient satisfaction for their dull metaphysical neces
sities. You don't seem to me to possess a proper
idea of the difference, wide as the heavens asunder,
the deep gulf between your man of learning and
enlightenment, accustomed to the process of think
ing, and the heavy, clumsy, dull and sluggish con
sciousness of humanity's beasts of burden, whose
thoughts have once and for all taken the direction
of anxiety about their livelihood, and cannot be put
in motion in any other; whose muscular strength
is so exclusively brought into play that the nervous
power, which makes intelligence, sinks to a very
low ebb. People like that must have something
tangible which they can lay hold of on the slippery
and thorny pathway of their life, some sort of
beautiful fable, by means of which things can be
imparted to them which their crude intelligence
can entertain only in picture and parable. Pro
found explanations and fine distinctions are thrown
away upon them. If you conceive religion in this
light, and recollect that its aims are above all prac
tical, and only in a subordinate degree theoretical,
it will appear to you as something worthy of the
highest respect.

Philalethes. A respect \vhich will finally rest
upon the principle that the end sanctifies the means.
I don't feel in favor of a compromise on a basis
like that. Religion may be an excellent means of
training the perverse, obtuse and ill-disposed mem
bers of the biped race: in the eyes of the friend
of truth every fraud, even though it be a pious
one, is to be condemned. A system of deception.

24 RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

a pack of lies, would be a strange means of in
culcating virtue. The flag to which I have taken
the oath is truth ; I shall remain faithful to it every
where, and whether I succeed or not, I shall fight
for light and truth! If I see religion on the wrong
side

Demophcles. But you won't. Religion isn't a
deception: it is true and the most important of all
truths. Because its doctrines are, as I have said,
of such a lofty kind that the multitude can't grasp
them without an intermediary, because, I say, its
light would blind the ordinary eye, it comes for
ward wrapt in the veil of allegory and teaches, not
indeed what is exactly true in itself, but what is
true in respect of the lofty meaning contained in
it; and, understood in this way, religion is the
truth.

Philalethes. It would be all right if religion
were only at liberty to be true in a merely alle
gorical sense. But its contention is that it is down
right true in the proper sense of the word. Herein
lies the deception, and it is here that the friend of
truth must take up a hostile position.

Demopheles. The deception is a sine qua non.
If religion were to admit that it was only the alle
gorical meaning in its doctrine which was true, it
would rob itself of all efficacy. Such rigorous
treatment as this would destroy its invaluable in
fluence on the hearts and morals of mankind. * In
stead of insisting on that with pedantic obstinacy,
look at its great achievements in the practical
sphere, its furtherance of good and kindly feelings,
its guidance in conduct, the support and consolation
it gives to suffering humanity in life and death.
How much you ought to guard against letting
theoretical cavils discredit in the eyes of the multi-

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE 25

tude, and finally wrest from it, something which is
an inexhaustible source of consolation and tran
quillity, something which, in its hard lot, it needs
so much, even more than we do. On that score
alone, religion should be free from attack.

Pkilalethes. With that kind of argument you
could have driven Luther from the field, when he
attacked the sale of indulgences. How many a one
got consolation from the letters of indulgence, a
consolation which nothing else could give, a com
plete tranquillity; so that he joyfully departed with
the fullest confidence in the packet of them which
he held in his hand at the hour of death, convinced
that they were so many cards of admission to all
the nine heavens. What is the use of grounds of
consolation and tranquillity which are constantly
overshadowed by the Damocles-sword of illusion?
The truth, my dear sir, is the only safe thing; the
truth alone remains steadfast and trusty; it is the
only solid consolation ; it is the indestructible
diamond.

DemopJieles. Yes, if you had truth in your
pocket, ready to favor us with it on demand. All
you've got are metaphysical systems, in which
nothing is certain but the headaches they cost. Be
fore you take anything away, you must have some
thing better to put in its place.

Philalethes. That's what you keep on saying.
To free a man from error is to give, not to take
away. Knowledge that a thing is false is a truth.
Error always does harm; sooner or later it will
bring mischief to the man who harbors it. Then
give up deceiving people ; confess ignorance of what
you don't know, and leave everyone to form his
own articles of faith for himself. Perhaps they
won't turn out so bad, especially as they'll rub one

26 RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

another's corners down, and mutually rectify mis
takes. The existence of many views will at any
rate lay a foundation of tolerance. Those who
possess knowledge and capacity may betake them
selves to the study of philosophy, or even in their
own persons carry the history of philosophy a step
further.

Demopheles. That'll be a pretty business! A
whole nation of raw metaphysicians, wrangling Lind
eventually coming to blows with one another!

Philalethes. Well, well, a few blows here and
there are the sauce of life; or at any rate a very
inconsiderable evil compared with such things as
priestly dominion, plundering of the laity, persecu
tion of heretics, courts of inquisition, crusades, re
ligious wars, massacres of St. Bartholomew. These
have been the result of popular metaphysics im
posed from without; so I stick to the old saying
that you can't get grapes from thistles, nor expect
good to come from a pack of lies.

Demopheles. How often must I repeat that re
ligion is anything but a pack of lies? It is truth
itself, only in a mythical, allegorical vesture. But
when you spoke of your plan of everyone being
his own founder of religion, I wanted to say that
a particularism like this is totally opposed to human
nature, and would consequently destroy all social
order. Man is a metaphysical animal, — that is to
say, he has paramount metaphysical necessities;
accordingly, he conceives life above all in its meta
physical signification, and wishes to bring every
thing into line with that. Consequently, however
strange it may sound in view of the uncertainty
of all dogmas, agreement in the fundamentals of
metaphysics is the chief thing, because a genuine
and lasting bond of union is only possible among

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE 27

those who are of one opinion on these points.
a result of this, the main point of likeness and of
contrast between nations is rather religion than
government, or even language; and so the fabric
of society, the State, will stand firm only when
founded on a system of metaphysics which is ac
knowledged by all. This, of course, can only be a
popular system, — that is, a religion: it becomes
part and parcel of the constitution of the State, of
all the public manifestations of the national life,
and also of all solemn acts of individuals. This
was the case in ancient India, among the Persians,
Egyptians, Jews, Greeks and Romans; it is still
the case in the Brahman, Buddhist and Moham
medan nations. In China there are three faiths,
it is true, of which the most prevalent — Buddhism
— is precisely the one which is not protected by
the State; still, there is a saying in China, univer
sally asknowledged, and of daily application, that
"the three faiths are only one," — that is to say,
they agree in essentials. The Emperor confesses
all three together at the same time. And Europe
is the union of Christian States : Christianity is the
basis of every one of the members, and the common
bond of all. Hence Turkey, though geographic
ally in Europe, is not properly to be reckoned as
belonging to it. In the same way, the European
princes hold their place "by the grace of God:"
and the Pope is the vicegerent of God. Accord
ingly, as his throne was the highest, he used to
wish all thrones to be regarded as held in fee
from him. In the same way, too, Archbishops and
Bishops, as such, possessed temporal power; and
in England they still have seats and votes in the
Upper House. Protestant princes, as such, are
heads of their churches: in England, a few years

28 KELIGION: A DIALOGUE

ago, this was a girl eighteen years old. By the
revolt from the Pope, the Reformation shattered
the European fabric, and in a special degree dis
solved the true unity of Germany by destroying
its common religious faith. This union, which had
practically come to an end, had, accordingly, to
be restored later on by artificial and purely political
means. You see, then, how closely connected a
common fa:',h is with the social order and the con
stitution cf every State. Faith is everywhere the
support of the laws and the constitution, the
foundation, therefore, of the social fabric, which
could hardly hold together at all if religion did not
lend weight to the authority of government and
the dignity of the ruler.

PhUalethcs. Oh, yes, princes use God as a kind
of bogey to frighten grown-up children to bed with,
if nothing else avails: that's why they attach so
much importance to the Deity. Very well. Let
me, in passing, recommend our rulers to give their
serious attention, regularly twice every year, to
the fifteenth chapter of the First Book of Samuel,
that they may be constantly reminded of what it
means to prop the throne on the altar. Besides,
since the stake, that ultima ration tJieologorum,
has gone out of fashion, this method of govern
ment has lost its efficacy. For, as you know, re
ligions are like glow-worms; they shine only when
it is dark. A certain amount of general ignorance
is the condition of all religions, the element in which
alone they can exist. And as soon as astronomy,
natural science, geology, history, the knowledge of
countries and peoples have spread their light
broadcast, and philosophy finally is permitted to
say a word, every faith founded on miracles and
revelation must disappear; and philosophy takes

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE 29

its place. In Europe the day of knowledge and
science dawned towards the end of the fifteenth
century with the appearance of the Renaissance
Platonists : its sun rose higher in the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries so rich in results, and scat
tered the mists of the Middle Age. Church and
Faith were compelled to disappear in the same
proportion; and so in the eighteenth century Eng
lish and French philosophers were able to take up
an attitude of direct hostility; until, finally, under
Frederick the Great, Kant appeared, and took
away from religious belief the support it had
previously enjoyed from philosophy: he emanci
pated the handmaid of theology, and in attacking
the question with German thoroughness and pa
tience, gave it an earnest instead of a frivolous
tone. Xb£ ^uns^q"^*^ -oiLthis jg that we see
Christianity undermined in the nineteenth century,
a 'serious faith in it almost completely gone; we
see it fighting even for bare existence, whilst
anxious princes try to set it up a little by artificial
means, as a doctor uses a drug on a dying patient.
In this connection there is a passage in Condorcet's
"Des Progres de I' esprit humcdn" which looks as
if written as a warning to our age: "the religious
zeal shown by philosophers and great men was
only a political devotion; and every religion which
allows itself to be defended as a belief that may
usefully be left to the people, can only hope for
an agony more or less prolonged." In the whole
course of the events which I have indicated, you
may always observe that faith and knowledge are
related as the two scales of a balance; when the
one goes up, the other goes down. So sensitive is
the balance that it indicates momentary influences.
When, for instance, at the beginning of this

30 RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

century, those inroads of French robbers under the
leadership of Bonaparte, and the enormous efforts
necessary for driving them out and punishing them,
had brought about a temporary neglect of science
and consequently a certain decline in the general
increase of knowledge, the Church immediately be
gan to raise her head again and Faith began to
show fresh signs of life; which, to be sure, in keep
ing with the times, was partly poetical in its
nature. On the other hand, in the more than thirty
years of peace which followed, leisure and pros
perity furthered the building up of science and the
spread of knowledge in an extraordinary degree:
the consequence of which is what I have indicated,
the dissolution and threatened fall of religion.
Perhaps the time is approaching which has so often
been prophesied, when religion will take her de
parture from European humanity, like a nurse
which the child has outgrown : the child will now be
given over to the instructions of a tutor. For there
is no doubt that religious doctrines which are
founded merely on authority, miracles and revela
tions, are only suited to the childhood of humanity.
Everyone will admit that a race, the past duration
of which on the earth all accounts, physical and
historical, agree in placing at not more than some
hundred times the life of a man of sixty, is as yet
only in its first childhood.

Demopheles. Instead of taking an undisguised
pleasure in prophesying the downfall of Christian
ity, how I wish you would consider what a measure
less debt of gratitude European humanity owes to
it, how greatly it has benefited by the religion
which, after a long interval, followed it from its
old home in the East. Europe received from Chris
tianity ideas which were quite new to it, the

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE 31

knowledge, I mean, of the fundamental truth
that life cannot be an end-in-itself, that the true
end of our existence lies beyond it. The Greeks
and Romans had placed this end altogether in
our present life, so that in this sense they may
certainly be called blind heathens. And, in
keeping with this view of life, all their virtues
can be reduced to what is serviceable to the com
munity, to what is useful in fact. Aristotle says
quite naively, Those virtues must necessarily be
the greatest which are the most useful to others.
So the ancients thought patriotism the highest
virtue, although it is really a very doubtful one,
since narrowness, prejudice, vanity and an en
lightened self-interest are main elements in it. Just
before the passage I quoted, Aristotle enumerates
all the virtues, in order to discuss them singly.
They are Justice, Courage, Temperance, Magnifi
cence, Magnanimity, Liberality, Gentleness, Good
Sense and Wisdom. How different from the Chris
tian virtues ! Plato himself, incomparably the most
transcendental philosopher of pre-Christian an
tiquity, knows no higher virtue than Justice; and
he alone recommends it unconditionally and for
its own sake, whereas the rest make a happy life,
vita beat a, the aim of all virtue, and moral conduct
the way to attain it. Christianity freed European
humanity from this shallow, crude identification of
itself with the hollow, uncertain existence of every
day,

coelumque tueri
Jussit, et erectos ad sidera tollere vultus.

Christianity, accordingly, does not preach mere
Justice, but the Love of Mankind, Compassion,
Good Works, Forgiveness, Love of your Enemies*

32 , RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

Patience, Humility, Resignation, Faith and Hope.
It even went a step further, and taught that the
world is of evil, and that we need deliverance. It
preached despisal of the world, self-denial, chastity,
giving up of one's will, that is, turning away from
life and its illusory pleasures. It taught the heal
ing power of pain: an instrument of torture is the
symbol of Christianity. I am quite ready to admit
that this earnest, this only correct view of life was
thousands of years previously spread all over Asia
in other forms, as it is still, independently of Chris
tianity; but for European humanity it was a new
and great revelation. For it is well known that
the population of Europe consists of Asiatic races
driven out as wanderers from their own homes, and
gradually settling down in Europe; on their wan
derings these races lost the original religion of their
homes, and with it the right view of life: so, under
a new sky, they formed religions for themselves,
which were rather crude; the worship of Odin, for
instance, the Druidic or the Greek religion, the
metaphysical content of which was little and shal
low. In the meantime the Greeks developed a
special, one might almost say, an instinctive sense
of beauty, belonging to them alone of all the na
tions who have ever existed on the earth, peculiar,
fine and exact : so that their mythology took, in the
mouth of their poets, and in the hands of their
artists, an exceedingly beautiful and pleasing shape.
On the other hand, the true and deep significance
of life was lost to the Greeks and Romans. They
lived on like grown-up children, till Christianity
came and recalled them to the serious side of ex
istence.

Philalethes. And to see the effects one need
only compare antiquity with the Middle Age; the

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE 33

time of Pericles, say, with the fourteenth century.
You could scarcely believe you were dealing with
the same kind of beings. There, the finest develop
ment of humanity, excellent institutions, wise laws,
shrewdly apportioned offices, rationally ordered
freedom, all the arts, including poetry and philoso
phy, at their best; the production of works which,
after thousands of years, are unparalleled, the crea
tions, as it were, of a higher order of beings, which
we can never imitate; life embellished by the
noblest fellowship, as portrayed in Xenophen's
Banquet. Look on the other picture, if you can;
a time at which the Church had enslaved the minds,
and violence the bodies of men, that knights and
priests might lay the whole weight of life upon the
common beast of burden, the third estate. There,
you have might as right, Feudalism and Fanaticism
in close alliance, and in their train abominable ig
norance and darkness of mind, a corresponding
intolerance, discord of creeds, religious wars, cru
sades, inquisitions and persecutions; as the form
of fellowship, chivalry, compounded of savagery
and folly, with its pedantic system of ridiculous
false pretences carried to an extreme, its degrading
superstition and apish veneration for women. Gal
lantry is the residue of this veneration, deservedly
requited as it is by feminine arrogance; it affords
continual food for laughter to all Asiatics, and the
Greeks would have joined in it. In the golden
Middle Age the practice developed into a regular
and methodical service of women; it imposed deeds
of heroism, cours d* amour, bombastic Troubadour
songs, etc.; although it is to be observed that these
last buffooneries, which had an intellectual side,
were chiefly at home in France; whereas amongst
the material sluggish Germans, the knights dis~

34 RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

tinguished themselves rather by drinking and steal
ing; they were good at boozing and filling their
castles with plunder; though in the courts, to be
sure, there was no lack of insipid love songs. What
caused this utter transformation? Migration and
Christianity.

Demopheles. I am glad you reminded me of it.
Migration was the source of the evil; Christianity
the dam on which it broke. It was chiefly by Chris
tianity that the raw, wild hordes which came flood
ing in were controlled and tamed. The savage man
must first of all learn to kneel, to venerate, to obey ;
after that he can be civilized. This was done in
Ireland by St. Patrick, in Germany by Winifred
the Saxon, who was a genuine Boniface. It was
migration of peoples, the last advance of Asiatic
races towards Europe, followed only by the fruit
less attempts of those under Attila, Zenghis Khan,
and Timur, and as a comic afterpiece, by the
gipsies, — it was this movement which swept away
the humanity of the ancients. Christianity was
precisely the principle which set itself to work
against this savagery; just as later, through the
whole of the Middle Age, the Church and it hier
archy were most necessary to set limits to the
savage barbarism of those masters of violence, the
princes and knights: it was what broke up the ice
floes in that mighty deluge. Still, the chief aim of
Christianity is not so much to make this life
pleasant as to render us worthy of a better. It
looks away over this span of time, over this fleeting
dream, and seeks to lead us to eternal welfare. Its
tendency is ethical in the highest sense of the word,
a sense unknown in Europe till its advent; as I
have shown you, by putting the morality and re-

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE 35

ligion of the ancients side by side with those of
Christendom.

Philalethes. You are quite right as regards
theory: but look at the practice! In comparison
with the ages of Christianity the ancient world was
unquestionably less cruel than the Middle Age,
with its deaths by exquisite torture, its innumerable
burnings at the stake. The ancients, further, were
very enduring, laid great stress on justice, fre
quently sacrificed themselves for their country,
showed such traces of every kind of magnanimity,
and such genuine manliness, that to this day an
acquaintance with their thoughts and actions is
called the study of Humanity. The fruits of Chris
tianity were religious wars, butcheries, crusades,
inquisitions, extermination of the natives in Amer
ica, and the introduction of African slaves in their
place; and among the ancients there is nothing
analogous to this, nothing that can be compared
with it; for the slaves of the ancients, the familia,
the vernce, were a contented race, and faithfully
devoted to their masters' service, and as different
from the misareble negroes of the sugar planta
tions, which are a disgrace to humanity, as their
two colors are distinct. Those special moral de
linquencies for which we reproach the ancients,
and which are perhaps less uncommon now-a-
days than appears on the surface to be the case,
are trifles compared with the Christian enormi
ties I have mentioned. Can you then, all consid
ered, maintain that mankind has been really made
morally better by Christianity?

Demopheles. If the results haven't everywhere
been in keeping with the purity and truth of the
doctrine, it may be because the doctrine has been
too noble, too elevated for mankind, that its aim

^6 RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

has been placed too high. It was so much easier
to come up to the heathen system, or to the Moham
medan. It is precisely what is noble and dignified
that is most liable everywhere to misuse and fraud :
abusus optimi pessimus. Those high doctrines have
accordingly now and then served as a pretext for
the most abominable proceedings, and for acts of
unmitigated wickedness. The downfall of the in
stitutions of the old world, as well as of its arts
and sciences, is, as I have said, to be attributed
to the inroad of foreign barbarians. The inevitable
result of this inroad was that ignorance and sav
agery got the upper hand; consequently violence
and knavery established their dominion, and
knights and priests became a burden to mankind.
It is partly, however, to be explained by the fact
that the new religion made eternal and not tem
poral welfare the object of desire, taught that sim
plicity of heart was to be preferred to knowledge,
and looked askance at all worldly pleasure. Now
the arts and sciences subserve worldly pleasure ; but
in so far as they could be made serviceable to re
ligion they were promoted, and attained a certain
degree of perfection.

Philalethes. In a very narrow sphere. The
sciences were suspicious companions, and as such,
were placed under restrictions: on the other hand,
darling ignorance, that element so necessary to a
system of faith, ^vas carefully nourished.

Demopheles. And yet mankind's possessions in
the way of knowledge up to that period, which were
preserved in the writings of the ancients, were saved
from destruction by the clergy, especially by those
in the monasteries. How would it have fared if
Christianity hadn't come in just before the migra
tion of peoples.

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE 37

Philalethes. It would really be a most useful
inquiry to try and make, with the coldest impartial
ity, an unprejudiced, careful and accurate com
parison of the advantages and disadvantages which
may be put down to religion. For that, of course,
a much larger knowledge of historical and psycho
logical data than either of us command would be
necessary. Academies might make it a subject for
a prize essay.

Demopheles. They'll take good care not to do
so.

Philalethes. I'm surprised to hear you say that :
it's a bad look out for religion. However, there
are academies which, in proposing a subject for
competition, make it a secret condition that the
prize is to go to the man who best interprets their
own view. If we could only begin by getting
a statistician to tell us how many crimes are pre
vented every year by religious, and how many by
other motives, there would be very few of the former.
If a man feels tempted to commit a crime, you may
rely upon it that the first consideration which enters
his head is the penalty appointed for it, and the
chances that it will fall upon him: then comes, as
a second consideration, the risk to his reputation.
If I am not mistaken, he will ruminate by the hour
on these two impediments, before he ever takes a
thought of religious considerations. If he gets
safely over those two first bulwarks against crime,
I think religion alone will very rarely hold him back
from it.

Demopheles. I think that it will very often do
so, especially when its influence works through the
medium of custom. An atrocious act is at once
felt to be repulsive. What is this but the effect
of early impressions? Think, for instance, how

38 RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

often a man, especially if of noble birth, will
make tremendous sacrifices to perform what he has
promised, motived entirely by the fact that his
father has often earnestly impressed upon him in
his childhood that "a man of honor" or "a gentle
man" or a "a cavalier" always keeps his word in
violate.

Philalethes. That's no use unless there is a cer
tain inborn honorableness. You mustn't ascribe to
religion what results from innate goodness of char
acter, by which compassion for the man who would
suffer by his crime keeps a man from committing
it. This is the genuine moral motive, and as such
it is independent of all religions.

Demopheles. But this is a motive which rarely
affects the multitude unless it assumes a relig
ious aspect. The religious aspect at any rate
strengthens its power for good. Yet without any
such natural foundation, religious motives alone are
powerful to prevent crime. We need not be sur
prised at this in the case of the multitude, when
we see that even people of education pass now and
then under the influence, not indeed of religious
motives, which are founded on something which is
at least allegorically true, but of the most absurd
superstition, and allow themselves to be guided by
it all their life long; as, for instance, undertaking
nothing on a Friday, refusing to sit down thirteen
at a table, obeying chance omens, and the like.
How much more likely is the multitude to be guided
by such things. You can't form any adequate idea
of the narrow limits of the mind in its raw state;
it is a place of absolute darkness, especially when,
as often happens, a bad, unjust and malicious heart
is at the bottom of it. People in this condition —
and they form the great bulk of humanity — must

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

39

be led and controlled as well as may be, even if
it be by really superstitious motives; until such
time as they become susceptible to truer and better
ones. As an instance of the direct working of
religion, may be cited the fact, common enough, in
Italy especially, of a thief restoring stolen goods,
through the influence of his confessor, who says he
won't absolve him if he doesn't. Think again of
the case of an oath, where religion shows a most
decided influence; whether it be that a man places
himself expressly in the position of a purely moral
being, and as such looks upon himself as solemnly
appealed to, as seems to be the case in France,
where the formula is simply je le jure, and also
among the Quakers, whose solemn yea or nay is
regarded as a substitute for the oath; or whether
it be that a man really believes he is pronouncing
something which may affect his eternal happiness,
• — a belief which is presumably only the investiture
of the former feeling. At any rate, religious con
siderations are a means of awakening and calling
out a man's moral nature. How often it happens
that a man agrees to take a false oath, and then,
when it comes to the point, suddenly refuses, and
truth and right win the day.

Philalethes. Oftener still false oaths are really
taken, and truth and right trampled under foot,
though all witnesses of the oath know it well!
Still you are quite right to quote the oath as an
undeniable example of the practical efficacy of re
ligion. But, in spite of all you've said, I doubt
whether the efficacy of religion goes much beyond
this. Just think; if a public proclamation were
suddenly made announcing the repeal of all the
criminal laws; I fancy neither you nor I would
have the courage to go home from here under the

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

protection of religious motives. If, in the same
way, all religions were declared untrue, we could,
under the protection of the laws alone, go on living
as before, without any special addition to our ap
prehensions or our measures of precaution. I will
go beyond this, and say that religions have very
frequently exercised a decidedly demoralizing in
fluence. One may say generally that duties towards
God and duties towards humanity are in inverse
ratio. It is easy to let adulation of the Deity make
It is easy to let adulation of the Deity make
amends for lack of proper behavior towards man.
And so we see that in all times and in all countries
the great majority of mankind find it much easier
to beg their way to heaven by prayers than to de
serve to go there by their actions. In every re
ligion it soon comes to be the case that faith, cere
monies, rites and the like, are proclaimed to be
more agreeable to the Divine will than moral ac
tions; the former, especially if they are bound up
with the emoluments of the clergy, gradually come
to be looked upon as a substitute for the latter.
Sacrifices in temples, the saying of masses, the
founding of chapels, the planting of crosses by the
roadside, soon come to be the most meritorious
works, so that even great crimes are expiated by
them, as also by penance, subjection to priestly
authority, confessions, pilgrimages, donations to
the temples and the clergy, the building of mon
asteries and the like. The consequence of all this
is that the priests finally appear as middlemen in
the corruption of the gods. And if matters don't
go quite so far as that, where is the religion whose
adherents don't consider prayers, praise and mani
fold acts of devotion, a substitute, at least in part,
for moral conduct? Look at England, where by

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE 41

an audacious piece of priestcraft, the Christian Sun
day, introduced by Constantine the Great as a
subject for the Jewish Sabbath, is in a mendacious
way identified with it, and takes its name, — and
this in order that the commands of Jehovah for the
Sabbath (that is, the day on which the Almighty
had to rest from his six days' labor, so that it is
essentially the last day of the week,) might be ap
plied to the Christian Sunday, the dies soils, the first
day of the week which the sun opens in glory, the
day of devotion and joy. The consequence of this
fraud is that "Sabbath-breaking," or "the desecra
tion of the Sabbath," that is, the slightest occupa
tion, whether of business or pleasure, all games,
music, sewing, worldly books, are on Sundays
looked upon as great sins. Surely the ordinary
man must believe that if, as his spiritual guides
impress upon him, he is only constant in "a strict
observance of the holy Sabbath," and is "a regular
attendant at Divine Service," that is, if he only
invariably idles away his time on Sundays, and
doesn't fail to sit two hours in church to hear the
same litany for the thousandth time and mutter
it in tune with the others, he may reckon on in
dulgence in regard to those little peccadilloes which
he occasionally allows himself. Those devils in
human form, the slave owners and slave traders in
the Free States of North America (they should
be called the Slave States) are, as a rule, orthodox,
pious Anglicans who would consider it a grave sin
to work on Sundays; and having confidence in this,
and their regular attendance at church, they hope
for eternal happiness. The demoralizing tendency
of religion is less problematical than its moral in
fluence. How great and how certain that moral in
fluence must be to make amends for the enormities

42 RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

which religions, especially the Christian and Mo
hammedan religions, have produced and spread
over the earth! Think of the fanaticism, the end
less persecutions, the religious wars, that sanguin
ary frenzy of which the ancients had no concep
tion! think of the crusades, a butchery lasting two
hundred years and inexcusable, its war cry "It is
the will of God," its object to gain possession of
the grave of one who preached love and sufferance !
think of the cruel expulsion and extermination of
the Moors and Jews from Spain! think of the
orgies of blood, the inquisitions, the heretical tri
bunals, the bloody and terrible conquests of the
Mohammedans in three continents, or those of
Christianity in America, whose inhabitants were
for the most part, and in Cuba entirely, extermi
nated. According to Las Cases, Christianity
murdered twelve millions in forty years, of course
all in majorem Dei gloriam, and for the propaga
tion of the Gospel, and because what wasn't Chris
tian wasn't even looked upon as human! I have,
it is true, touched upon these matters before; but
when in our day, we hear of Latest News from
the Kingdom of God,1 we shall not be weary of
bringing old news to mind. And above all, don't
let us forget India, the cradle of the human race,
or at least of that part of it to which we belong,
where first Mohammedans, and then Christians,
were most cruelly infuriated against the adherents
of the original faith of mankind. The destruction
or disfigurement of the ancient temples and idols,
a lamentable, mischievous and barbarous act, still
bears witness to the monotheistic fury of the Mo
hammedans, carried on from Marmud, the Ghaz-

1 A missionary paper, of which the 40th annual number ap
peared in 1856.

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE 43

nevid of cursed memory, down to Aureng Zeb, the
fratricide, whom the Portuguese Christians have
zealously imitated by destruction of temples and
the auto de fe of the inquisition at Goa. Don't
let us forget the chosen people of God, who after
they had, by Jehovah's express command, stolen
from their old and trusty friends in Egypt the gold
and silver vessels which had been lent to them,
made a murderous and plundering inroad into "the
Promised Land," with the murderer Moses at
their head, to tear it from the rightful owners,—
again, by the same Jehovah's express and repeated
commands, showing no mercy, exterminating the
inhabitants, women, children and all (Joshua, ch.
9 and 10). And all this, simply because they
weren't circumcised and didn't know Jehovah,
which was reason enough to justify every enormity
against them; just as for the same reason, in earlier
times, the infamous knavery of the patriarch Jacob
and his chosen people against Hamor, King of
Shalem, and his people, is reported to his glory be
cause the people were unbelievers ! ( Genesis xxxiii.
18.) Truly, it is the worst side of religions that
the believers of one religion have allowed them
selves every sin again those of another, and with
the utmost ruffianism and cruelty persecuted them ;
the Mohammedans against the Christians and
Hindoos ; the Christians against the Hindoos, Mo
hammedans, American natives, Negroes, Jews,
heretics, and others.

Perhaps I go too far in saying all religions. For
the sake of truth, I must add that the fanatical
enormities perpetrated in the name of religion are
only to be put down to the adherents of mono
theistic creeds, that is, the Jewish faith and its two
branches, Christianity and Islamism. We hear of

44 RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

nothing of the kind in the case of Hindoos and
Buddhists. Although it is a matter of common
knowledge that about the fifth century of our era
Buddhism was driven out by the Brahmans from
its ancient home in the southernmost part of the
Indian peninsula, and afterwards spread over the
whole of the rest of Asia, as far as I know, we have
no definite account of any crimes of violence, or
wars, or cruelties, perpetrated in the course of it.

That may, of course, be attributable to the ob
scurity which veils the history of those countries;
but the exceedingly mild character of their religion,
together with their unceasing inculcation of for
bearance towards all living things, and the fact that
Brahmanism by its caste system properly admits
no proselytes, allows one to hope that their ad
herents may be acquitted of shedding blood on a
large scale, and of cruelty in any form. S pence
Hardy, in his excellent book on Eastern Mon-
acMsm, praises the extraordinary tolerance of the
Buddhists, and adds his assurance that the annals
of Buddhism will furnish fewer instances of re
ligious persecution than those of any other religion.

As a matter of fact, it is only to monotheism
that intolerance is essential; an only god is by his
nature a jealous god, who can allow no other god
to exist. Polytheistic gods, on the other hand, are
naturally tolerant ; .they live and let live ; their own
colleagues are the chief objects of their sufferance,
as being gods of the same religion. This toleration
is afterwards extended to foreign gods, who are,
accordingly, hospitably received, and later on ad
mitted, in some cases, to an equality of rights;
the chief example of which is shown by the fact,
that the Romans willingly admitted and venerated
Phrygian, Egyptian and other gods. Hence it is

RELIGION: A DIALOGUE 45

that monotheistic religions alone furnish the spec
tacle of religious wars, religious persecutions,
heretical tribunals, that breaking of idols and de
struction of images of the gods, that razing of
Indian temples, and Egyptian colossi, which had
looked on the sun three thousand years, just be
cause a jealous god had said, Thou shall make no
graven image.

But to return to the chief point. You are cer
tainly right in insisting on the strong metaphysical
needs of mankind; but religion appears to me to
be not so much a satisfaction as an abuse of those
needs. At any rate we have seen that in regard
to the furtherance of morality, its utility is, for the
most part, problematical, its disadvantages, and
especially the atrocities which have followed in its
train, are patent to the light of day. Of course
it is quite a different matter if we consider the
utility of religion as a prop of thrones; for where
these are held "by the grace of God," throne and
altar are intimately associated; and every wise
prince who loves his throne and his family will ap
pear at the head of his people as an exemplar of
true religion. Even Machiavelli, in the eighteenth
chapter of his book, most earnestly recommended
religion to princes. Beyond this, one may say that
revealed religions stand to philosophy exactly in
the relation of "sovereigns by the grace of God,"
to "the sovereignty of the people"; so that the two
former terms of the parallel are in natural alliance.

Demopheles. Oh, don't take that tone ! You're
going hand in hand with ochlocracy and anarchy,
the arch enemy of all legislative order, all civiliza
tion and all humanity.

Philalethes. You are right. It was only a
sophism of mine, what the fencing master calls a

46 RELIGION: A DIALOGUE

feint. I retract it. But see how disputing some
times makes an honest man unjust and malicious.
Let us stop.

Demopheles. I can't help regretting that, after
all the trouble I've taken, I haven't altered your
disposition in regard to religion. On the other
hand, I can assure you that everything you have
said hasn't shaken my conviction of its high value
and necessity.

Philalethes. I fully believe you ; for, as we may
read in Hudibras —

A man convinced against his will
Is of the same opinion still.

My consolation is that, alike in controversies and in
taking mineral waters, the after effects are the true
ones.

Demopheles. Well, I hope it'll be beneficial in
your case.

Philalethes. It might be so, if I could digest a
certain Spanish proverb:

Demopheles. Which is?

Philalethes. Behind the cross stands the devil.

Demopheles. Come, don't let us part with sar
casms. Let us rather admit that religion, like
Janus, or better still, like the Brahman god of
death, Yama, has two faces, and like him, one
friendly, the other sullen. Each of us has kept his
eye fixed on one alone.

Philalethes. You are right, old fellow.

A FEW WORDS ON PANTHEISM.

THE controversy between Theism and Pantheism
might be presented in an allegorical or dramatic
form by supposing a dialogue between two persons
in the pit of a theatre at Milan during the per
formance of a piece. One of them, convinced that
he is in Girolamo's renowned marionette-theatre,
admires the art by which the director gets up the
dolls and guides their movements. "Oh, you are
quite mistaken," says the other, "we're in the
Teatro della Scala; it is the manager and his troupe
who are on the stage ; they are the persons you see
before you; the poet too is taking a part."

The chief objection I have to Pantheism is that
it says nothing. To call the world "God" is not
to explain it; it is only to enrich our language with
a superfluous synonym for the word "world." It
comes to the same thing whether you say "the world
is God," or "God is the world." But if you start
from "God" as something that is given in experi
ence, and has to be explained, and they say, "God
is the world," you are affording what is to some
extent an explanation, in so far as you are reducing
what is unknown to what is partly known (ignotum
per notius) ; but it is only a verbal explanation.
If, however, you start from what is really given,
that is to say, from the world, and say, "the world
is God," it is clear that you say nothing, or at least
you are explaining what is unknown by what is
more unknown.

Hence, Pantheism presupposes Theism; only in

47

48 A FEW WORDS ON PANTHEISM

so far as you start from a god, that is, in so far
as you possess him as something with which you
are already familiar, can you end by identifying
him with the world; and your purpose in doing so
is to put him out of the way in a decent fashion. In
other words, you do not start clear from the world
as something that requires explanation; you start
from God as something that is given, and not know
ing what to do with him, you make the world take
over his role. This is the origin of Pantheism.
Taking an unprejudiced view of the world as it is,
no one would dream of regarding it as a god. It
must be a very ill-advised god who knows no better
way of diverting himself than by turning into such
a world as ours, such a mean, shabby world, there
to take the form of innumerable millions who live
indeed, but are fretted and tormented, and who
manage to exist a while together, only by preying
on one another; to bear misery, need and death,
without measure and without object, in the form, for
instance, of millions of negro slaves, or of the three
million weavers in Europe who, in hunger and care,
lead a miserable existence in damp rooms or the
cheerless halls of a factory. What a pastime this
for a god, who must, as such, be used to another
mode of existence!

We find acordingly that what is described as the
great advance from Theism to Pantheism, if looked
at seriously, and not simply as a masked negation
of the sort indicated above, is a transition from
what is unproved and hardly conceivable to what
is absolutely absurd. For however obscure, however
loose or confused may be the idea which we con
nect with the word "God," there are two predicates
which are inseparable from it, the highest power
and the highest wisdom. It is absolutely absurd

A FEW WORDS ON PANTHEISM 49

to think that a being endowed with these qualities
should have put himself into the position described
above. Theism, on the other hand, is something
which is merely unproved; and if it is difficult to
look upon the infinite world as the work of a per
sonal, and therefore individual, Being, the like of
which we know only from our experience of the
animal world, it is nevertheless not an absolutely
absurd idea. That a Being, at once almighty and
all-good, should create a world of torment is always
conceivable; even though we do not know why he
does so; and accordingly we find that when people
ascribe the height of goodness to this Being, they
set up the inscrutable nature of his wisdom as the
refuge by which the doctrine escapes the charge of
absurdity. Pantheism, however, assumes that the
creative God is himself the world of infinite tor
ment, and, in this little world alone, dies every
second, and that entirely of his own will; which is
absurd. It would be much more correct to identify
the world with the devil, as the venerable author of
the Deutsche Theologie has, in fact, done in a pas
sage of his immortal work, where he says, ff Where
fore the evil spirit and nature are one, and where
nature is not overcome, neither is the evil adversary

overcome."

It is manifest that the Pantheists give the San-
sara the name of God. The same name is given by
the Mystics to the Nirvana. The latter, however,
state more about the Nirvana than they know,
which is not done by the Buddhists, whose Nirvana
is accordingly a relative nothing. It is only Jews,
Christians, and Mohammedans who give its proper
and correct meaning to the word "God."

The expression, often heard now-a-days, ''the
world is an end-in-itself," leaves it uncertain

50 A FEW WORDS ON PANTHEISM

whether Pantheism or a simple Fatalism is to be
taken as the explanation of it. But, whichever it
be, the expression looks upon the world from a
physical point of view only, and leaves out of sight
its moral significance, because you cannot assume
a moral significance without presenting the world
as means to a higher end. The notion that the
world has a physical but not a moral meaning, is
the most mischievous error sprung from the greatest
mental perversity.

ON BOOKS AND READING.

IGNORANCE is degrading only when found in
company with riches. The poor man is restrained
by poverty and need: labor occupies his thoughts,
and takes the place of knowledge. But rich men
who are ignorant live for their lusts only, and are
like the beasts of the field; as may be seen every
day : and they can also be reproached for not having
used wealth and leisure for that which gives them
their greatest value.

When we read, another person thinks for us : we
merely repeat his mental process. In learning to
write, the pupil goes over with his pen what the
teacher has outlined in pencil: so in reading; the
greater part of the work of thought is already done
for us. This is why it relieves us to take up a book
'after being occupied with our own thoughts. And
in reading, the mind is, in fact, only the playground
of another's thoughts. So it comes about that if
anyone spends almost the whole day in reading,
and by way of relaxation devotes the intervals to
some thoughtless pastime, he gradually loses the
capacity for thinking; just as the man who always
rides, at last forgets how to walk. This is the case
with many learned persons: they have read them
selves stupid. For to occupy every spare moment
in reading, and to do nothing but read, is even
more paralyzing to the mind than constant manual
labor, which at least allows those engaged in it to
follow their own thoughts. A spring never free

51

52 ON BOOKS AND READING

from the pressure of some foreign body at last
loses its elasticity; and so does the mind if other
people's thoughts are constantly forced upon it.
Just as you can ruin the stomach and impair the
whole body by taking too much nourishment, so
you can overfill and choke the mind by feeding it
too much. The more you read, the fewer are the
traces left by what you have read: the mind be
comes like a tablet crossed over and over with writ
ing. There is no time for ruminating, and in no
other way can you assimilate what you have read.
If you read on and on without setting your own
thoughts to work, what you have read can not strike
root, and is generally lost. It is, in fact, just the
same with mental as with bodily food: hardly the
fifth part of what one takes is assimilated. The
rest passes off in evaporation, respiration and the
like.

The result of all this is that thoughts put on
paper are nothing more than footsteps in the sand :
you see the way the man has gone, but to know
what he saw on his walk, you want his eyes.

There is no quality of style that can be gained
by reading writers who possess it; whether it be
persuasiveness, imagination, the gift of drawing
comparisons, boldness, bitterness, brevity, grace,
ease of expression or wit, unexpected contrasts, a
laconic or naive manner, and the like. But if these
qualities are already in us, exist, that is to say,
potentially, we can call them forth and bring them
to consciousness; we can learn the purposes to
which they can be put; we can be strengthened in
our inclination to use them, or get courage to do
so; we can judge by examples the effect of apply
ing them, and so acquire the correct use of them;

ON BOOKS AND READING 53

and of course it is only when we have arrived at
that point that we actually possess these qualities.
The only way in which reading can form style is
by teaching us the use to which we can put our
own natural gifts. We must have these gifts be
fore we begin to learn the use of them. Without
them, reading teaches us nothing but cold, dead
mannerisms and makes us shallow imitators.

The strata of the earth preserve in rows the crea
tures which lived in former ages; and the array of
books on the shelves of a library stores up in like
manner the errors of the past and the way in which
they have been exposed. Like those creatures, they
too were full of life in their time, and made a great
deal of noise; but now they are stiff and fossilized,
and an ob j ect of curiosity to the literary palaeontol
ogist alone.

Herodotus relates that Xerxes wept at the sight
of his army, which stretched further than the eye
could reach, in the thought that of all these, after
a hundred years, not one would be alive. And in
looking over a huge catalogue of new books, one
might weep at thinking that, when ten years have
passed, not one of them will be heard of.

It is in literature as in life: wherever you turn,
you stumble at once upon the incorrigible mob of
humanity, swarming in all directions, crowding and
soiling everything, like flies in summer. Hence
the number, which no man can count, of bad books,
those rank weeds of literature, which draw nourish
ment from the corn and choke it. The time, money
and attention of the public, which rightfully belong
to good books and their noble aims, they take for

54 ON BOOKS AND READING

themselves: they are written for the mere purpose
of making money or procuring places. So they
are not only useless; they do positive mischief.
Nine-tenths of the whole of our present literature
has no other aim than to get a few shillings out of
the pockets of the public; and to this end author,
publisher and reviewer are in league.

Let me mention a crafty and wicked trick, albeit
a profitable and successful one, practised by litter
ateurs, hack writers, and voluminous authors. In
complete disregard of good taste and the true cul
ture of the period, they have succeeded in getting
the whole of the world of fashion into leading
strings, so that they are all trained to read in time,
and all the same thing, viz., the newest books; and
that for the purpose of getting food for conversa
tion in the circles in which they move. This is
the aim served by bad novels, produced by writers
who were once celebrated, as Spindler, Bulwer
Lytton, Eugene Sue. What can be more miserable
than the lot of a reading public like this, always
bound to peruse the latest works of extremely com
monplace persons who write for money only, and
who are therefore never few in number? and for
this advantage they are content to know by name
only the works of the few superior minds of all ages
and all countries. Literary newspapers, too, are a
singularly cunning device for robbing the reading
public of the time which, if culture is to be attained,
should be devoted to the genuine productions of
literature, instead of being occupied by the daily
bungling commonplace persons.

Hence, in regard to reading, it is a very im
portant thing to be able to refrain. Skill in doing
so consists in not taking into one's hands any book
merely because at the time it happens to be ex-

ON BOOKS AND READING 55

tensively read; such as political or religious pam
phlets, novels, poetry, and the like, which make a
noise, and may even attain to several editions in
the first and last year of their existence. Consider,
rather, that the man who writes for fools is always
sure of aTTarge audience; be careful to -limit* your
time for reading, and devote it exclusively to the
works of those great minds of all times and coun
tries, who o'ertop the rest of humanity, those whom
the voice of fame points to as such. These alone
really educate and instruct. You can never read
bad literature too little, nor good literature too
much. Bad books are intellectual poison; they de
stroy the mind. Because people always read what
is new instead of the best of all ages, writers remain
in the narrow circle of the ideas which happen to
prevail in their time ; and so the period sinks deeper
and deeper into its own mire.

There are at all times two literatures in progress,
running side by side, but little known to each
other; the one real, the other only apparent. The
former grows into permanent literature ;_itjs pur
sued by those who live for science or poetry; its
course is sober and quiet, but extremely slow; and
it produces in Europe scarcely a dozen works in
a century; these, however, are permanent. The
other kind is pursued by persons who live on science
or poetry; it goes at a gallop with much noise and
shouting of partisans ; and every twelve-month puts
a thousand works on the market. But after a few
years one asks, Where are they? where is the glory
which came so soon and made so much clamor?
This kind may be called fleeting, and the other,
permanent literature.

56 ON BOOKS AND READING

In the history of politics, half a century is al
ways a considerable time; the matter which goes
to form them is ever on the move; there is always
something going on. But in the history of litera
ture there is often a complete standstill for the
same period; nothing has happened, for clumsy at
tempts don't count. You are just where you were
fifty years previously.

To explain what I mean, let me compare the
advance of knowledge among mankind to the course
taken by a planet. The false paths on which hu
manity usually enters after every important ad
vance are like the epicycles in the Ptolemaic system,
and after passing through one of them, the world
is just where it was before it entered it. But the
great minds, who really bring the race further on
its course do not accompany it on the epicycles
it makes from time to time. This explains why
posthumous fame is often bought at the expense
of contemporary praise, and vice versa. An in
stance of such an epicycle is the philosophy started
by Fichte and Schelling, and crowned by Hegel's
caricature of it. This epicycle was a deviation
from the limit to which philosophy had been ulti
mately brought by Kant; and at that point I took
it up again afterwards, to carry it further. In
the intervening period the sham philosophers I
have mentioned and some others went through their
epicycle, which had just come to an end; so that
those who went with them on their course are con
scious of the fact that they are exactly at the point
from which they started.

This circumstance explains why it is that, every
thirty years or so, science, literature, and art, as
expressed in the spirit of the time, are declared
bankrupt. The errors which appear from time to
time amount to such a height in that period that

ON BOOKS AND READING 57

the mere weight of their absurdity makes the fabric
fall; whilst the opposition to them has been gather
ing force at the same time. So an upset takes
place, often followed by an error in the opposite
direction. To exhibit these movements in their
periodical return would be the true practical aim
of the history of literature: little attention, how
ever, is paid to it. And besides, the comparatively
short duration of these periods makes it difficult
to collect the data of epochs long gone by, so that
it is most convenient to observe how the matter
stands in one's own generation. An instance of
this tendency, drawn from physical science, is sup
plied in the Neptunian geology of Werter.

But let me keep strictly to the example cited
above, the nearest we can take. In German
philosophy, the brilliant epoch of Kant was im
mediately followed by a period which aimed rather
at being imposing than at convincing. Instead of
being thorough and clear, it tried to be dazzling,
hyperbolical, and, in a special degree, unintelligible :
instead of seeking truth, it intrigued. Philosophy
could make no progress in this fashion; and at last
the whole school and its method became bankrupt.
For the effrontery of Hegel and his fellows came
to such a pass, — whether because they talked such
sophisticated nonsense, or were so unscrupulously
puffed, or because the entire aim of this pretty
piece of work was quite obvious, — that in the end
there was nothing to prevent charlatanry of the
whole business from becoming manifest to every
body: and when, in consequence of certain dis
closures, the favor it had enjoyed in high quarters
was withdrawn, the system was openly ridiculed.
This most miserable of all the meagre philosophies
that have ever existed came to grief, and dragged
down with it into the abysm of discredit, the sys-

58 ON BOOKS AND READING

terns of Fichte and S dialling which had preceded
it. And so, as far as Germany is concerned, the
total philosophical incompetence of the first half
of the century following upon Kant is quite plain:
and still the Germans boast of their talent for
philosophy in comparison with foreigners, espe
cially since an English writer has been so mali
ciously ironical as to call them "a nation of
thinkers."

For an example of the general system of epi
cycles drawn from the history of art, look at the
school of sculpture which flourished in the last
century and took its name from Bernini, more
especially at the development of it which prevailed
in France. The ideal of this school was not antique
beauty, but commonplace nature: instead of the
simplicity and grace of ancient art, it represented
the manners of a French minuet.

This tendency became bankrupt when, under
Winkelman's direction, a return was made to the
antique school. The history of painting furnishes
an illustration in the first quarter of the century,
when art was looked upon merely as a means and
instrument of mediaeval religious sentiment, and its
themes consequently drawn from ecclesiastical
subjects alone: these, however, were treated by
painters who had none of the true earnestness of
faith, and in their delusion they followed Francesco
Francia, Pietro Perugino, Angelico da Fiesole
and others like them, rating them higher even than
the really great masters who followed. It was in
view of this terror, and because in poetry an analo
gous aim had at the same time found favor, that
Goethe wrote his parable Pfaffenspiel. This
school, too, got the reputation of being whimsical,
became bankrupt, and was followed by a return to

ON BOOKS AND READING 59

nature, which proclaimed itself in genre pictures
and scenes of life of every kind, even though it now
and then strayed into what was vulgar.

The progress of the human mind in literature is
similar. The history of literature is for the most
part like the catalogue of a museum of deformities ;
the spirit in which they keep best is pigskin. The
few creatures that have been born in goodly shape
need not be looked for there. They are still alive,
and are everywhere to be met with in the world,
immortal, and with their years ever green. They
alone form what I have called real literature; the
history of which, poor as it is in persons, we learn
from our youth up out of the mouths of all edu
cated people, before compilations recount it for us.

As an antidote to the prevailing monomania for
reading literary histories, in order to be able to
chatter about everything, without having any real
knowledge at all, let me refer to a passage in
Lichtenberg's works (vol. II., p. 302) , which is well
worth perusal.

I believe that the over-minute acquaintance with the history
of science and learning, which is such a prevalent feature of
our day, is very prejudicial to the advance of knowledge itself.
There is pleasure in following up this history; but as a matter
of fact, it leaves the mind, not empty indeed, but without any
power of its own, just because it makes it so full. Whoever
has felt the desire, not to fill up his mind, but to strengthen it,
to develop his faculties and aptitudes, and generally, to enlarge
his powers, will have found that there is nothing so weakening
as intercourse with a so-called litterateur, on a matter of knowl
edge on which he has not thought at all, though he knows a
thousand little facts appertaining to its history and literature.
It is like reading a cookery-book when you are hungry. I
believe that so-called literary history will never thrive amongst
thoughtful people, who are conscious of their own worth and
the worth of real knowledge. These people are more given to
employing their own reason than to troubling themselves to
know how others have employed theirs. The worst of it is that,
as you will find, the more knowledge takes the direction of

60 ON BOOKS AND READING

literary research, the less the power of promoting knowledge be
comes; the only thing that increases is pride in the possession of
it. Such persons believe that they possess knowledge in a greater
degree than those who really possess it. It is surely a well-
founded remark, that knowledge never makes its possessor proud.
Those alone let themselves be blown out with pride, who in
capable of extending knowledge in their own persons, occupy
themselves with clearing up dark points in its history, or are
able to recount what others have done. They are proud, because
they consider this occupation, which is mostly of a mechanical
nature, the practice of knowledge. I could illustrate what I
mean by examples, but it would be an odious task.

Still, I wish some one would attempt a tragical
history of literature, giving the way in which the
writers and artists, who form the produest posses
sion of the various nations which have given them
birth, have been treated by them during their lives.
Such a history would exhibit the ceaseless warfare,
which what was good and genuine in all times and
countries has had to wage with what was bad and
perverse. It would tell of the martyrdom of almost
all those who truly enlightened humanity, of almost
all the great masters of every kind of art : it would
show us how, with few exceptions, they were tor
mented to death, without recognition, without sym
pathy, without followers ; how they lived in poverty
and misery, whilst fame, honor, and riches, were
the lot of the unworthy; how their fate was that
of Esau, who while he was hunting and getting
venison for his father, was robbed of the blessing
by Jacob, disguised in his brother's clothes, how,
in spite of all, they were kept up by the love of
their work, until at last the bitter fight of the
teacher of humanity is over, until the immortal
laurel is held out to him, and the hour strikes when
it can be said:

Der schwere Panzer wird zum Fliigelkleide

Kurz ist der Schmerz, unendlich ist die Freude.

PHYSIOGNOMY.

THAT the outer man is a picture of the inner,
and the face an expression and revelation of the
whole character, is a presumption likely enough in
itself, and therefore a safe one to go by; evidenced
as it is by the fact that people are always anxious
to see anyone who has made himself famous by
good or evil, or as the author of some extraordinary
work; or if they cannot get a sight of him, to hear
at any rate from others what he looks like. So
people go to places where they may expect to see
the person who interests them ; the press, especially
in England, endeavors to give a minute and strik
ing description of his appearance', painters and en
gravers lose no time in putting him visibly before
us; and finally photography, on that very account
of such high value, affords the most complete satis
faction of our curiosity. It is also a fact that in
private life everyone criticises the physiognomy
of those he comes across, first of all secretly trying
to discern their intellectual and moral character
from their features. This would be a useless pro
ceeding if, as some foolish people fancy, the ex
terior of a man is a matter of no account; if, as
they think, the soul is one thing and the body an
other, and the body related to the soul merely as the
<ioat to the man himself.

On the contrary, every human face is a hiero
glyphic, and a hieroglyphic, too, which admits of
being deciphered, the alphabet of which we carry
about with us already perfected. As a matter of
fact, the face of a man gives us a fuller and more

61

62 PHYSIOGNOMY

interesting information than his tongue; for his
face is the compendium of all he will ever say, as
it is the one record of all his thoughts and endeavors.
And, moreover, the tongue tells the thought of one
man only, whereas the face expresses a thought of
nature itself: so that everyone is worth attentive
observation, even though everyone may not be
worth talking to. And if every individual is worth
observation as a single thought of nature, how much
more so is beauty, since it is a higher and more
general conception of nature, is, in fact, her thought
of a species. This is why beauty is so captivating:
it is a fundamental thought of nature : whereas the
individual is only a by-thought, a corollary.

In private, people always proceed upon the
principle that a man is what he looks; and the
principle is a right one, only the difficulty lies in
its application. For though the art of applying
the principle is partly innate and may be partly
gained by experience, no one is a master of it, and
even the most experienced is not infallible. But
for all that, whatever Figaro may say, it is not the
face which deceives ; it is we who deceive ourselves
in reading in it what is not there.

The deciphering of a face is certainly a great and
difficult art, and the principles of it can never be
learnt in the abstract. The first condition of suc
cess is to maintain a purely objective point of
view, which is no easy matter. For, as soon as the
faintest trace of anything subjective is present,
whether dislike or favor, or fear or hope, or even
the thought of the impression we ourselves are mak
ing upon the object of our attention the characters
we are trying to decipher become confused and cor
rupt. The sound of a language is really appre
ciated only by one who does not understand it, and
that because, in thinking of the signification of a

PHYSIOGNOMY 33

word, we pay no regard to the sign itself. So, in
the same way, a physiognomy is correctly gauged
only by one to whom it is still strange, who has not
grown accustomed to the face by constantly meet
ing and conversing with the man himself. It is,
therefore, strictly speaking, only the first sight of
a man which affords that purely objective viev?
which is necessary for deciphering his features. An
odor affects us only when we first come in contact
with it, and the first glass of wine is the one which
gives us its true taste: in the same way, it is only
at the first encounter that a face makes its fuD
impression upon us. Consequently the first im
pression should be carefully attended to and noted,
even written down if the subject of it is of personal
importance, provided, of course, that one can trust
one's own sense of physiognomy. Subsequent ac
quaintance and intercourse will obliterate the im
pression, but time will one day prove whether it is
true.

Let us, however, not conceal from ourselves the
fact that this first impression is for the most part
extremely unedifying. How poor most faces are!
With the exception of those that are beautiful,
good-natured, or intellectual, that is to say, the
very few and far between, I believe a person of
any fine feeling scarcely ever sees a new face with
out a sensation akin to a shock, for the reason that
it presents a new and surprising combination of
unedifying elements. To tell the truth, it is, as a
rule, a sorry sight. There are some people whose
faces bear the stamp of such artless vulgarity and
baseness of character, such an animal limitation of
intelligence, that one wonders how they can appear
hi public with such a countenance, instead of wear
ing a mask. There are faces, indeed, the very sight
of which produces a feeling of pollution. One can-

64 PHYSIOGNOMY

not, therefore, take it amiss of people, whose privi
leged position admits of it, if they manage to live
in retirement and completely free from the painful
sensation of "seeing new faces." The metaphysical
explanation of this circumstance rests upon the
consideration that the individuality of a man is
precisely that by the very existence of which he
should be reclaimed and corrected. If, on the other
hand, a psychological explanation is satisfactory,
let any one ask himself what kind of physiognomy
he may expect in those who have all their life long,
except on the rarest occasions, harbored nothing
but petty, base and miserable thoughts, and vulgar,
selfish, envious, wicked and malicious desires.,
Every one of these thoughts and desires has set its
mark upon the face during the time it lasted, and
by constant repetition, all these marks have in
course of time become furrows and blotches, so to
speak. Consequently, most people's appearance is
such as to produce a shock at first sight; and it is
only gradually that one gets accustomed to it, that
is to say, becomes so deadened to the impression
that it has no more effect on one.

And that the prevailing facial expression is the
result of a long process of innumerable, fleeting
and characteristic contractions of the features is
just the reason why intellectual countenances are
of gradual formation. It is, indeed, only in old age
that intellectual men attain their sublime expres
sion, whilst portraits of them in their youth show
only the first traces of it. But on the other hand,
what I have just said about the shock which the
first sight of a face generally produces, is in keep
ing with the remark that it is only at that first
sight that it makes its true and full impression.
For to get a purely objective and uncorrupted im
pression of it, we must stand in no kind of relation

PHYSIOGNOMY 65

to the person; if possible, we must not yet have
spoken with him. For every conversation places
us to some extent upon a friendly footing, estab
lishes a certain rapport, a mutual subjective rela
tion, which is at once unfavorable to an objective
point of view. And as everyone's endeavor is to
win esteem or friendship for himself, the man who
is under observation will at once employ all those
arts of dissimulation in which he is already versed,
and corrupt us with his airs, hypocrisies and flat
teries; so that what the first look clearly showed
will soon be seen by us no more.

This fact is at the bottom of the saying that
"most people gain by further acquaintance"; it
ought, however, to run, "delude us by it." It is
only when, later on, the bad qualities manifest them
selves, that our first judgment as a rule receives
its justification and makes good its scornful verdict.
It may be that "a further acquaintance" is an un
friendly one, and if that is so, we do not find in
this case either that people gain by it. Another
reason why people apparently gain on a nearer
acquaintance is that the man whose first aspect
warns us from him, as soon as we converse with
him, no longer shows his own being and character,
but also his education; that is, not only what he
really is by nature, but also what he has appro
priated to himself out of the common wealth of
mankind. Three-fourths of what he says belongs
not to him, but to the sources from which he ob
tained it; so that we are often surprised to hear
a minotaur speak so humanly. If we make a still
closer acquaintance, the animal nature, of which
his face gave promise, will manifest itself "in all its
splendor." If one is gifted with an acute sense for
physiognomy, one should take special note of those
verdicts which preceded a closer acquaintance and

66 PHYSIOGNOMY

were therefore genuine. For the face of a man
is the exact impression of what he is; and if he
deceives us, that is our fault, not his. What a man
says, on the other hand, is what he thinks, more
often what he has learned, or it may be even, what
he pretends to think. And besides this, when we
talk to him, or even hear him talking to others,
we pay no attention to his physiognomy proper. It
is the underlying substance, the fundamental
datum, and we disregard it; what interests us is
its pathognomy, its play of feature during con
versation. This, however, is so arranged as to turn
the good side upwards.

When Socrates said to a young man who was
introduced to him to have his capabilities tested,
"Talk in order that I may see you," if indeed by
"seeing" he did not simply mean "hearing," he was
right, so far as it is only in conversation that the
features and especially the eyes become animated,
and the intellectual resources and capacities set
their mark upon the countenance. This puts us in
a position to form a provisional notion of the de
gree and capacity of intelligence ; which was in that
case Socrates' aim. But in this connection it is to
be observed, firstly, that the rule does not apply to
moral qualities, which lie deeper, and in the second
place, that what from an objective point of view
we gain by the clearer development of the counte
nance in conversation, we lose from a subjective
standpoint on account of the personal relation into
which the speaker at once enters in regard to us,
and which produces a slight fascination, so that,
as explained above, we are not left impartial ob
servers. Consequently from the last point of view
we might say with greater accuracy, "Do not speak
in order that I may see you."

For to get a pure and fundamental conception

PHYSIOGNOMY 67

of a man's physiognomy, we must observe him when
he is alone and left to himself. Society of any kind
and conversation throw a reflection upon him which
is not his own, generally to his advantage; as he is
thereby placed in a state of action and reaction
which sets him off. But alone and left to himself,
plunged in the depths of his own thoughts and
sensations, he is wholly himself, and a penetrating
eye for physiognomy can at one glance take a gen
eral view of his entire character. For his face,
looked at by and in itself, expresses the keynote of
all his thoughts and endeavors, the arret irrevocable,
the irrevocable decree of his destiny, the conscious
ness of which only comes to him when he is alone.

The study of physiognomy is one of the chief
means of a knowledge of mankind, because the cast
of a man's face is the only sphere in which his arts
of dissimulation are of no avail, since these arts
extended only to that play of feature which is akin
to mimicry. And that is why I recommend such
a study to be undertaken when the subject of it is
alone and given up to his own thoughts, and before
he is spoken to : and this partly for the reason that
it is only in such a condition that inspection of the
physiognomy pure and simple is possible, because
conversation at once lets in a pathognomical ele
ment, in which a man can apply the arts of dis
simulation which he has learned: partly again be
cause personal contact, even of the very slightest
kind, gives a certain bias and so corrupts the judg
ment of the observer.

And in regard to the study of physiognomy in
general, it is further to be observed that intellectual
capacity is much easier of discernment than moral
character. The former naturally takes a much
more outward direction, and expresses itself not
only in the face and the play of feature, but also in

68 PHYSIOGNOMY

the gait, down even to the very slightest movement.
One could perhaps discriminate from behind be
tween a blockhead, a fool and a man of genius. The
blockhead would be discerned by the torpidity and
sluggishness of all his movements: folly sets its
mark upon every gesture, and so does intellect
and a studious nature. Hence that remark of La
Bruyere that there is nothing so slight, so simple
or imperceptible but that our way of doing it
enters in and betrays us: a fool neither comes nor
goes, nor sits down, nor gets up, nor holds his
tongue, nor moves about in the same way as an in
telligent man. (And this is, be it observed by
way of parenthesis, the explanation of that sure
and certain instinct which, according to Helvetius,
ordinary folk possess of discerning people of genius,
and of getting out of their way.)

The chief reason for this is that, the larger and
more developed the brain, and the thinner, in rela
tion to it, the spine and nerves, the greater is the
intellect; and not the intellect alone, but at the
same time the mobility and pliancy of all the limbs ;
because the brain controls them more immediately
and resolutely ; so that everything hangs more upon
a single thread, every movement of which gives a
precise expression to its purpose.

This is analogous to, nay, is immediately con
nected with the fact that the higher an animal stands
in the scale of development, the easier it becomes
to kill it by wounding a single spot. Take, for
example, batrachia: they are slow, cumbrous and
sluggish in their movements; they are unintelli
gent, and, at the same time, extremely tenacious
of life; the reason of which is that, with a very
small brain, their spine and nerves are very thick.
Now gait and movement of the arms are mainly
functions of the brain; our limbs receive their mo-

PHYSIOGNOMY 69

tion and every little modification of it from the
brain through the medium of the spine.

This is why conscious movements fatigue us : the
sensation of fatigue, like that of pain, has its seat
in the brain, not, as people commonly suppose, in
the limbs themselves; hence motion induces sleep.

On the other hand those motions which are not
excited by the brain, that is, the unconscious move
ments of organic life, of the heart, of the lungs, etc.,
go on in their course without producing fatigue.
And as thought, equally with motion, is a function
of the brain, the character of the brain's activity is
expressed equally in both, according to the consti
tution of the individual; stupid people move like
lay-figures, while every joint of an intelligent man
is eloquent.

But gesture and movement are not nearly so
good an index of intellectual qualities as the face,
the shape and size of the brain, the contraction and
movement of the features, and above all the eye, — •
from the small, dull, dead-looking eye of a pig up
through all gradations to the irradiating, flashing
eyes of a genius.

The look of good sense and prudence, even of
the best kind, differs from that of genius, in that
the former bears the stamp of subjection to the
will, while the latter is free from it.

And therefore one can well believe the anecdote
told by Squarzafichi in his life of Petrarch, and
taken from Joseph Brivius, a contemporary of the
poet, how once at the court of the Visconti, when
Petrarch and other noblemen and gentlemen were
present, Galeazzo Visconti told his son, who was
then a mere boy (he was afterwards first Duke of
Milan), to pick out the wisest of the company;
how the boy looked at them all for a little, and
then took Petrarch by the hand and led him up

70 PHYSIOGNOMY

to his father, to the great admiration of all present.
For so clearly does nature set the mark of her dig
nity on the privileged among mankind that even
a child can discern it.

Therefore, I should advise my sagacious country
men, if ever again they wish to trumpet about for
thirty years a very commonplace person as a great
genius, not to choose for the purpose such a beer-
h3use-keeper physiognomy as was possessed by
that philosopher, upon whose face nature had writ
ten, in her clearest characters, the familiar inscrip
tion, "commonplace person."

But what applies to intellectual capacity will not
apply to moral qualities, to character. It is more
difficult to discern its physiognomy, because, being
of a metaphysical nature, it lies incomparably
deeper.

It is true that moral character is also connected
with the constitution, with the organism, but not
so immediately or in such direct connection with
definite parts of its system as is intellectual ca
pacity.

Hence while everyone makes a show of his
intelligence and endeavors to exhibit it at every
opportunity, as something with which he is in gen
eral quite contented, few expose their moral quali
ties freely, and most people intentionally cover
them up; and long practice makes the concealment
perfect. In the meantime, as I explained above,
wicked thoughts and worthless efforts gradually
set their mask upon the face, especially the eyes.
So that, judging by physiognomy, it is easy to
warrant that a given man will never produce an
immortal work; but not that he will never commit
a great crime.

PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

FOR every animal, and more especially for man,
a certain conformity and proportion between the
will and the intellect is necessary for existing or
making any progress in the world. The more pre
cise and correct the proportion which nature estab
lishes, the more easy, safe and agreeable will be
the passage through the world. Still, if the right
point is only approximately reached, it will be
enough to ward off destruction. There are, then,
certain limits within which the said proportion may
vary, and yet preserve a correct standard of con
formity. The normal standard is as follows. The
object of the intellect is to light and lead the will
on its path, and therefore, the greater the force,
impetus and passion, which spurs on the will from
within, the more complete and luminous must be the
intellect which is attached to it, that the vehement
strife of the will, the glow of passion, and the in
tensity of the emotions, may not lead man astray,
or urge him on to ill considered, false or ruinous
action; this will, inevitably, be the result, if the
will is very violent and the intellect very weak.
On the other hand, a phlegmatic character, a weak
and languid will, can get on and hold its own with
a small amount of intellect; what is naturally mod
erate needs only moderate support. The general
tendency of a want of proportion between the will
and the intellect, in other words, of any variation
from the normal proportion I have mentioned, is
to produce unhappiness, whether it be that the will
is / "eater than the intellect, or the intellect greater
than the will. Especially is this the case when the

71

72 PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS

intellect is developed to an abnormal degree of
strength and superiority, so as to be out of all
proportion to the will, a condition which is the
essence of real genius ; the intellect is then not only
more than enough for the needs and aims of life,
it is absolutely prejudicial to them. The result is
that, in youth, excessive energy in grasping the
objective world, accompanied by a vivid imagina
tion and a total lack of experience, makes the mind
susceptible, and an easy prey to extravagant ideas,
nay, even to chimeras ; and the result is an eccentric
and phantastic character. And when, in later
years, this state of mind yields and passes away
under the teaching of experience, still the genius
never feels himself at home in the common world
of every day and the ordinary business of life; he
will never take his place in it, and accommodate
himself to it as accurately as the person of moral
intellect; he will be much more likely to make
curious mistakes. For the ordinary mind feels it
self so completely at home in the narrow circle of
its ideas and views of the world that no one can
get the better of it in that sphere ; its faculties re
main true to their original purpose, viz., to promote
the service of the will; it devotes itself steadfastly
to this end, and abjures extravagant aims. The
genius, on the other hand, is at bottom a monstrum
per excessum; just as, conversely, the passionate,
violent and unintelligent man, the brainless bar
barian, is a monstrum per defectum.

# # * *

The will to live, which forms the inmost core of
every living being, exhibits itself most conspicu
ously in the higher order of animals, that is, the
cleverer ones; and so in them the nature of the
will may be seen and examined most clearly. For
in the lower orders its activity is not so evident;

PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS 73

it has a lower degree of objectivation; whereas, in
the class which stands above the higher order of
animals, that is, in men, reason enters in ; and with
reason comes discretion, and with discretion, the
capacity of dissimulation, which throws a veil over
the operations of the will. And in mankind, con
sequently, the will appears without its mask only
in the affections and the passions. And this is the
reason why passion, when it speaks, always wins
credence, no matter what the passion may be; and
rightly so. For the same reason the passions are
the main theme of peots and the stalking horse of
actors. The conspicuousness of the will in the
lower order of animals explains the delight we take
in dogs, apes, cats, etc.; it is the entirely naive
way in which they express themselves that gives
us so much pleasure.

The sight of any free animal going about its
business undisturbed, seeking its food, or looking
after its young, or mixing in the company of its
kind, all the time being exactly what it ought to
be and can be, — what a strange pleasure it gives
us ! Even if it is only a bird, I can watch it for a
long time with delight; or a water rat or a hedge
hog; or better still, a weasel, a deer, or a stag. The
main reason why we take so much pleasure in look
ing at animals is that we like to see our own nature
in such a simplified form. There is only one menda
cious being in the world, and that is man. Every
other is true and sincere, and makes no attempt to
conceal what it is, expressing its feelings just as

they are.

* * * *

Many things are put down to the force of habit
which are rather to be attributed to the constancy
and immutability of original, innate character, ac
cording to which under like circumstances we

74 PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS

always do the same thing: whether it happens for
the first or the hundredth time, it is in virtue of
the same necessity. Real force of habit, as a matter
of fact, rests upon that indolent, passive disposition
which seeks to relieve the intellect and the will of
a fresh choice, and so makes us do what we did
yesterday and have done a hundred times before,
and of which we know that it will attain its object.
But the truth of the matter lies deeper, and a
more precise explanation of it can be given than
appears at first sight. Bodies which may be moved
by mechanical means only are subject to the power
of inertia; and applied to bodies which may be
acted on by motives, this power becomes the force
of habit. The actions which we perform by mere
hibit come about, in fact, v/ithout any individual
separate motive brought into play for the par
ticular case: hence, in performing them, we really
do not think about them. A motive was present
only on the first few occasions on which the action
happened, which has since become a habit: the
secondary after-effect of this motive is the present
habit, and it is sufficient to enable the action to
continue: just as when a body had been set in
motion by a push, it requires no more pushing in
order to continue its motion; it will go on to all
eternity, if it meets with no friction. It is the same
in the case of animals: training is a habit which
is forced upon them. The horse goes on drawing
his cart quite contentedly, without having to be
urged on: the motion is the continued effect of those
strokes of the whip, which urged him on at first:
by the law of inertia they have become perpetuated
as habit. All this is really more than a mere
parable: it is the underlying identity of the will at
very different degrees of its objectivation, in virtue

PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS 75

of which the same law of motion takes such different

forms.

* * * *

Vive muchos anos is the ordinary greeting in
Spain, and all over the earth it is quite customary
to wish people a long life. It is presumably not
a knowledge of life which directs such a wish; it is
rather knowledge of what man is in his inmost
nature, the will to live.

The wish which everyone has that he may be
remembered after his death, — a wish which rises
to the longing for posthumous glory in the case
of those whose aims are high, — seems to me to
spring from this clinging to life. When the time
comes which cuts a man off from every possibility
of real existence, he strives after a life which is still
attainable, even though it be a shadowy and ideal

one.

* * * *

The deep grief we feel at the loss of a friend
arises from the feeling that in every individual
there is something which no words can express,
something which is peculiarly his own and therefore

irreparable. Omne individuum ineffabile.

* * * *

We may come to look upon the death of our
enemies and adversaries, even long after it has oc-
cured, with just as much regret as we feel for that
of our friends, viz., when we miss them as wit
nesses of our brilliant success.

* * * *

That the sudden announcement of a very happy
event may easily prove fatal rests upon the fact
that happiness and misery depend merely on the
proportion which our claims bear to what we get.
Accordingly, the good things we possess, or are
certain of getting, are not felt to be such; because

76 PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS

all pleasure is in fact of a negative nature and
effects the relief of pain, while pain or evil is what
is really positive; it is the object of immediate
sensation. With the possession or certain expecta
tion of good things our demands rises, and increases
our capacity for further possession and larger ex
pectations. But if we are depressed by continual
misfortune, and our claims reduced to a minimum,
the sudden advent of happiness finds no capacity
for enjoying it. Neutralized by an absence of pre
existing claims, its effects are apparently positive,
and so its whole force is brought into play; hence
it may possibly break our feelings, i. e., be fatal to
them. And so, as is well known, one must be
careful in announcing great happiness. First, one
must get the person to hope for it, then open up
the prospect of it, then communicate part of it,
and at last make it fully known. Every portion of
the good news loses its efficacy, because it is antici
pated by a demand, and room is left for an in
crease in it. In view of all this, it may be said
that our stomach for good fortune is bottomless,
but the entrance to it is narrow. These remarks
are not applicable to great misfortunes in the same
way. They are more seldom fatal, because hope
always sets itself against them. That an analogous
part is not played by fear in the case of happiness
results from the fact that we are instinctively more
inclined to hope than to fear; just as our eyes
turn of themselves towards light rather than

darkness.

* * * *

Hope is the result of confusing the desire that
something should take place with the probability
that it will. Perhaps no man is free from this folly
of the heart, which deranges the intellect's correct
appreciation of probability to such an extent that,

PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS 77

if the chances are a thousand to one against it, yet
the event is thought a likely one. Still in spite of
this, a sudden misfortune is like a death stroke,
whilst a hope that is always disappointed and still
never dies, is like death by prolonged torture.

He who has lost all hope has also lost all fear;
this is the meaning of the expression "desperate."
It is natural to a man to believe what he wishes
to be true, and to believe it because he wishes it.
If this characteristic of our nature, at once benefi
cial and assuaging, is rooted out by many hard
blows of fate, and a man comes, conversely, to a
condition in which he believes a thing must happen
because he does not wish it, and what he wishes to
happen can never be, just because he wishes it, this

is in reality the state described as "desperation."
* * * *

That we are so often deceived in others is not
because our judgment is at fault, but because in
general, as Bacon says, intellectus luminis sicci non
est, sed recipit infusionem a voluntate et affectibus:
that is to say, trifles unconsciously bias us for or
against a person from the very beginning. It may
also be explained by our not abiding by the quali
ties which we really discover; we go on to conclude
the presence of others which we think inseparable
from them, or the absence of those which we con
sider incompatible. For instance, when we per
ceive generosity, we infer justice; from piety, we
infer honesty; from lying, deception; from decep
tion, stealing, etc.; a procedure which opens the
door to many false views, partly because human
nature is so strange, partly because our standpoint
is so one-sided. It is true, indeed, that character
always forms a consistent and connected whole ; but
the roots of all its qualities lie too deep to allow
of our concluding from particular data in a given

78 PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS

case whether certain qualities can or cannot exist

together.

* * * *

We often happen to say things that may in some
way or other be prejudicial to us; but we keep
silent about things that might make us look ridicu
lous ; because in this case effect follows very quicklj
on cause.

* * * *

The pain of an unfulfilled wish is small in com
parison with that of repentance ; for the one stands
in the presence of the vast open future, whilst the
other has the irrevocable past closed behind it.

* * * *

Geduld, patientia, patience, especially the Span
ish sufrimiento, is strongly connected with the no
tion of suffering. It is therefore a passive state,
just as the opposite is an active state of the mind,
with which, when great, patience is incompatible.
It is the innate virtue of a phlegmatic, indolent, and
spiritless people, as also of women. But that it
is nevertheless so very useful and necessary is a sign
that the world is very badly constituted.

* * * *

Money is human happiness in the abstract: he,
then, who is no longer capable of enjoying human
happiness in the concrete, devotes his heart entirely
to money.

* * * *

Obstinacy is the result of the will forcing itself
!nto the place of the intellect.

* * * *

If you want to find out your real opinion of any
one, observe the impression made upon you by the
first sight of a letter from him.

PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS 79

The course of our individual life and the events
in it, as far as their true meaning and connection
is concerned, may be compared to a piece of rough
mosaic. So long as you stand close in front of it,
you cannot get a right view of the objects pre
sented, nor perceive their significance or beauty.
Both come in sight only when you stand a little
way off. And in the same way you often under
stand the true connection of important events in
your life, not while they are going on, nor soon
after they are past, but only a considerable time
afterwards.

Is this so, because we require the magnifying
effect of imagination? or because we can get a gen
eral view only from a distance? or because the
school of experience makes our judgment ripe?
Perhaps all of these together: but it is certain that
we often view in the right light the actions of others,
and occasionally even our own, only after the lapse
of years. And as it is in one's own life, so it is
in history.

* * * *

Happy circumstances in life are like certain
groups of trees. Seen from a distance they look
very well: but go up to them and amongst^ them,
and the beauty vanishes; you don't know where
it can be; it is only trees you see. And so it is that
we often envy the lot of others.

* * * *

The doctor sees all the weakness of mankind, the
lawyer all the wickedness, the theologian all the
stupidity.

* * * *

A person of phlegmatic disposition who is a
blockhead, would, with a sanguine nature, be a
fool.

* * * *

80 PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS

Now and then one learns something, but one
forgets the whole day long.

Moreover our memory is like a sieve, the holes
of which in time get larger and larger: the older
we get, the quicker anything entrusted to it slips
from the memory, whereas, what was fixed fast in
it in early days is there still. The memory of an
old man gets clearer and clearer, the further it goes
back, and less clear the nearer it approaches the
present time; so that his memory, like his eyes, be
comes short-sighted.

* * * *

In the process of learning you may be apprehen
sive about bewildering and confusing the memory,
but not about overloading it, in the strict sense of
the word. The faculty for remembering is not
diminished in proportion to what one has learnt,
just as little as the number of moulds in which you
cast sand, lessens its capacity for being cast in new
moulds. In this sense the memory is bottomless.
And yet the greater and more various any one's
knowledge, the longer he takes to find out anything
that may suddenly be asked him; because he is like
a shopkeeper who has to get the article wanted
from a large and multifarious store; or, more
strictly speaking, because out of many possible
trains of thought he has to recall exactly that one
which, as a result of previous training, leads to
the matter in question. For the memory is not a
repository of things you wish to preserve, but a
mere dexterity of the intellectual powers; hence
the mind always contains its sum of knowledge only
potentially, never actually.

It sometimes happens that my memory will not
reproduce some word in a foreign language, or a
name, or some artistic expression, although I know
it very well. After I have bothered myself in

PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS 81

vain about it for a longer or a shorter time, I give
up thinking about it altogether. An hour or two
afterwards, in rare cases even later still, sometimes
only after four or five weeks, the word I was trying
to recall occurs to me while I am thinking of some
thing else, as suddenly as if some one had whis
pered it to me. After noticing this phenomenon
with wonder for very many years, I have come to
think that the probable explanation of it is as fol
lows. After the troublesome and unsuccessful
search, my will retains its craving to know the
word, and so sets a watch for it in the intellect.
Later on, in the course and play of thought, some
word by chance occurs having the same initial let
ters or some other resemblance to the word which
is sought; then the sentinel springs forward and
supplies what is wanting to make up the word,
seizes it, and suddenly brings it up in triumph,
without my knowing where and how he got it; so
it seems as if some one had whispered it to me. It
is the same process as that adopted by a teacher
towards a child who cannot repeat a word; the
teacher just suggests the first letter of the word,
or even the second too; then the child remembers
it. In default of this process, you can end by going

methodically through all the letters of the alphabet.
* * * *

In the ordinary man, injustice rouses a passion
ate desire for vengeance ; and it has often been said
that vengeance is sweet. How many sacrifices
have been made just to enjoy the feeling of venge
ance, without any intention of causing an amount
of injury equivalent to what one has suffered. The
bitter death of the centaur Nessus was sweetened
by the certainty that he had used his last moments
to work out an extremely clever vengeance.
Walter Scott expresses the same human inclina-

82 PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS

tion in language as true as it is strong: "Vengeance
is the sweetest morsel to the mouth that ever was
cooked in hell!" I shall now attempt a psycho
logical explanation of it.

Suffering which falls to our lot in the course of
nature, or by chance, or fate, does not, ceteris
paribus, seem so painful as suffering which is in
flicted on us by the arbitrary will of another. This
is because we look upon nature and chance as the
fundamental masters of the world; we see that the
blow we received from them might just as well
have fallen on another. In the case of suffering
which springs from this source, we bewail the com
mon lot of humanity rather than our own misfor
tune. But that it is the arbitrary will of another
which inflicts the suffering, is a peculiarly bitter
addition to the pain or injury it causes, viz., the
consciousness that some one else is superior to us,
whether by force or cunning, while we lie helpless.
If amends are possible, amends heal the injury;
but that bitter addition, "and it was you who did
that to me," which is often more painful than the
injury itself, is only to be neutralized by vengeance.
By inflicting injury on the one who has injured
us, whether we do it by force or cunning, is to
show our superiority to him, and to annul the proof
of his superiority to us. That gives our hearts the
satisfaction towards which it yearns. So where
there is a great deal of pride and vanity, there also
will there be a great desire of vengeance. But as
the fulfillment of every wish brings with it more
or less of a sense of disappointment, so it is with
vengeance. The delight we hope to get from it is
mostly embittered by compassion. Vengeance
taken will often tear the heart and torment the
conscience : the motive to it is no longer active, and
what remains is the evidence of our malice.

THE CHRISTIAN SYSTEM.

WHEN the Church says that, in the dogmas of
religion, reason is totally incompetent and blind,
and its use to be reprehended, it is in reality attest
ing the fact that these dogmas are allegorical in
their nature, and are not to be judged by the
standard which reason, taking all things sensu
proprio, can alone apply. Now the absurdities of
a dogma are just the mark and sign of what is
allegorical and mythical in it. In the case under
consideration, however, the absurdities spring from
the fact that two such heterogeneous doctrines as
those of the Old and New Testaments had to be
combined. The great allegory was of gradual
growth. Suggested by external and adventitious
circumstances, it was developed by the interpreta
tion put upon them, an interpretation in quiet touch
with certain deep-lying truths only half realized.
The allegory was finally completed by Augustine,
who penetrated deepest into its meaning, and so
was able to conceive it as a systematic whole and
supply its defects. Hence the Augustinian doc
trine, confirmed by Luther, is the complete form
of Christianity; and the Protestants of to-day, who
take Revelation sensu proprio and confine it to a
single individual, are in error in looking upon the
first beginnings of Christianity as its most perfect
expression. But the bad thing about all religions
is that, instead of being able to confess their alle
gorical nature, they have to conceal it ; accordingly,
they parade their doctrine in all seriousness as true

83

84 THE CHRISTIAN SYSTEM

sensu proprio, and as absurdities form an essential
part of these doctrines, you have the great mischief
of a continual fraud. And, what is worse, the day
arrives when they are no longer true sensu proprio,
and then there is an end of them; so that, in that
respect, it would be better to admit their allegorical
nature at once. ,But the difficulty is to teach the
multitude that something can be both true and
untrue at the same time. And as all religions are
in a greater or less degree of this nature, we must
recognize the fact that mankind cannot get on
without a certain amount of absurdity, that ab
surdity is an element in its existence, and illusion
indispensable; as indeed other aspects of life testify.
I have said that the combination of the Old Testa
ment with the New gives rise to absurdities.
Among the examples which illustrate what I mean,
I may cite the Christian doctrine of Predestination
and Grace, as formulated by Augustine and
adopted from him by Luther; according to which
one man is endowed with grace and another is not.
Grace, then, comes to be a privilege received at
birth and brought ready into the world; a privilege,
too, in a matter second to none in importance.
What is obnoxious and absurd in this doctrine may
be traced to the idea contained in the Old Testa-
.nent, that man is the creation of an external will,
which called him into existence out of nothing. It
is quite true that genuine moral excellence is really
innate; but the meaning of the Christian doctrine is
expressed in another and more rational way by the
theory of metempsychosis, common to Brahmans
and Buddhists. According to this theory, the quali
ties which distinguish one man from another are re
ceived at birth, are brought, that is to say, from
another world and a former life; these qualities are

THE CHRISTIAN SYSTEM 85

not an external gift of grace, but are the fruits of
the acts committed in that other world. But
Augustine's dogma of Predestination is connected
with another dogma, namely, that the mass of hu
manity is corrupt and doomed to eternal damnation,
that very few will be found righteous and attain
salvation, and that only in consequence of the gift
of grace, and because they are predestined to be
saved; whilst the remainder will be overwhelmed
by the perdition they have deserved, viz., eternal
torment in hell. Taken in its ordinary meaning,
the dogma is revolting, for it comes to this : it con
demns a man, who may be, perhaps, scarcely twenty
years of age, to expiate his errors, or even his un
belief, in everlasting torment; nay, more, it makes
this almost universal damnation the natural effect
of original sin, and therefore the necessary conse
quence of the Fall. This is a result which must
have been foreseen by him who made mankind, and
who, in the first place, made them not better than
they are, and secondly, set a trap for them into
which he must have known they would fall; for he
made the whole world, and nothing is hidden from
him. According to this doctrine, then, God created
out of nothing a weak race prone to sin, in order
to give them over to endless torment. And, as a
last characteristic, we are told that this God, who
prescribes forbearance and forgiveness of every
fault, exercises none himself, but does the exact
opposite ; for a punishment which comes at the end
of all things, when the world is over and done with,
cannot have for its object either to improve or
deter, and is therefore pure vengeance. So that,
on this view, 'the whole race is actually destined to
eternal torture and damnation, and created ex
pressly for this end, the only exception being those

86 THE CHRISTIAN SYSTEM

few persons who are rescued by election of grace,
from what motive one does not know.

Putting these aside, it looks as if the Blessed
Lord had created the world for the benefit of the
devil! it would have been so much better not to
have made it at all. So much, then, for a dogma
taken sensu proprio. But look at it sensu alle-
gorico, and the whole matter becomes capable of
a satisfactory interpretation. What is absurd and
revolting in this dogma is, in the main, as I said,
the simple outcome of Jewish theism, with its
"creation out of nothing," and really foolish and
paradoxical denial of the doctrine of metempsy
chosis which is involved in that idea, a doctrine
which is natural, to a certain extent self-evident,
and, with the exception of the Jews, accepted by
nearly the whole human race at all times. To
remove the enormous evil arising from Augustine's
dogma, and to modify its revolting nature, Pope
Gregory L, in the sixth century, very prudently
matured the doctrine of Purgatory, the essence of
which already existed in Origen (cf. Bayle's article
on Origen, note B.). The doctrine was regularly
incorporated into the faith of the Church, so that
the original view was much modified, and a certain
substitute provided for the doctrine of metempsy
chosis; for both the one and the other admit a
process of purification. To the same end, the doc
trine of "the Restoration of all things" (a7ro*aTcurT<W)
was established, according to which, in the last act
of the Human Comedy, the sinners one and all
will be reinstated in iniegrum. It is only Protes
tants, with their obstinate belief in the Bible, who
cannot be induced to give up eternal punishment
in hell. If one were spiteful, one might say, "much
good may it do them," but it is consoling to think

THE CHRISTIAN SYSTEM 87

that they really do not believe the doctrine; they
leave it alone, thinking in their hearts, "It can't be
so bad as all that."

The rigid and systematic character of his mind
led Augustine, in his austere dogmatism and his
resolute definition of doctrines only just indicated
in the Bible and, as a matter of fact, resting on
very vague grounds, to give hard outlines to these
doctrines and to put a harsh construction on Chris
tianity: the result of which is that his views offend
us, and just as in his day Pelagianism arose to
combat them, so now in our day Rationalism does
the same. Take, for example, the case as he states
it generally in the De Civitate Dei, Bk. xii. ch. 21.
It comes to this : God creates a being out of nothing,
forbids him some things, and enjoins others upon
him; and because these commands are not obeyed,
he tortures him to all eternity with every conceiv
able anguish; and for this purpose, binds soul and
body inseparably together, so that, instead of the
torment destroying this being by splitting him up
into his elements, and so setting him free, he may
live to eternal pain. This poor creature, formed
out of nothing! At least, he has a claim on his
original nothing: he should be assured, as a matter
of right, of this last retreat, which, in any case,
cannot be a very evil one: it is what he has in
herited. I, at any rate, cannot help sympathizing
with him. If you add to this Augustine's remain
ing doctrines, that all this does not depend on the
man's own sins and omissions, but was already
predestined to happen, one really is at a loss tfhat
to think. Our highly educated Rationalists say,
to be sure, "It's all false, it's a mere bugbear; we're
in a state of constant progress, step by step raising
ourselves to ever greater perfection." Ah! what a

88 THE CHRISTIAN SYSTEM

pity we didn't begin sooner; we should already have
been there.

In the Christian system the devil is a personage
of the greatest importance. God is described as
absolutely good, wise and powerful; and unless
he were counterbalanced by the devil, it would be
impossible to see where the innumerable and
measureless evils, which predominate in the world,
come from, if there were no devil to account for
them. And since the Rationalists have done away
with the devil, the damage inflicted on the other
side has gone on growing, and is becoming more
and more palpable; as might have been foreseen,
and was foreseen, by the orthodox. The fact is,
you cannot take away one pillar from a building
without endangering the rest of it. And this con
firms the view, which has been established on other
grounds, that Jehovah is a transformation of
Ormuzd, and Satan of the Ahriman who must be
taken in connection with him. Ormuzd himself is
a transformation of Indra.

Christianity has this peculiar disadvantage, that,
unlike other religions, it is not a pure system of
doctrine: its chief and essential feature is that it
is a history, a series of events, a collection of facts,
a statement of the actions and sufferings of individ
uals : it is this history which constitutes dogma, and
belief in it is salvation. Other religions, Buddhism,
for instance, have, it is true, historical appendages,
the life, namely, of their founders: this, however,
is not part and parcel of the dogma but is taken
along with it. For example, the Lalitavistara may
be compared with the Gospel so far as it contains
the life of Sakya-muni, the Buddha of the present
period of the world's history: but this is something

THE CHRISTIAN SYSTEM 89

which is quite separate and different from the
dogma, from the system itself: and for this reason;
the lives of former Buddhas were quite other, and
those of the future will be quite other, than the
life of the Buddha of to-day. The dogma is by
no means one with the career of its founder ; it does
not rest on individual persons or events ; it is some
thing universal and equally valid at all times. The
Lalitavistara is not, then, a gospel in the Christian
sense of the word; it is not the joyful message of
an act of redemption; it is the career of him who
has shown how each one may redeem himself. The
historical constitution of Christianity makes the
Chinese laugh at missionaries as story-tellers.

I may mention here another fundamental error
of Christianity, an error which cannot be explained
away, and the mischievous consequences of which
are obvious every day: I mean the unnatural dis
tinction Christianity makes between man and the
animal world to which he really belongs. It sets
up man as all-important, and looks upon animals
as merely things. Brahmanism and Buddhism, on
the other hand, true to the facts, recognize in a
positive way that man is related generally to the
whole of nature, and specially and principally to
animal nature; and in their systems man is always
represented by the theory of metempsychosis and
otherwise, as closely connected with the animal
world. The important part played by animals all
through Buddhism and Brahmanism, compared
with the total disregard of them in Judaism and
Christianity, puts an end to any question as to
which system is nearer perfection, however much
we in Europe may have become accustomed to the
absurdity of the claim. Christianity contains, in
fact, a great and essential imperfection in limiting

90 THE CHRISTIAN SYSTEM

its precepts to man, and in refusing rights to the
entire animal world. As religion fails to protect
animals against the rough, unfeeling and often
more than bestial multitude, the duty falls to the
police; and as the police are unequal to the task,
societies for the protection of animals are now
formed all over Europe and America. In the
whole of uncircumcised Asia, such a procedure
would be the most superfluous thing in the wcttld,
because animals are there sufficiently protected by
religion, which even makes them objects of charity.
How such charitable feelings bear fruit may be
seen, to take an example, in the great hospital for
animals at Surat, whither Christians, Moham
medans and Jews can send their sick beasts, which,
if cured, are very rightly not restored to their
owners. In the same way when a Brahman or a
Buddhist has a slice of good luck, a happy issue
in any affair, instead of mumbling a Te Deum, he
goes to the market-place and buys birds and opens
their cages at the city gate; a thing which may be
frequently seen in Astrachan, where the adherents
of every religion meet together: and so on in a
hundred similar ways. On the other hand, look at
the revolting ruffianism with which our Christian
public treats its animals; killing them for no object
at all, and laughing over it, or mutilating or tortur
ing them: even its horses, who form its most direct
means of livelihood, are strained to the utmost in
their old age, and the last strength worked out of
their poor bones until they succumb at last under
the whip. One might say with truth, Mankind are
the devils of the earth, and the animals the souls
they torment. But what can you expect from the
masses, when there are men of education, zoologists
even, who, instead of admitting what is so familiar

THE CHRISTIAN SYSTEM 91

to them, the essential identity of man and animal,
are bigoted and stupid enough to offer a zealous
opposition to their honest and rational colleagues,
when they class man under the proper head as
an animal, or demonstrate the resemblance between
him and the chimpanzee or ourang-outang. It is
a revolting thing that a writer who is so pious and
Christian in his sentiments as Jung Stilling should
use a simile like this, in his Scenen aus dem Geister-
reich. (Bk. II. sc. i., p. 15.) "Suddenly the
skeleton shriveled up into an indescribably hideous
and dwarf -like form, just as when you bring a large
spider into the focus of a burning glass, and watch
the purulent blood hiss and bubble in the heat."
This man of God then was guilty of such infamy!
or looked on quietly when another was committing
it! in either case it comes to the same thing here.
So little harm did he think of it that he tells us
of it in passing, and without a trace of emotion.
Such are the effects of the first chapter of Genesis,
and, in fact, of the whole of the Jewish conception
of nature. The standard recognized by the Hindus
and Buddhists is the Mahavakya (the great word) ,
— "tat-twam-asi" (this is thyself), which may al
ways be spoken of every animal, to keep us in mind
of the identity of his inmost being with ours. Per
fection of morality, indeed! Nonsense.

The fundamental characteristics of the Jewish
religion are realism and optimism, views of the
world which are closely allied; they form, in fact,
the conditions of theism. For theism looks upon
the material world as absolutely real, and regards
life as a pleasant gift bestowed upon us. On the
other hand, the fundamental characteristics of the
Brahman and Buddhist religions are idealism and

92 THE CHRISTIAN SYSTEM

pessimism, which look upon the existence of the
world as in the nature of a dream, and life as the
result of our sins. In the doctrines of the Zenda-
vesta, from which, as is well known, Judaism
sprang, the pessimistic element is represented by
Ahriman. In Judaism, Ahriman has as Satan only
a subordinate position; but, like Ahriman, he is the
lord of snakes, scorpions, and vermin. But the
Jewish system forthwith employs Satan to correct
its fundamental error of optimism, and in the Fall
introduces the element of pessimism, a doctrine de
manded by the most obvious facts of the world.
There is no truer idea in Judaism than this, al
though it transfers to the course of existence what
must be represented as its foundation and ante
cedent.

The New Testament, on the other hand, must
be in some way traceable to an Indian source: its
ethical system, its ascetic view of morality, its pes
simism, and its Avatar, are all thoroughly Indian.
It is its morality which places it in a position of
such emphatic and essential antagonism to the Old
Testament, so that the story of the Fall is the only
possible point of connection between the two. For
when the Indian doctrine was imported into the
land of promise, two very different things had to
be combined: on the one hand the consciousness of
the corruption and misery of the world, its need of
deliverance and salvation through an Avatar, to
gether with a morality based on self-denial and
repentance; on the other hand the Jewish doctrine
of Monotheism, with its corollary that "all things
are very good" (irdvra *oAa XMV) . And the task suc
ceeded as far as it could, as far, that is, as it was
possible to combine two such heterogeneous and
antagonistic creeds.

THE CHRISTIAN SYSTEM 93

As ivy clings for the support and stay it wants
to a rough-hewn post, everywhere conforming to
its irregularities and showing their outline, but at
the same time covering them with life and grace,
and changing the former aspect into one that is
pleasing to the eye; so the Christian faith, sprung
from the wisdom of India, overspreads the old
trunk of rude Judaism, a tree of alien growth; the
original form must in part remain, but it suffers
a complete change and becomes full of life and
truth, so that it appears to be the same tree, but
is really another.

Judaism had presented the Creator as separated
from the world, which he produced out of nothing.
Christianity identifies this Creator with the Saviour,
and through him, with humanity : he stands as their
representative; they are redeemed in him, just as
they fell in Adam, and have lain ever since in the
bonds of iniquity, corruption, suffering and death.
Such is the view taken by Christianity in common
with Buddhism; the world can no longer be looked
at in the light of Jewish optimism, which found
"all things very good" : nay, in the Christian scheme,
the devil is named as its Prince or Ruler (5 apx^v rSv
K&ruiovTovTov. John 12, 33) . The world is no longer
an end, but a means: and the realm of everlasting
joy lies beyond it and the grave. Resignation in
this world and direction of all our hopes to a better,
form the spirit of Christianity. The way to this
end is opened by the Atonement, that is the Re
demption from this world and its ways. And in
the moral system, instead of the law of vengeance,
there is the command to love your enemy; instead
of the promise of innumerable posterity, the as
surance of eternal life; instead of visiting the sins
of the fathers upon the children to the third and

94 THE CHRISTIAN SYSTEM

fourth generations, the Holy Spirit governs anc
overshadows all.

We see, then, that the doctrines of the Old Testa
ment are rectified and their meaning changed by
those of the New, so that, in the most important and
essential matters, an agreement is brought about
between them and the old religions of India.
Everything which is true in Christianity may also
be found in Brahmanism and Buddhism. But in
Hinduism and Buddhism you will look in vain for
any parallel to the Jewish doctrines of "a nothing
quickened into life," or of "a world made in time,"
which cannot be humble enough in its thanks and
praises to Jehovah for an ephemeral existence full
of misery, anguish and need.

Whoever seriously thinks that superhuman be
ings have ever given our race information as to
the aim of its existence and that of the world, is
still in his childhood. There is no other revelation
than the thoughts of the wise, even though these
thoughts, liable to error as is the lot of everything
human, are often clothed in strange allegories and
myths under the name of religion. So far, then,
it is a matter of indifference whether a man lives
and dies in reliance on his own or another's
thoughts ; for it is never more than human thought,
human opinion, which he trusts. Still, instead of
trusting what their own minds tell them, men have
as a rule a weakness for trusting others who pretend
to supernatural sources of knowledge. And in
view of the enormous intellectual inequality be
tween man and man, it is easy to see that the
thoughts of one mind might appear as in some sense
a revelation to another.

THE ART OF LITERATURE

CONTENTS.

FAOB

PREFACE iii

ON AUTHORSHIP 1

ON STYLE 11

ON THE STUDY OF LATIN 31

ON MEN OF LEARNING 36

ON THINKING FOR ONESELF 43

ON SOME FORMS OF LITERATURE 56

ON CRITICISM 64

ON REPUTATION 78

ON GENIUS 97

n

TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.

THE contents of this, as of the other volumes
in the series, have been drawn from Schopenhauer's
Par erg a, and amongst the various subjects dealt
with in that famous collection of essays, Literature
holds an important place. Nor can Schopenhauer's
opinions fail to be of special value when he treats
of literary form and method. For, quite apart
from his philosophical pretensions, he claims recog
nition as a great writer; he is, indeed, one of the
best of the few really excellent prose-writers of
whom Germany can boast. While he is thus par
ticularly qualified to speak of Literature as an Art,
he has also something to say upon those influences
which, outside of his own merits, contribute so much
to an author's success, and are so often undervalued
when he obtains immediate popularity. Schopen
hauer's own sore experiences in the matter of repu
tation lend an interest to his remarks upon that
subject, although it is too much to ask of human
nature that he should approach it in any% dispas
sionate spirit.

In the following pages we have observations
upon style by one who was a stylist in the best
sense of the word, not affected, nor yet a phrase
monger; on thinking for oneself by a philosopher
who never did anything else; on criticism by a
writer who suffered much from the inability of
others to understand him ; on reputation by a candi
date who, during the greater part of his life, de
served without obtaining it; and on genius by one

in

IV TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE

who was incontestably of the privileged order him
self. And whatever may be thought of some of
his opinions on matters of detail — on anonymity,
for instance, or on the question whether good work
is never done for money — there can be no doubt
that his general view of literature, and the condi
tions under which it flourishes, is perfectly sound.

It might be thought, perhaps, that remarks which
were meant to apply to the German language would
have but little bearing upon one so different from
it as English. This would be a just objection if
Schopenhauer treated literature in a petty spirit,
and confined himself to pedantic inquiries into
matters of grammar and etymology, or mere nice
ties of phrase. But this is not so. He deals with
his subject broadly, and takes large and general
views; nor can anyone who knows anything of the
philosopher suppose this to mean that he is vague
and feeble. It is true that now and again in the
course of these essays he makes remarks which are
obviously meant to apply to the failings of certain
writers of his own age and country; but in such a
case I have generally given his sentences a turn,
which, while keeping them faithful to the spirit of
the original, secures for them a less restricted
range, and makes Schopenhauer a critic of similar
faults in whatever age or country they may appear.
This has been done in spite of a sharp word on
page seventeen of this volume, addressed to trans
lators who dare to revise their author; but the
change is one with which not even Schopenhauer
could quarrel.

It is thus a significant fact — a testimony to the
depth of his insight and, in the main, the justice
of his opinions — that views of literature which ap
pealed to his own immediate contemporaries, should

TRANSLATOR S PREFACE V

be found to hold good elsewhere and at a distance
of fifty years. It means that what he had to say
was worth saying; and since it is adapted thus
equally to diverse times and audiences, it is prob
ably of permanent interest.

The intelligent reader will observe that much of
the charm of Schopenhauer's writing comes from
its strongly personal character, and that here he
has to do, not with a mere maker of books, but
with a man who thinks for himself and has no
false scruples in putting his meaning plainly upon
the page, or in unmasking sham wherever he finds
it. This is nowhere so true as when he deals with
literature; and just as in his treatment of life, he
is no flatterer to men in general, so here he is free
and outspoken on the peculiar failings of authors.
At the same time he gives them good advice. He
is particularly happy in recommending restraint in
regard to reading the works of others, and the culti
vation of independent thought; and herein he re
calls a saying attributed to Hobbes, who was not
less distinguished as a writer than as a philosopher,
to the effect that ffif he had read as much as other
men, he should have been as ignorant as they."

Schopenhauer also utters a warning, which we
shall do well to take to heart in these days, against
mingling the pursuit of literature with vulgar aims.
If we follow him here, we shall carefully distinguish
between literature as an object of life and literature
as a means of living, between the real love of truth
and beauty, and that detestable false love which
looks to the price it will fetch in the market. I
am not referring to those who, while they follow
a useful and honorable calling in bringing literature
before the public, are content to be known as men
of business. If, by the help of some second witch

vi TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE

of Endor, we could raise the ghost of Schopen
hauer, it would be interesting to hear his opinion
of a certain kind of literary enterprise which has
come into vogue since his day, and now receives
an amount of attention very much beyond its due.
We may hazard a guess at the direction his opinion
would take. He would doubtless show us how this
enterprise, which is carred on by self-styled literary
men, ends by making literature into a form of
merchandise, and treating it as though it were so
much goods to be bought and sold at a profit, and
most likely to produce quick returns if the maker's
name is well known. Nor would it be the ghost
of the real Schopenhauer unless we heard a vigor
ous denunciation of men who claim a connection
with literature by a servile flattery of successful
living authors — the dead cannot be made to pay —
in the hope of appearing to advantage in their
reflected light and turning that advantage into
money.

In order to present the contents of this book in
a convenient form, I have not scrupled to make an
arrangement with the chapters somewhat different
from that which exists in the original; so that two
or more subjects which are there dealt with suc
cessively in one and the same chapter, here stand
by themselves. In consequence of this, some of
the titles of the sections are not to be found in the
original. I may state, however, that the essays
on Authorship and Style and the latter part of that
on Criticism are taken direct from the chapter
headed Ueber Schriftstellerei und Stil; and that the
remainder of the essay on Criticism, with that of
Reputation, is supplied by the remarks Ueber
Urtheil, Kritik, Beifall und Euhm. The essays on
The Study of Latin, on Men of Learning, and on

TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE vii

Some Forms of Literature, are taken chiefly from
the four sections Ueber Gelehrsamkeit und Ge-
lehrte, Ueber Sprache und Worte, Ueber Lesen
und Bilcher: Arihang, and Zur Metaphysik des
Schonen. The essay on Thinking for Oneself is
a rendering of certain remarks under the heading
Selbstdenken. Genius was a favorite subject of
speculation with Schopenhauer, and he often
touches upon it in the course of his works; always,
however, to put forth the same theorjr in regard to
it as may be found in the concluding section of this
volume. Though the essay has little or nothing
to do with literary method, the subject of which it
treats is the most needful element of success in
literature; and I have introduced it on that ground.
It forms part of a chapter in the Parerga entitled
Den Intellekt ilberhaupt und in jeder Beziehuna
betreffende Gedanken; Anhang verwandter Stel-
len.

It has also been part of my duty to invent a
title for this volume; and I am well aware that
objection may be made to the one I have chosen,
on the ground that in common language it is un
usual to speak of literature as an art, and that to
do so is unduly to narrow its meaning and to leave
out of sight its main function as the record of
thought. But there is no reason why the word
Literature should not be employed in that double
sense which is allowed to attach to Painting, Music,
Sculpture, as signifying either the objective out
come of a certain mental activity, seeking to ex
press itself in outward form; or else the particular
kind of mental activity in question, and the methods
it follows. And we do, in fact, use it in this latter
sense, when we say of a writer that he pursues
literature as a calling. If, then, literature can be

viii TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE

taken to mean a process as well as a result of mental
activity, there can be no error in speaking of it
as Art. I use that term in its broad sense, as
meaning skill in the display of thought; or, more
fully, a right use of the rules of applying to the
practical exhibition of thought, with whatever mate
rial it may deal. In connection with literature, this
is a sense and an application of the term which
have been sufficiently established by the example
of the great writers of antiquity.

It may be asked, of course, whether the true
thinker, who will always form the soul of the true
author, will not be so much occupied with what he
has to say, that it will appear to him a trivial thing
to spend great effort on embellishing the form in
which he delivers it. Literature, to be worthy of
the name, must, it is true, deal with noble matter —
the riddle of our existence, the great facts of life,
the changing passions of the human heart, the dis
cernment of some deep moral truth. It is easy to
lay too much stress upon the mere garment of
thought; to be too precise; to give to the arrange
ment of words an attention that should rather be
paid to the promotion of fresh ideas. A writer who
makes this mistake is like a fop who spends his little
mind in adorning his person. In short, it may be
charged against the view of literature which is
taken in calling it an Art, that, instead of making
truth and insight the author's aim, it favors sciolism
and a fantastic and affected style. There is, no
doubt, some justice in the objection; nor have we
in our own day, and especially amongst younger
men, any lack of writers who endeavor to win con
fidence, not by adding to the stock of ideas in the
world, but by despising the use of plain language.
Their faults are not new in the history of literature;

TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE ix

and it is a pleasing sign of Schopenhauer's insight
that a merciless exposure of them, as they existed
half a century ago, is still quite applicable to their
modern form.

And since these writers, who may, in the slang
of the hour, be called "impressionists" in literature,
follow their own bad taste in the manufacture of
dainty phrases, devoid of all nerve, and generally
with some quite commonplace meaning,, it is all the
more necessary to discriminate carefully between
artifice and art.

But although they may learn something from
Schopenhauer's advice, it is not chiefly to them that
it is offered. It is to that great mass of writers,
whose business is to fill the columns of the news
papers and the pages of the review, and to produce
the ton of novels that appear every year. Now that
almost everyone who can hold a pen aspires to
be called an author, it is well to emphasize the fact
that literature is an art in some respects more im
portant than any other. The problem of this art
is the discovery of those qualities of style and treat
ment which entitled any work to be called good
literature.

It will be safe to warn the reader at the very
outset that, if he wishes to avoid being led astray,
he should in his search for these qualities turn to
books that have stood the test of time.

For such an amount of hasty writing is done in
these days that it is really difficult for anyone who
reads much of it to avoid contracting its faults, and
thus gradually coming to terms of dangerous famil
iarity with bad methods. This advice will be espe
cially needful if things that have little or no claim
to be called literature at all — the newspapers, the
monthly magazine, and the last new tale of intrigue

X TRANSLATOR S PREFACE

or adventure — fill a large measure, if not the whole,
of the time given to reading. Nor are those who
are sincerely anxious to have the best thought in
the best language quite free from danger if they
give too much attention to the contemporary
authors, even though these seem to think and write
excellently. For one generation alone is incom
petent to decide upon the merits of any author
whatever; and as literature, like all art, is a thing
of human invention, so it can be pronounced good
only if it obtains lasting admiration, by establishing
a permanent appeal to mankind's deepest feeling
for truth and beauty.

It is in this sense that Schopenhauer is perfectly
right in holding that neglect of the ancient classics,
which are the best of all models in the art of writ
ing, will infallibly lead to a degeneration of litera
ture.

And the method of discovering the best qualities
of style, and of forming a theory of writing, is not
to follow some trick or mannerism that happens to
please for the moment, but to study the way in
which great authors have done their best work.

It will be said that Schopenhauer tells us nothing
we did not know before. Perhaps so ; as he himself
says, the best things are seldom new. But he puts
the old truths in a fresh and forcible way; and no
one who knows anything of good literature will
deny that these truths are just now of very fit
application.

It was probably to meet a real want that, a year
or two ago, an ingenious person succeeded in draw
ing a great number of English and American
writers into a confession of their literary creed and
the art they adopted in authorship; and the inter
esting volume in which he gave these confessions to

TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE xi

the world contained some very good advice, al
though most of it had been said before in different
forms. More recently a new departure, of very
doubtful use, has taken place; and two books have
been issued, which aim, the one at being an author's
manual, the other at giving hints on essays and
how to write them.

A glance at these books will probably show that
their authors have still something to learn.

Both of these ventures seem, unhappily, to be
popular; and, although they may claim a position
next-door to that of the present volume I beg to
say that it has no connection with them whatever.
Schopenhauer does not attempt to teach the art
of making bricks without straw.

I wish to take this opportunity of tendering my
thanks to a large number of reviewers for the very
gratifying reception given to the earlier volumes
of this series. And I have great pleasure in ex
pressing my obligations to my friend Mr. W. G.
Collingwood, who has looked over most of my
proofs and often given me excellent advice in my
effort to turn Schopenhauer into readable English.

T. B. S.

ON AUTHORSHIP.

THERE are, first of all, two kinds of authors:
those who write for the subject's sake, and those
who write for writing's sake. While the one have
had thoughts or experiences which seem to them
worth communicating, the others want money; and
so they write, for money. Their thinking is part
of the business of writing. They may be recognized
by the way in which they spin out their thoughts
to the greatest possible length; then, too, by the
very nature of their thoughts, which are only half-
true, perverse, forced, vacillating; again, by the
aversion they generally show to saying anything
straight out, so that they may seem other than they
are. Hence their writing is deficient in clearness
and definiteness, and it is not long before they
betray that their only object in writing at all is to
cover paper. This sometimes happens with the best
authors ; now and then, for example, with Lessing
in his Dramaturgic, and even in many of Jean
Paul's romances. As soon as the reader perceives
this, let him throw the book away; for time is pre
cious. The truth is that when an author begins
to write for the sake of covering paper, he is cheat
ing the reader; because he writes under the pretext
that he has something to say.

Writing for money and reservation of copyright
are, at bottom, the ruin of literature. No one
writes anything that is worth writing, unless he
writes entirely for the sake of his subject. What
an inestimable boon it would be, if in every branch

i

2 THE ART OF LITERATURE

of literature there were only a few books, but those
excellent! This can never happen, as long as
money is to be made by writing. It seems as
though the money lay under a curse; for every
author degenerates as soon as he begins to put pen
to paper in any way for the sake of gain. The best
works of the greatest men all come from the time
when they had to write for nothing or for very
little. And here, too, that Spanish proverb holds
good, which declares that honor and money are
not to be found in the same purse — honora y
provecho no cab en en un saco.. The reason why
Literature is in such a bad plight nowadays is
simply and solely that people write books to make
money. A man who is in want sits down and writes
a book, and the public is stupid enough to buy it.
The secondary effect of this is the ruin of language.

A great many bad writers make their whole
living by that foolish mania of the public for read
ing nothing but what has just been printed, —
journalists, I mean. Truly, a most appropriate
name. In plain language it is journeymen, day-
laborers!

Again, it may be said that there are three kinds
of authors. First come those who write without
thinking. They write from a full memory, from
reminiscences ; it may be, even straight out of other
people's books. This class is the most numerous.
Then come those who do their thinking whilst they
are writing. They think in order to write; and
there is no lack of them. Last of all come those
authors who think before they begin to write. They
are rare.

Authors of the second class, who put off their
thinking until they come to write, are like a sports
man who goes forth at random and is not likely

ON AUTHORSHIP 3

to bring very much home. On the other hand,
when an author of the third or rare class writes,
it is like a battue. Here the game has been previ
ously captured and shut up within a very small
space; from which it is afterwards let out, so many
at a time, into another space, also confined. .The
game cannot possibly escape the sportsman ; he has
nothing to do but aim and fire — in other words,
write down his thoughts. This is a kind of sport
from which a man has something to show.

But even though the number of those who really
think seriously before they begin to write is small,
extremely few of them think about the subject
itself: the remainder think only about the books
that have been written on the subject, and what
has been said by others. In order to think at all,
such writers need the more direct and powerful
stimulus ot having other people's thoughts before
them. These become their immediate theme; and
the result is that they are always under their in
fluence, and so never, in any real sense of the word,
are original. But the former are roused to thought
by the subject itself, to which their thinking is thus
immediately directed. This is the only class that
produces writers of abiding fame.

It must, of course, be understood that I am
speaking here of writers who treat of great sub
jects; not of writers on the art of making brandy.

Unless an author takes the material on which he
writes out of his own head, that is to say, from his
own observation, he is not worth reading. Book-
manufacturers, compilers, the common run of his
tory-writers, and many others of the same class,
take their material immediately out of books; and
the material goes straight to their finger-tips with
out even paying freight or undergoing examination

4 THE ART OF LITERATURE

as it passes through their heads, to say nothing of
elaboration or revision. How very learned many
a man would be if he knew everything that was
in his own books! The consequence of this is that
these writers talk in such a loose and vague man
ner, that the reader puzzles his brain in vain to
understand what it is of which they are really
thinking. They are thinking of nothing. It may
now and then be the case that the book from which
they copy has been composed exactly in the same
way: so that writing of this sort is like a plaster
cast of a cast; and in the end, the bare outline of
the face, and that, too, hardly recognizable, is all
that is left to your Antinous. Let compilations be
read as seldom as possible. It is difficult to avoid
them altogether; since compilations also include
those text-books which contain in a small space the
accumulated knowledge of centuries.

There is no greater mistake than to suppose
that the last work is always the more correct; that
what is written later on is in every case an improve-
men on what was written before; and that change
always means progress. Real thinkers, men of
right judgment, people who are in earnest with
their subject, — these are all exceptions only.
Vermin is the rule everywhere in the world: it is
always on the alert, taking the mature opinions of
the thinkers, and industriously seeking to improve
upon them (save the mark!) in its own peculiar
way.

If the reader wishes to study any subject, let him
beware of rushing to the newest books upon it,
and confining his attention to them alone, under
the notion that science is always advancing, and
that the old books have been drawn upon in the
writing of the new. They have been drawn upon,

ON AUTHORSHIP 5

it is true; but how? The writer of the new book
often does not understand the old books thoroughly,
and yet he is unwilling to take their exact words;
so he bungles them, and says in his own bad way
that which has been said very much better and more
clearly by the old writers, who wrote from their own
lively knowledge of the subject. The new writer
frequently omits the best things they say, their
most striking illustrations, their happiest remarks;
because he does not see their value or feel how
pregnant they are. The only thing that appeals
to him is what is shallow and insipid.

It often happens that an old and excellent book
is ousted by new and bad ones, which, written for
money, appear with an air of great pretension and
much puffing on the part of friends. In science
a man tries to make his mark by bringing out some
thing fresh. This often means nothing more than
that he attacks some received theory which is quite
correct, in order to make room for his own false no
tions. Sometimes the effort is successful for a time;
and then a return is made to the old and true theory.
These innovators are serious about nothing but
their own precious self: it is this that they want to
put forward, and the quick way of doing so, as they
think, is to start a paradox. Their sterile heads
take naturally to the path of negation; so they be
gin to deny truths that have long been admitted —
the vital power, for example, the sympathetic
nervous system, generatio equivoca, Bichat's dis
tinction between the working of the passions and
the working of intelligence; or else they want us
to return to crass atomism, and the like. Hence
it frequently happens that the course of science is
retrogressive.

To this class of writers belong those translators

6 THE ART OF LITERATURE

who not only translate their author but also correct
and revise him; a proceeding which always seems
to me impertinent. To such writers I say: Write
books yourself which are worth translating, and
leave other people's works as they are!

The reader should study, if he can, the real
authors, the men who have founded and discovered
things; or, at any rate, those who are recognized
as the great masters in every branch of knowledge.
Let him buy second-hand books rather than read
their contents in new ones. To be sure, it is easy
to add to any new discovery — inventis aliquid
acldere facile est; and, therefore, the student, after
well mastering the rudiments of his subject, will
have to make himself acquainted with the more re
cent additions to the knowledge of it. And, in
general, the following rule may be laid down here
as elsewhere: if a thing is new, it is seldom good;
because if it is good, it is only for a short time new.

What the address is to a letter, the title should
be to a book; in other words, its main object should
be to bring the book to those amongst the public
who will take an interest in its contents. It should,
therefore, be expressive; and since by its very
nature it must be short, it should be concise, laconic,
pregnant, and if possible give the contents in one
word. A prolix title is bad ; and so is one that says
nothing, or is obscure and ambiguous, or even, it
may be, false and misleading; this last may pos
sibly involve the book in the same fate as overtakes
a wrongly addressed letter. The worst titles of
all are those which have been stolen, those, I mean,
which have already been borne by other books ; for
they are in the first place a plagiarism, and secondly
the most convincing proof of a total lack of origi-

ON AUTHORSHIP 7

nality in the author. A man who has not enough
originality to invent a new title for his book, will
be still less able to give it new contents. Akin to
these stolen titles are those which have been imi
tated, that is to say, stolen to the extent of one
half; for instance, long after I had produced my
treatise On Will in Nature, Oersted wrote a book
entitled On Mind in Nature.

A book can never be anything more than the
impress of its author's thoughts; and the value of
these will lie either in the matter about which he
has thought, or in the form which his thoughts take,
in other words, what it is that he has thought about
it.

The matter of books is most various ; and various
also are the several excellences attaching to books
on the score of their matter. By matter I mean
everything that comes within the domain of actual
experience; that is to say, the facts of history and
the facts of nature, taken in and by themselves and
in their widest sense. Here it is the thing treated
of, which gives its peculiar character to the book;
so that a book can be important, whoever it was that
wrote it.

But in regard to the form, the peculiar char
acter of a book depends upon the person who wrote
it. It may treat of matters which are accessible
to everyone and well known; but it is the way in
which they are treated, what it is that is thought
about them, that gives the book its value; and this
comes from its author. If, then, from this point
of view a book is excellent and beyond comparison,
so is its author. It follows that if a writer is worth
reading, his merit rises just in proportion as he
owes little to his matter; therefore, the better
known and the more hackneyed this is, the greater

8 THE ART OF LITERATURE

he will be. The three great tragedians of Greece,
for example, all worked at the same subject-matter.

So when a book is celebrated, care should be
taken to note whether it is so on account of its
matter or its form ; and a distinction should be made
accordingly.

Books of great importance on account of their
matter may proceed from very ordinary and shal
low people, by the fact that they alone have had
access to this matter; books, for instance, which
describe journeys in distant lands, rare natural
phenomena, or experiments; or historical occur
rences of which the writers were witnesses, or in
connection with which they have spent much time
and trouble in the research and special study of
original documents.

On the other hand, where the matter is accessible
to everyone or very well known, everything will
depend upon the form ; and what it is that is thought
about the matter will give the book all the value
it possesses. Here only a really distinguished man
will be able to produce anything worth reading;
for the others will think nothing but what anyone
else can think. They will just produce an impress
of their own minds; but this is a print of which
everyone possesses the original.

However, the public is very much more con
cerned to have matter than form ; and for this very
reason it is deficient in any high degree of culture.
The public shows its preference in this respect in
the most laughable way when it comes to deal with
poetry; for there it devotes much trouble to the
task of tracking out the actual events or personal
circumstances in the life of the poet which served
as the occasion of his various works; nay, these
events and circumstances come in the end to be of

ON AUTHORSHIP 9

greater importance than the works themselves; and
rather than read Goethe himself, people prefer to
read what has been written about him, and to study
the legend of Faust more industriously than the
drama of that name. And when Burger declared
that "people would write learned disquisitions on
the question, Who Leonora really was," we find
this literally fulfilled in Goethe's case; for we now
possess a great many learned disquisitions on Faust
and the legend attaching to him. Study of this
kind is, and remains, devoted to the material of the
drama alone. To give such preference to the
matter over the form, is as though a man were to
take a fine Etruscan vase, not to admire its shape
or coloring, but to make a chemical analysis of the
clay and paint of which it is composed.

The attempt to produce an effect by means of the
material employed — an attempt which panders to
this evil tendency of the public — is most to be con
demned in branches of literature where any merit
there may be lies expressly in the form ; I mean, in
poetical work. For all that, it is not rare to find
bad dramatists trying to fill the house by means
of the matter about which they write. For ex
ample, authors of this kind do not shrink from
putting on the stage any man who is in any way
celebrated, no matter whether his life may have
been entirely devoid of dramatic incident; and
sometimes, even, they do not wait until the persons
immediately connected with him are dead.

The distinction between matter and form to
which I am here alluding also holds good of con
versation. The chief qualities which enable a man
to converse well are intelligence, discernment, wit
and vivacity : these supply the form of conversation.
But it is not long*before attention has to be paid

10 THE ART OF LITERATURE

to the matter of which he speaks; in other words,
the subjects about which it is possible to con verse
with him — his knowledge. If this is very small,
his conversation will not be worth anything, unless
he possesses the above-named formal qualities in
a very exceptional degree; for he will have nothing
to talk about but those facts of life and nature
which everybody knows. It will be just the oppo
site, however, if a man is deficient in these formal
qualities, but has an amount of knowledge which
lends value to what he says. This value will then
depend entirely upon the matter of his conversa
tion ; for, as the Spanish proverb has it, mas sdbe el
necio en su casa, que el sabio en la agena — a fool
knows more of his own business than a wise man
ioes of others.

ON STYLE.

STYLE is the physiognomy of the mind, and a
safer index to character than the face. To imitate
another man's style is like wearing a mask, which,
be it never so fine, is not long in arousing disgust
and abhorrence, because it is lifeless; so that even
the ugliest living face is better. Hence those who
write in Latin and copy the manner of ancient
authors, may be said to speak through a mask ; the
reader, it is true, hears what they say, but he can
not observe their physiognomy too; he cannot see
their style. With the Latin works of writers who
think for themselves, the case is different, and their
style is visible; writers, I mean, who have not con
descended to any sort of imitation, such as Scotus
Erigena, Petrarch, Bacon, Descartes, Spinoza, and
many others. An affectation in style is like making
grimaces. Further, the language in which a man
writes is the physiognomy of the nation to which
he belongs ; and here there are many hard and fast
differences, beginning from the language of the
Greeks, down to that of the Caribbean islanders.

To form a provincial estimate of the value of
a writer's productions, it is not directly necessary
to know the subject on which he has thought, or
what it is that he has said about it; that would
imply a perusal of all his works. It will be enough,
in the main, to know how he has thought. This,
which means the essential temper or general quality
of his mind, may be precisely determined by his
style. A man's style shows the formal nature of

11

THE ART OF LITERATURE

all his thoughts — the formal nature which can
never change, be the subject or the character of
his thoughts what it may: it is, as it were, the
dough out of which all the contents of his mind
are kneaded. When Eulenspiegel was asked how
long it would take to walk to the next village, he
gave the seemingly incongruous answer: Walk.
He wanted to find out by the man's pace the dis
tance he would cover in a given time. In the same
way, when I have read a few pages of an author,
I know fairly well how far he can bring me.

Every mediocre writer tries to mask his own
natural style, because in his heart he knows the
truth of what I am saying. He is thus forced, at
the outset, to give up any attempt at being frank
or naive — a privilege which is thereby reserved for
superior minds, conscious of their own worth, and
therefore sure of themselves. What I mean is that
these everyday writers are absolutely unable to re
solve upon writing just as they think; because
they have a notion that, were they to do so, their
work might possibly look very childish and simple.
For all that, it would not be without its value. If
they would only go honestly to work, and say, quite
simply, the things they have really thought, and
just as they have thought them, these writers would
be readable and, within their own proper sphere,
even instructive.

But instead of that, they try to make the reader
believe that their thoughts have gone much further
and deeper than is really the case. They say what
they have to say in long sentences that wind about
in a forced and unnatural way; they coin new
words and write prolix periods which go round
and round the thought and wrap it up in a sort of
disguise. They tremble between the two separate

ON STYLE 13

aims of communicating what they want to say and
of concealing it. Their object is to dress it up so
that it may look learned or deep, in order to give
people the impression that there is very much more
in it than for the moment meets the eye. They
either jot down their thoughts bit by bit, in short,
ambiguous, and paradoxical sentences, which ap
parently mean much more than they say, — of this
kind of writing Schelling's treatises on natural
philosophy are a splendid instance; or else they
hold forth with a deluge of words and the most
intolerable diffusiveness, as though no end of fuss
were necessary to make the reader understand the
deep meaning of their sentences, whereas it is some
quite simple if not actually trivial idea, — examples
of which may be found in plenty in the popular
works of Fichte, and the philosophical manuals of
a hundred other miserable dunces not worth men
tioning; or, again, they try to write in some par
ticular style which they have been pleased to take
up and think very grand, a style, for example, par
excellence profound and scientific, where the reader
is tormented to death by the narcotic effect of long
spun periods without a single idea in them, — such
as are furnished in a special measure by those most
irnpudeir'; of all mortals, the Hegelians1; or it may
be that it is an intellectual style they have striven
after, where it seems as though their object were
to go crazy altogether; and so on in many other
cases. All these endeavors to put off the nascetur
ridiculus mus — to avoid showing the funny little
creature that is born after such mighty throes—
often make it difficult to know what it is that they
really mean. And then, too, they write down

1 In their Hegel-gazette, commonly known as JaJirbiicher der
wissenschaftlichen Literatur.

14 THE ART OF LITERATURE

words, nay, even whole sentences, without attach
ing any meaning to them themselves, but in the
hope that some one else will get sense out of them.

And what is at the bottom of all this? Nothing
but the untiring effort to sell words for thoughts;
a mode of merchandise that is always trying to
make fresh openings for itself, and by means of
odd expressions, turns of phrase, and combinations
of every sort, whether new or used in a new sense, to
produce the appearence of intellect in order to
make up for the very painfully felt lack of it.

It is amusing to see how writers with this object
in view will attempt first one mannerism and then
another, as though they were putting on the mask
of intellect! This mask may possibly deceive the
inexperienced for a while, until it is seen to be a
dead thing, with no life in it at all ; it is then laughed
at and exchanged for another. Such an author
will at one moment write in a dithyrambic vein,
as though he were tipsy; at another, nay, on the
very next page, he will be pompous, severe, pro
foundly learned and prolix, stumbling on in the
most cumbrous way and chopping up everything
very small; like the late Christian Wolf, only in a
modern dress. Longest of all lasts the mask of
unintelligibility ; but this is only in Germany,
whither it was introduced by Fichte, perfected by
Schelling, and carried to its highest pitch in Hegel
— always with the best results.

And yet nothing is easier than to write so that
no one can understand; just as contrarily, nothing
is more difficult than to express deep things in
such a way that every one must necessarily grasp
them. All the arts and tricks I have been mention
ing are rendered superfluous if the author really
has any brains ; for that allows him to show himself

ON STYLE 15

as he is, and confirms to all time Horace's maxim
that good sense is the source and origin of good
style:

Scribendi recte sapere est et principium et fons.

But those authors I have named are like certain
workers in metal, who try a hundred different com
pounds to take the place of gold — the only metal
which can never have any substitute. Rather than
do that, there is nothing against which a writer
should be more upon his guard than the manifest
endeavor to exhibit more intellect than he really
has; because this makes the reader suspect that he
possesses very little; since it is always the case that
if a man affects anything, whatever it may be, it is
just there that he is deficient.

That is why it is praise to an author to say that
he is naive; it means that he need not shrink from
showing himself as he is. Generally speaking, to
be naive is to be attractive; while lack of natural
ness is everywhere repulsive. As a matter of fact
we find that every really great writer tries to ex
press his thoughts as purely, clearly, definitely and
shortly as possible. Simplicity has always been
held to be a mark of truth; it is also a mark of
genius. Style receives its beauty from the thought
it expresses; but with sham-thinkers the thoughts
are supposed to be fine because of the style. Style
is nothing but the mere silhouette of thought; and
an obscure or bad style means a dull or confused
brain.

The first rule, then, for a good style is that the
author should have something to say; nay, this is in
itself almost all that is necessary. Ah, how much
it means ! The neglect of this rule is a fundamental
trait in the philosophical writing, and, in fact, in

16 THE ART OF LITERATURE

all the reflective literature, of my country, more
especially since Fichte. These writers all let it
be seen that they want to appear as though they
had something to say; whereas they have nothing
to say. Writing of this kind was brought in by
the pseudo-philosophers at the Universities, and
now it is current everywhere, even among the first
literary notabilities of the age. It is the mother
of that strained and vague style, where there seem
to be two or even more meanings in the sentence;
also of that prolix and cumbrous manner of ex
pression, called le stile empese; again, of that
mere waste of words which consists in pouring them
out like a flood; finally, of that trick of concealing
the direst poverty of thought under a farrago of
never-ending chatter, which clacks away like a
windmill and quite stupefies one — stuff which a
man may read for hours together without getting
hold of a single clearly expressed and definite idea.1
However, people are easy-going, and they have
formed the habit of reading page upon page of all
sorts of such verbiage, without having any particu
lar idea of what the author really means. They
fancy it is all as it should be, and fail to discover
that he is writing simply for writing's sake.

On the other hand, a good author, fertile in
ideas, soon wins his reader's confidence that, when
he writes, he has really and truly something to say;
and this gives the intelligent reader patience to
follow him with attention. Such an author, just
because he really has something to say, will never
fail to express himself in the simplest and most
straightforward manner; because his object is to

1 Select examples of the art of writing in this style are to
be found almost passim in the Jahrbiicher published at Halle,
afterwards called the Deutschen Jahrbucher.

ON STYLE 17

jwake the very same thought in the reader that he
has in himself, and no other. So he will be able
to affirm with Boileau that his thoughts are every
where open to the light of the day, and that his
verse always says something, whether it says it
well or ill:

Ma pensee au grand jour partout s'offre et s'expose,
Et mon vers, bien ou mal, dit tou jours quelque chose:

while of the writers previously described it may be
asserted, in the words of the same poet, that they
talk much and never say anything at all — qui
parlant beaucoup ne disent jamais rien.

Another characteristic of such writers is that
they always avoid a positive assertion wherever they
can possibly do so, in order to leave a loophole for
escape in case of need. Hence they never fail to
choose the more abstract way of expressing them
selves; whereas intelligent people use the more
concrete; because the latter brings things more
within the range of actual demonstration, which is
the source of all evidence.

There are many examples proving this prefer
ence for abstract expression; and a particularly
ridiculous one is afforded by the use of the verb
to condition in the sense of to cause or to produce.
People say to condition something instead of to
cause it, because being abstract and indefinite it
says less; it affirms that A cannot happen without
B, instead of that A is caused by B. A back door
is always left open; and this suits people whose
secret knowledge of their own incapacity inspires
them with a perpetual terror of all positive asser
tion; while with other people it is merely the effect
of that tendency by which everything that is stupid
in literature or bad in life is immediately imitated

18 THE ART OF LITERATURE

— a fact proved in either case by the rapid way in
which it spreads. The Englishman uses his own
judgment in what he writes as well as in what he
does; but there is no nation of which this eulogy
is less true than of the Germans. The consequence
of this state of things is that the word cause has of
late almost disappeared from the language of litera
ture, and people talk only of condition. The fact
is worth mentioning because it is so characteristic
ally ridiculous.

The very fact that these commonplace authors
are never more than half -conscious when they
write, would be enough to account for their dullness
of mind and the tedious things they produce. I
say they are only half-conscious, because they
really do not themselves understand the meaning
of the words they use : they take words ready-made
and commit them to memory. Hence when they
write, it is not so much words as whole phrases that
they put together — phrases banales. This is the
explanation of that palpable lack of clearly-ex
pressed thought in what they say. The fact is that
they do not possess the die to give this stamp to
their writing; clear thought of their own is just
what they have not got. And what do we find in
its place? — a vague, enigmatical intermixture of
words, current phrases, hackneyed terms, and
fashionable expressions. The result is that the
foggy stuff they write is like a page printed with
very old type.

On the other hand, an intelligent author really
speaks to us when he writes, and that is why he
is able to rouse our interest and commune with us.
It is the intelligent author alone who puts indi
vidual words together with a full consciousness of
their meaning, and chooses them with deliberate

ON STYLE 19

design. Consequently, his discourse stands to that
of the writer described above, much as a picture
that has been really painted, to one that has been
produced by the use of a stencil. In the one case,
every word, every touch of the brush, has a special
purpose; in the other, all is done mechanically.
The same distinction may be observed in music.
For just as Lichtenberg says that Garrick's soul
seemed to be in every muscle in his body, so it is
the omnipresence of intellect that always and every
where characterizes the work of genius.

I have alluded to the tediousness which marks the
works of these writers ; and in this connection it is
to be observed, generally, that tediousness is of
two kinds; objective and subjective. A work is
objectively tedious when it contains the defect in
question; that is to say, when its author has no
perfectly clear thought or knowledge to communi
cate. For if a man has any clear thought or knowl
edge in him, his aim will be to communicate it,
and he will direct his energies to this end; so that
the ideas he furnishes are everywhere clearly ex
pressed. The result is that he is neither diffuse, nor
unmeaning, nor confused, and consequently not
tedious. In such a case, even though the author is
at bottom in error, the error is at any rate clearly
worked out and well thought over, so that it is at
least formally correct; and thus some value always
attaches to the work. But for the same reason a
work that is objectively tedious is at all times de
void of any value whatever.

The other kind of tediousness is only relative: a
reader may find a work dull because he has no
interest in the question treated of in it, and this
means that his intellect is restricted. The best work
may, therefore, be tedious subjectively, tedious, I

20 THE ART OF LITERATURE

mean, to this or that particular person; just as,
contrarily, the worst work may be subjectively en
grossing to this or that particular person who has
an interest in the question treated of, or in the
writer of the book.

It would generally serve writers in good stead if
they would see that, whilst a man should, if pos
sible, think like a great genius, he should talk the
same language as everyone else. ^uthQra,shoiild
use common words to say uncommon things. But
they do just the opposite. We find them trying
to wrap up trivial ideas in grand words, and to
clothe their very ordinary thoughts in the most ex
traordinary phrases, the most far-fetched, un
natural, and out-of-the-way expressions. Theiy
sentences perpetually stalk about on stilts. They
take so much pleasure in bombast, and write in
such a high-flown, bloated, affected, hyperbolical
and acrobatic style that their prototype is Ancient
Pistol, whom his friend Falstaff once impatiently
told to say what he had to say like a man of this
world.1

There is no expression in any other language
exactly answering to the French stile empese; but
the thing itself exists all the more often. When
associated with affectation, it is in literature what
assumption of dignity, grand airs and primeness
are in society; and equally intolerable. Dullness
of mind is fond of donning this dress; just as art
ordinary life it is stupid people who like being
demure and formal.

An author who writes in the prim style resembles
a man who dresses himself up in order to avoid
being confounded or put on the same level with
a mob — a risk never run by the gentleman, even

1 King Henry IV., Part II. Act v. Sc. 3.

ON STYLE 21

in his worst clothes. The plebeian may be known
by a certain showiness of attire and a wish to have
everything spick and span; and in the same way,
the commonplace person is betrayed by his style.

Nevertheless, an author follows a false aim if
he tries to write exactly as he speaks. There is no
style of writing but should have a certain trace of
kinship with the epigraphic or monumental style,
which is, indeed, the ancestor of all styles. For an
author to write as he speaks is just as reprehensible
as the opposite fault, to speak as he writes; for
this gives a pedantic effect to what he says, and at
the same time makes him hardly intelligible.

An obscure and vague manner of expression is
always and everywhere a very bad sign. In ninety-
nine cases out of a hundred it comes from vague
ness of thought; and this again almost always
means that there is something radically wrong and
incongruous about the thought itself — in a word,
that it is incorrect. When a right thought springs
up in the mind, it strives after expression and is
not long in reaching it; for clear thought easily
finds words to fit it. If a man is capable of think
ing anything at all, he is also always able to ex
press it in clear, intelligible, and unambiguous
terms. Those writers who construct difficult, ob
scure, involved, and equivocal sentences, most cer
tainly do not know aright what it is that they want
to say: they have only a dull consciousness of it,
which is still in the stage of struggle to shape itself
as thought. Often, indeed, their desire is to con
ceal from themselves and others that they really
have nothing at all to say. They wish to appear
to know what they do not know, to think what they
do not think, to say what they do not say. If a
man has some real communication to make, which

22 THE ART OF LITERATURE

will he choose — an indistinct or a clear way of
expressing himself? Even Quintilian remarks that
things which are said by a highly educated man
are often easier to understand and much clearer;
and that the less educated a man is, the more ob
scurely he will write — plerumque accidit ut faciliora
sint ad intellig endum et lucidiora multo que a
doctissimo quoque dicuntur .... Erit ergo etiam
obscurior quo quisque deterior.

An author should avoid enigmatical phrases; he
should know whether he wants to say a thing or
does not want to say it. It is this indecision of
style that makes so many writers insipid. The
only case that offers an exception to this rule arises
when it is necessary to make a remark that is in
some way improper.

As exaggeration generally produces an effect
the opposite of that aimed at; so words, it is true,
serve to make thought intelligible — but only up
to a certain point. If words are heaped up beyond
it, the thought becomes more and more obscure
again. To find where the point lies is the problem
of style, and the business of the critical faculty;
for a word too much always defeats its purpose.
This is what Voltaire means when he says that the
adjective is the enemy of the substantive. But, as
we have seen, many people try to conceal their
poverty of thought under a flood of verbiage.

Accordingly let all redundancy be avoided, all
stringing together of remarks which have no mean
ing and are not worth perusal. A writer must
make a sparing use of the reader's time, patience
and attention; so as to lead him to believe that his
author writes what is worth careful study, and will
reward the time spent upon it. It is always better
to omit something good than to add that which is

ON STYLE 23

not worth saying at all. This is the right applica
tion of Hesiod's maxim, irXiov fyu<™ Wr™?1 — the half
is more than the whole. Le secret pour etre en-
nuyeux, c'est de tout dire. Therefore, if possible,
the quintessence only! mere leading thoughts! noth
ing that the reader would think for himself. To
use many words to communicate few thoughts is
everywhere the unmistakable sign of mediocrity.
To gather much thought into few words stamps
the man of genius.

Truth is most beautiful undraped; and the im
pression it makes is deep in proportion as its ex
pression has been simple. This is so, partly because
it then takes unobstructed possession of the hearer's
whole soul, and leaves him no by-thought to dis
tract him; partly, also, because he feels that here
he is not being corrupted or cheated by the arts of
rhetoric, but that all the effect of what is said comes
from the thing itself. For instance, what declama
tion on the vanity of human existence could ever
be more telling than the words of Job? Man that
is born of a woman hath but a short time to live and
is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down,
like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and
never continueth in one stay.

For the same reason Goethe's naive poetry is in
comparably greater than Schiller's rhetoric. It is
this, again, that makes many popular songs so af
fecting. As in architecture an excess of decoration
is to be avoided, so in the art of literature a writer
must guard against all rhetorical finery, all useless
amplification, and all superfluity of expression in
general; in a word, he must strive after chastity
of style. Every word that can be spared is hurtful

1 Works and Days, 40.

24 THE ART OF LITERATURE

if it remains. The law of simplicity and naivete
holds good of all fine art; for it is quite possible
to be at once simple and sublime.

True brevity , of expression consists in every
where saying only what is worth saying, and in
avoiding tedious detail about things which everyone
can supply for himself. This involves correct dis
crimination between what it necessary and what is
superfluous. A writer should never be brief at the
expense of being clear, to say nothing of being
grammatical. It shows lamentable want of judg
ment to weaken the expression of a thought, or to
stunt the meaning of a period for the sake of using
a few words less. But this is the precise endeavor
of that false brevity nowadays so much in vogue,
which proceeds by leaving out useful words and
even by sacrificing grammar and logic. It is not
only that such writers spare a word by making a
single verb or adjective do duty for several differ
ent periods, so that the reader, as it were, has to
grope his way through them in the dark; they also
practice, in many other respects, an unseemingly
economy of speech, in the effort to effect what they
foolishly take to be brevity of expression and con
ciseness of style. By omitting something that
might have thrown a light over the whole sentence,
they turn it into a conundrum, which the reader
tries to solve by going over it again and again.1

1 Translator's Note. — In the original, Schopenhauer here enters
upon a lengthy examination of certain common errors in the
writing and speaking of German. His remarks are addressed
to his own countrymen, and would lose all point, even if they
were intelligible, in an English translation. But for those who
practice their German by conversing or corresponding with
Germans, let me recommend what he there says as a useful cor
rective to a slipshod style, such as can easily be contracted if
it, is assumed that the natives of a country always know their
own language perfectly.

ON STYLE

It is wealth and weight of thought, and nothing
else, that gives brevity to style, and makes it con
cise and pregnant. If a writer's ideas are im
portant, luminous, and generally worth communi
cating, they will necessarily furnish matter and sub-
stance enough to fill out the periods which give
them expression, and make these in all their parts
both grammatically and verbally complete; and so
much will this be the case that no one will ever find
them hollow, empty or feeble. The diction will
everywhere be brief and pregnant, and allow the
thought to find intelligible and easy expression, and
even unfold and move about with grace.

Therefore instead of contracting his words and
forms of speech, let a writer enlarge his thoughts.
If a man has been thinned by illness and finds his
clothes too big, it is not by cutting them down,
but by recovering his usual bodily condition, that
he ought to make them fit him again.

Let me here mention an error of style, very
prevalent nowadays, and, in the degraded state of
literature and the neglect of ancient languages,
always on the increase; I mean subjectivity. A
writer commits this error when he thinks it enough
if he himself knows what he means and wants to
say, and takes no thought for the reader, who is
left to get at the bottom of it as best he can. This
is as though the author were holding a monologue;
whereas, it ought to be a dialogue; and a dialogue,
too, in which he must express himself all the more
clearly inasmuch as he cannot hear the questions
of his .interlocutor.

Style should for this very reason never be sub
jective, but objective; and it will not be objective
unless the words are so set down that they directly

26 THE ART OF LITERATURE

force the reader to think precisely the same thing as
the author thought when he wrote them. Nor will
this result be obtained unless the author has always
been careful to remember that thought so far follows
the law of gravity that it travels from head to paper
much more easily than from paper to head; so that
he must assist the latter passage by every means
in his power. If he does this, a writer's words will
have a purely objective effect, like that of a fin
ished picture in oils; whilst the subjective style is
not much more certain in its working than spots
on the wall, which look like figures only to one
whose phantasy has been accidentally aroused by
them; other people see nothing but spots and blurs.
The difference in question applies to literary
method as a whole; but it is often established also
in particular instances. For example, in a recently
published work I found the following sentence:
/ have not written in order to increase the number
of existing books. This means just the opposite
of what the writer wanted to say, and is nonsense
as well.

He who writes carelessly confesses thereby at the
very outset that he does not attach much impor
tance to his own thoughts. For it is only where
a man is convinced of the truth and importance of
his thoughts, that he feels the enthusiasm necessary
for an untiring and assiduous effort to find the
clearest, finest, and strongest expression for them,
— just as for sacred relics or priceless works of art
there are provided silvern or golden receptacles.
It was this feeling that led ancient authors, whose
thoughts, expressed in their own words, have lived
thousands of years, and therefore bear the honored
title of classics, always to write with care. Plato,

ON STYLE 27

indeed, is said to have written the introduction to
his Republic seven times over in different ways.1

As neglect of dress betrays want of respect for
the company a man meets, so a hasty, careless, bad
style shows an outrageous lack of regard for the
reader, who then rightly punishes it by refusing to
read the book. It is especially amusing to see re-
"viewers criticising the works of others in their own
most careless style — the style of a hireling. It is
as though a judge were to come into court in dress
ing-gown and slippers ! If I see a man badly and \
dirtily dressed, I feel some hesitation, at first, in \
entering into conversation with him: and when, on |
taking up a book, I am struck at once by the negli
gence of its style, I put it away.

Good writing should be governed by the rule that
a man can think only one thing clearly at a time;
and, therefore, that he should not be expected to
think two or even more things in one and the same
moment. But this is what is done when a writer
breaks up his principal sentence into little pieces,
for the purpose of pushing into the gaps thus made
two or three other thoughts by way of parenthesis ;
thereby unnecessarily and wantonly confusing the
reader. And here it is again my own countrymen
who are chiefly in fault. That German lends itself
to this way of writing, makes the thing possible,
but does not justify it. No prose reads more easily
or pleasantly than French, because, as a rule, it is
free from the error in question. The Frenchman
strings his thoughts together, as far as he can, in
the most logical and natural order, and so lays them
before his reader one after the other for convenient

1 Translator's Note. — It is a fact worth mentioning that the
first twelve words of the Republic are placed in the exact order
which would be natural in English.

28 THE ART OF LITERATURE

deliberation, so that every one of them may receive
undivided attention. The German, on the other
hand, weaves them together into a sentence which
he twists and crosses, and crosses and twists again;
because he wants to say six things all at once, in
stead of advancing them one by one. His aim
should be to attract and hold the reader's atten
tion; but, above and beyond neglect of this aim, he
demands from the reader that he shall set the above
mentioned rule at defiance, and think three or four
different thoughts at one and the same time; or
since that is impossible, that his thoughts shall suc
ceed each other as quickly as the vibrations of a cord.
In this way an author lays the foundation of his
stile empese, which is then carried to perfection by
the use of high-flown, pompous expressions to com
municate the simplest things, and other artifices of
the same kind.

In those long sentences rich in involved paren
thesis, like a box of boxes one within another, and
padded out like roast geese stuffed with apples, it
is really the memory that is chiefly taxed; while it
is the understanding and the judgment which
should be called into play, instead of having their
activity thereby actually hindered and weakened.1
This kind of sentence furnishes the reader with
mere half-phrases, which he is then called upon to
collect carefully and store up in his memory, as
though they were the pieces of a torn letter, after
wards to be completed and made sense of by the
other halves to which they respectively belong. He
is expected to go on reading for a little without

1 Translator's Note. — This sentence in the original is obviously
meant to illustrate the fault of which it speaks. It does so
by the use of a construction very common in German, but hap
pily unknown in English; where, however, the fault itself exists
none the less, though in different form.

ON STYLE 29

exercising any thought, nay, exerting only his
memory, in the hope that, when he comes to the
end of the sentence, he may see its meaning and so
receive something to think about; and he is thus
given a great deal to learn by heart before obtain
ing anything to understand. This is manifestly
wrong and an abuse of the reader's patience.

The ordinary writer has an unmistakable prefer
ence for this style, because it causes the reader to
spend time and trouble in understanding that which
he would have understood in a moment without it;
and this makes it look as though the writer had
more depth and intelligence than the reader. This
is, indeed, one of those artifices referred to above,
by means of which mediocre authors unconsciously,
and as it were by instinct, strive to conceal their
poverty of thought and give an appearance of the
opposite. Their ingenuity in this respect is really
astounding.

It is manifestly against all sound reason to put
one thought obliquely on top of another, as though
both together formed a wooden cross. But this is
what is done where a writer interrupts what he has
begun to say, for the purpose of inserting some
quite alien matter; thus depositing with the reader
a meaningless half -sentence, and bidding him keep
it until the completion comes. It is much as though
a man were to treat his guests by handing them an
empty plate, in the hope of something appearing
upon it. And commas used for a similar purpose
belong to the same family as notes at the foot of
the page and parenthesis in the middle of the text;
nay, all three differ only in degree. If Demos
thenes and Cicero occasionally inserted words by
ways of parenthesis, they would have done better
to have refrained.

30 THE ART OF LITERATURE

But this style of writing becomes the height of
absurdity when the parenthesis are not even fitted
into the frame of the sentence, but wedged in so
as directly to shatter it. If, for instance, it is an
impertinent thing to interrupt another person when
he is speaking, it is no less impertinent to interrupt
oneself. But all bad, careless, and hasty authors,
who scribble with the bread actually before their
eyes, use this style of writing six times on a page,
and rejoice in it. It consists in — it is advisable to
give rule and example together, wherever it is pos
sible — breaking up one phrase in order to glue in
another. Nor is it merely out of laziness that they
write thus. r.7hey do it out of stupidity; they
think there is ^ charming Ugerete about it; that it
gives life to what they say. No doubt there are a
few rare cases where such a form of sentence may
be pardonable.

Few write in the way in which an architect builds ;
who, before he sets to work, sketches out his plan,
and thinks it over down to its smallest details.
Nay, most people write only as though they were
playing dominoes; and, as in this game, the pieces
are arranged half by design, half by chance, so it
is with the sequence and connection of their sen
tences. They only have an idea of what the general
shape of their work will be, and of the aim they set
before themselves. Many are ignorant even of
this, and write as the coral-insects build; period
joins to period, and the Lord only knows what the
author means.

Life now-a-days goes at a gallop; and the way
in which this affects literature is to make it ex
tremely superficial and slovenly.

ON THE STUDY OF LATIN.

THE abolition of Latin as the universal language
of learned men, together with the rise of that
provincialism which attaches to national literatures,
has been a real misfortune for the cause of knowl
edge in Europe. For it was chiefly through the
medium of the Latin language that a learned pub
lic existed in Europe at all — a public to which
every book as it came out directly appealed. The
number of minds in the whole of Europe that are
capable of thinking and judging is small, as it is;
but when the audience is broken up and severed by
differences of language, the good these minds can
do is very much weakened. This is a great disad
vantage; but a second and worse one will follow,
namely, that the ancient languages will cease to
be taught at all. The neglect of them is rapidly
gaining ground both in France and Germany.

If it should really come to this, then farewell,
humanity! farewell, noble taste and high thinking!
The age of barbarism will return, in spite of rail
ways, telegraphs and balloons. We shall thus in
the end lose one more advantage possessed by all
our ancestors. For Latin is not only a key to the
knowledge of Roman antiquity; its also directly
opens up to us the Middle Age in every country in
Europe, and modern times as well, down to about
the year 1750. Erigena, for example, in the ninth
century, John of Salisbury in the twelfth, Raimond
Lully in the thirteenth, with a hundred others,
speak straight to us in the very language that they
naturally adopted in thinking of learned matters.

31

32 THE ART OF LITERATURE

They thus come quite close to us even at this dis
tance of time: we are in direct contact with them,
and really come to know them. How would it have
been if every one of them spoke in the language
that was peculiar to his time and country? We
should not understand even the half of what they
said. A real intellectual contact with them would
be impossible. We should see them like shadows
on the farthest horizon, or, may be, through the
translator's telescope.

It was with an eye to the advantage of writing
in Latin that Bacon, as he himself expressly states,
proceeded to translate his Essays into that lan
guage, under the title Sermones fidcles; at which
work Hobbes assisted him.1

Here let me observe, by way of parenthesis, that
when patriotism tries to urge its claims in the do
main of knowledge, it commits an offence which
should not be tolerated. For in those purely
human questions which interest all men alike, where
truth, insight, beauty, should be of sole account,
what can be more impertinent than to let preference
for the nation to which a man's precious self hap
pens to belong, affect the balance of judgment,
and thus supply a reason for doing violence to
truth and being unjust to the great minds of a
foreign country in order to make much of the
smaller minds of one's own! Still, there are
writers in every nation in Europe, who afford ex
amples of this vulgar feeling. It is this which led
Yriarte to caricature them in the thirty-third of
his charming Literary Fables.2

1 Cf. Thomae Hobbes vita: Carolopoli apud Eleutherium Angli-
cum, 1681, p. 22.

2 Translator's Note.—Tomas de Yriarte (1750-91), a Spanish
poet, and keeper of archives in the War Office at Madrid. His

ON THE STUDY OF LATIN 33

In learing a language, the chief difficulty con
sists in making acquaintance with every idea which
it expresses, even though it should use words for
which there is no exact equivalent in the mother
tongue; and this often happens. In learning a
new language a man has, as it were, to mark out
in his mind the boundaries of quite new spheres of
ideas, with the result that spheres of ideas arise
where none were before. Thus he not only learns
words, he gains ideas too.

This is nowhere so much the case as in learning
ancient languages, for the differences they present
in their mode of expression as compared with
modern languages is greater than can be found
amongst modern languages as compared with one
another. This is shown by the fact that in translat
ing into Latin, recourse must be had to quite other
turns of phrase than are used in the original. The
thought that is to be translated has to be melted
down and recast; in other words, it must be ana
lyzed and then recomposed. It is just this process
which makes the study of the ancient languages
contribute so much to the education of the mind.

two best known works are a didactic poem, entitled La Musica,
and the Fables here quoted, which satirize the peculiar foibles
of literary men. They have been translated into many languages ;
into English by Rockliffe (3rd edtion, 1866). The fable in
question describes how, at a picnic of the animals, a discussion
arose as to which of them carried off the palm for superiority
of talent. The praises of the ant, the dog, the bee, and the
parrot were sung in turn; but at last the ostrich stood up and
declared for the dromedary. Whereupon the dromedary stood
tip and declared for the ostrich. No one could discover the
reason for this mutual compliment. Was it because both were
such uncouth beasts, or had such long necks, or were neither
of them particularly clever or beautiful? or was it because each
had a hump? No! said the fox, you are all wrong. Don't you
<$ee they are both foreigners? Cannot the same be said of many
men of learning?

34 THE ART OF LITERATURE

It follows from this that a man's thought varies
according to the language in which he speaks. His
ideas undergo a fresh modification, a different shad
ing, as it were, in the study of every new language.
Hence an acquaintance with many languages is
not only of much indirect advantage, but it is also
a direct means of mental culture, in that it corrects
and matures ideas by giving prominence to their
many-sided nature and their different varieties of
meaning, as also that it increases dexterity of
thought; for in the process of learning many lan
guages, ideas become more and more independent
of words. The ancient languages effect this to a
greater degree than the modern, in virtue of the
difference to which I have alluded.

From what I have said, it is obvious that to
imitate the style of the ancients in their own lan
guage, which is so very much superior to ours in
point of grammatical perfection, is the best way
of preparing for a skillful and finished expression
of thought in the mother-tongue. Nay, if a man
wants to be a great writer, he must not omit to
do this: just as, in the case of sculpture or paint
ing, the student must educate himself by copying
the great masterpieces of the past, before proceed
ing to original work. It is only by learning to
write Latin that a man comes to treat diction as
an art. The material in this art is language, which
must therefore be handled with the greatest care
and delicacy.

The result of such study is that a writer will
pay keen attention to the meaning and value of
words, their order and connection, their gram
matical forms. He will learn how to weigh them
with precision, and so become an expert in the use
of that precious instrument which is meant not

ON THE STUDY OF LATIN 35

only to express valuable thought, but to preserve
it as well. Further, he will learn to feel respect
for the language in which he writes and thus be
saved from any attempt to remodel it by arbitrary
and capricious treatment. Without this schooling,
a man's writing may easily degenerate into mere
chatter.

To be entirely ignorant of the Latin language
is like being in a fine country on a misty day. The
horizon is extremely limited. Nothing can be seen
clearly except that which is quite close ; a few steps
beyond, everything is buried in obscurity. But
the Latinist has a wide view, embracing modern
times, the Middle Age and Antiquity; and his
mental horizon is still further enlarged if he studies
Greek or even Sanscrit.

If a man knows no Latin, he belongs to the
vulgar, even though he be a great virtuoso on the
electrical machine and have the base of hydrofluoric
acid in his crucible.

There is no better recreation for the mind than
the study of the ancient classics. Take any one
of them into your hand, be it only for half an hour,
and you will feel yourself refreshed, relieved, puri
fied, ennobled, strengthened; just as though you
had quenched your thirst at some pure spring. Is
this the effect of the old language and its perfect
expression, or is it the greatness of the minds whose
works remain unharmed and unweakened by the
lapse of a thousand years? Perhaps both together.
But this I know. If the threatened calamity should
ever come, and the ancient languages cease to be
taught, a new literature will arise, of such bar
barous, shallow and worthless stuff as never was
seen before.

ON MEN OF LEARNING.

WHEN one sees the number and variety of in
stitutions which exist for the purposes of education, •
and the vast throng of scholars and masters, one
might fancy the human race to be very much con
cerned about truth and wisdom. But here, too, ap
pearances are deceptive. The masters teach in
order to gain money, and strive, not after wisdom,
but the outward show and reputation of it; and the
scholars learn, not for the sake of knowledge and
insight, but to be able to chatter and give them
selves airs. Every thirty years a new race comes
into the world — a youngster that knows nothing
about anything, and after summarily devouring in
all haste the results of human knowledge as they
have been accumulated for thousands of years,
aspires to be thought cleverer than the whole of
the past. For this purpose he goes to the Uni
versity, and takes to reading books — new books, as
being of his own age and standing. Everything
he reads must be briefly put, must be new! he is
new himself. Then he falls to and criticises. And
here I am not taking the slightest account of
studies pursued for the sole object of making a
living.

Students, and learned persons of all sorts and
every age, aim as a rule at acquiring information
rather than insight. They pique themselves upon
knowing about everything— stones, plants, battles,
experiments, and all the books in existence. It
never occurs to them that information is only a

36

ON MEN OF LEARNING 37

means of insight, and in itself of little or no value;
that it is his way of thinking that makes a man a
philosopher. When I hear of these portents of
learning and their imposing erudition, I sometimes
say to myself: Ah, how little they must have had
to think about, to have been able to read so much!
And when I actually find it reported of the elder
Pliny that he was continually reading or being read
to, at table, on a journey, or in his bath, the ques
tion forces itself upon my mind, whether the man
was so very lacking in thought of his own that he
had to have alien thought incessantly instilled into
him; as though he were a consumptive patient tak
ing jellies to keep himself alive. And neither his
undiscerning credulity nor his inexpressibly re
pulsive and barely intelligible style — which seems
like of a man taking notes, and very economical of
paper — is of a kind to give me a high opinion of
his power of independent thought.

We have seen that much reading and learning
is prejudicial to thinking for oneself; and, in the
same way, through much writing and teaching, a
man loses the habit of being quite clear, and there
fore thorough, in regard to the things he knows
and understands; simply because he has left him
self no time to acquire clearness or thoroughness.
And so, when clear knowledge fails him in his ut
terances, he is forced to fill out the gaps with words
and phrases. It is this, and not the dryness of the
subject-matter, that makes most books such tedious
reading. There is a saying that a good cook can
make a palatable dish even out of an old shoe; and
a good writer can make the dryest things inter
esting.

With by far the largest number of learned men,
knowledge is a means, not an end. That is why

38 THE ART OF LITERATURE

they will never achieve any great work; because,
to do that, he who pursues knowledge must pursue
it as an end, and treat everything else, even ex
istence itself, as only a means. For everything
which a man fails to pursue for its own sake is but
half-pursued; and true excellence, no matter in
what sphere, can be attained only where the work
has been produced for its own sake alone, and not
as a means to further ends.

And so, too, no one will ever succeed in doing
anything really great and original in the way of
thought, who does not seek to acquire knowledge
for himself, and, making this the immediate object
of his studies, decline to trouble himself about the
knowledge of others. But the average man of
learning studies for the purpose of being able to
teach and write. His head is like a stomach and
intestines which let the food pass through them un
digested. That is just why his teaching and writ
ing is of so little use. For it is not upon undigested
refuse that people can be nourished, but solely upon
the milk which secretes from the very blood itself.

The wig is the appropriate symbol of the man
of learning, pure and simple. It adorns the head
with a copious quantity of false hair, in lack of
one's own: just as erudition means endowing it
with a great mass of alien thought. This, to be
sure, does not clothe the head so well and naturally,
nor is it so generally useful, nor so suited for all
purposes, nor so firmly rooted; nor when alien
thought is used up, can it be immediately replaced
by more from the same source, as is the case with
that which springs from soil of one's own. So
we find Sterne, in his Tristram Shandy, boldly as
serting that an ounce of a man's own wit is worth
a ton of other people's.

ON MEN OF LEARNING 39

And in fact the most profound erudition is no
more akin to genius than a collection of dried
plants in like Nature, with its constant flow of
new life, ever fresh, ever young, ever changing.
There are no two things more opposed than the
childish naivete of an ancient author and the learn
ing of his commentator.

Dilettanti, dilettanti! This is the slighting way
in which those who pursue any branch of art or
learning for the love and enjoyment of the thing,
— per il loro diletto, are spoken of by those who
have taken it up for the sake of gain, attracted
solely by the prospect of money. This contempt
of theirs comes from the base belief that no man
will seriously devote himself to a subject, unless
he is spurred on to it by want, hunger, or else
some form of greed. The public is of the same
way of thinking; and hence its general respect for
professionals and its distrust of dilettanti. But
the truth is that the dilettante treats his subject as
an end, whereas the professional, pure and simple,
treats it merely as a means. He alone will be really
in earnest about a matter, who has a direct in
terest therein, takes to it because he likes it, and
pursues it con amore. It is these, and not hirelings,
that have always done the greatest work.

In the republic of letters it is as in other re
publics; favor is shown to the plain man — he who
goes his way in silence and does not set up to be
cleverer than others. But the abnormal man is
looked upon as threatening danger; people band
together against him, and have, oh! such a majority
on their side.

The condition of this republic is much like that
of a small State in America, where every man is
intent only upon his own advantage, and seeks

40 THE ART OF LITERATURE

reputation and power for himself, quite heedless
of the general weal, which then goes to ruin. So
it is in the republic of letters; it is himself, and
himself alone, that a man puts forward, because
he wants to gain fame. The only thing in which
all agree is in trying to keep down a really eminent
man, if he should chance to show himself, as one
who would be a common peril. From this it is easy
to see how it fares with knowledge as a whole.

Between professors and independent men of
learning there has always been from of old a cer
tain antagonism, which may perhaps be likened to
that existing been dogs and wolves. In virtue of
their position, professors enjoy great facilities for
becoming known to their contemporaries. Con-
trarily, independent men of learning enjoy, by their
position, great facilities for becoming known to
posterity; to which it is necessary that, amongst
other and much rarer gifts, a man should have a
certain leisure and freedom. As mankind takes a
long time in finding out on whom to bestow its at
tention, they may both work together side by side.

He who holds a professorship may be said to
receive his food in the stall ; and this is the best way
with ruminant animals. But he who finds his food
for himself at the hands of Nature is better off in
the open field.

Of human knowledge as a wliole and in every
branch of it, by far the largest part exists nowhere
but on paper, — I mean, in books, that paper
memory of mankind. Only a small part of it is
at any given period really active in the minds of
particular persons. This is due, in the main, to
the brevity and uncertainty of life ; but it also comes
from the fact that men are lazy and bent on
pleasure. Every generation attains, on its hasty

ON MEN OF LEARNING 41

passage through existence, just so much of human
knowledge as it needs, and then soon disappears.
Most men of learning are very superficial. Then
follows a new generation, full of hope, but ig
norant, and with everything to learn from the be
ginning. It seizes, in its turn, just so much as it
can grasp or find useful on its brief journey and
then too goes its way. How badly it would fai^
with human knowledge if it were not for the art
of writing and printing! This it is that makes
libraries the only sure and lasting memory of the
human race, for its individual members have all of
them but a very limited and imperfect one. Hence
most men of learning as are loth to have their
knowledge examined as merchants to lay bare their
books.

Human knowledge extends on all sides farther
than the eye can reach; and of that which would
be generally worth knowing, no one man can pos
sess even the thousandth part.

All branches of learning have thus been so much
enlarged that he who would "do something" has to
pursue no more than one subject and disregard all
others. In his own subject he will then, it is true,
be superior to the vulgar; but in all else he will
belong to it. If we add to this that neglect of the
ancient languages, which is now-a-days on the in
crease and is doing away with all general education
in the humanities — for a mere smattering of Latin
and Greek is of no use — we shall come to have men
of learning who outside their own subject display
an ignorance truly bovine.

An exclusive specialist of this kind stands on a
par with a workman in a factory, whose whole life
is spent in making one particular kind of screw,
or catch, or handle, for some particular instrument

42 THE ART OF LITERATURE

or machine, in which, indeed, he attains incredible
dexterity. The specialist may also be likened to a
man who lives in his own house and never leaves it.
There he is perfectly familiar with everything,
every little step, corner, or board; much as Quasi
modo in Victor Hugo's Notre Dame knows the
cathedral; but outside it, all is strange and un
known.

For true culture in the humanities it is absolutely
necessary that a man should be many-sided and
take large views; and for a man of learning in the
higher sense of the word, an extensive acquaintance
with history is needful. He, however, who wishes
to be a complete philosopher, must gather into his
head the remotest ends of human knowledge: for
where else could they ever come together?

It is precisely minds of the first order that will
never be specialists. For their very nature is to
make the whole of existence their problem ; and this
is a subject upon which they will every one of
them in some form provide mankind with a new
revelation. For he alone can deserve the name of
genius who takes the All, the Essential, the Uni
versal, for the theme of his achievements; not he
who spends his life in explaining some special rela
tion of things one to another.

ON THINKING FOR ONESELF.

A LIBRARY may be very large; but if it is in
disorder, it is not so useful as one that is small
but well arranged. In the same way, a man may
have a great mass of knowledge, but if he has not
worked it up by thinking it over for himself, it has
much less value than a far smaller amount which
he has thoroughly pondered. For it is only when
a man looks at his knowledge from all sides, and
combines the things he knows by comparing truth
with truth, that he obtains a complete hold over it
and gets it into his power. A man cannot turn
over anything in his mind unless he knows it; he
should, therefore, learn something; but it is only
when he has turned it over that he can be said to
know it.

Reading and learning are things that anyone can
do of his own free will; but not so thinking.
Thinking must be kindled, like a fire by a draught ;
it must be sustained by some interest in the matter
in hand. This interest may be of purely objective
kind, or merely subjective. The latter comes into
play only in things that concern us personally. Ob
jective interest is confined to heads that think by
nature; to whom thinking is as natural as breath
ing; and they are very rare. This is why most
men of learning show so little of it.

It is incredible what a different effect is pro
duced upon the mind by thinking for oneself, as
compared with reading. It carries on and intensi
fies that original difference in the nature of two

43

44 THE ART OF LITERATURE

minds which leads the one to think and the other to
read. What I mean is that reading forces alien
thoughts upon the mind — thoughts which are as
foreign to the drift and temper in which it may be
for the moment, as the seal is to the wax on which
it stamps its imprint. The mind is thus entirely
under compulsion from without; it is driven to
think this or that, though for the moment it may
not have the slightest impulse or inclination to do
so.

But when a man thinks for himself, he follows the
impulse of his own mind, which is determined for
him at the time, either by his environment or some
particular recollection. The visible world of a
man's surroundings does not, as reading does, im
press a single definite thought upon his mind, but
merely gives the matter and occasion which lead
him to think what is appropriate to his nature and
present temper. So it is, that much reading de
prives the mind of all elasticity; it is like keeping
a spring continually under pressure. The safest
way of having no thoughts of one's own is to take
up a book every moment one has nothing else to
do. It is this practice which explains why erudi
tion makes most men more stupid and silly than
they are by nature, and prevents their writings
obtaining any measure of success. They remain,
in Pope's words:

For ever reading, never to be read!1

Men of learning are those who have done their
reading in the pages of a book. Thinkers and men
of genius are those who have gone straight to the
book of Nature ; it is they who have enlightened the
world and carried humanity further on its way.

1 Dunciad, iii, 194.

ON THINKING FOR ONESELF 45

If a man's thoughts are to have truth and life in
them, they must, after all, be his own fundamental
thoughts; for these are the only ones that he can
fully and wholly understand. To read another's
thoughts is like taking the leavings of a meal to
which we have not been invited, or putting on the
clothes which some unknown visitor has laid aside.
The thought we read is related to the thought which
springs up in ourselves, as the fossil-impress of
some prehistoric plant to a plant as it buds forth in
spring-time.

Reading is nothing more than a substitute for
thought of one's own. It means putting the mind
into leading-strings. The multitude of books
serves only to show how many false paths there
are, and how widely astray a man may wander if
he follows any of them. But he who is guided by
his genius, he who thinks for himself, who thinks
spontaneously and exactly, possesses the only com
pass by which he can steer aright. A man
should read only when his own thoughts stagnate
at their source, which will happen often enough
even with the best of minds. On the other hand,
to take up a book for the purpose of scaring away
one's own original thoughts is sin against the Holy
Spirit. It is like running away from Nature to
look at a museum of dried plants or gaze at a land
scape in copperplate.

A man may have discovered some portion of
truth or wisdom, after spending a great deal of
time and trouble in thinking it over for himself
and adding thought to thought; and it may some
times happen that he could have found it all ready
to hand in a book and spared himself the trouble.
But even so, it is a hundred times more valuable
if he has acquired it by thinking it out for himself

46 THE ART OF LITERATURE

For it is only when we gain our knowledge in this
way that it enters as an integral part, a living mem
ber, into the whole system of our thought; that it
stands in complete and firm relation with what we
know; that it is understood with all that underlies
it and follows from it; that it wears the color, the
precise shade, the distinguishing mark, of our own
way of thinking; that it comes exactly at the right
time, just as we felt the necessity for it; thac it
stands fast and cannot be forgotten. This is the
perfect application, nay, the interpretation, of
Goethe's advice to earn our inheritance for our
selves so that we may really possess it:

Was due ererbt von deinen Vdtern hast,
Erwirb es, urn es zu besitzen.'1

The man who thinks for himself, forms his own
opinions and learns the authorities for them only
later on, when they serve but to strengthen his
belief in them and in himself. But the book-
philosopher starts from the authorities. He reads
other people's books, collects their opinions, and so
forms a whole for himself, which resembles an au
tomaton made up of anything but flesh and blood.
Contrarily, he who thinks for himself creates a
work like a living man as made by Nature. For
the work comes into being as a man does ; the think
ing mind is impregnated from without, and it then
forms and bears its child.

Truth that has been merely learned is like an
artificial limb, a false tooth, a waxen nose ; at best,
like a nose made out of another's flesh; it adheres
to us only because it is put on. But truth acquired
by thinking of our own is like a natural limb; it
alone really belongs to us. This is the fundamental

1 Faust, I. 329.

ON THINKING FOR ONESELF 47

difference between the thinker and the mere man
of learning. The intellectual attainments of a man
who thinks for himself resemble a fine painting,
where the light and shade are correct, the tone sus
tained, the color perfectly harmonized; it is true
to life. On the other hand, the intellectual attain
ments of the mere man of learning are like a large
palette, full of all sorts of colors, which at most
are systematically arranged, but devoid of har
mony, connection and meaning.

Reading is thinking with some one else's head
instead of one's own. To think with one's own
head is always to aim at developing a coherent
whole — a system, even though it be not a strictly
complete one; and nothing hinders this so much
as too strong a current of others' thoughts, such
as comes of continual reading. These thoughts,
springing every one of them from different minds,
belonging to different systems, and tinged with
different colors, never of themselves flow together
into an intellectual whole; they never form a unity
of knowledge, or insight, or conviction ; but, rather,
fill the head with a Babylonian confusion of
tongues. The mind that is over-loaded with alien
thought is thus deprived of all clear insight, and
is well-nigh disorganized. This is a state of things
observable in many men of learning; and it makes
them inferior in sound sense, correct judgment and
practical tact, to many illiterate persons, who,
after obtaining a little knowledge from without, by
means of experience, intercourse with others, and
a small amount of reading, have always subor
dinated it to, and embodied it with, their own
thought.

The really scientific thinker does the same thing
as these illiterate persons, but on a larger scale.

48 THE ART OF LITERATURE

Although he has need of much knowledge, and so
must read a great deal, his mind is nevertheless
strong enough to master it all, to assimilate and
incorporate it with the system of his thoughts, and
so to make it fit in with the organic unity of his
insight, which, though vast, is always growing.
And in the process, his own thought, like the bass
in an organ, always dominates everything and is
never drowned by other tones, as happens with
minds which are full of mere antiquarian lore;
where shreds of music, as it were, in every key,
mingle confusedly, and no fundamental note is
heard at all.

Those who have spent their lives in reading, and
taken their wisdom from books, are like people who
have obtained precise information about a country
from the descriptions of many travellers. Such
people can tell a great deal about it ; but, after all,
they have no connected, clear, and profound knowl
edge of its real condition. But those who have
spent their lives in thinking, resemble the travellers
themselves; they alone really know what they are
talking about; they are acquainted with the actual
state of affairs, and are quite at home in the subject.

The thinker stands in the same relation to the
ordinary book-philosopher as an eye-witness does
to the historian; he speaks from direct knowledge
of his own. That is why all those who think for
themselves come, at bottom, to much the same con
clusion. The differences they present are due to
their different points of view; and when these do
not affect the matter, they all speak alike. ^ They
merely express the result of their own objective
perception of things. There are many passages in
my works which I have given to the public only
after some hesitation, because of their paradoxical

ON THINKING FOR ONESELF 49

nature ; and afterwards I have experienced a pleas
ant surprise in finding the same opinion recorded in
the works of great men who lived long ago.

The book-philosopher merely reports what one
person has said and another meant, or the objec
tions raised by a third, and so on. He compares
different opinions, ponders, criticises, and tries to
get at the truth of the matter ; herein on a par with
the critical historian. For instance, he will set out
to inquire whether Leibnitz was not for some time
a follower of Spinoza, and questions of a like
nature. The curious student of such matters may
find conspicuous examples of what I mean in
Herbart's Analytical Elucidation of Morality and
Natural Right, and in the same author's Letters
on Freedom. Surprise may be felt that a man of
the kind should put himself to so much trouble;
for, on the face of it, if he would only examine the
matter for himself, he would speedily attain his
object by the exercise of a little thought. But
there is a small difficulty in the way. It does not
depend upon his own will. A man can always
sit down and read, but not — think. It is with
thoughts as with men; they cannot always be sum
moned at pleasure ; we must wait for them to come.
Thought about a subject must appear of itself,
by a happy and harmonious combination of external
stimulus with mental temper and attention; and
it is just that which never seems to come to these
people.

This truth may be illustrated by what happens
in the case of matters affecting our own personal
interest. When it is necessary to come to some
resolution in a matter of that kind, we cannot wei]
sit down at any given moment and think over the
merits of the case and make up our mind; for, if

50 THE ART OF LITERATURE

we try to do so, we often find ourselves unable, at
that particular moment, to keep our mind fixed
upon the subject; it wanders off to other things.
Aversion to the matter in question is sometimes to
blame for this. In such a case we should not use
force, but wait for the proper frame of mind to
come of itself. It often comes unexpectedly and
returns again and again ; and the variety of temper
in which we approach it at different moments puts
the matter always in a fresh light. It is this long
process which is understood by the term a ripe
resolution. For the work of coming to a resolution
must be distributed; and in the process much that
is overlooked at one moment occurs to us at an
other; and the repugnance vanishes when we find,
as we usually do, on a closer inspection, that things
are not so bad as they seemed.

This rule applies to the life of the intellect as
well as to matters of practice. A man must wait
for the right moment. Not even the greatest mind
is capable of thinking for itself at all times. Hence
a great mind does well to spend its leisure in read
ing, which, as I have said, is a substitute for
thought; it brings stuff to the mind by letting
another person do the thinking; although that is
always done in a manner not our own. Therefore,
a man should not read too much, in order that
his mind may not become accustomed, to the sub
stitute and thereby forget the reality; that it may
not form the habit of walking in well-worn paths;
nor by following an alien course of thought grow
a stranger to its own. Least of all should a man
quite withdraw his gaze from the real world for
the mere sake of reading; as the impulse and the
temper which prompt to thought of one's own come
far of tener from the world of reality than from the

ON THINKING FOR ONESELF 51

world of books. The real life that a man sees be
fore him is the natural subject of thought; and in its
strength as the primary element of existence, it
can more easily than anything else rouse and in
fluence the thinking mind.

After these considerations, it will not be matter
for surprise that a man who thinks for himself
can easily be distinguished from the book-philoso
pher by the very way in which he talks, by his
marked earnestness, and the originality, directness,
and personal conviction that stamp all his thoughts
and expressions. The book-philosopher, on the
other hand, lets it be seen that everything he has
is second-hand; that his ideas are like the number
and trash of an old furniture-shop, collected to
gether from all quarters. Mentally, he is dull and
pointless — a copy of a copy. His literary style
is made up of conventional, nay, vulgar phrases,
and terms that happen to be current; in this re
spect much like a small State where all the money
that circulates is foreign, because it has no coinage
of its own.

Mere experience can as little as reading supply
the place of thought. It stands to thinking in the
same relation in which eating stands to digestion
and assimilation. When experience boasts that to
its discoveries alone is due the advancement of the
human race, it is as though the mouth were to
claim the whole credit of maintaining the body in
health.

The works of all truly capable minds are dis
tinguished by a character of decision and definite-
ness, which means they are clear and free from ob
scurity. A truly capable mind always knows
definitely and clearly what is is that it wants to
express, whether its medium is prose, verse, or

52 THE ART OF LITERATURE

omsic. Other minds are not decisive and not
definite; and by this they may be known for what
they are.

The characteristic sign of a mind of the highest
order is that it always judges at first hand. Every
thing it advances is the result of thinking for itself;
and this is everywhere evident by the way in which
it gives its thoughts utterance. Such a mind is
like a Prince. In the realm of intellect its author
ity is imperial, whereas the authority of minds of
a lower order is delegated only; as may be seen
in their style, which has no independent stamp of
its own.

Every one who really thinks »f or himself is so far
like a monarch. His position is undelegated and
supreme. His judgments, like royal decrees,
spring from his own sovereign power and proceed
directly from himself. He acknowledges authority
as little as a monarch admits a command; he sub
scribes to nothing but what he has himself author
ized, The multitude of common minds, laboring
under all sorts of current opinions, authorities,
prejudices, is like the people, which silently obeys
the law and accepts orders from above.

Those who are so zealous and eager to settle
debated questions by citing authorities, are really
glad when they are able to put the understanding
and the insight of others into the field in place of
their own, which are wanting. Their number i?
legion. For, as Seneca says, there is no man but
prefers belief to the exercise of judgment — unus*
quisque mavult credere quam judicare. In their
controversies such people make a promiscuous use
of the weapon of authority, and strike out at one
another with it. If any one chances to become in
volved in such a contest, he will do well not to try

ON THINKING FOR ONESELF 53

reason and argument as a mode of defence; for
against a weapon of that kind these people are
like Siegfrieds, with a skin of horn, and dipped in
the flood of incapacity for thinking and judging.
They will meet his attack by bringing up their
authorities as a way of abashing him — argumentum
ad verecundiam, and then cry out that they have
won the battle.

In the real world, be it never so fair, favorable
and pleasant, we always live subject to the law of
gravity which we have to be constantly overcom
ing. But in the world of intellect we are disem
bodied spirits, held in bondage to no such law, and
free from penury and distress. Thus it is that there
exists no happiness on earth like that which, at the
auspicious moment, a fine and fruitful mind finds
in itself.

The presence of a thought is like the presence
of a woman we love. We fancy we shall never
forget the thought nor become indifferent to the
dear one. But out of sight, out of mind! The
finest thought runs the risk of being irrevocably
forgotten if we do not write it down, and the
darling of being deserted if we do not marry her.

There are plenty of thoughts which are valuable
to the man who thinks them; but only few of
them which have enough strength to produce re-
percussive or reflect action — I mean, to win the
reader's sympathy after they have been put on
paper.

But still it must not be forgotten that a true
value attaches only to what a man has thought in
the first instance for his own case. Thinkers may
be classed according as they think chiefly for their
own case or for that of others. The former are the
genuine independent thinkers; they really think

54 THE ART OF LITERATURE

and are really independent; they are the true
philosophers; they alone are in earnest. The
pleasure and the happiness of their existence con
sists in thinking. The others are the sophists; they
want to seem that which they are not, and seek
their happiness in what they hope to get from the
world. They are in earnest about nothing else.
To which of these two classes a man belongs may
be seen by his whole style and manner. Lichten-
berg is an example for the former class; Herder,
there can be no doubt, belongs to the second.

When one considers how vast and how close to
us is the problem of existence — this equivocal, tor
tured, fleeting, dream-like existence of ours — so
vast and so close that a man no sooner discovers
it than it overshadows and obscures all other prob
lems and aims; and when one sees how all men,
with few and rare exceptions, have no clear con
sciousness of the problem, nay, seem to be quite
unaware of its presence, but busy themselves with
everything rather than with this, and live on, tak
ing no thought but for the passing day and the
hardly longer span of their own personal future,
either expressly discarding the problem or else
over-ready to come to terms with it by adopting
some system of popular metaphysics and letting
it satisfy them; when, I say, one takes all this to
heart, one may come to the opinion that man may
be said to be a thinking being only in a very remote
sense, and henceforth feel no special surprise at
any trait of human thoughtlessness or folly; but
know, rather, that the normal man's intellectual
range of vision does indeed extend beyond that of
the brute, whose whole existence is, as it were, a
continual present, with no consciousness of the past

ON THINKING FOR ONESELF 55

or the future, but not such an immeasurable dis
tance as is generally supposed.

This is, in fact, corroborated by the way in which
most men converse ; where their thoughts are found
to be chopped up fine, like chaff, so that for them
to spin out a discourse of any length is impossible.

If this world were peopled by really thinking
beings, it could not be that noise of every kind
would be allowed such generous limits, as is the
case with the most horrible and at the same time
aimless form of it.1 If Nature had meant man to
think, she would not have given him ears; or, at
any rate, she would have furnished them with air
tight flaps, such as are the enviable possession of
the bat. But, in truth, man is a poor animal like
the rest, and his powers are meant only to main
tain him in the struggle for existence; so he must
need keep his ears always open, to announce of
themselves, by night as by day, the approach of
the pursuer.

1 Translator's Note. — Schopenhauer refers to the cracking of
whips. See the Essay On Noise in Studies in Pessimism.

OX SOME FORMS OF LITERATURE.

IN the DRAMA, which is the most perfect reflec
tion of human existence, there are three stages in
the presentation of the subject, with a correspond
ing variety in the design and scope of the piece.

At the first, which is also the most common,
stage, the drama is never anything more than
merely interesting. The persons gain our attention
by following their own aims, which resemble ours;
the action advances by means of intrigue and the
play of character and incident; while wit and rail
lery season the whole.

At the second stage, the drama becomes senti
mental. Sympathy is roused with the hero and,
indirectly, with ourselves. The action takes a
pathetic turn; but the end is peaceful and satis
factory.

The climax is reached with the third stage, which
is the most difficult. There the drama aims at
being tragic. We are brought face to face with
great suffering and the storm and stress of exist
ence; and the outcome of it is to show the vanity
of all human effort. Deeply moved, we are either
directly prompted to disengage our will from the
struggle of life, or else a chord is struck in us which
echoes a similar feeling.

The beginning, it is said, is always difficult. In
the drama it is just the contrary; for these the
difficulty always lies in the end. This is proved
by countless plays which promise very well for the
first act or two, and then become muddled, stick or
falter — notoriously so in the fourth act — and finally
conclude in a way that is either forced or unsat-

56

ON SOME FORMS OF LITERATURE 57

isfactory or else long foreseen by every one. Some
times, too, the end is positively revolting, as in
Lessing's Emilia Galotti, which sends the spectators
home in a temper.

This difficulty in regard to the end of a play
arises partly because it is everywhere easier to get
things into a tangle than to get them out again;
partly also because at the beginning we give the
author carte blanche to do as he likes, but, at the
end, make certain definite demands upon him.
Thus we ask for a conclusion that shall be either
quite happy or else quite tragic; whereas human
affairs do not easily take so decided a turn; and
then we expect that it shall be natural, fit and
proper, unlabored, and at the same time foreseen
by no one.

These remarks are also applicable to an epic and
to a novel; but the more compact nature of the
drama makes the difficulty plainer by increasing it.

E nihilo nihil fit. That nothing can come from
nothing is a maxim true in fine art as elsewhere.
In composing an historical picture, a good artist
will use living men as a model, and take the ground
work of the faces from life; and then proceed to
idealize them in point of beauty or expression. A
similar method, I fancy, is adopted by good novel
ists. In drawing a character they take a general
outline of it from some real person of their ac
quaintance, and then idealize and complete it to
suit their purpose.

A NOVEL will be of a high and noble order, the
more it represents of inner, and the less it repre
sents of outer, life; and the ratio between the two
will supply a means of judging any novel, of what
ever kind, from Tristram Shandy down to the crud
est and most sensational tale of knight or robber.
Tristram Shandy has, indeed, as good as no action

58 THE ART OF LITERATURE

at all; and there is not much in La Nouvelle
Heloise and Wilhelm Meister. Even Don Quixote
has relatively little; and what there is, very unim
portant, and introduced merely for the sake of
fun. And these four are the best of all existing
novels.

Consider, further, the wonderful romances of
Jean Paul, and how much inner life is shown on
the narrowest basis of actual event. Even in
Walter Scott's novels there is a great preponder
ance of inner over outer life, and incident is never
brought in except for the purpose of giving play
to thought and emotion; whereas, in bad novels,
incident is there on its own account. Skill consists
in setting the inner life in motion with the smallest
possible array of circumstance; for it is this inner
life that really excites our interest.

The business of the novelist is not to relate great
events, but to make small ones interesting.

HISTORY, which I like to think of as the contrary
of poetry (la-ropov^vov — TreTroL^vov) , is for time what
geography is for space; and it is no more to be
called a science, in any strict sense of the word,
than is geography, because it does not deal with
universal truths, but only with particular details.
History has always been the favorite study of those
who wish to learn something, without having to
•face the effort demanded by any branch of real
knowledge, which taxes the intelligence. In our
time history is a favorite pursuit; as witness the
numerous books upon the subject which appear
every year.

If the reader cannot help thinking, with me, that
history is merely the constant recurrence of similar
things, just as in a kaleidoscope the same bits of
glass are represented, but in different combinations,
he will not be able to share all this lively interest;

ON SOME FORMS OF LITERATURE 59

nor, however, will he censure it. But there is a
ridiculous and absurd claim, made by many people,
to regard history as a part of philosophy, nay, as
philosophy itself ; they imagine that history can take
its place.

The preference shown for history by the greater
public in all ages may be illustrated by the kind
of conversation which is so much in vogue every
where in society. It generally consists in one per
son relating something and then another person
relating something else; so that in this way every
one is sure of receiving attention. Both here and
in the case of history it is plain that the mind is
occupied with particular details. But as in science,
so also in every worthy conversation, the mind rises
to the consideration of some general truth.

This objection does not, however, deprive history
of its value. Human life is short and fleeting,
and many millions of individuals share in it, who
are swallowed by that monster of oblivion which
is waiting for them with ever-open jaws. It is thus
a very thankworthy task to try to rescue something
• — the memory of interesting and important events,
or the leading features and personages of some
epoch — from the general shipwreck of the world.

From another point of view, we might look upon
history as the sequel to zoology; for while with all
other animals it is enough to observe the species,
with man individuals, and therefore individual
events have to be studied; because every man pos
sesses a character as an individual. And since in
dividuals and events are without number or end,
an essential imperfection attaches to history. In
the study of it, all that a man learns never con
tributes to lessen that which he has still to learn.
With any real science, a perfection of knowledge
is, at any rate, conceivable.

60 THE ART OF LITERATURE

When we gain access to the histories of China
and of India, the endlessness of the subject-matter
will reveal to us the defects in the study, and force
our historians to see that the object of science is
to recognize the many in the one, to perceive the
rules in any given example, and to apply to the life
of nations a knowledge of mankind; not to go on
counting up facts ad infinitum.

There are two kinds of history; the history of
politics and the history of literature and art. The
one is the history of the will; the other, that of the
intellect. The first is a tale of woe, even of terror:
it is a record of agony, struggle, fraud, and horrible
murder en masse. The second is everywhere pleas
ing and serene, like the intellect when left to itself.
even though its path be one of error. Its chief
branch is the history of philosophy. This is, in fact,
its fundamental bass, and the notes of it are heard
even in the other kind of history. These deep tones
guide the formation of opinion, and opinion rules
the world. Hence philosophy, rightly understood,
is a material force of the most powerful kind,
though very slow in its working. The philosophy
of a period is thus the fundamental bass of its
history.

The NEWSPAPER is the second-hand in the clock
of history; and it is not only made of baser metal
than those which point to the minute and the hour,
but it seldom goes right.

The so-called leading article is the chorus to the
drama of passing events.

Exaggeration of every kind is as essential to
journalism as it is to the dramatic art; for the
object of journalism is to make events go as far
as possible. Thus it is that all journalists are, in
the very nature of their calling, alarmists ; and this
is their way of giving interest to what they write,

ON SOME FORMS OF LITERATURE 61

Herein they are like little dogs; if anything stirs,
they immediately set up a shrill bark.

Therefore, let us carefully regulate the attention
to be paid to this trumpet of danger, so that it may
not disturb our digestion. Let us recognize that
a newspaper is at best but a magnifying-glass, and
very often merely a shadow on the wall.

The pen is to thought what the stick is to walk
ing; but you walk most easily when you have no
stick, and you think with the greatest perfection
when you have no pen in your hand. It is only
when a man begins to be old that he likes to use a
stick and is glad to take up his pen.

When an hypothesis has once come to birth in
the mind, or gained a footing there, it leads a life
so far comparable with the life of an organism, as
that it assimilates matter from the outer world only
when it is like in kind with it and beneficial; and
when, contrarily, such matter is not like in kind
but hurtful, the hypothesis, equally with the or
ganism, throws it off, or, if forced to take it, gets
rid of it again entire.

To gain immortality an author must possess so
many excellences that while it will not be easy to
find anyone to understand and appreciate them
all, there will be men in every age who are able
to recognize and value some of them. In this way
the credit of his book will be maintained through
out the long course of centuries, in spite of the
fact that human interests are always changing.

An author like this, who has a claim to the con
tinuance of his life even with posterity, can only
be a man who, over the wide earth, will seek his
like in vain, and offer a palpable contrast writh
everyone else in virtue of his unmistakable distinc
tion. TsTay, more : were he, like the wandering Jew,
to live through several generations, he would still

62 THE ART OF LITERATURE

remain in the same superior position. If this were
not so, it would be difficult to see why his thoughts
should not perish like those of other men.

Metaphors and similes are of great value, in so
far as they explain an unknown relation by a
known one. Even the more detailed simile which
grows into a parable or an allegory, is nothing more
than the exhibition of some relation in its simplest,
most visible and palpable form. The growth of
ideas rests, at bottom, upon similes; because ideas
arise by a process of combining the similarities and
neglecting the differences between things. Further,
intelligence, in the strict sense of the word, ulti
mately consists in a seizing of relations; and a
clear and pure grasp of relations is all the more
often attained when the comparison is made be
tween cases that lie wide apart from one another,
and between things of quite different nature. As
long as a relation is known to me as existing only
in a single case, I have but an individual idea of
it — in other words, only an intuitive knowledge of
it; but as soon as I see the same relation in two
different cases, I have a general idea of its whole
nature, and this is a deeper and more perfect
knowledge.

Since, then, similes and metaphors are such a
powerful engine of knowledge, it is a sign of great
intelligence in a writer if his similes are unusual
and, at the same time, to the point. Aristotle also
observes that by far the most important thing to
a writer is to have this power of metaphor; for it
is a gift which cannot be acquired, and it is a mark
of genius.

As regards reading, to require that a man shall
retain everything he has ever read, is like asking
him to carry about with him all he has ever eaten.
The one kind of food has given him bodily, and

ON SOME FORMS OF LITERATURE 63

the other mental, nourishment; and it is through
these two means that he has grown to be what he
is. The body assimilates only that which is like it;
and so a man retains in his mind only that which
interests him, in other words, that which suits his
system of thought or his purposes in life.

If a man wants to read good books, he must
make a point of avoiding bad ones ; for life is short,
and time and energy limited.

Bepetitio est mater studiorum. Any book that
is at all important ought to be at once read through
twice ; partly because, on a second reading, the con
nection of the different portions of the book will
be better understood, and the beginning compre
hended only when the end is known; and partly be
cause we are not in the same temper and disposi
tion on both readings. On the second perusal we
get a new view of every passage and a different
impression of the whole book, which then appears
in another light.

A man's works are the quintessence of his mind,
and even though he may possess very great ca
pacity, they will always be incomparably more
valuable than his conversation. Nay, in all essen
tial matters his works will not only make up for
the lack of personal intercourse with him, but they
will far surpass it in solid advantages. The writ
ings even of a man of moderate genius may be
edifying, worth reading and instructive, because
they are his quintessence — the result and fruit of
all his thought and study; whilst conversation with
him may be unsatisfactory.

So it is that we can read books by men in whose
company we find nothing to please, and that a high
degree of culture leads us to seek entertainment
almost wholly from books and not from men.

ON CRITICISM.

THE following brief remarks on the critical
faculty are chiefly intended to show that, for the
most part, there is no such thing. It is a rara avis;
almost as rare, indeed, as the phoenix, which ap
pears only once in five hundred years.

When we speak of taste — an expression not
chosen with any regard for it — we mean the dis
covery, or, it may be only the recognition, of what
is right cesthetically , apart from the guidance of
any rule; and this, either because no rule has as
yet been extended to the matter in question, or
else because, if existing, it is unknown to the artist,
or the critic, as the case may be. Instead of taste,
we might use the expression cesthetic sense, if this
were not tautological.

The perceptive critical taste is, so to speak, the
female analogue to the male quality of productive
talent or genius. Not capable of begetting great
work itself, it consists in a capacity of reception,
that is to say, of recognizing as such what is right,
fit, beautiful, or the reverse; in other words, of
discriminating the good from the bad, of discover
ing and appreciating the one and condemning the
other.

In appreciating a genius, criticism should not
deal with the errors in his productions or with the
poorer of his works, and then proceed to rate him
low; it should attend only to the qualities in which
he most excels. For in the sphere of intellect, as

64

ON CRITICISM 65

in other spheres, weakness and perversity cleave so
firmly to human nature that even the most bril
liant mind is not wholly and at all times free from
them. Hence the great errors to be found even in
the works of the greatest men; or as Horace puts
it, quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus.

That which distinguishes genius, and should be
the standard for judging it, is the height to which
it is able to soar when it is in the proper mood
and finds a fitting occasion — a height always out
of the reach of ordinary talent. And, in like man
ner, it is a very dangerous thing to compare two
great men of the same class ; for instance, two great
poets, or musicians, or philosophers, or artists; be
cause injustice to the one or the other, at least for
the moment, can hardly be avoided. For in making
a comparison of the kind the critic looks to some
particular merit of the one and at once discovers
that it is absent in the other, who is thereby dis
paraged. And then if the process is reversed, and
the critic begins with the latter and discovers his
peculiar merit, which is quite of a different order
from that presented by the former, with whom it
may be looked for in vain, the result is that both of
them suffer undue depreciation.

There are critics who severally think that it rests
with each one of them what shall be accounted good,
and what bad. They all mistake their own toy-
trumpets for the trombones of fame.

A drug does not effect its purpose if the dose
is too large; and it is the same with censure and
adverse criticism when it exceeds the measure of
justice.

The disastrous thing for intellectual merit is that
it must wait for those to praise the good who have
themselves produced nothing but what is bad ; nay,

66 THE ART OF LITERATURE

it is a primary misfortune that it has to receive its
crown at the hands of the critical power of man
kind — a quality of which most men possess only the
weak and impotent semblance, so that the reality
may be numbered amongst the rarest gifts of
nature. Hence La Bruyere's remark is, unhap
pily, as true as it is neat. Apres I* esprit de dis-
cernement, he says, ce qu'il y a au monde de plus
rare, ce sont les diamans et les perles. The spirit
of discernment! the critical faculty! it is these that
are lacking. Men do not know how to distinguish
the genuine from the false, the corn from the chaff,
gold from copper; or to perceive the wide gulf
that separates a genius from an ordinary man.
Thus we have that bad state of things described
in an old-fashioned verse, which gives it as the lot
of the great ones here on earth to be recognized only
when they are gone:

Es ist nun das Geschick der Grossen Tiier auf Erden,

Erst wann sie nicht mehr sind, von uns erkannt zu werden.

When any genuine and excellent work makes its
appearance, the chief difficulty in its way is the
amount of bad work it finds already in possession
of the field, and accepted as though it were good.
And then if, after a long time, the new comer really
succeeds, by a hard struggle, in vindicating his
place for himself and winning reputation, he will
soon encounter fresh difficulty from some affected,
dull, awkward imitator, whom people drag in, with
the object of calmly setting him up on the altar
beside the genius; not seeing the difference and
reallv thinking that here they have to do with
another great man. This is what Yriarte means
by the first lines of his twenty-eighth Fable, where

ON CRITICISM 67

he declares that the ignorant rabble always sets
equal value on the good and the bad:

Siempre acostumbra hacer el vulgo necio
De lo bueno y lo malo igual aprecio.

So even Shakespeare's dramas had, immediately
after his death, to give place to those of Ben Jon-
son, Massinger, Beaumont and Fletcher, and to
yield the supremacy for a hundred years. So
Kant's serious philosophy was crowded out by the
nonsense of Fichte, Schelling, Jacobi, Hegel. And
even in a sphere accessible to all, we have seen un
worthy imitators quickly diverting public attention
from the incomparable Walter Scott. For, say
what you will, the public has no sense for excellence,
and therefore no notion how very rare it is to find
men really capable of doing anything great in
poetry, philosophy, or art, or that their works are
alone worthy of exclusive attention. The dabblers,
whether in verse or in any other high sphere, should
be every day unsparingly reminded that neither
gods, nor men, nor booksellers have pardoned their
mediocrity :

mediocribus esse poetis
Non homines, non Di} non concessere columnce.1

Are they not the weeds that prevent the corn com
ing up, so that they may cover all the ground
themselves? And then there happens that which
has been well and freshly described by the lamented
Feuchtersleben,3 who died so young: how people

1 Horace, Ars Poetica, 372.

2 Translator's Note. — Ernst Freiherr von Feuchtersleben
(1806-49), an Austrian physician, philosopher, and poet, and a
specialist in medical psychology. The best known of his songs
is that beginning "Es ist bestimmt in Gottes Rath/' to which
Mendelssohn composed one of his finest melodies.

68 THE ART OF LITERATURE

cry out in their haste that nothing is being done,
while all the while great work is quietly growing
to maturity; and then, when it appears, it is not
seen or heard in the clamor, but goes its way
silently, in modest grief:

"1st dock/' — rufen sie vermessen —
"Nichts im Werke, nichts gethan!'f

Und das Grosse, reift indessen

Still her an.

Es ersheint nun: niemand sieht es,
Niemand hort es fm Geschrei
Mit bescheid'ner Trauer zieht es
Still vorbei.

This lamentable death of the critical faculty is
not less obvious in the case of science, as is shown
by the tenacious life of false and disproved theories.
If they are once accepted, they may go on bidding
defiance to truth for fifty or even a hundred years
and more, as stable as an iron pier in the midst of
the waves. The Ptolemaic system was still held
a century after Copernicus had promulgated his
theory. Bacon, Descartes and Locke made their
way extremely slowly and only after a long time;
as the reader may see by d'Alembert's celebrated
Preface to the Encyclopedia. Newton was riot
more successful; and this is sufficiently proved by
the bitterness and contempt with which Leibnitz
attacked his theory of gravitation in the controversy
with Clarke.1 Although Newton lived for almost
forty years after the appearance of the Principia,
his teaching was, when he died, only to some extent
accepted in his own country, whilst outside Eng
land he counted scarcely twenty adherents; if we
may believe the introductory note to Voltaire's ex-

1 See especially §§ 35, 113, 118, 120, 122, 12a

ON CRITICISM 69

position of his theory. It was, indeed, chiefly ow
ing to this treatise of Voltaire's that the system
became known in France nearly twenty years after
Newton's death. Until then a firm, resolute, and
patriotic stand was made by the Cartesian Vortices;
whilst only forty years previously, this same Carte
sian philosophy had been forbidden in the French
schools ; and now in turn d'Agnesseau, the Chancel
lor, refused Voltaire the Imprimatur for his
treatise on the Newtonian doctrine. On the other
hand, in our day Newton's absurd theory of color
still completely holds the field, forty years after
the publication of Goethe's. Hume, too, was dis
regarded up to his fiftieth year, though he began
very early and wrote in a thoroughly popular
style. And Kant, in spite of having written and
talked all his life long, did not become a famous
man until he was sixty.

Artists and poets have, to be sure, more chance
than thinkers, because their public is at least a
hundred times as large. Still, what was thought
of Beethoven and Mozart during their lives? what
of Dante? what even of Shakespeare? If the lat-
ter's contemporaries had in any way recognized
his worth, at least one good and accredited portrait
of him would have come down to us from ar age
when the art of painting flourished ; whereas we pos
sess only some very doubtful pictures, a bad cop
perplate, and a still worse bust on his tomb.1 And
in like manner, if he had been duly honored, speci
mens of his handwriting would have been pre
served to us by the hundred, instead of being
confined, as is the case, to the signatures to a few

1 A. Wivell : An Inquiry into the History, Authenticity, and
Characteristics of Shakespeare's Portraits; with 21 engravings.
London, 1836.

70 THE ART OF LITERATURE

legal documents. The Portuguese are still proud
of their only poet Camoens. He lived, however,
on alms collected every evening in the street by a
black slave whom he had brought with him from
the Indies. In time, no doubt, justice will be done
everyone; tempo e galanf uomo; but it is as late
and slow in arriving as in a court of law, and the
secret condition of it is that the recipient shall be
no longer alive. The precept of Jesus the son of
Sirach is faithfully followed: Judge none blessed
before his death* He, then, who has produced
immortal works, must find comfort by applying to
them the words of the Indian myth, that the
minutes of life amongst the immortals seem like
years of earthly existence; and so, too, that years
upon earth are only as the minutes of the iiAi
mortals.

This lack of critical insight is also shown by tv <
fact that, while in every century the excellent woiK
of earlier time is held in honor, that of its own is
misunderstood, and the attention which is its due
is given to bad work, such as every decade carries
with it only to be the sport of the next. That men
are slow to recognize genuine merit when it appears
in their own age, also proves that they do not
understand or enjoy or really value the long-ac
knowledged works of genius, which they honor only
on the score of authority. The crucial test is the
fact that bad work — Fichte's philosophy, for ex
ample — if it wins any reputation, also maintains it
for one or two generations ; and only when its public
is very large does its fall follow sooner.

Now, just as the sun cannot shed its light but to
the eye that sees it, nor music sound but to the

1 Ecclesiasticus, xi. 28.

ON CRITICISM 71

hearing ear, so the value of all masterly work in
art and science is conditioned by the kinship and
capacity of the mind to which it speaks. It is only
such a mind as this that possesses the magic word
to stir and call forth the spirits that lie hidden in
great work. To the ordinary mind a masterpiece
is a sealed cabinet of mystery, — an unfamiliar
musical instrument from which the player, however
much he may flatter himself, can draw none but
confused tones. How different a painting looks
when seen in a good light, as compared with some
dark corner ! Just in the same way, the impression
made by a masterpiece varies with the capacity of
the mind to understand it.

A fine work, then, requires a mind sensitive to
!J: beauty; a thoughtful work, a mind that can
TvVly think, if it is to exist and live at all. But

,s! it may happen only too often that he who
g. v es a fine work to the world afterwards feels like
a maker of fireworks, who displays with enthusiasm
the wonders that have taken him so much time and
trouble to prepare, and then learns that he has
come to the wrong place, and that the fancied
spectators were one and all inmates of an asylum
for the blind. Still even that is better than if his
public had consisted entirely of men who made fire
works themselves; as in this case, if his display
had been extraordinarily good, it might possibly
have cost him his head.

The source of all pleasure and delight is the
feeling of kinship. Even with the sense of beauty
it is unquestionably our own species in the animal
world, and then again our own race, that appears
to us the fairest. So. too, in intercourse with others,
every man shows a decided preference for those
who resemble him: and a blockhead will find the

72 THE ART OF LITERATURE

society of another blockhead incomparably more
pleasant than that of any number of great minds
put together. Every man must necessarily take
his chief pleasure in his own work, because it is
the mirror of his own mind, the echo of his own
thought; and next in order will come the work
of people like him; that is to say, a dull, shallow
and perverse man, a dealer in mere words, will give
his sincere and hearty applause only to that which
is dull, shallow, perverse or merely verbose. On
the other hand, he will allow merit to the work of
great minds only on the score of authority, in other
words, because he is ashamed to speak his opinion;
for in reality they give him no pleasure at all.
They do not appeal to him; nay, they repel him;
and he will not confess this even to himself. The
works of genius cannot be fully enjoyed except
by those who are themselves of the privileged
order. The first recognition of them, however,
when they exist without authority to support them,
demands considerable superiority of mind.

When the reader takes all this into considera
tion, he should be surprised, not that great work
is so late in winning reputation, but that it wins it
at all. And as a matter of fact, fame comes only
by a slow and complex process. The stupid person
is by degrees forced, and as it were, tamed, into
recognizing the superiority of one who stands im
mediately above him; this one in his turn bows
before some one else; and so it goes on until the
weight of the votes gradually prevail over their
number; and this is just the condition of all
genuine, in other words, deserved fame. But until
then, the greatest genius, even after he has passed
his time of trial, stands like a king amidst a crowd
of his own subjects, who do not know him by sight

ON CRITICISM 73

and therefore will not do his behests; unless, in
deed, his chief ministers of state are in his train.
For no subordinate official can be the direct re
cipient of the royal commands, as he knows only
the signature of his immediate superior; and this
is repeated all the way up into the highest ranks,
where the under-secretary attests the minister's
signature, and the minister that of the king. There
are analogous stages to be passed before a genius
can attain widespread fame. This is why his repu
tation most easily comes to a standstill at the very
outset; because the highest authorities, of whom
there can be but few, are most frequently not to be
found; but the further down he goes in the scale
the more numerous are those who take the word
from above, so that his fame is no more arrested.

We must console ourselves for this state of things
by reflecting that it is really fortunate that the
greater number of men do not form a judgment on
their own responsibility, but merely take it on
authority. For what sort of criticism should we
have on Plato and Kant, Homer, Shakespeare and
Goethe, if every man were to form his opinion by
ivhat he really has and enjoys of these writers, in
stead of being forced by authority to speak of
them in a fit and proper way, however little he
may really feel what he says. Unless something
of this kind took place, it would be impossible for
true merit, in any high sphere, to attain fame at
all. At the same time it is also fortunate that
every man has just so much critical power of his
own as is necessary for recognizing the superiority
of those who are placed immediately over him, and
for following their lead. This means that the many
come in the end to submit to the authority of the
few; and there results that hierarchy of critical

74 THE ART OF LITERATURE

judgments on which is based the possibility of a
steady, and eventually wide-reaching, fame.

The lowest class in the community is quite im
pervious to the merits of a great genius; and for
these people there is nothing left but the monument
raised to him, which, by the impression it produces
on their senses, awakes in them a dim idea of the
man's greatness.

Literary journals should be a dam against the
unconscionable scribbling of the age, and the ever-
increasing deluge of bad and useless books. Their
judgments should be uncorrupted, just and rigor
ous; and every piece of bad work done by an in
capable person; every device by which the empty
head tries to come to the assistance of the empty
purse, that is to say, about nine-tenths of all ex
isting books, should be mercilessly scourged. Lit
erary journals would then perform their duty,
which is to keep down the craving for writing and
put a check upon the deception of the public, in
stead of furthering these evils by a miserable tolera
tion, which plays into the hands of author and
publisher, and robs the reader of his time and his
money.

If there were such a paper as I mean, every bad
writer, every brainless compiler, every plagiarist
from other's books, every hollow and incapable
place-hunter, every sham-philosopher, every vain
and languishing poetaster, would shudder at the
prospect of the pillory in which his bad work would
inevitably have to stand soon after publication.
This would paralyze his twitching fingers, to the
true welfare of literature, in which what is bad is
not only useless but positively pernicious. Now,
most books are bad and ought to have remained
unwritten. Consequently praise should be as rare

ON CRITICISM 75

as is now the case with blame, which is withheld
under the influence of personal considerations,
coupled with the maxim accedas socius, laudes
lauderis ut dbsens.

It is quite wrong to try to introduce into litera
ture the same toleration as must necessarily pre
vail in society towards those stupid, brainless
people who everywhere swarm in it. In literature
such people are impudent intruders; and to dis
parage the bad is here duty towards the good; for
he who thinks nothing bad will think nothing good
either. Politeness, which has its source in social
relations, is in literature an alien, and often in
jurious, element; because it exacts that bad work
shall be called good. In this way the very aim of
science and art is directly frustrated.

The ideal journal could, to be sure, be written
only by people who joined incorruptible honesty
with rare knowledge and still rarer power of judg
ment ; so that perhaps there could, at the very most,
be one, and even hardly one, in the whole country;
but there it would stand, like a just Aeropagus,
every member of which would have to be elected
by all the others. Under the system that prevails
at present, literary journals are carried on by a
clique, and secretly perhaps also by booksellers for
the good of the trade; and they are often nothing
but coalitions of bad heads to prevent the good
ones succeeding. As Goethe once remarked to me,
nowhere is there so much dishonesty as in literature,

But, above all, anonymity, that shield of all
literary rascality, would have to disappear. It was
introduced under the pretext of protecting the
honest critic, who warned the public, against the
resentment of the author and his friends. But
where there is one case of this sort, there will be a

76 THE ART OF LITERATURE

hundred where it merely serves to take all responsi
bility from the man who cannot stand by what he
has said, or possibly to conceal the shame of one
who has been cowardly and base enough to recom
mend a book to the public for the purpose of
putting money into his own pocket. Often enough
it is only a cloak for covering the obscurity, in
competence and insignificance of the critic. It is
incredible what impudence these fellows will show,
and what literary trickery they will venture to com
mit, as soon as they know they are safe under the
shadow of anonymity. Let me recommend a
general Anti- criticism, a universal medicine or
panacea, to put a stop to all anonymous reviewing,
whether it praises the bad or blames the good:
Rascal! your name! For a man to wrap himself
up and draw his hat over his face, and then fall
upon people who are walking about without any
disguise — this is not the part of a gentleman, it is
the part of a scoundrel and a knave.

An anonymous review has no more authority
than an anonymous letter; and one should be re
ceived with the same mistrust as the other. Or
shall we take the name of the man who consents
to preside over what is, in the strict sense of the
word, une societe anonyme as a guarantee for the
veracity of his colleagues ?

Even Rousseau, in the preface to the Nouvelle
Helo'ise, declares tout honnete homme doit avouer
les livres qu'il public; which in plain language
means that every honorable man ought to sign his
articles, and that no one is honorable who does not
do so. How much truer this is of polemical writ
ing, which is the general character of reviews!
Riemer was quite right in the opinion he gives in

ON CRITICISM 77

his Reminiscences of Goethe:1 An overt enemy, he
says, an enemy who meets you face to face, is an
honorable man, who will treat you fairly, and with
whom you can come to terms and be reconciled:
but an enemy who conceals himself is a base, cow
ardly scoundrel, who has not courage enough to
avow his own judgment; it is not his opinion that
he cares about, but only the secret pleasures of
wreaking his anger without being found out or
punished. This will also have been Goethe's opin
ion, as he was generally the source from which
Riemer drew his observations. And, indeed,
Rousseau's maxim applies to every line that is
printed. Would a man in a mask ever be allowed
to harangue a mob, or speak in any assembly; and
that, too, when he was going to attack others and
overwhelm them with abuse?

Anonymity is the refuge for all literary and
journalistic rascality. It is a practice which must
be completely stopped. Every article, even in a
newspaper, should be accompanied by the name of
its author; and the editor should be made strictly
responsible for the accuracy of the signature. The
freedom of the press should be thus far restricted;
so that when a man publicly proclaims through the
far-sounding trumpet of the newspaper, he should
be answerable for it, at any rate with his honor, if
he has any ; and if he has none, let his name neutral
ize the effect of his words. And since even the
most insignificant person is known in his own circle,
the result of such a measure would be to put an
end to two-thirds of the newspaper lies, and to
restrain the audacity of many a poisonous tongue.

1 Preface, p. xxix.

ON REPUTATION.

WRITERS may be classified as meteors, planets
and fixed stars. A meteor makes a striking effect
for a moment. You look up and cry There! and it
is gone for ever. Planets and wandering stars last
a much longer time. They often outshine the
fixed stars and are confounded with them by the
inexperienced; but this only because they are near.
It is not long before they must yield their place;
nay, the light they give is reflected only, and the
sphere of their influence is confined to their own
orbit — their contemporaries. Their path is one of
change and movement, and with the circuit of a
few years their tale is told. Fixed stars are the
only ones that are constant; their position in the
firmament is secure ; they shine with a light of their
own; their effect to-day is the same as it was yes
terday, because, having no parallax, their appear
ance does not alter with a difference in our stand
point. They belong not to one system, one nation
only, but to the universe. And just because they
are so very far away, it is usually many years be
fore their light is visible to the inhabitants of this
earth.

We have seen in the previous chapter that where
a man's merits are of a high order, it is difficult for
him to win reputation, because the public is un
critical and lacks discernment. But another and
no less serious hindrance to fame comes from the
envy it has to encounter. For even in the lowest
kinds of work, envy balks even the beginnings of
a reputation, and never ceases to cleave to it up to
the last. How great a part is played by envy in
the wicked ways of the world! Ariosto is right in

ON REPUTATION 79

saying that the dark side of our mortal life pre
dominates, so full it is of this evil:

questa assai piu oscura che serena
Vita mortal, tutta d'invidia plena.

For envy is the moving spirit of that secret and
informal, though flourishing, alliance everywhere
made by mediocrity against individual eminence,
no matter of what kind. In his own sphere of work
no one will allow another to be distinguished: he
is an intruder who cannot be tolerated. Si quelq'un
excelle par mi nous, quit aille eccceller ailleurs!
this is the universal password of the second-rate.
In addition, then, to the rarity of true merit and
the difficulty it has in being understood and recog
nized, there is the envy of thousands to be reckoned
with, all of them bent on suppressing, nay, on
smothering it altogether. No one is taken for what
he is^ but for what others make of him; and this
is the handle used by mediocrity to keep down dis
tinction, by not letting it come up as long as that
can possibly be prevented.

There are two ways of behaving in regard to
merit: either to have some of one's own, or to re
fuse any to others. The latter method is more
convenient, and so it is generally adopted. As
envy is a mere sign of deficiency, so to envy merit
argues the lack of it. My excellent Balthazar
Gracian has given a very fine account of this re
lation between envy and merit in a lengthy fable,
which may be found in his Discrete under the
heading Hombre de ostentacion. He describes all
the birds as meeting together and conspiring against
the peacock, because of his magnificent feathers.
If, said the magpie, we could only manage to put
a stop to the cursed parading of his tail, there
would soon be an end of his beauty; for what is not
seen is as good as what does not exist.

80 THE ART OF LITERATURE

This explains how modesty came to be a virtue.
It was invented only as a protection against envy.
That there have always been rascals to urge this
virtue, and to rejoice heartily over the bashfulness
of a man of merit, has been shown at length in
my chief work.1 In Lichtenberg's Miscellaneous
Writings I find this sentence quoted: Modesty
should be the virtue of those who possess no other.
Goethe has a well-known saying, which offends
many people: It is only knaves who are modest!
— Nur die Lumpen sind bescheiden! but it has its
prototype in Cervantes, who includes in his Journey
up Parnassus certain rules of conduct for poets,
and amongst them the following: Everyone whose
verse shows him to be a poet should have a high
opinion of himself, relying on the proverb that he
is a knave who thinks himself one. And Shake
speare, in many of his Sonnets, which gave him
the only opportunity he had of speaking of himself,
declares, with a confidence equal to his ingenuous
ness, that what he writes is immortal.2

A method of underrating good work often used
by envy — in reality, however, only the obverse side
of it — consists in the dishonorable and unscrupulous
laudation of the bad; for no sooner does bad work
gain currency than it draws attention from the
good. But however effective this method may be

1 Welt als Wille, Vol. II. c. 37.

2 Collier, one of his critical editors, in his Introduction to the
Sonettes, remarks upon this point: "In many of them are to
be found most remarkable indications of self-confidence and of
assurance in the immortality of his verses, and in this respect
the author's opinion was constant and uniform. He never
scruples to express it, ... and perhaps there is no writer of
ancient or modern times who, for the quantity of such writings
left behind him, has so frequently or so strongly declared that
what he had produced in this department of poetry 'the world
would not willingly let die/ "

ON REPUTATION 81

for a while, especially if it is applied on a large
scale, the day of reckoning comes at last, and the
fleeting credit given to bad work is paid off by
the lasting discredit which overtakes those who
abjectly praised it. Hence these critics prefer to
remain anonymous.

A like fate threatens, though more remotely,
those who depreciate and censure good work; and
consequently many are too prudent to attempt it.
But there is another way; and when a man of
eminent merit appears, the first effect he produces
is often only to pique all his rivals, just as the pea
cock's tail offended the birds. This reduces them
to a deep silence; and their silence is so unanimous
that it savors of preconcertion. Their tongues are
all paralyzed. It is the silentium livoris described
by Seneca. This malicious silence, which is tech
nically known as ignoring, may for a long time
interfere with the growth of reputation; if, as hap
pens in the higher walks of learning, where a man's
immediate audience is wholly composed of rival
workers and professed students, who then form the
channel of his fame, the greater public is obliged
to use its suffrage without being able to examine
the matter for^ itself. And if, in the end, that mali
cious silence is broken in upon by the voice of
praise, it will be but seldom that this happens en
tirely apart from some ulterior aim, pursued by
those who thus manipulate justice. For, as Goethe
says in the West-ostlicher Divan, a man can get
no recognition, either from many persons or from
only one, unless it is to publish abroad the critic'?
own discernment:

Denn es ist Jcein Anerkenen,
Weder Vieler, noch des Einen,
Wenn es nicht am Tage fordert,
Wo man selbst was mochte snheinen.

82 THE ART OF LITERATURE

The credit you allow to another man engaged in
work similar to your own or akin to it, must at
bottom be withdrawn from yourself; and you can
praise him only at the expense of your own claims.

Accordingly, mankind is in itself not at all in
clined to award praise and reputation; it is more
disposed to blame and find fault, whereby it in
directly praises itself. If, notwithstanding this,
praise is won from mankind, some extraneous
motive must prevail. I am not here referring to
the disgraceful way in which mutual friends will
puff one another into a reputation ; outside of that,
an effectual motive is supplied by the feeling that
next to the merit of doing something oneself, comes
that of correctly appreciating and recognizing
what others have done. This accords with the three
fold division of heads drawn up by Hesiod,1 and
afterwards by Machiavelli.2 There are, says the
latter, in the capacities of mankind, three varieties:
one man mil understand a thing by himself; an
other so far as it is explained to him; a third, neither
of himself nor when it is put clearly before him.
He, then, who abandons hope of making good his
claims to the first class, will be glad to seize the
opportunity of taking a place in the second. It
is almost wholly owing to this state of things that
merit may always rest assured of ultimately meet
ing with recognition.

To this also is due the fact that when the value
of a work has once been recognized and may no
longer be concealed or denied, all men vie in prais
ing and honoring it; simply because they are con
scious of thereby doing themselves an honor. They
act in the spirit of Xenophon's remark : he must be
a wise man who knows what is wise. So when

1 Works and Days, 293.

2 The Prince, eh. 22.

ON REPUTATION 83

they see that the prize of original merit is for ever
out of their reach, they hasten to possess themselves
of that which comes second best — the correct ap
preciation of it. Here it happens as with an army
which has been forced to yield; when, just as
previously every man wanted to be foremost in the
fight, so now every man tries to be foremost in
running away. They all hurry forward to offer
their applause to one who is now recognized to be
worthy of praise, in virtue of a recognition, as a
rule unconscious, of that law of homogeneity which
I mentioned in the last chapter ; so that it may seem
as though their way of thinking and looking at
things were homogeneous with that of the cele
brated man, and that they may at least save the
honor of their literary taste, since nothing else is
left them.

From this it is plain that, whereas it is very diffi
cult to win fame, it is not hard to keep it when
once attained; and also that a reputation which
comes quickly does not last very long; for here too,
quod cito fit, cito peril. It is obvious that if the
ordinary average man can easily recognize, and the
rival workers willingly acknowledge, the value of
anv performance, it will not stand very much above
the capacity of either of them to achieve it for
themselves. Tantum quisque laudat, quantum se
posse sperat imitari — a man will prase a thing only
so far as he hopes to be able to imitate it himself.
Further, it is a suspicious sign if a reputation
comes quickly; for an application of the laws of
homogeneity will show that such a reputation is
nothing but the direct applause of the multitude.
What this means may be seen by a remark once
made by Phocion, when he was interrupted in a
speech by the loud cheers of the mob. Turning to

84 THE ART OF LITERATURE

his friends who were standing close by, he asked'.
Have I made a mistake and said something stupid?1

Contrarily, a reputation that is to last a long
time must be slow in maturing, and the centuries
of its duration have generally to be bought at the
cost of contemporary praise. For that which is to
keep its position so long, must be of a perfection
difficult to attain; and even to recognize this per
fection requires men who are not always to be
found, and never in numbers sufficiently great to
make themselves heard; whereas envy is always on
the watch and doing its best to smother their voice.
But with moderate talent, which soon meets with
recognition, there is the danger that those who
possess it will outlive both it and themselves; so
that a youth of fame may be followed by an old
age of obscurity. In the case of great merit, on
the other hand, a man may remain unknown for
many years, but make up for it later on by attain
ing a brilliant reputation. And if it should be that
this comes only after he is no more, well! he is to
be reckoned amongst those of whom Jean Paul
says that extreme unction is their baptism. He
may console himself by thinking of the Saints, who
also are canonized only after they are dead.

Thus what Mahlmann2 has said so well in
H erodes holds good ; in this world truly great work
never pleases at once, and the god set up by the
multitude keeps his place on the altar but a short
time:

Ich denke, das wahre Grosse in der Welt
1st immer nur Das was nicht gleich gefallt
Und wen der Pobel zum Gotte weiht,
Der steht auf dem Altar nur kurze Zeit.

1 Plutarch, Apophthegms.

2 Translator's Note.— August Mahlmann (1771-1826), journal
ist, poet and story-writer. His Herodes vor Bethlehem is a
parody of Kotzebue's Hussiten vor Naumbura.

ON REPUTATION 85

It is worth mention that this rule is most directly
confirmed in the case of pictures, where, as con
noisseurs well know, the greatest masterpieces are
not the first to attract attention. If they make a
deep impression, it is not after one, but only after
repeated, inspection; but then they excite more
and more admiration every time they are seen.

Moreover, the chances that any given work will
be quickly and rightly appreciated, depend upon
two conditions: firstly, the character of the work,
whether high or low, in other words, easy or diffi
cult to understand; and, secondly, the kind of
public it attracts, whether large or small. This
latter condition is, no doubt, in most instances a
corollary of the former; but it also partly depends
upon whether the work in question admits, like
books and musical compositions, of being produced
in great numbers. By the compound action of
these two conditions, achievements which serve no
materially useful end — and these alone are under
consideration here — will vary in regard to the
chances they have of meeting with timely recognition
and due appreciation; and the order of precedence,
beginning with those who have the greatest chance,
will be somewhat as follows : acrobats, circus riders,
ballet-dancers, jugglers, actors, singers, musicians,
composers, poets (both the last on account of the
multiplication of their works), architects, painters,
sculptors, philosophers.

The last place of all is unquestionably taken by
philosophers because their works are meant not for
entertainment, but for instruction, and because they
presume some knowledge on the part of the reader,
and require him to make an effort of his own to
understand them. This makes their public ex
tremely small, and causes their fame to be more
remarkable for its length than for its breadth.

86 THE ART OF LITERATURE

And, in general, it may be said that the possibility
of a man's fame lasting a long time, stands in
almost inverse ratio with the chance that it will be
early in making its appearance ; so that, as regards
length of fame, the above order of precedence may
be reversed. But, then, the poet and the composer
will come in the end to stand on the same level
as the philosopher ; since, when once a work is com
mitted to writing, it is possible to preserve it to
all time. However, the first place still belongs by
right to the philosopher, because of the much
greater scarcity of good work in this sphere, and
the high importance of it; and also because of the
possibility it offers of an almost perfect translation
into any language. Sometimes, indeed, it happens
that a philosopher's fame outlives even his works
themselves; as has happened with Thales, Em-
pedocles, Heraclitus, Democritus, Parmenides,
Epicurus and many others.

My remarks are, as I have said, confined to
achievements that are not of any material use.
Work that serves some practical end, or ministers
directly to some pleasure of the senses, will never
have any difficulty in being duly appreciated. No
first-rate pastry-cook could long remain obscure in
any town, to say nothing of having to appeal to
posterity.

Under fame of rapid growth is also to be reck
oned fame of a false and artificial kind; where, for
instance, a book is worked into a reputation by
means of unjust praise, the help of friends, corrupt
criticism, prompting from above and collusion from
below. All this tells upon the multitude, which
is rightly presumed to have no power of judging
for itself. This sort of fame is like a swimming
bladder, by its aid a heavy body may keep afloat.
It bears up for a certain time, long or short accord-

ON REPUTATION 87

ing as the bladder is well sewed up and blown;
but still the air comes out gradually, and the body
sinks. This is the inevitable fate of all works which
are famous by reason of something outside of them
selves. False praise dies away; collusion comes
to an end; critics declare the reputation un
grounded; it vanishes, and is replaced by so much
the greater contempt. Contrarily, a genuine work,
which, having the source of its fame in itself, can
kindle admiration afresh in every age, resembles a
body of low specific gravity, which always keeps
up of its own accord, and so goes floating down the
stream of time.

Men of great genius, whether their work be in
poetry, philosophy or art, stand in all ages like
isolated heroes, keeping up single-handed a desper*
ate struggling against the onslaught of an army
of opponents.1 Is not this characteristic of the
miserable nature of mankind? The dullness, gross-
ness, perversity, silliness and brutality of by far
the greater part of the race, are always an obstacle
to the efforts of the genius, whatever be the method
of his art ; they so form that hostile army to which
at last he has to succumb. Let the isolated cham
pion achieve what he may : it is slow to be acknowl
edged; it is late in being appreciated, and then
only on the score of authority; it may easily fall
into neglect again, at any rate for a while. Ever
afresh it finds itself opposed by false, shallow, and
insipid ideas, which are better suited to that large
majority, that so generally hold the field. Though

1 Translator's Note.— At this point Schopenhauer interrupts
the thread of his discourse to speak at length upon an example
of false fame. Those who are at all acquainted with the philoso
pher's views will not be surprised to find that the writer thus
held up to scorn is Hegel ; and readers of the other volumes in
this series will, with the translator, have had by now quite
enough of the subject. The passage is therefore omitted.

88 THE ART OF LITERATURE

the critic may step forth and say, like Hamlet
when he held up the two portraits to his wretched
mother, Have you eyes? Have you eyes? alas!
they have none. When I watch the behavior of a
crowd of people in the presence of some great
master's work, and mark the manner of their ap
plause, they often remind me of trained monkeys
in a show. The monkey's gestures are, no doubt,
much like those of men; but now and again they
betray that the real inward spirit of these gestures
is not in them. Their irrational nature peeps out.
It is often said of a man that he is in advance of
his age; and it follows from the above remarks that
this must be taken to mean that he is in advance
of humanity in general. Just because of this fact,
a genius makes no direct appeal except to those
who are too rare to allow of their ever forming
a numerous body at any one period. If he is in
this respect not particularly favored by fortune,
he will be misunderstood by his own age; in other
words, he will remain unaccepted until time gradu
ally brings together the voices of those few persons
who are capable of judging a work of such high
character. Then posterity will say: This man was
in advance of his age, instead of in advance of
humanity; because humanity will be glad to lay the
burden of its own faults upon a single epoch.

Hence, if a man has been superior to his own age,
he would also have been superior to any other;
provided that, in that age, by some rare and happy
chance, a few just men, capable of judging in the
sphere of his achievements, had been born at the
same time with him; just as when, according to a
beautiful Indian myth, Vischnu becomes incarnate
as a hero, so, too, Brahma at the same time appears
as the singer of his deeds; and hence Valmiki,
Vyasa and Kalidasa are incarnations of Brahma.

ON REPUTATION 89

In this sense, then, it may be said that every
immortal work puts its age to the proof, whether
or no it will be able to recognize the merit of it.
As a rule, the men of any age stand such a test
no better than the neighbors of Philemon and
Baucis, who expelled the deities they failed to
recognize. Accordingly, the right standard for
judging the intellectual worth of any generation
is supplied, not by the great minds that make their
appearance in it — for their capacities are the work
of Nature, and the possibility of cultivating them
a matter of chance circumstance — but by the way
in which contemporaries receive their works;
whether, I mean, they give their applause soon and
with a will, or late and in niggardly fashion, or
leave it to be bestowed altogether by posterity.

This last fate will be especially reserved for
works of a high character. For the happy chance
mentioned above will be all the more certain not
to come, in proportion as there are few to appre
ciate the kind of work done by great minds. Herein
lies the immeasurable advantage possessed by
poets in respect of reputation; because their work
is accessible to almost everyone. If it had been
possible for Sir Walter Scott to be read and criti
cised by only some hundred persons, perhaps in
his life-time any common scribbler would have
been preferred to him; and afterwards, when he
had taken his proper place, it would also have been
said in his honor that he was in advance of his age.
But if envy, dishonesty and the pursuit of personal
aims are added to the incapacity of those hundred
persons who, in the name of their generation, are
called upon to pass judgment on a work, then in
deed it meets with the same sad fate as attends a
suitor who pleads before a tribunal of judges one
and all corrupt.

90 THE ART OF LITERATURE

In corroboration of this, we find that the history
of literature generally shows all those who made
knowledge and insight their goal to have remained
unrecognized and neglected, whilst those who
paraded with the vain show of it received the ad
miration of their contemporaries, together with the
emoluments.

The effectiveness of an author turns chiefly upon
his getting the reputation that he should be read.
But by practicing various arts, by the operation
of chance, and by certain natural affinities, this
reputation is quickly won by a hundred worthless
people: while a worthy writer may come by it very
slowly and tardily. The former possess friends to
help them; for the rabble is always a numerous
body which holds well together. The latter has
nothing but enemies; because intellectual supe
riority is everywhere and under all circumstances
the most hateful thing in the world, and especially
to bunglers in the same line of work, who want to
pass for something themselves.1

This being so, it is a prime condition for doing
any great work — any work which is to outlive its
own age, that a man pay no heed to his contempo
raries, their views and opinions, and the praise or
blame which they bestow. This condition is, how
ever, fulfilled of itself when a man really does any
thing great, and it is fortunate that it is so. For
if, in producing such a work, he were to look to
the general opinion or the judgment of his col
leagues, they would lead him astray at every step.
Hence, if a man wants to go down to posterity,
he must withdraw from the influence of his own

1 If the professors of philosophy should chance to think that
I am here hinting at them and the tactics they have for more
than thirty years pursued toward my works, they have hit the
nail upon the head.

ON REPUTATION 91

age. This will, of course, generally mean that he
must also renounce any influence upon it, and be
ready to buy centuries of fame by foregoing the
applause of his contemporaries.

For when any new and wide-reaching truth comes
into the world — and if it is new, it must be para
doxical — an obstinate stand will be made against
it as long as possible; nay, people will continue to
deny it even after they slacken their opposition
and are almost convinced of its truth. Meanwhile
it goes on quietly working its way, and, like an
acid, undermining everything around it. From
time to time a crash is heard; the old error comes
tottering to the ground, and suddenly the new
fabric of thought stands revealed, as though it were
a monument just uncovered. Everyone recog
nizes and admires it. To be sure, this all comes to
pass for the most part very slowly. As a rule,
people discover a man to be worth listening to only
after he is gone ; their hear, hear, resounds when the
orator has left the platform.

Works of the ordinary type meet with a better
fate. Arising as they do in the course of, and in
connection with, the general advance in contempo
rary culture, they are in close alliance with the
spirit of their age — in other words, just those
opinions which happen to be prevalent at the time.
They aim at suiting the needs of the moment. If
they have any merit, it is soon recognized; and they
gain currency as books which reflect the latest
ideas. Justice, nay, more than justice, is done to
them. They afford little scope for envy; since, as
was said above, a man will praise a thing only so
far as he hopes to be able to imitate it himself.

But those rare works which are destined to be
come the property of all mankind and to live for
centuries, are, at their origin, too far in advance

92 THE ART OF LITERATURE

of the point at which culture happens to stand,
and on that very account foreign to it and the
spirit of their own time. They neither belong to
it nor are they in any connection with it, and hence
they excite no interest in those who are dominated
by it. They belong to another, a higher stage of
culture, and a time that is still far off. Their course
is related to that of ordinary works as the orbit of
Uranus to the orbit of Mercury. For the moment
they get no justice done to them. People are at
a loss how to treat them; so they leave them alone,
and go their own snail's pace for themselves. Does
the worm see the eagle as it soars aloft?

Of the number of books written in any language
about one in 100,000 forms a part of its real and
permanent literature. What a fate this one book
has to endure before it outstrips those 100,000 and
gains its due place of honor! Such a book is the
work of an extraordinary and eminent mind, and
therefore it is specifically different from the others;
a fact which sooner or later becomes manifest.

Let no one fancy that things will ever improve
in this respect. No! the miserable constitution of
humanity never changes, though it may, to be sure,
take somewhat varying forms with every genera
tion. A distinguished mind seldom has its full
effect in the life-time of its possessor; because, at
bottom, it is completely and properly understood
only by minds already akin to it.

As it is a rare thing for even one man out of
many millions to tread the path that leads to im
mortality, he must of necessity be very lonely.
The journey to posterity lies through a horribly
dreary region, like the Lybian desert, of which, as
is well known, no one has any idea who has not
seen it for himself. Meanwhile let me before all
things recommend the traveler to take light bag-

ON REPUTATION 93

gage with him; otherwise he will have to throw
away too much on the road. Let him never forget
the words of Balthazar Gracian: lo bueno si breve,
dos vezes bueno — good work is doubly good if it
is short. This advice is specially applicable to my
own countrymen.

Compared with the short span of time they live,
men of great intellect are like huge buildings,
standing on a small plot of ground. The size of
the building cannot be seen by anyone, just in front
of it; nor, for an analogous reason, can the great
ness of a genius be estimated while he lives. But
when a century has passed, the world recognizes
it and wishes him back again.

If the perishable son of time has produced an
imperishable work, how short his own life seems
compared with that of his child! He is like Semela
or Maia — a mortal mother who gave birth to an
immortal son; or, contrarily, he is like Achilles in
regard to Thetis. What a contrast there is between
what is fleeting and what is permanent! The
short span of a man's life, his necessitous, afflicted,
unstable existence, will seldom allow of his seeing
even the beginning of his immortal child's brilliant
career; nor will the father himself be taken for that
which he really is. It may be said, indeed, that a
man whose fame comes after him is the reverse of
a nobleman, who is preceded by it.

However, the only difference that it ultimately
makes to a man to receive his fame at the hands
of contemporaries rather than from posterity is that,
in the former case, his admirers are separated from
him by space, and in the latter by time. For even
in the case of contemporary fame, a man does not,
as a rule, see his admirers actually before him.
Reverence cannot endure close proximity; it almost
always dwells at some distance from its object; and

96 THE ART OF LITERATURE

for time will give it a thousand tongues. How
long it may be before they speak, will of course
depend upon the difficulty of the subject and the
plausibility of the error; but come they will, and
often it would be of no avail to try to anticipate
them. In the worst cases it will happen with
theories as it happens with affairs in practical life;
where sham and deception, emboldened by success,
advance to greater and greater lengths, until dis
covery is made almost inevitable. It is just so
with theories; through the blind confidence of the
blockheads who broach them, their absurdity reaches
such a pitch that at last it is obvious even to the
dullest eye. We may thus say to such people:
the wilder your statements, the better.

There is also some comfort to be found in re
flecting upon all the whims and crotchets which had
their day and have now utterly vanished. In style,
in grammar, in spelling, there are false notions of
this sort which last only three or four years. But
when the errors are on a large scale, while we lament
the brevity of human life, we shall in any case, do
well to lag behind our own age when we see it on
a downward path. For there are two ways of not
keeping on a level with the times. A man may be
below it; or he may be above it.

ON GENIUS.

No difference of rank, position, or birth, is so
great as the gulf that separates the countless mil
lions who use their head only in the service of their
belly, in other words, look upon it as an instrument
of the will, and those very few and rare persons
who have the courage to say: No! it is too good
for that; my head shall be active only in its own
service; it shall try to comprehend the wondrous
and varied spectacle of this world, and then repro
duce it in some form, whether as art or as, literature,
that may answer to my character as an individual.
These are the truly noble, the real noblesse of the
world. The others are serfs and go with the soil
— glebce adscripti. Of course, I am here referring
to those who have not only the courage, but also
the call, and therefore the right, to order the head
to quit the service of the will; with a result that
proves the sacrifice to have been worth the making.
In the case of those to whom all this can only par
tially apply, the gulf is not so wide; but even though
their talent be small, so long as it is real, there
will always be a sharp line of demarcation between
them and the millions.1

The works of fine art, poetry and philosophy pro
duced by a nation are the outcome of the super
fluous intellect existing in it.

1 The correct scale for adjusting the hierarchy of intelligences
is furnished by the degree in which the mind takes merely
individual or approaches universal views of things. The brute
recognizes only the individual as such: its comprehension does
not extend beyond the limits of the individual. But man reduces
the individual to the general; herein lies the exercise of his
reason; and the higher his intelligence reaches, the nearer do
his general ideas approach the point at which they become
universal.

97

94 THE ART OF LITERATURE

in the presence of the person revered it melts like
butter in the sun. Accordingly, if a man is cele
brated with his contemporaries, nine-tenths of those
amongst whom he lives will let their esteem be
guided by his rank and fortune; and the remaining
tenth may perhaps have a dull consciousness of his
high qualities, because they have heard about him
from remote quarters. There is a fine Latin letter
of Petrarch's on this incompatibility between rever
ence and the presence of the person, and between
fame and life. It comes second in his Epistolce
familiar es? and it is addressed to Thomas Mes-
sanensis. He there observes, amongst other things,
that the learned men of his age all made it a rule
to think little of a man's writings if they had even
once seen him.

Since distance, then, is essential if a famous man
is to be recognized and revered, it does not matter
whether it is distance of space or of time. It is
true that he may sometimes hear of his fame in the
one case, but never in the other; but still, genuine
and great merit may make up for this by con
fidently anticipating its posthumous fame. Nay,
he who produces some really great thought is con
scious of his connection with coming generations
at the very moment he conceives it ; so that he feels
the extension of his existence through centuries and
thus lives with posterity as well as for it. And
when, after enjoying a great man's work, we are
seized with admiration for him, and wish him back,
so that we might see and speak with him, and have
him in our possession, this desire of ours is not
unrequited; for he, too, has had his longing for
that posterity which will grant the recognition,
honor, gratitude and love denied by envious con
temporaries.

1 In the Venetian edition of 1492.

ON REPUTATION 95

If intellectual works of the highest order are
not allowed their due until they come before the
tribunal of posterity, a contrary fate is prepared
for certain brilliant errors which proceed from men
of talent, and appear with an air of being well
grounded. These errors are defended with so much
acumen and learning that they actually become
famous with their own age, and maintain their
position at least during their author's lifetime. Of
this sort are many false theories and wrong criti
cisms; also poems and works of art, which exhibit
some false taste or mannerism favored by con
temporary prejudice. They gain reputation and
currency simply because no one is yet forthcoming
who knows how to refute them or otherwise prove
their falsity; and when he appears, as he usually
does, in the next generation, the glory of these
works is brought to an end. Posthumous judges,
be their decision favorable to the appellant or not,
form the proper court for quashing the verdict of
contemporaries. That is why it is so difficult and
so rare to be victorious alike in both tribunals.

The unfailing tendency of time to correct knowl
edge and judgment should always be kept in view
as a means of allaying anxiety, whenever any
grievous error appears, whether in art, or science,
or practical life, and gains ground; or when some
false and thoroughly perverse policy of movement
is undertaken and receives applause at the hands
of men. No one should be angry, or, still less,
despondent ; but simply imagine that the world has
already abandoned the error in question, and now
only requires time and experience to recognize of
its own accord that which a clear vision detected
at the first glance.

When the facts themselves are eloquent of a
truth, there is no need to rush to its aid with words :

98 THE ART OF LITERATURE

For him who can understand aright — cum grano
Us — the relation between the genius and the
normal man may, perhaps, be best expressed as
follows: A genius has a double intellect, one for
himself and the service of his will; the other for
the world, of which he becomes the mirror, in
virtue of his purely objective attitude towards it.
The work of art or poetry or philosophy produced
by the genius is simply the result, or quintessence,
of this contemplative attitude, elaborated accord
ing to certain technical rules.

The normal man, on the other hand, has only
a single intellect, which may be called subjective
by contrast with the objective intellect of genius.
However acute this subjective intellect may be —
and it exists in very various degrees of perfection
— it is never on the same level with the double in
tellect of genius; just as the open chest notes of the
human voice, however high, are essentially different
from the falsetto notes. These, like the two upper
octaves of the flute and the harmonics of the violin,
are produced by the column of air dividing itself
into two vibrating halves, with a node between them ;
while the open chest notes of the human voice and
the lower octave of the flute are produced by the
undivided column of air vibrating as a whole. This
illustration may help the reader to understand that
specific peculiarity of genius which is unmistakably
stamped on the works, and even on the physiog
nomy, of him who is gifted with it. At the same
time it is obvious that a double intellect like this
must, as a rule, obstruct the service of the will;
and this explains the poor capacity often shown
by genius in the conduct of life. And what spe
cially characterizes genius is that it has none of that
sobriety of temper which is always to be found in
the ordinary simple intellect, be it acute or dull,

ON GENIUS 99

The brain may be likened to a parasite which
is nourished as a part of tb- human frame without
contributing directly to its inner economy; it is
securely housed in the topmost story, and there
leads a self-sufficient and independent life. In the
same way it may be said that a man endowed with
great mental gifts leads, apart from the individual
life common to all, a second life, purely of the in
tellect. He devotes himself to the constant in
crease, rectification and extension, not of mere
learning, but of real systematic knowledge and
insight; and remains untouched by the fate that
overtakes him personally, so long as it does not
disturb him in his work. It is thus a life which
raises a man and sets him above fate and its
changes. Always thinking, learning, experiment
ing, practicing his knowledge, the man soon comes
to look upon this second life as the chief mode of
existence, and his merely personal life as some
thing subordinate, serving only to advance ends
higher than itself.

An example of this independent, separate ex
istence is furnished by Goethe. During the war in
the Champagne, and amid all the bustle of the
camp, he made observations for his theory of color;
and as soon as the numberless calamities of that
war allowed of his retiring for a short time to the
fortress of Luxembourg, he took up the manu
script of his Farbenlehre. This is an example
which we, the salt of the earth, should endeavor to
follow, by never letting anything disturb us in the
pursuit of our intellectual life, however much the
storm of the world may invade and agitate our
personal environment; always remembering that
we are the sons, not of the bondwoman, but of the
free. As our emblem and coat of arms, I propose
a tree mightily shaken by the wind, but still bearing

100 THE ART OF LITERATURE

its ruddy fruit on every branch; with the motto
Dum convellor mitescunt, or Conquassata sed
ferax.

That purely intellectual life of the individual has
its counterpart in humanity as a whole. For there,
too, the real life is the life of the will, both in the
empirical and in the transcendental meaning of
the word. The purely intellectual life of human
ity lies in its effort to increase knowledge by means
of the sciences, and its desire to perfect the arts.
Both science and art thus advance slowly from one
generation to another, and grow with the centuries,
every race as it hurries by furnishing its contribu
tion. This intellectual life, like some gift from
heaven, hovers over the stir and movement of the
world; or it is, as it were, a sweet-scented air de
veloped out of the ferment itself — the real life of
mankind, dominated by will; and side by side with
the history of nations, the history of philosophy,
science and art takes its innocent and bloodless
way.

The difference between the genius and the or
dinary man is, no doubt, a quantitative one, m so
far as it is a difference of degree ; but I am tempted
to regard it also as qualitative, in view of the fact
that ordinary minds, notwithstanding individual
variation, have a certain tendency to think alike.
Thus on similar occasions their thoughts at once
all take a similar direction, and run on the same
lines; and this explains why their judgments con
stantly agree — not, however, because they are based
on truth. To such lengths does this go that certain
fundamental views obtain amongst mankind at all
times, and are always being repeated and brought
forward anew, whilst the great minds of all ages
are in open or secret opposition to them.

A genius is a man in whose mind the world is

ON GENIUS 101

presented as an object is presented in a mirror,
but with a degree more of clearness and a greater
distinction of outline than is attained by ordinary
people. It is from him that humanity may look for
most instruction; for the deepest insight into the
most important matters is to be acquired, not by
an observant attention to detail, but by a close
study of things as a whole. And if his mind
reaches maturity, the instruction he gives will be
conveyed now in one form, now in another. Thus
genius may be defined as an eminently clear con
sciousness of things in general, and therefore, also
of that which is opposed to them, namely, one's own
self.

The world looks up to a man thus endowed, and
expects to learn something about life and its real
nature. But several highly favorable circumstances
must combine to produce genius, and this is a very
rare event. It happens only now and then, let
us say once in a century, that a man is born
whose intellect so perceptibly surpasses the normal
measure as to amount to that second faculty which
seems to be accidental, as it is out of all relation
to the will. He may remain a long time without
being recognized or appreciated, stupidity prevent
ing the one and envy the other. But should this
once come to pass, mankind will crowd round him
and his works, in the hope that he may be able to
enlighten some of the darkness of their existence
or inform them about it. His message is, to some
extent, a revelation, and he himself a higher being,
even though he may be but little above the ordinary
standard.

Like the ordinary man, the genius is what he is
chiefly for himself. This is essential to his nature :
a fact which can neither be avoided nor altered.
What he may be for others remains a matter of

102 THE ART OF LITERATURE

chance and of secondary importance. In no case
can people receive from his mind more than a re
flection, and then only when he joins with them in
the attempt to get his thought into their heads;
where, however, it is never anything but an exotic
plant, stunted and frail.

In order to have original, uncommon, and per
haps even immortal thoughts, it is enough to
estrange oneself so fully from the world of things
for a few moments, that the most ordinary objects
and events appear quite new and unfamiliar. In
this way their true nature is disclosed. What is
here demanded cannot, perhaps, be said to be diffi
cult; it is not in our power at all, but is just the
province of genius.

By itself, genius can produce original thoughts
just as little as a woman by herself can bear
children. Outward circumstances must come to
fructify genius, and be, as it were, a father to its
progeny.

The mind of genius is among other minds what
the carbuncle is among precious stones: it sends
forth light of its own, while the others reflect only
that which they have received. The relation of the
genius to the ordinary mind may also be described
as that of an idio-electrical body to one which
merely is a conductor of electricity.

The mere man of learning, who spends his life
in teaching what he has learned, is not strictly to
be called a man of genius; just as idio-electrical
bodies are not conductors. Nay, genius stands to
mere learning as the words to the music in a song.
A man of learning is a man who has learned a
great deal; a man of genius, one from whom we
learn something which the genius has learned from
nobody. Great minds, of which there is scarcely
one in a hundred millions, are thus the lighthouses

ON GENIUS 103

of humanity; and without them mankind would
lose itself in the boundless sea of monstrous error
and bewilderment.

And so the simple man of learning, in the strict
sense of the word — the ordinary professor, for in
stance — looks upon the genius much as we look
upon a hare, which is good to eat after it has been
killed and dressed up. So long as it is alive, it is
only good to shoot at.

He who wishes to experience gratitude from his
contemporaries, must adjust his pace to theirs.
But great things are never produced in this wray.
And he who wants to do great things must direct his
gaze to posterity, and in firm confidence elaborate
his work for coming generations. No doubt, the
result may be that he will remain quite unknown
to his contemporaries, and comparable to a man
who, compelled to spend his life upon a lonely
island, with great effort sets up a monument there,
to transmit to future sea-farers the knowledge of his
existence. If he thinks it a hard fate, let him con
sole himself with the reflection that the ordinary
man who lives for practical aims only, often suf
fers a like fate, without having any compensation
to hope for; inasmuch as he may, under favorable
conditions, spend a life of material production,
earning, buying, building, fertilizing, laying out,
founding, establishing, beautifying with daily effort
and unflagging zeal, and all the time think that he
is working for himself; and yet in the end it is his
descendants who reap the benefit of it all, and
sometimes not even his descendants. It is the same
with the man of genius; he, too, hopes for his re
ward and for honor at least ; and at last finds that he
has worked for posterity alone. Both, to be sure,
have inherited a great deal from their ancestors.

The compensation I have mentioned as the privi-

104 THE ART OF LITERATURE

lege of genius lies, not in what it is to others, but
in what it is to itself. What man has in any
real sense lived more than he whose moments of
thought make their echoes heard through the tumult
of centuries? Perhaps, after all, it would be the
best thing for a genius to attain undisturbed pos
session of himself, by spending his life in enjoying
the pleasure of his own thoughts, his own works,
and by admitting the world only as the heir of his
ample existence. Then the world would find the
mark of his existence only after his death, as it
finds that of the Ichnolith.1

It is not only in the activity of his highest powers
that the genius surpasses ordinary people. A man
who is unusually well-knit, supple and agile, will
perform all his movements with exceptional ease,
even with comfort, because he takes a direct
pleasure in an activity for which he is particularly
well-equipped, and therefore often exercises it
without any object. Further, if he is an acrobat
or a dancer, not only does he take leaps which
other people cannot execute, but he also betrays
rare elasticity and agility in those easier steps
which others can also perform, and even in ordinary
walking. In the same way a man of superior mind
will not only produce thoughts and works which
could never have come from another; it will not
be here alone that he will show his greatness; but
as knowledge and thought form a mode of activity
natural and easy to him, he will also delight himself
in them at all times, and so apprehend small mat
ters which are within the range of other minds,
more easily, quickly and correctly than they. Thus
he will take a direct and lively pleasure in every

1 Translator's Note. — For an illustration of this feeling in
poetry, Schopenhauer refers the reader to Byron's Prophecy of
Dante: introd. to C. 4.

ON GENIUS 105

increase of knowledge, every problem solved, every
witty thought, whether of his own or another's:
and so his mind will have no further aim than to
Jb? constantly active. This will be an inexhaustible
spring of delight; and boredom, that spectre which
haunts the ordinary man, can never come near him.

Then, too, the masterpieces of past and con
temporary men of genius exist in their fullness for
him alone. If a great product of genius is recom
mended to the ordinary, simple mind, it will take
as much pleasure in it as the victim of gout receives
in being invited to a ball. The one goes for the
sake of formality, and the other reads the book so
as not to be in arrear. For La Bruyere was quite
right when he said: All the wit in the world is lost
upon him who has none. The whole range of
thought of a man of talent, or of a genius, compared
with the thoughts of the common man, is, even
when directed to objects essentially the same, like
a brilliant oil-painting, full of life, compared with
a mere outline or a weak sketch in water-color.

All this is part of the reward of genius, and
compensates him for a lonely existence in a world
with which he has nothing in common and no
sympathies. But since size is relative, it comes to
the same thing whether I say, Caius was a great
man, or Caius has to live amongst wretchedly
small people: for Brobdingnack and Lilliput vary
only in the point from which they start. However
great, then, howeyer admirable or instructive, a
long posterity may think the author of immortal
works, during his lifetime he will appear to his
contemporaries small, wretched, and insipid in pro
portion. This is what I mean by saying that as
there are three hundred degrees from the base of
a tower to the summit, so there are exactly three
hundred from the summit to the base. Great minds

106 THE ART OF LITERATURE

thus owe little ones some indulgence; for it is only
in virtue of these little minds that they themselves
are great.

Let us, then, not be surprised if we find men of
genius generally unsociable and repellent. It is
not their want of sociability that is to blame. Their
path through the world is like that of a man who
goes for a walk on a bright summer morning. He
gazes with delight on the beauty and freshness of
nature, but he has to rely wholly on that for en
tertainment; for he can find no society but the
peasants as they bend over the earth and cultivate
the soil. It is often the case that a great mind
prefers soliloquy to the dialogue he may have in
this world. If he condescends to it now and then,
the hollowness of it may possibly drive him back
to his soliloquy; for in forgetfulness of his inter*
locutor, or caring little whether he understands or
not, he talks to him as a child talks to a doll.

Modesty in a great mind would, no doubt, be
pleasing to the world; but, unluckily, it is a con-
tradictio in adjecto. It would compel a genius to
give the thoughts and opinions, nay, even the
method and style, of the million preference over
his own; to set a higher value upon them; and,
wide apart as they are, to bring his views into har
mony with theirs, or even suppress them altogether,
so as to let the others hold the field. In that case,
however, he would either produce nothing at all,
or else his achievements would be just upon a level
with theirs. Great, genuine and extraordinary
work can be done only in so far as its author dis
regards the method, the thoughts, the opinions of
his contemporaries, and quietly works on, in spite
of their criticism, on his side despising what they
praise. No one becomes great without arrogance
of this sort. Should his life and work fall upon a

ON GENIUS 107

time which cannot recognize and appreciate him,
he is at any rate true to himself; like some noble
traveler forced to pass the night in a miserable inn ;
when morning comes, he contentedly goes his way.

A poet or philosopher should have no fault to
find with his age if it only permits him to do his
work undisturbed in his own corner; nor with his
fate if the corner granted him allows of his follow
ing his vocation without having to think about other
people.

For the brain to be a mere laborer in the service
of the belly, is indeed the common lot of almost
all those who do not live on the work of their
hands; and they are far from being discontented
with their lot. But it strikes despair into a man of
great mind, whose brain-power goes beyond the
measure necessary for the service of the will; and
he prefers, if need be, to live in the narrowest cir
cumstances, so long as they afford him the free
use of his time for the development and applica
tion of his faculties; in other words, if they give
him the leisure which is invaluable to him.

It is otherwise with ordinary people: for them
leisure has no value in itself, nor is it, indeed, with
out its dangers, as these people seem to know. The
technical work of our time, which is done to an
unprecedented perfection, has, by increasing and
multiplying objects of luxury, given the favorites
of fortune a choice between more leisure and cul
ture upon the one side, and additional luxury and
good living, but with increased activity, upon the
other; and, true to their character, they choose the
latter, and prefer champagne to freedom. And
they are consistent in their choice; for, to them,
every exertion of the mind which does not serve
the aims of the will is folly. Intellectual effort for
its own sake, they call eccentricity. Therefore,

108 THE ART OF LITERATURE

persistence in the aims of the will and the belly
will be concentricity; and, to be sure, the will is the
centre, the kernel of the world.

But in general it is very seldom that any such
alternative is presented. For as with money, most
men have no superfluity, but only just enough for
their needs, so with intelligence; they possess just
what will suffice for the service of the will, that is,
for the carrying on of their business. Having
made their fortune, they are content to gape or to
indulge in sensual pleasures or childish amuse
ments, cards or dice ; or they will talk in the dullest
way, or dress up and make obeisance to one an
other. And how few are those who have even a
little superfluity of intellectual power! Like the
others they too make themselves a pleasure; but it
is a pleasure of the intellect. Either they will
pursue some liberal study which brings them in
nothing, or they will practice some art; and in
general, they will be capable of taking an objective
interest in things, so that it will be possible to con
verse with them. But with the others it is better
not to enter into any relations at all; for, except
when they tell the results of their own experience
or give an account of their special vocation, or at
any rate impart what they have learned from some
one else, their conversation will not be worth listen
ing to; and if anything is said to them, they will
rarely grasp or understand it aright, and it will in
most cases be opposed to their own opinions. Bal
thazar Gracian describes them very strikingly as
men who are not men — hombres che non lo son.
And Giordano Bruno says the same thing: What
a difference there is in having to do with men com-
pared with those who are only made in their image
and likeness!1 And how wonderfully this passage
* Opera: ed. Wagner, I. 224.

ON GENIUS 109

agrees with that remark in the Kurral: The com
mon people look like men but I have never seen
anything quite like them. If the reader will con
sider the extent to which these ideas agree in
thought and even in expression, and in the wide
difference between them in point of date and na
tionality, he cannot doubt but that they are at one
with the facts of life. It was certainly not under
the influence of those passages that, about twenty
years ago, I tried to get a snuff-box made, the lid
of which should have two fine chestnuts repre
sented upon it, if possible in mosaic; together with
a leaf which was to show that they were horse-
chestnuts. This symbol was meant to keep the
thought constantly before my mind. If anyone
wishes for entertainment, such as will prevent him
feeling solitary even when he is alone, let me rec
ommend the company of dogs, whose moral and
intellectual qualities may almost afford delight and
gratification.

Still, we should always be careful to avoid being
unjust. I am often surprised by the cleverness,
and now and again by the stupidity of my dog;
and I have similar experiences with mankind.
Countless times, in indignation at their incapacity,
their total lack of discernment, their bestiality, I
have been forced to echo the old complaint that
folly is the mother and the nurse of the human
race:

Humani generis mater nutrixque profecto
Stultitia est.

But at other times I have been astounded that
from such a race there could have gone forth so
many arts and sciences, abounding in so much use
and beauty, even though it has always been the few
that produce them. Yet these arts and sciences
have struck root, established and perfected them-

110 THE ART OF LITERATURE

selves : and the race has with persistent fidelity pre
served Homer, Plato, Horace and others for thou
sands of years, by copying and treasuring their
writings, thus saving them from oblivion, in spite
of all the evils and atrocities that have happened
in the world. Thus the race has proved that it
appreciates the value of these things, and at the
same time it can form a correct view of special
achievements or estimate signs of judgment and
intelligence. When this takes place amongst those
who belong to the great multitude, it is by a kind
of inspiration. Sometimes a correct opinion will
be formed by the multitude itself; but this is only
when the chorus of praise has grown full and com
plete. It is then like the sound of untrained
voices ; where there are enough of them, it is always
harmonious.

Those who emerge from the multitude, those
who are called men of genius, are merely the lucida
intervalla of the whole human race. They achieve
that which others could not possibly achieve. Their
originality is so great that not only is their diver
gence from others obvious, but their individuality
is expressed with such force, that all the men of
genius who have ever existed show, every one of
them, peculiarities of character and mind; so that
the gift of his works is one which he alone of all men
could ever have presented to the world. This is
what makes that simile of Ariosto's so true and so
justly celebrated: Natura lo fece e poi ruppe lo
stampo. After Nature stamps a man of genius,
she breaks the die.

But there is always a limit to human capacity;
and no one can be a great genius without having
some decidedly weak side, it may even be, some in
tellectual narrowness. In other words, there will
be some faculty in which he is now and then inferior

ON GENIUS 111

to men of moderate endowments. It will be a
faculty which, if strong, might have been an ob
stacle to the exercise of the qualities in which he
excels. What this weak point is, it will always be
hard to define writh any accuracy even in a given
case. It may be better expressed indirectly; thus
Plato's weak point is exactly that in which Aristotle
is strong, and vice versa; and so, too, Kant is defi
cient just where Goethe is great.

Now, mankind is fond of venerating something;
but its veneration is generally directed to the wrong
object, and it remains so directed until posterity
comes to set it right. But the educated public is
no sooner set right in this, than the honor which is
due to genius degenerates; just as the honor which
the faithful pay to their saints easily passes into a
frivolous worship of relics. Thousands of Chris
tians adore the relics of a saint whose life and doc
trine are unknown to them; and the religion of
thousands of Buddhists lies more in veneration of
the Holy Tooth or some such object, or the vessel
that contains it, or the Holy Bowl, or the fossil
footstep, or the Holy Tree which Buddha planted,
than in the thorough knowledge and faithful prac
tice of his high teaching. Petrarch's house in
Arqua; Tasso's supposed prison in Ferrara; Shake
speare's house in Stratford, with his chair; Goethe's
house in Weimar, with its furniture; Kant's old
hat; the autographs of great men; these things are
gaped at with interest and awe by many who have
never read their works. They cannot do anything
more than just gape.

The intelligent amongst them are moved by the
wish to see the objects which the great man habitu
ally had before his eyes; and by a strange illusion,
these produce the mistaken notion that with the ob-
iects they are bringing back the man himself, or

THE ART OF LITERATURE

that something of him must cling to them. Akin to
such people are those who earnestly strive to
acquaint themselves with the subject-matter of a
poet's works, or to unravel the personal circum
stances and events in his life which have suggested
particular passages. This is as though the audi
ence in a theatre were to admire a fine scene and
then rush upon the stage to look at the scaffolding
that supports it. There are in our day enough
instances of these critical investigators, and they
prove the truth of the saying that mankind is in
terested, not in the form of a work, that is, in its
manner of treatment, but in its actual matter. All
it cares for is the theme. To read a philosopher's
biography, instead of studying his thoughts, is like
neglecting a picture and attending only to the style
of its frame, debating whether it is carved well or
ill, and how much it cost to gild it.

This is all very well. However, there is another
class of persons whose interest is also directed to
material and personal considerations, but they go
much further and carry it to a point where it be
comes absolutely futile. Because a great man has
opened up to them the treasures of his inmost being,
and, by a supreme effort of his faculties, produced
works which not only redound to their elevation
and enlightenment, but will also benefit their pos
terity to the tenth and twentieth generation; be
cause he has presented mankind with a matchless
gift, these varlets think themselves justified in
sitting in judgment upon his personal morality,
and trying if they cannot discover here or there
some spot in him which will soothe the pain they
feel at the sight of so great a mind, compared with
the overwhelming feeling of their own nothingness.

This is the real source of all those prolix discus
sions, carried on in countless books and reviews, on

ON GENIUS 113

the moral aspect of Goethe's life, and whether he
ought not to have married one or other of the
girls with whom he fell in love in his young days;
whether, again, instead of honestly devoting him
self to the service of his master, he should not have
been a man of the people, a German patriot, worthy
of a seat in the Paulskirche, and so on. Such cry
ing ingratitude and malicious detraction prove that
these self -constituted judges are as great knaves
morally as they are intellectually, which is saying
a great deal.

A man of talent will strive for money and repu
tation; but the spring that moves genius to the
production of its works is not as easy to name.
Wealth is seldom its reward. Nor is it reputation
or glory; only a Frenchman could mean that.
Glory is such an uncertain thing, and, if you look
at it closely, of so little value. Besides it never
corresponds to the effort you have made :

Responsura tuo nunquam est par fama labori.

Nor, again, is it exactly the pleasure it gives you;
for this is almost outweighed by the greatness of
the effort. It is rather a peculiar kind of instinct,
which drives the man of genius to give permanent
form to what he sees and feels, without being con
scious of any further motive. It works, in the
main, by a necessity similar to that which makes
a tree bear its fruit; and no external condition is
needed but the ground upon which it is to thrive.
On a closer examination, it seems as though, in
the case of a genius, the will to live, which is the
spirit of the human species, were conscious of
having, by some rare chance, and for a brief period,
attained a greater clearness of vision, and were
now trying to secure it, or at least the outcome of
it, for the whole species, to which the individual

114 THE ART OF LITERATURE

genius in his inmost being belongs; so that the
light which he sheds about him may pierce the
darkness and dullness of ordinary human conscious
ness and there produce some good effect.

Arising in some such way, this instinct drives
the genius to carry his work to completion, without
thinking of reward or applause or sympathy; to
leave all care for his own personal welfare ; to make
his life one of industrious solitude, and to strain his
faculties to the utmost. He thus comes to think
more about posterity than about contemporaries;
because, while the latter can only lead him astray,
posterity forms the majority of the species, and
time will gradually bring the discerning few who
can appreciate him. Meanwhile it is with him as
with the artist described by Goethe; he has no
princely patron to prize his talents, no friend to
rejoice with him:

Ein Fiirst der die Talent e scliatzt,
Ein Freund, der sich mit mir ergotzt,
Die haben leider mir gefehlt.

His work is, as it were, a sacred object and the
true fruit of his life, and his aim in storing it away
for a more discerning posterity will be to make
it the property of mankind. An aim like this far
surpasses all others, and for it he wears the crown
of thorns which is one day to bloom into a wreath
of laurel. All his powers are concentrated in the
effort to complete and secure his work; just as the
insect, in the last stage of its development, uses
its whole strength on behalf of a brood it will never
live to see; it puts its eggs in some place of safety,
where, as it well knows, the young will one day
find life and nourishment, and then dies in con
fidence.

Schopenhauer, Arthur
Essays

1910

v.1

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