morality. In each of our neighbours we fear a wolf. "This fellow is
evil-minded, if he is not restrained by law he will ruin us," so we
think every time a man gets out of the rut of sanctified tradition.
The fear is just. We are so poor, so weak, so easily ruined and
destroyed! How can we help being afraid! And yet, behind danger and
menace there is usually hidden something significant, which merits
our close and sympathetic attention. But fear's eyes are big. We see
danger, danger only, we build up a fabric of morality inside which
as in a fortress we sit out of danger all our lives. Only poets have
undertaken to praise dangerous people--Don Juans, Fausts, Tannhaüsers.
But nobody takes the poets seriously. Common-sense values a
commercial-traveller or a don much more highly than a Byron, a Goethe,
or a Molière.
33
The possibilities which open out before mankind are sufficiently
limited. It is impossible to see everything, impossible to know
everything, impossible to rise too high above the earth, impossible
to penetrate too deeply down. What has been is hidden away, what will
be we cannot anticipate, and we know for certain that we shall never
grow wings. Regularity, immutably regular succession of phenomena puts
a term to our efforts, drives us into a regular, narrow, hard-beaten
road of everyday life. But even on this road we may not wander from
side to side. We must watch our feet, consider each step, since the
moment we are off our guard disaster is upon us. Another life is
conceivable, however: life in which the word disaster does not exist,
where responsibility for one's actions, even if it be not completely
abolished, at least has not such a deadly and accidental weight,
and where, on the other hand, there is no "regularity," but rather
an infinite number of possibilities. In such a life the sense of
fear--most disgraceful to us--disappears. There the virtues are not
the same as ours. Fearlessness in face of danger, liberality, even
lavishness are considered virtues with us, but they are respected
without any grounds. Socrates was quite right when he argued that not
all courage, but only the courage which measures beforehand the risks
and the chances of victory, is fully justifiable. To the same extent
those economical, careful people who condemn lavishness are in the
right. Fearlessness and lavishness do not suit mortal men, rather it
becomes them to tremble and to count every penny, seeing what a state
of poverty and impotence they exist in. That is why these two virtues
are so rarely met with, and when they are met, why they arouse such
superstitious reverence in the crowd. "This man fears nothing and
spares nothing: he is probably not a man, but a demi-god, perhaps even
a god." Socrates did not believe in gods, so he wanted to justify
virtue by reason. Kant also did not believe in God, and therefore he
derived his morals from "Law." But if there is God, and all men are the
children of God, then we should be afraid of nothing and spare nothing.
And then the man who madly dissipates his own life and fortunes, and
the lives and fortunes of others, is more right than the calculating
philosophers who vainly seek to regulate mankind on earth.
34
Moral people are the most revengeful of mankind, they employ their
morality as the best and most subtle weapon of vengeance. They are
not satisfied with simply despising and condemning their neighbour
_themselves_, they want the condemnation to be universal and supreme:
that is, that all men should rise as one against the condemned, _and
that even the offender's own conscience shall be against him_. Then
only are they fully satisfied and reassured. Nothing on earth but
morality could lead to such wonderful results.
35
_Inveterate wickedness_.--Heretics were often most bitterly persecuted
for their least digression from accepted belief. It was just their
obstinacy in trifles that irritated the righteous to madness. "Why
can they not yield on so trifling a matter? They cannot possibly have
serious cause for opposition. They only want to grieve us, to spite
us." So the hatred mounted up, piles of faggots and torture machines
appeared against obdurate wickedness.
36
I do not know where I came across the remark, whether in Tolstoy or
Turgenev, that those who have been subjected to trial in the courts
of justice always acquire a particularly noble expression of face.
Although logic does so earnestly recommend caution in the forming
of contradictory conclusions, come what may I shall for once risk a
deduction: a noble expression of face is a sign that a man has been
under trial--but certainly not a trial for political crime--for theft
or bribe-taking.
37
The most important and significant revelations come into the world
naked, without a wordy garment. To find words for them is a delicate,
difficult business, a whole art. Stupidities and banalities, on the
contrary, appear at once in ready-made apparel, gaudy even if shabby.
So that they are ready straight away to be presented to the public.
38
A strange impatience has taken possession of Russian writers lately.
They are all running a race after the "ultimate words." They have no
doubt that the ultimate words will be attained. The question is, who
will lay hold of them first.
39
The appearance of Socrates on the philosophic horizon is hailed by
historians as the greatest event. Morals were beginning to work
loose, Athens was threatened with ruin. Socrates' mission was to put
an end to the violent oscillation in moral judgments which extreme
individualism on the one hand and the relativism of the sophists on
the other had set up. The great teacher did all he could. He gave
up his usual occupations and his family life, he took no thought for
the morrow, he taught, taught, taught--simple people or eminent, wise
or foolish, ignorant or learned. Notwithstanding, he did not save
the country. Under Pericles, Athens flourished without wisdom, or at
least independently of Socratic wisdom. After Pericles, in spite of
the fact that the Socratic teaching found such a genius as Plato to
continue it, Athens steadily declined, and Aristotle is already master
to the son of Philip of Macedon. Whence it is obvious that the wisdom
of Socrates had not saved the country, and as this had been its chief
object, it had failed in its object, and therefore was not worthy of
the exaggerated respect it received. It is necessary to find some
justification for philosophy other than country-saving. This would
be the easiest thing in the world. But altogether we must give up
the favourite device of the philosophers, of looking to find in the
well-being of society the _raison d'être_ of philosophy. At the best,
the trick was a risky one. As a rule, wisdom goes one way, society the
other. They are artificially connected. It is public orators who have
trained both the philosophers and the masses to regard as worthy of
attention only those considerations which have absolutely everything on
their side: social utility, morality, even metaphysical wisdom.... Why
so much? Is it not sufficient if some new project will prove useful?
Why try to get the sanction of morality and metaphysics? Nay, once the
laws of morality are autonomous, and once ideas are allowed to stand
above the empirical needs of mankind, it is impossible to balance ideas
and morality with social requirements, or even with the salvation of
the Country from ruin. _Pereat mundus, fiat philosophia_. If Athens
was ruined because of philosophy, philosophy is not impugned. So the
autonomous thinker should hold. But _de facto_ a thinker does not like
quarrelling with his country.
40
When a writer has to express an idea whose foundation he has not
been able to establish, and which yet is dear to his heart, so that
he earnestly wishes to secure its general acceptance, as a rule he
interrupts his exposition, as if to take breath, and makes a small, or
at times a serious digression, during which he proves the invalidity
of this or that proposition, often without any reference to his
real theme. Having triumphantly exposed one or more absurdities, and
thus acquired the aplomb of a solid expert, he returns to his proper
task, calculating that now he will inspire his reader with greater
confidence. His calculation is perfectly justified. The reader is
afraid to attack such a skilled dialectician, and prefers to agree
rather than to risk himself in argument. Not even the greatest
intellects, particularly in philosophy, disdain such stratagems. The
idealists, for example, before expounding their theories, turn and rend
materialism. The materialists, we remember, at one time did the same
with the idealists, and achieved a vast success.
41
Theories of sequence and consequence are binding only upon the
disciples, not upon the masters. Fathers of great ideas tend to be
very, careless about their progeny, giving very little heed to their
future career. The offspring of one and the same philosopher frequently
bear such small resemblance to one another, that it is impossible to
discern the family connection. Conscientious disciples, wasting away
under the arduous effort to discover that which does not exist, are
brought to despair of their task. Having got an inkling of the truth
concerning their difficulty, they give up the job for ever, they cease
their attempt at reconciling glaring contradictions. But then they only
insist the harder upon the necessity for studying the philosophers,
studying them minutely, circumstantially, historically, philologically
even. So the history of philosophy is born, which now is taking the
place of philosophy. Certainly the history of philosophy may be an
exact science, since by means of historical research it is often
possible to decide what exactly a certain philosopher did mean, and in
what sense he employed his peculiar terms. And seeing that there have
been a fair number of philosophers, the business of clearing them all
up is a respectable undertaking, and deserves the name of a science.
For a good translation or a commentary on the chief works of Kant a
man may be given the degree of doctor of philosophy, and henceforth
recognised as one who is initiated in the profundities of the secrets
of the universe. Then why ever should anybody think out new systems--or
even write them?
The raptures of creative activity!--empty words, invented by men who
never had an opportunity of judging from their own experience, but who
derive their conclusion syllogistically: "if a creation gives us such
delight, what must the creator himself experience!" Usually the creator
feels only vexations. Every creation is created out of the Void. At the
best, the maker finds himself confronted with a formless, meaningless,
usually obstinate and stiff matter, which yields reluctantly to
form. And he does not know how to begin. Every time a new thought is
gendered, so often must that new thought, which for the moment seems
so brilliant and fascinating, be thrown aside as worthless. Creative
activity is a continual progression from failure to failure, and the
condition of the creator is usually one of uncertainty, mistrust, and
shattered nerves. The more serious and original the task which a man
sets himself, the more tormenting is the self-misgiving. For this
reason even men of genius cannot keep up the creative activity to the
last. As soon as they have acquired their technique, they begin to
repeat themselves, well aware that the public willingly endures the
monotony of a favourite, even finds virtue in it. Every connoisseur of
art is satisfied if he recognises in a new work the accepted "manner"
of the artist. Few realise that the acquiring of a manner is the
beginning of the end. Artists realise well enough, and would be glad
to be rid of their manner, which seems to them a hackneyed affair. But
this requires too great a strain on their powers, new torments, doubts,
new groping. He who has once been through the creative raptures is not
easily tempted to try again. He prefers to turn out work according
to the pattern he has evolved, calmly and securely, assured of his
results. Fortunately no one except himself knows that he is not any
longer a creator. What a lot of secrets there are in the world, and how
easy it is to keep one's secret safe from indiscreet glances!
43
A writer works himself up to a pitch of ecstasy, otherwise he does
not take up his pen. But ecstasy is not so easily distinguished from
other kinds of excitement. And as a writer is always in haste to write,
he has rarely the patience to wait, but at the first promptings of
animation begins to pour himself forth. So in the name of ecstasy we
are offered such quantities of banal, by no means ecstatic effusions.
Particularly easy it is to confound with ecstasy that very common
sort of spring-time liveliness which in our language is well-named
calf-rapture. And calf-rapture is much more acceptable to the public
than true inspiration or genuine transport. It is easier, more familiar.
44
A school axiom: logical scepticism refutes itself, since the denial
of the possibility of positive knowledge is already an affirmation.
But, in the first place, scepticism is not bound to be logical, for
it has no desire whatever to gratify that dogma which raises logic to
the position of law. Secondly, where is the philosophic theory which,
if carried to its extreme, would not destroy itself? Therefore, why is
more demanded from scepticism than from other systems? especially from
scepticism, which honestly avows that it cannot give that which all
other theories claim to give.
45
The Aristotelian logic, which forms the chief component in modern
logic, arose, as we know, as a result of the permanent controversies
which were such sport to the Greeks. In order to argue, it is indeed
necessary to have a common ground; in other words, to agree about the
rules of the game. But in our day dialectic tournaments, like all
other bouts of contention, no longer attract people. Thus logic may be
relegated to the background.
46
In Gogol's _Portrait_, the artist despairs at the thought that he has
sacrificed art for the sake of "life." In Ibsen's drama, _When We Dead
Awaken_, there is also an artist, who has become world-famous, and who
repents that he has sacrificed his life--to art. Now, choose--which of
the two ways of repentance do you prefer?
47
Man is often quite indifferent to success whilst he has it. But once he
loses his power over people, he begins to fret. And--vice versa.
48
Turgenev's Insarov strikes the imagination of Elena because he is a
man preparing for battle. She prefers him to Shubin the painter, or to
Berseniev the savant. Since ancient days women have looked with favour
on warriors rather than on peaceful men. Had Turgenev invested that
idea with less glamour, he would probably not have become the ideal of
the young. Who does not get a thrill from Elena and her elect? Who has
not felt the fascination of Turgenev's women! And yet all of them give
themselves to the _strong_ male. With such "superior people," as with
beasts, the males fight with each other, the woman looks on, and when
it is over, she submits herself the slave of the conqueror.
49
A caterpillar is transformed into a chrysalis, and for a long
time lives in a warm, quiet little world. Perhaps if it had human
consciousness it would declare that _that_ world was the best, perhaps
the only one possible to live in. But there comes a time when some
unknown influence causes the little creature to begin the work of
destruction. If other caterpillars could see it how horrified they
would be, revolted to the bottom of their soul by the awful work in
which the insurgent is engaged. They would call it immoral, godless,
they would begin to talk about pessimism, scepticism, and so on. To
destroy what has cost such labour to construct! Why, what is wrong
with this complete, cosy, comfortable little world? To keep it intact
they call to their aid sacred morality and the idealistic theory of
knowledge. Nobody cares that the caterpillar has grown wings, that when
it has nibbled its old nest away it will fly out into space--nobody
gives a thought to this.
Wings--that is mysticism; self-nibbling--this is actuality. Those who
are engaged in such actuality deserve torture and execution. And there
are plenty of prisons and voluntary hangmen on the bright earth. The
majority of books are prisons, and great authors are not bad hangmen.
50
Nietzsche and Dostoevsky seem to be typical "inverted simulators," if
one may use the expression. They imitated spiritual sanity, although
they were spiritually insane. They knew their morbidity well enough,
but they exhibited their disease only to that extent where freakishness
passes for originality. With the sensitiveness peculiar to all who are
in constant danger, they never went beyond the limits. The axe of the
guillotine of public opinion hung over them: one awkward move, and
the execution automatically takes place. But they knew how to avoid
unwarrantable moves.
51
The so-called ultimate questions troubled mankind in the world's dawn
as badly as they trouble us now. Adam and Eve wanted "to know," and
they plucked the fruit at their risk. Cain, whose sacrifice did not
please God, raised his hand against his brother: and it seemed to him
he committed murder in the name of justice, in vindication of his
own injured rights. Nobody has ever been able to understand why God
preferred Abel's sacrifice to that of Cain. In our own day Sallieri
repeats Cain's vengeance and poisons his friend and benefactor Mozzart,
according to the poem of Poushkin. "All say, there is no justice on
earth; but there is no justice up above: this is as clear to me as a
simple scale of music." No man on earth can fail to recognise in these
words his own tormenting doubts. The outcome is creative tragedy,
which for some mysterious reason has been considered up till now as
the highest form of human creation. Everything is being unriddled and
explained. If we compare our knowledge with that of the ancients,
we appear very wise. But we are no nearer to solving the riddle
of eternal justice than Cain was. Progress, civilisation, all the
conquests of the human mind have brought us nothing new here. Like our
ancestors, we stand still with fright and perplexity before ugliness,
disease, misery, senility, death. All that the wise men have been able
to do so far is to turn the earthly horrors into problems. We are told
that perhaps all that is horrible only _appears_ horrible, that perhaps
at the end of the long journey something new awaits us. Perhaps! But
the modern educated man, with the wisdom of all the centuries of
mankind at his command, knows no more about it than the old singer
who solved universal problems at his own risk. We, the children of a
moribund civilisation, we, old men from our birth, in this respect are
as young as the first man.
52
They say it is impossible to set a bound between the "I" and society.
_Naïveté_! Crusoes are to be found not only on desert islands. They
are there, in populous cities. It is true they are not clad in skins,
they have no dark Fridays in attendance, and so nobody recognises them.
But surely Friday and a fur jacket do not make a Crusoe. Loneliness,
desertion, a boundless, shoreless sea, on which no sail has risen for
tens of years,--do not many of our contemporaries live in such a
circumstance? And are they not Crusoes, to whom the rest of people have
become a vague reminiscence, barely distinguishable from a dream?
53
To be irremediably unhappy--this is shameful. An irremediably unhappy
person is outside the laws of the earth. Any connection between him
and society is severed finally. And since, sooner or later, every
individual is doomed to irremediable unhappiness, _the last word, of
philosophy is loneliness_.
54
"It is better to be an unhappy man, than a happy pig." The utilitarians
hoped by this golden bridge to get over the chasm which separates them
from the promised land of the ideal. But psychology stepped in and
rudely interrupted: _There are no unhappy people, the unhappy ones are
all pigs_. Dostoevsky's philosopher of the underworld, Raskolnikov,
also Hamlet, and such-like, are not simply unhappy men whose fate
might be esteemed, or even preferred before some happy fates; they
are simply unhappy swine. And they themselves are principally aware of
it.... He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.
55
If you want people to envy you your sorrow or your shame, look as if
you were proud of it. If you have only enough of the actor in you, rest
assured, you will become the hero of the day. Since the parable of the
Pharisee and the publican was uttered, what a lot of people who could
not fulfil their sacred duties pretended to be publicans and sinners,
and so aroused sympathy, even envy.
56
Philosophers dearly love to call their utterances "truths," since
in that guise they become binding upon us all. But each philosopher
invents his own truths. Which means that he asks his pupils to deceive
themselves in the way he shows, but that he reserves for himself the
option of deceiving himself in his own way. Why? Why not allow everyone
to deceive himself just as he likes?
57
When Xanthippe poured slops over Socrates, as he returned from his
philosophical occupations, tradition says that he observed: "After a
storm there is always rain." Would it not be more worthy (not of the
philosopher, but of philosophy) to say: After one's philosophical
exercise, one feels as if one had had Slops emptied over one's head.
And therefore Xanthippe did but give outward expression to what had
taken place in Socrates' soul. Symbols are not always beautiful.
58
From the notes of an underworld man--"I read little, I write little,
and, it seems to me, I think little. He who is ill-disposed towards
me will say that this shows a great defect in my character, perhaps
he will call me lazy, an Oblomov, and will repeat the copy-book maxim
that idleness is the mother of all the vices. A friend, on the other
hand, will say it is only a temporary state, that perhaps I am not
quite well--in short, he will find random excuses for me, more with the
idea of consoling me than of speaking the truth. But for my part, I say
let us wait. If it turns out at the end of my life that I have 'done'
not less than others--why, then--it will mean that idleness may be a
virtue."
59
Börne, a contemporary of Heine, was very much offended when his enemies
insisted on explaining his misanthropic outpourings as the result of a
stomach and liver disease. It seemed to him much nobler and loftier to
be indignant and angry because of the triumph of evil on earth, than
because of the disorders of his own physical organs. Sentimentality
apart--was he right, and is it really nobler?
60
A real writer _disdains_ to repeat from hearsay events which he has
not witnessed. It seems to him tedious and humiliating to tell "in
his own words," like a schoolboy, things which he has fished out of
another man's books. But there--how can we expect him to stoop to such
insignificance!
61
Whilst conscience stands between the educated and the lower classes,
as the only possible mediator, there can be no hope for mutual
understanding. Conscience demands sacrifices, nothing but sacrifices.
It says to the educated man: "You are happy, well-off, learned--the
people are poor, unhappy, ignorant; renounce therefore your well-being,
or else soothe your conscience with suave speeches." Only he who has
nothing to sacrifice, nothing to lose, having lost everything, can hope
to approach the people as an equal.
This is why Dostoevsky and Nietzsche were not afraid to speak in their
own name, and did not feel compelled either to stretch up or to stoop
down in order to be on a level with men.
62