called it), appears in the soul of a definite individual at a definite
point of time and space and in definite conditions. It is therefore
historically conditioned. Without the historical conditions that
demand it, the system would not be what it is. The Kantian philosophy
was impossible at the time of Pericles, because it presupposes, for
instance, exact natural science, which developed from the Renaissance
onward. And this presupposes geographical discoveries, industry,
capitalist or civil society, and so on. It presupposes the scepticism
of David Hume, which in its turn presupposes the deism of the beginning
of the eighteenth century, which in its turn is connected with the
religious struggles in England and in all Europe in the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries, and so on. On the other hand, if Kant were
to live again in our time, he could not write the _Critique of Pure
Reason_ without modifications so profound as to make of it, not only a
new book, but an altogether new philosophy, though containing within
itself his old philosophy. Stiff with old age, he was even capable
of ignoring the interpretations and developments of Fichte, and of
ignoring Schelling. But to-day he could not ignore either of these,
nor Hegel, nor Herbart, nor Schopenhauer. He could not even ignore
the representatives of the mediæval philosophy, which followed the
classical period of modern philosophy; the authors of positivist myths,
Kantian and Hegelian scholastics, the new combinations of Platonism and
Aristotelianism, that is, of pre-Kantian with post-Kantian philosophy,
the new sophists and sceptics, the new Plotinians and Mystics, nor
the states of soul and the facts, which condition all these things.
For the rest, Kant truly lives again in our days, with a different
name (and what is individuality, countersigned with the name, save a
juxtaposition of syllables?) He is the philosopher of our times, in
whom is continued that philosophic thought, which once took, among
others, the Scoto-German name of Kant. And the philosopher of our day,
whether he will it or no, cannot abandon the historical conditions in
which he lives, or so act as to make that not to have happened which
happened before his time. Those events are in his bones, in his flesh
and blood, and it is impossible to drive them out. He must therefore
take account of them, that is, know them historically. The breadth
of his philosophy will depend upon the breadth of his historical
knowledge. If he did not know them, but merely carried them in him as
facts of life, his condition would not differ from that of any animal
(or of ourselves in so far as we are animals or beings that are, or
rather seem to be, completely immersed in will and practice). For the
animal is precisely conditioned by the whole of nature and the whole of
history, but does not know it. The meaning of the demand must therefore
be understood that a truthful answer may be obtained. _History_ must
be known in order to obtain the truth of _philosophy._
[Sidenote: _Historical quality of the culture required in the
philosopher._]
This demand is usually expressed in the formula that the philosopher
must be cultured, though it is not clear what is the quality of this
culture that is said to be requisite. Some, especially in our own
days, would wish the philosopher to be a physiologist, a physicist, a
mathematician, that is, that his brain should be full of abstractions,
which are certainly not useless (everything is worth knowing, even the
triviality of girls, for even that is a part of life and of reality),
but which are in no direct relation to that form of knowledge which
must be the condition of philosophy. This form of knowledge is, on the
contrary, history; or, as it is said (with an _a potiori_ intention),
the history of philosophy, which of necessity as the history of a
moment of the spirit, includes all history in itself, as we have shown
above, when criticizing the divisions of history. That is to say, it is
necessary to know the meaning of the problems of our own time, and this
implies knowing also those of the past, in order not to take the former
for the latter and so cause inextricable confusion. And to the extent
that they can be of use according to the requirements of the problem,
we must know also the natural, physical, and mathematical sciences. But
we must _not_ know them _as stick_ and develop them as such, but rather
_as historical knowledge_ concerning the state of the natural sciences,
of physics, and of mathematics, in order to understand the problems
that they help to raise for philosophy.
[Sidenote: _Apparent objections._]
It is vain to set against this the example of great philosophers
without historical culture, as it is vain in the case of the necessity
of historical knowledge for æsthetic criticism to bring forward
instances of those who, although without any historical knowledge,
have yet given far more true and more profound judgments upon art
than the historically learned. If those judgments are true, then the
critic supposed to be ignorant of history is not ignorant of it. He has
somehow absorbed, scented in the air, divined with rapid perception
those actual facts that were applicable to the given case. And, on the
other hand, the so-called learned man will not be cultured, because his
erudition is not lively and synthetic. The same happens in the case
of those acute philosophers, who are said to be ignorant of the world
and of history and of the thoughts of other philosophers. It cannot
be denied that much or little history may be learned outside the
usual course of teaching by manuals and by orderly mnemonic methods.
But here, too, the exceptional mode of learning confirms the rule and
does not obviate the usefulness for the majority of the customary
modes of learning. On the other hand, if he who is said empirically to
be without historical knowledge, but is not so in a given instance,
should nevertheless prove really ignorant in other instances, where
his unusual way of learning is not open to him, his philosophy also
suffers. For this reason, those philosophers who are ignorant of
history exhibit deficiencies that have often been deplored. They burst
open doors already opened, they do not avail themselves of important
results, they ignore grave difficulties and objections, they fail
to probe certain problems sufficiently deeply, and show themselves
too insecure and too superficial in others, and so on. Thus is the
customary learning of history avenged upon them: and Herbert Spencer,
who would never read Plato or Kant, is rejected, while Schelling and
Hegel are again in the hands of students.
[Sidenote: _Communication of history as changing of history._]
Philosophy also changes with the change of history, and since history
changes at every moment, philosophy at every moment is new. This can
be observed even in the fact of the communication of philosophy from
one individual to another by means of speech or writing. Change at once
takes place in that transmission. When we have simply created again in
ourselves the thought of a philosopher, we are in the same condition
as he who has enjoyed a sonnet or a melody, by suiting his spirit to
that of the poet or composer. But this does not suffice in philosophy.
We may attain to ecstasy by the recitation of a poem or the execution
of a piece of music, just as it is, without altering it anywhere. But
it does not seem possible to possess a philosophic proposition, save
when we have _translated_ it, as we say, _into our own language,_ when
in reality, relying upon its results, we formulate new philosophic
propositions and solve new problems that have presented themselves in
our souls. For this reason no book ever completely satisfies us. Every
book quenches one thirst, only to give us a new one. So true is this,
that when we have finished reading or are in course of reading, we
often regret that it is impossible to speak with the author. We are led
to say, like Socrates in the _Phædrus,_[1] that written discourses are
like pictures and do not answer questions, but always repeat what has
already been said. Or we lose patience, like that Paduan professor of the
fifteenth century, who, commenting on the jurist Paolo, and annoyed
at the difficulties, exclaimed at a certain point: _"Iste maledictus
Paulus tam obscure loquitur ut, si haberem eum in manibus, eum per
capillos interrogarem!"_ But if instead of the dumb book, we had
before us a living man, a Paolo obliged to be clear, the process would
still be the same: his speech would be translated into our speech, his
problem would arouse in our spirit our own problem.
[Sidenote: _The perpetuity of change._]
The author of a philosophic work is, however, always dissatisfied, for
he feels that his book or treatise hardly suffices for an instant,
but immediately reveals itself as more or less insufficient. For this
reason, to any philosopher, as to any poet, the only works of his
own that bring true satisfaction are those that he has still to do.
Thus every philosopher and every true artist dies unsatisfied, like
Karl Marx, who, when asked in the last year of his life to prepare
a complete edition of his works, replied that he had yet to write
them. He alone is satisfied who at a certain moment ceases to think
and takes to admiring himself, that is to say, the corpse of himself
as a thinker, and is careful, not of art or philosophy, but of his
own person. Yet to no one can even this give the satisfaction he
imagines, for life is no less voracious and insatiable than thought.
In any case, to be satisfied, the author must become philosophically
immobile in a _formula,_ and the reader must content himself with this
formula. Thoughts must become "obtuse and deaf," as Leibnitz called
them, who defined such a spiritual condition as _psittacism._ The
only consolation left to one who does not become immobile is that of
reflecting, like Socrates, that his discourses will not be sterile, but
fruitful. Other discourses will spring from them in his own soul and in
the soul of others, in whom he has sown the _seeds_[2] He will console
himself with the thought that philosophy, like life, is infinite.
[Sidenote: _Surpassing and continuous progress of philosophy._]
The infinity of philosophy, its continuous changing, is not a doing
and an undoing, but a continuous _surpassing of itself._ The new
philosophic proposition is made possible only by the old; the old
lives eternally in the new that follows it and in the new that will
follow that again and make old that other which is new. This suffices
to reassure those minds which are easily led astray and inclined to
lament the vanity of things. Where everything is vain, nothing is
vain; fullness consists precisely in that perpetual becoming vain,
which is the perpetual birth of reality, the eternal becoming. Nobody
renounces love because love is transitory, nor abandons thinking
because his thought will give place to other thoughts. Love passes, but
generates other beings, who will love. Thought passes, but generates
other thoughts, which, in their turn, will excite other thoughts. In
the world of thought also, we survive in our own children: in our
children who contradict us, substitute themselves for us and bury us,
not always with due piety.
[Sidenote: _Meaning of the eternity of philosophy._]
No other meaning but this is to be found in the vaunted eternity
of philosophy in regard to time and space. The eternity of every
philosophic proposition must be affirmed against those who
materialistically consider all propositions as valueless existences,
and fugitives which leave no trace, as phenomena of brute matter,
which alone persists. Philosophic propositions, though historically
conditioned, are not effects produced and determined by these
conditions, but creations of thought, which is continued in and through
them. When they appear to be produced determinately, they must be
held to be, not philosophy, but false philosophy, vital interests
masquerading as thoughts. That alone can be eternal as philosophy,
which is knowledge and truth. But when eternity is misunderstood as
isolation from those conditions, it must then be denied, and in place
of it the thesis of relativity must be admitted, provided we are
careful that it does not assume the erroneous vesture of historical
materialism and economic determinism. The thesis that the history of
philosophy should be treated _psychologically,_ by the attribution
of ideas to the temporal conditions and the personal experiences of
philosophers, to social history and biography, is reducible (and it
is worth while noticing this) to materialism and determinism in its
least evident form, namely psychologism. Such a thesis is the failure
to recognize spiritual value, or at least (as is the case with some
unconscious æstheticists), the logical value of philosophy, whose
history, when changed into that of the expressions of states of the
soul, comes to coincide altogether with the history of poetry and
literature.
[Sidenote: _The concept of spontaneous, ingenuous, innate philosophy,
etc., and its meaning._]
The eternity of philosophy is its truth, and the conception which is
sometimes brought forward of a _spontaneous_ or _ingenuous_ or _innate_
or _cryptic_ (_abdita_) philosophy, which alone should be permanent
amid the variations of philosophic opinions, or to which the spirit
should return after many wanderings, is nothing but a symbol of this
truth. The Platonic theory of _reminiscence (anamneisis)_ is reducible
to this conception. In this theory true knowledge is explained as the
recollection of an original state; and it is this reminiscence, as the
restitution of the childish soul, that is described by our Leopardi in
the following verses:
I believe that to know is very often, if we examine it, nothing but to
perceive the folly of beliefs due to habit, and the careful reconquest
of the knowledge of childhood, taken from us by age; for the child
neither knows nor sees more than we, but he does not believe that he
sees and knows.
But such philosophy and such reminiscence are really found only in
propositions historically conditioned. Ingenuous philosophy and
primitive knowledge are nothing but the concept itself of philosophy,
fully realized in all and none. "Platonic reminiscence (explained
Schelling) is the memory of that state, in which we are all one with
nature." But since we are one with nature in every one of our acts,
each one of them demands a special reminiscence and so a new thought.
In like manner, _the state of nature,_ celebrated in moral and
political doctrines (the doctrines of morality and rights), was a state
of perfection which can never be found anywhere in the world or at any
moment of time, because it expressed the very concept of the good, of
virtue and of justice. Socrates, in another Platonic dialogue, spoke
of those true beliefs (doxai aleiteis) as elusive like the statues of
Daedalus, that disappear from the soul, unless one binds them with
rational arguments, and only when thus bound do they from beliefs
become knowledge.[3] Such is ingenuous philosophy, which in reality
exists only when bound and never when loose and ingenuous, as the name
would suggest; philosophy _abdita_ exists only as philosophy _addita._
Certainly, to the consciousness of doctrinaires, obscured with too much
labour, we can sometimes oppose ingenuous consciousness, and to the
pedantry of scholastic treatises we can oppose the truth of proverbs,
of good sense, of children, of the people, or of primitive races. But
we must not forget that in all these cases ingenuous is a metaphor
which designates truth in contradistinction to what is not truth.
[Sidenote: _Philosophy as criticism and polemic._]
The division of philosophy into ingenuous and learned is due to its
convenience and to its didactic value, and in like manner philosophy
properly so-called, or _system,_ is distinguished from philosophy as
_criticism._ The former is looked upon as the solid and permanent
part, the latter as variable and adaptable to times and places,
having as its object the defence of the eternal truths conquered by
the human spirit, against the wiles and assaults of error. In reality
the distinction is empirical: philosophy and philosophical criticism
are the same thing; every affirmation is a negation, every negation
is an affirmation. The critical or negative side is inseparable from
philosophy, which is always substantially a _polemic,_ as can be seen
from the examination of any philosophic writing. Peace-loving people
are fond of recommending abstention from polemics and the expression of
one's own ideas in a _positive_ manner. But only the artist is capable
of expressing his soul without polemic, since it does not consist of
ideas. Ideas are always armed with helmet and lance, and those who wish
to introduce them among men must let them make war. A philosopher, when
he truly abstains from polemics and expresses himself as though he
were pouring out his own soul, has not even begun to philosophize. Or,
having philosophized upon certain problems, he makes, as Plato does,
the act of renunciation when he is confronted with others, feeling that
he has attained to the extreme limit of his powers, and from philosophy
he passes to poetry and prophecy.
[Sidenote: _Identity of philosophy and history._]
Philosophy, then, is neither beyond, nor at the beginning, nor at
the end of history, nor is it achieved in a moment or in any single
moments of history. It is achieved _at every moment_ and is always
completely united to facts and conditioned by historical knowledge. But
this result which we have obtained and which completely coincides with
that of the conditioning of history by philosophy is still somewhat
provisional. Were we to consider it definite, philosophy and history
would appear to be two forms of the spirit, mutually conditioning one
another, or (as has sometimes been trivially remarked) in reciprocal
action. But philosophy and history are not two forms, they are one sole
form: they are not mutually conditioned, but identical. The _a priori_
synthesis, which is the reality of the individual judgment and of the
definition, is also the reality of philosophy and of history. It is the
formula of thought which by constituting itself qualifies intuition
and constitutes history. History does not precede philosophy, nor
philosophy history: both are born at one birth. If it is desired to
give precedence to philosophy, this can only be done in the sense that
the unique form of philosophy-history must take the name and character,
not of intuition, but of what transforms intuition, that is to say, of
thought and of philosophy.
[Sidenote: _Didactic divisions and other reasons for the apparent
duality._]
Philosophy and history are distinguished, as we know, for didactic
purposes, philosophy being that form of exposition in which special
emphasis is accorded to the concept or system, and history as that form
in which the individual judgment or narrative is specially prominent.
But from the very fact that the narrative includes the concept, every
narrative clarifies and solves philosophic problems. On the other
hand, every system of concepts throws light upon the facts which are
before the spirit. The confirmation of the value of a system resides
in the power of interpreting and narrating history, which it displays.
It is history which is the touchstone of philosophy. It is true that
the two may appear to be different, owing to the external differences
of books, in which only one of the two seems to be treated: and it
is also true that the didactic division is based upon a diversity
of aptitudes, which practice contributes to develop. But, provided
always that the meaning both of a philosophic proposition and of a
historical proposition is fathomed to the bottom, their intrinsic
unity is indubitable. The fact that is so often cited of conflicts
between philosophy and history is in reality a conflict between two
philosophies, the one true and the other false, or both partly true and
partly false. Some thinkers, for instance, are idealist in recounting
history and materialist in their philosophic systems. This means
that two philosophies are at strife within them without either being
sufficiently aware of it. And does it not also happen that we find in
a philosophic exposition propositions that contradict one another and
divergent systems capriciously associated in one system?
From intuition, which is indiscriminate individualization, we rise to
the universal, which is discriminate individualization, from art to
philosophy, which is history. The second stage, precisely because it is
second, is more complex than the first, but this does not imply that
it is, as it were, split into two lesser degrees, philosophy _and_
history. The concept, with one stroke of the wing, affirms itself and
takes possession of the whole of reality, which is not different from
it, but is itself.