The Adventure of Reason
In 1790, a year before Galvani's monograph, Concerning the Forces of
Electricity, appeared, Goethe published his Metamorphosis of Plants,
which represents the first step towards the practical overcoming of the
limitations of the onlooker-consciousness in science. Goethe's paper
was not destined to raise such a storm as soon followed Galvani's
publication. And yet the fruit of Goethe's endeavours is not less
significant than Galvani's discovery, for the progress of mankind. For
in Goethe's achievement lay the seed of that form of knowing which man
requires, if in the age of the electrification of civilization he is to
remain master of his existence.
*
Among the essays in which Goethe in later years gave out some of the
results of his scientific observation in axiomatic form, is one called
'Intuitive Judgment' ('Anschauende Urteilskraft'), in which he
maintains that he has achieved in practice what Kant had declared to be
for ever beyond the scope of the human mind. Goethe refers to a passage
in the Critique of Judgment, where Kant defines the limits of human
cognitional powers as he had observed them in his study of the peculiar
nature of the human reason. We must first go briefly into Kant's own
exposition of the matter.1
Kant distinguishes between two possible forms of reason, the
intellectus archetypus and the intellectus ectypus. By the first he
means a reason 'which being, not like ours, discursive, but intuitive,
proceeds from the synthetic universal (the intuition of the whole as
such) to the particular, that is, from the whole to the parts'.
According to Kant, such a reason lies outside human possibilities. In
contrast to it, the intellectus ectypus peculiar to man is restricted
to taking in through the senses the single details of the world as
such; with these it can certainly construct pictures of their
totalities, but these pictures never have more than a hypothetical
character and can claim no reality for themselves. Above all, it is not
given to such a thinking to think 'wholes' in such a way that through
an act of thought alone the single items contained in them can be
conceived as parts springing from them by necessity. (To illustrate
this, we may say that, according to Kant, we can certainly comprehend
the parts of an organism, say of a plant, and out of its components
make a picture of the plant as a whole; but we are not in a position to
think that 'whole' of the plant which conditions the existence of its
organism and brings forth its parts by necessity.) Kant expresses this
in the following way:
'For external objects as phenomena an adequate ground related to
purposes cannot be met with; this, although it lies in nature, must be
sought only in the supersensible substrata of nature, from all possible
insight into which we are cut off. Our understanding has then this
peculiarity as concerns the judgment, that in cognitive understanding
the particular is not determined by the universal and cannot therefore
be derived from it.'
The attempt to prove whether or not another form of reason than this
(the intellectus archetypus) is possible - even though declared to be
beyond man - Kant regarded as superfluous, because the fact was enough
for him 'that we are led to the Idea of it - which contains no
contradiction - in contrast to our discursive understanding, which has
need of images (intellectus ectypus), and to the contingency of its
constitution'.
Kant here brings forward two reasons why it is permissible to conceive
of the existence of an extra-human, archetypal reason. On the one hand
he admits that the existence of our own reason in its present condition
is of a contingent order, and thus does not exclude the possible
existence of a reason differently constituted. On the other hand, he
allows that we can think of a form of reason which in every respect is
the opposite of our own, without meeting any logical inconsistency.
From these definitions emerges a conception of the properties of man's
cognitional powers which agrees exactly with those on which, as we have
seen, Hume built up his whole philosophy. Both allow to the reason a
knowledge-material consisting only of pictures - that is, of pictures
evoked in consciousness through sense-perception, and received by it
from the outer world in the form of disconnected units, whilst denying
it all powers, as Hume expressed it, ever 'to perceive any real
connections between distinct existences'.
This agreement between Kant and Hume must at first sight surprise us,
when we recall that, as already mentioned, Kant worked out his
philosophy precisely to protect the cognizing being of man from the
consequences of Hume's thought. For, as he himself said, it was his
becoming acquainted with Hume's Treatise that 'roused him out of his
dogmatic slumber' and obliged him to reflect on the foundations of
human knowing. We shall understand this apparent paradox, however, if
we take it as a symptom of humanity's close imprisonment in recent
centuries within the limits of its onlooker-consciousness.
In his struggle against Hume, Kant was not concerned to challenge his
opponent's definition of man's reasoning power. His sole object was to
show that, if one accepted this definition, one must not go as far as
Hume in the application of this power. All that Kant could aspire to do
was to protect the ethical from attack by the intellectual part of man,
and to do this by proving that the former belongs to a world into which
the latter has no access. For with his will man belongs to a world of
purposeful doing, whereas the reason, as our quotations have shown, is
incapable even in observing external nature, of comprehending the
wholes within nature which determine natural ends. Still less can it do
this in regard to man, a being who in his actions is integrated into
higher purposes.
Kant's deed is significant in that it correctly drew attention to that
polar division in human nature which, after all, was already
established in Kant's own time. Kant demonstrated also that to win
insight into the ethical nature of man with the aid of the isolated
intellect alone implied a trespass beyond permissible limits. In order
to give the doing part of the human being its necessary anchorage,
however, Kant assigned it to a moral world-order entirely external to
man, to which it could be properly related only through obedient
submission.
In this way Kant became the philosopher of that division between
knowledge and faith which to this day is upheld in both the
ecclesiastical and scientific spheres of our civilization.
Nevertheless, he did not succeed in safeguarding humanity from the
consequences of Hume's philosophy; for man cannot live indefinitely in
the belief that with the two parts of his own being he is bound up with
two mutually unrelated worlds. The time when this was feasible is
already over, as may be seen from the fact that ever greater masses of
men wish to determine their behaviour according to their own ideas, and
as they see no alternative in the civilization around them but to form
ideas by means of the discursive reason which inevitably leads to
agnosticism, they determine their actions accordingly. Meanwhile, the
ethical life as viewed by Kant accordingly shrinks ever further into a
powerless, hole-and-corner existence.
*
It is Goethe's merit to have first shown that there is a way out of
this impasse. He had no need to argue theoretically with Kant as to the
justification of denying man any power of understanding apart from the
discursive, and of leaving the faculty of intuitive knowledge to a
divinity somewhere outside the world of man. For Goethe was his own
witness that Kant was mistaken in regarding man's present condition as
his lasting nature. Let us hear how he expresses himself on this fact
at the beginning of his essay written as an answer to Kant's statement:
'It is true, the author here seems to be pointing to an intellect not
human but divine. And yet, if in the moral sphere we are supposed to
lift ourselves up to a higher region through faith in God, Virtue and
Immortality, so drawing nearer to the Primal Being, why should it not
be likewise in the intellectual? By contemplation (Anschauen) of an
ever-creative nature, may we not make ourselves worthy to be spiritual
sharers in her productions? I at first, led by an inner urge that would
not rest, had quite unconsciously been seeking for the realm of Type
and Archetype, and my attempt had been rewarded: I had been able to
build up a description, in conformity with Nature herself. Now
therefore nothing more could hinder me from braving what the Old Man of
the King's Hill2 himself calls the Adventure of Reason.'
Goethe started from the conviction that our senses as well as our
intellect are gifts of nature, and that, if at any given moment they
prove incapable through their collaboration of solving a riddle of
nature, we must ask her to help us to develop this collaboration
adequately. Thus there was no question for him of any restriction of
sense-perception in order to bring the latter in line with the existing
power of the intellect, but rather to learn to make an ever fuller use
of the senses and to bring our intellect into line with what they tell.
'The senses do not deceive, but the judgment deceives', is one of his
basic utterances concerning their respective roles in our quest for
knowledge and understanding. As to the senses themselves, he was sure
that 'the human being is adequately equipped for all true earthly
requirements if he trusts his senses, and so develops them as to make
them worthy of trust'.
There is no contradiction in the statement that we have to trust our
senses, and that we have to develop them to make them trustworthy. For,
'nature speaks upwards to the known senses of man, downwards to unknown
senses of his'. Goethe's path was aimed at wakening faculties, both
perceptual and conceptual, which lay dormant in himself. His experience
showed him that 'every process in nature, rightly observed, wakens in
us a new organ of cognition'. Right observation, in this respect,
consisted in a form of contemplating nature which he called a
're-creating (creating in the wake) of an ever-creative nature'
(Nachschaffen einer immer schaffenden Natur).
*
We should do Goethe an injustice if we measured the value of his
scientific work by the amount of factual knowledge he contributed to
one or other sphere of research. Although Goethe did bring many new
things to light, as has been duly recognized in the scientific fields
concerned, it cannot be gainsaid that other scientists in his own day,
working along the usual lines, far exceeded his total of discoveries.
Nor can it be denied that, as critics have pointed out, he occasionally
went astray in reporting his observations. These things, however, do
not determine the value or otherwise of his scientific labours. His
work draws its significance not so much from the 'what', to use a
Goethean expression, as from the 'how' of his observations, that is,
from his way of investigating nature. Having once developed this method
in the field of plant observation, Goethe was able, with its aid, to
establish a new view of animal nature, to lay the basis for a new
meteorology, and, by creating his theory of light and colour, to
provide a model for a research in the field of physics, free from
onlooker-restrictions.
In the scientific work of Goethe his botanical studies have a special
place. As a living organism, the plant is involved in an endless
process of becoming. It shares this characteristic, of course, with the
higher creatures of nature, and yet between it and them there is an
essential difference. Whereas in animal and man a considerable part of
the life-processes conceal themselves within the organism, in order to
provide a basis for inner soul processes, the plant brings its inner
life into direct and total outer manifestation. Hence the plant, better
than anything, could become Goethe's first teacher in his exercise of
re-creating nature.
It is for the same reason that we shall here use the plant for
introducing Goethe's method. The following exposition, however, does
not aim at rendering in detail Goethe's own botanical researches,
expounded by him in two extensive essays, Morphology and The
Metamorphosis of Plants, as well as in a series of smaller writings.
There are several excellent translations of the chief paper, the
Metamorphosis, from which the English-speaking reader can derive
sufficient insight into Goethe's way of expressing his ideas; a
pleasure as well as a profit which he should not deny himself.
Our own way of procedure will have to be such that Goethe's method, and
its fruitfulness for the general advance of science, come as clearly as
possible into view.3 Botanical details will be referred to only as far
as seems necessary for this purpose.
The data for observation, from which in Goethe's own fashion we shall
start, have been selected as best for our purpose, quite independently
of the data used by Goethe himself. Our choice was determined by the
material available when these pages were being written. The reader is
free to supplement our studies by his own observation of other plants.
*
Plates II and III show two series of leaves which are so arranged as to
represent definite stages in the growth-process of the plant concerned.
In each sequence shown the leaves have been taken from a single plant,
in which each leaf-form was repeated, perhaps several times, before it
passed over into the next stage. The leaves on Plate II come from a
Sidalcea (of the mallow family), those on Plate III from a Delphinium.
We will describe the forms in sequence, so that we may grasp as clearly
as possible the transition from one to another as presented to the eye.
Starting with the right-hand leaf at the bottom of Plate II, we let our
eye and mind be impressed by its characteristic form, seeking to take
hold of the pattern after which it is shaped. Its edge bears numerous
incisions of varying depths which, however, do not disturb the
roundness of the leaf as a whole. If we re-create in our imagination
the 'becoming' of such a leaf, that is, its gradual growth in all
directions, we receive an impression of these incisions as 'negative'
forms, because, at the points where they occur, the multiplication of
the cells resulting from the general growth has been retarded. We
observe that this holding back follows a certain order.
We now proceed to the next leaf on the same plate and observe that,
whilst the initial plan is faithfully maintained, the ratio between the
positive and negative forms has changed. A number of incisions, hardly
yet indicated in the first leaf, have become quite conspicuous. The
leaf begins to look as if it were breaking up into a number of
subdivisions.
In the next leaf we find this process still further advanced. The large
incisions have almost reached the centre, while a number of smaller
ones at the periphery have also grown deeper into the leaf. The basic
plan of the total leaf is still maintained, but the negative forms have
so far got the upper hand that the original roundness is no longer
obvious.
The last leaf shows the process in its extreme degree. As we glance
back and along the whole series of development, we recognize that the
form of the last leaf is already indicated in that of the first. It
appears as if the form has gradually come to the fore through certain
forces which have increasingly prevented the leaf from filling in the
whole of its ground-plan with matter. In the last leaf the common plan
is still visible in the distribution of the veins, but the fleshy part
of the leaf has become restricted to narrow strips along these veins.
The metamorphosis of the delphinium leaf (Plate III) is of a different
character. Here the plant begins with a highly elaborate form of the
leaf, while in the end nothing remains but the barest indication of it.
The impression received from this series of leaves is that of a gradual
withdrawal of the magnificent form, revealed in its fullness only in
the first leaf.
A more intense impression of what these metamorphoses actually mean is
achieved by altering our mode of contemplation in the following way.
After repeated and careful observation of the different forms on either
of the plates, we build up inwardly, as a memory picture, the shape of
the first leaf, and then transform this mental image successively into
the images of the ensuing forms until we reach the final stage. The
same process can also be tried retrogressively, and so repeated forward
and backward.
This is how Goethe studied the doing of the plant, and it is by this
method that he discovered the spiritual principle of all plant life,
and succeeded also in throwing a first light on the inner
life-principle of animals.
*
We chose the transformation of leaf forms into one another as the
starting-point of our observations, because the principle of
metamorphosis appears here in a most conspicuous manner. This
principle, however, is not confined to this part of the plant's
organism. In fact, all the different organs which the plant produces
within its life cycle - foliage, calyx, corolla, organs of
fertilization, fruit and seed - are metamorphoses of one and the same
organ.
Man has long learnt to make use of this law of metamorphosis in the
plant for what is called doubling the flower of a certain species. Such
a flower crowds many additional petals within its original circle, and
these petals are nothing but metamorphosed stamens; this, for instance,
is the difference between the wild and the cultivated rose. The
multitude of petals in the latter is obtained by the transformation of
a number of the former's innumerable stamens. (Note the intermediate
stages between the two, often found inside the flower of such plants.)
This falling back from the stage of an organ of fertilization to that
of a petal shows that the plant is capable of regressive metamorphosis,
and we may conclude from this that in the normal sequence the different
organs are transformed from one another by way of progressive
metamorphosis. It is evident that the regressive type occurs only as an
abnormality, or as a result of artificial cultivation. Plants once
brought into this condition frequently show a general state of unrest,
so that other organs also are inclined to fall back to a lower level.
Thus we may come across a rose, an outer petal of which appears in the
form of a leaf of the calyx (sepal), or one of the sepals is found to
have grown into an ordinary rose leaf.
We now extend our mental exercise to the plant's whole organism. By a
similar mental effort as applied to the leaf-formations we strive to
build up a complete plant. We start with the seed, from which we first
imagine the cotyledons unfolding, letting this be followed by the
gradual development of the entire green part of the plant, its stem and
leaves, until the final leaves change into the sepals of the calyx.
These again we turn into the petals of the flower, until via pistil and
stamens the fruit and seed are formed.
By pursuing in this way the living doing of the plant from stage to
stage we become aware of a significant rhythm in its total life cycle.
This, when first discovered by Goethe, gave him the key to an
understanding of nature's general procedure in building living
organisms, and in maintaining life in them.
The plant clearly divides into three major parts: firstly, the one that
extends from the cotyledons to the calyx, the green part of the plant,
that is, where the life principle is most active; secondly, the one
comprising the flower itself with the organs of fertilization, where
the vitality of the plant gives way to other principles; and lastly,
the fruit and seed, which are destined to be discharged from the mother
organism. Each of these three contains two kinds of organs: first,
organs with the tendency to grow into width-leaf, flower and fruit;
second, organs which are outwardly smaller and simpler, but have the
function of preparing the decisive leaps in the plant's development:
these are the calyx, the stamens, etc., and the seed.
In this succession, Goethe recognized a certain rhythm of expansion and
contraction, and he found that the plant passes through it three times
during any one cycle of its life. In the foliage the plant expands, in
the calyx it contracts; it expands again in the flower and contracts in
the pistil and stamens; finally, it expands in the fruit and contracts
in the seed.
The deeper meaning of this threefold rhythm will become clear when we
consider it against the background of what we observed in the
metamorphosis of the leaf. Take the mallow leaf; its metamorphosis
shows a step-wise progression from coarser to finer forms, whereby the
characteristic plan of the leaf comes more and more into view, so that
in the topmost leaf it reaches a certain stage of perfection. Now we
observe that in the calyx this stage is not improved on, but that the
plant recurs to a much simpler formation.
Whilst in the case of the mallow the withdrawal from the stage of the
leaf into that of the calyx occurs with a sudden leap, we observe that
the delphinium performs this process by degrees. Whilst the mallow
reaches the highly elaborate form of the leaf only in the final stage,
the delphinium leaps forth at the outset, as it were, with the fully
accomplished leaf, and then protracts its withdrawal into the calyx
over a number of steps, so that this process can be watched with our
very eyes. In this type of metamorphosis the last leaf beneath the
calyx shows a form that differs little from that of a calyx itself,
with its simple sepals. Only in its general geometrical arrangement
does it still remind us of the original pattern.
In a case like this, the stem-leaves, to use Goethe's expression,
'softly steal into the calyx stage'.4 In the topmost leaf the plant has
already achieved something which, along the other line of
metamorphosis, is tackled only after the leaf plan itself has been
gradually executed. In this case the calyx stage, we may say, is
attained at one leap.
Whatever type of metamorphosis is followed by a plant (and there are
others as well, so that we may even speak of metamorphoses between
different types of metamorphosis!) they all obey the same basic rule,
namely, that before proceeding to the next higher stage of the cycle,
the plant sacrifices something already achieved in a preceding one.
Behind the inconspicuous sheath of the calyx we see the plant preparing
itself for a new creation of an entirely different order. As successor
to the leaf, the flower appears to us time and again as a miracle.
Nothing in the lower realm of the plant predicts the form, colour,
scent and all the other properties of the new organ produced at this
stage. The completed leaf, preceding the plant's withdrawal into the
calyx, represents a triumph of structure over matter. Now, in the
flower, matter is overcome to a still higher degree. It is as if the
material substance here becomes transparent, so that what is immaterial
in the plant may shine through its outer surface.
*
In this 'climbing up the spiritual ladder' Goethe learned to recognize
one of nature's basic principles. He termed it Steigerung
(heightening). Thus he saw the plant develop through Metamorphosis and
Heightening towards its consummation. Implicit in the second of these
two principles, however, there is yet another natural principle for
which Goethe did not coin a specific term, although he shows through
other utterances that he was well aware of it, and of its universal
significance for all life. We propose to call it here the principle of
Renunciation.
In the life of the plant this principle shows itself most conspicuously
where the green leaf is heightened into the flower. While progressing
from leaf to flower the plant undergoes a decisive ebb in its vitality.
Compared with the leaf, the flower is a dying organ. This dying,
however, is of a kind we may aptly call a 'dying into being'. Life in
its mere vegetative form is here seen withdrawing in order that a
higher manifestation of the spirit may take place. The same principle
can be seen at work in the insect kingdom, when the caterpillar's
tremendous vitality passes over into the short-lived beauty of the
butterfly. In the human being it is responsible for that metamorphosis
of organic processes which occurs on the path from the metabolic to the
nervous system, and which we came to recognize as the precondition for
the appearance of consciousness within the organism.
What powerful forces must be at work in the plant organism at this
point of transition from its green to its coloured parts! They enforce
a complete halt upon the juices that rise up right into the calyx, so
that these bring nothing of their life-bearing activity into the
formation of the flower, but undergo a complete transmutation, not
gradually, but with a sudden leap.
After achieving its masterpiece in the flower, the plant once more goes
through a process of withdrawal, this time into the tiny organs of
fertilization. (We shall return later to this essential stage in the
life cycle of the plant, and shall then clear up the misinterpretation
put upon it ever since scientific biology began.) After fertilization,
the fruit begins to swell; once more the plant produces an organ with a
more or less conspicuous spatial extension. This is followed by a final
and extreme contraction in the forming of the seed inside the fruit. In
the seed the plant gives up all outer appearance to such a degree that
nothing seems to remain but a small, insignificant speck of organized
matter. Yet this tiny, inconspicuous thing bears in it the power of
bringing forth a whole new plant.
In these three successive rhythms of expansion and contraction the
plant reveals to us the basic rule of its existence. During each
expansion, the active principle of the plant presses forth into visible
appearance; during each contraction it withdraws from outer embodiment
into what we may describe as a more or less pure state of being. We
thus find the spiritual principle of the plant engaged in a kind of
breathing rhythm, now appearing, now disappearing, now assuming power
over matter, now withdrawing from it again.
In the fully developed plant this rhythm repeats itself three times in
succession and at ever higher levels, so that the plant, in climbing
from stage to stage, each time goes through a process of withdrawal
before appearing at the next. The greater the creative power required
at a certain stage, the more nearly complete must be the withdrawal
from outer appearance. This is why the most extreme withdrawal of the
plant into the state of being takes place in the seed, when the plant
prepares itself for its transition from one generation to another. Even
earlier, the flower stands towards the leaves as something like a new
generation springing from the small organ of the calyx, as does the
fruit to the flower when it arises from the tiny organs of
reproduction. In the end, however, nothing appears outwardly so unlike
the actual plant as the little seed which, at the expense of all
appearance, has the power to renew the whole cycle.
Through studying the plant in this way Goethe grew aware also of the
significance of the nodes and eyes which the plant develops as points
where its vital energy is specially concentrated; not only the seed,
but the eye also, is capable of producing a new, complete plant. In
each of these eyes, formed in the axils of the leaves, the power of the
plant is present in its entirety, very much as in each single seed.
In other ways, too, the plant shows its capacity to act as a whole at
various places of its organism. Otherwise, no plant could be propagated
by cuttings; in any little twig cut from a parent plant, all the
manifold forces operative in the gathering, transmuting, forming of
matter, that are necessary for the production of root, leaf, flower,
fruit, etc., are potentially present, ready to leap into action
provided we give it suitable outer conditions. Other plants, such as
gloxinia and begonia, are known to have the power of bringing forth a
new, complete plant from each of their leaves. From a small cut applied
to a vein in a leaf, which is then embedded in earth, a root will soon
be seen springing downward, and a stalk with leaves rising upward.
A particular observation made by Goethe in this respect is of interest
for methodological reasons. In the introduction to his treatise
Metamorphosis of Plants, when referring to the regressive metamorphosis
of stamens into petals as an example of an irregular metamorphosis, he
remarks that 'experiences of this kind of metamorphosis will enable us
to disclose what is hidden from us in the regular way of development,
and to see clearly and visibly what we should otherwise only be able to
infer'. In this remark Goethe expresses a truth that is valid in many
spheres of life, both human and natural. It is frequently a
pathological aberration in an organic entity that allows us to see in
physical appearance things that do not come outwardly to the fore in
the more balanced condition of normal development, although they are
equally part of the regular organic process.
An enlightening experience of this kind came to Goethe's aid when one
day he happened to see a 'proliferated' rose (durchgewachsene Rose),
that is, a rose from whose centre a whole new plant had sprung. Instead
of the contracted seed-pod, with the attached, equally contracted,
organs of fertilization, there appeared a continuation of the stalk,
half red and half green, bearing in succession a number of small
reddish petals with traces of anthers. Thorns could be seen appearing
further up, petals half-turned into leaves, and even a number of fresh
nodes from which little imperfect flowers were budding. The whole
phenomenon, in all its irregularity, was one more proof for Goethe that
the plant in its totality is potentially present at each point of its
organism.5
*
Goethe's observation of the single plant in statu agendi had trained
him to recognize things of quite different outer appearance as
identical in their inner nature. Leaf, sepal, petal, etc., much as they
differ outwardly, yet showed themselves to him as manifestations of one
and the same spiritual archetype. His idea of Metamorphosis enabled him
to reduce what in outer appearance seems incompatibly different to its
common formative principle. His next step was to observe the different
appearances of one and the same species in different regions of the
earth, and thus to watch the capacity of the species to respond in a
completely flexible way to the various climatic conditions, yet without
concealing its inner identity in the varying outer forms. His travels
in Switzerland and Italy gave him opportunity for such observations,
and in the Alpine regions especially he was delighted at the variations
in the species which he already knew so well from his home in Weimar.
He saw their proportions, the distances between the single parts, the
degree of lignification, the intensity of colour, etc., varying with
the varied conditions, yet never concealing the identity of the
species.
Having once advanced in his investigations from metamorphosis in the
parts of the single plant to metamorphosis among different
representatives of single plant species, Goethe had to take only one
further, entirely decisive, step in order to recognize how every member
of the plant kingdom is the manifestation of a single formative
principle common to them all. He was thus faced with the momentous task
of preparing his spirit to think an idea from which the plant world in
its entire variety could be derived.
Goethe did not take such a step easily, for it was one of his
scientific principles never to think out an idea prematurely. He was
well aware that he who aspires to recognize and to express in idea the
spirit which reveals itself through the phenomena of the sense-world
must develop the art of waiting - of waiting, however, in a way
intensely active, whereby one looks again and yet again, until what one
looks at begins to speak and the day at last dawns when, through
tireless 're-creation of an ever-creating nature', one has grown ripe
to express her secrets openly. Goethe was a master in this art of
active waiting.
* It was in the very year that Galvani, through his chance discovery,
opened the way to the overwhelming invasion of mankind by the purely
physical forces of nature, that Goethe came clearly to see that he had
achieved the goal of his labours. We can form some picture of the
decisive act in the drama of his seeking and finding from letters
written during the years 1785-7.
In the spring of 1785 he writes to a friend in a way that shows him
fully aware of his new method of studying nature, which he recognized
was a reading of her phenomena: 'I can't tell you how the Book of
Nature is becoming readable to me. My long practice in spelling has
helped me; it now suddenly works, and my quiet joy is inexpressible.'
Again in the summer of the following year: 'It is a growing aware of
the Form with which again and again nature plays, and, in playing,
brings forth manifold life.'
Then Goethe went on his famous journey to Italy which was to bear such
significant fruit for his inner life, both in art and in science. At
Michaelmas, 1786, he reports from his visit to the botanical garden in
Padua that 'the thought becomes more and more living that it may be
possible out of one form to develop all plant forms'. At this moment
Goethe felt so near to the basic conception of the plant for which he
was seeking, that he already christened it with a special name. The
term he coined for it is Urpflanze, literally rendered archetypal
plant, or ur-plant, as we propose quite simply to call it.6
It was the rich tropical and sub-tropical vegetation in the botanical
gardens in Palermo that helped Goethe to his decisive observations. The
peculiar nature of the warmer regions of the earth enables the spirit
to reveal itself more intensively than is possible in the temperate
zone. Thus in tropical vegetation many things come before the eye which
otherwise remain undisclosed, and then can be detected only through an
effort of active thought. From this point of view, tropical vegetation
is 'abnormal' in the same sense as was the proliferated rose which
confirmed for Goethe's physical perception that inner law of
plant-growth which had already become clear to his mind.
During his sojourn in Palermo in the spring of 1787 Goethe writes in
his notebook: 'There must be one (ur-plant): how otherwise could we
recognize this or that formation to be a plant unless they were all
formed after one pattern?' Soon after this, he writes in a letter to
the poet Herder, one of his friends in Weimar:
'Further, I must confide to you that I am quite close to the secret of
plant creation, and that it is the simplest thing imaginable. The
ur-plant will be the strangest creature in the world, for which nature
herself should envy me. With this model and the key to it one will be
able to invent plants ad infinitum; they would be consistent; that is
to say, though non-existing, they would be capable of existing, being
no shades or semblances of the painter or poet, but possessing truth
and necessity. The same law will be capable of extension to all living
things.'
*
To become more familiar with the conception of the ur-plant, let us
bring the life-cycle of the plant before our inner eye once again.
There, all the different organs of the plant-leaf, blossom, fruit, etc.
- appear as the metamorphic revelations of the one, identical active
principle, a principle which gradually manifests itself to us by way of
successive heightening from the cotyledons to the perfected glory of
the flower. Amongst all the forms which thus appear in turn, that of
the leaf has a special place; for the leaf is that organ of the plant
in which the ground-plan of all plant existence comes most immediately
to expression. Not only do all the different leaf forms arise, through
endless changing, out of each other, but the leaf, in accordance with
the same principle, also changes itself into all the other organs which
the plant produces in the course of its growth.
It is by precisely the same principle that the ur-plant reveals itself
in the plant kingdom as a whole. Just as in the single plant organism
the different parts are a graduated revelation of the ur-plant, so are
the single kinds and species within the total plant world. As we let
our glance range over all its ranks and stages (from the single-celled,
almost formless alga to the rose and beyond to the tree), we are
following, step by step, the revelation of the ur-plant. Barely hinting
at itself in the lowest vegetable species, it comes in the next higher
stages into ever clearer view, finally streaming forth in full glory in
the magnificence of the manifold blossoming plants. Then, as its
highest creation, it brings forth the tree, which, itself a veritable
miniature earth, becomes the basis for innumerable single plant
growths.
It has struck biologists of Goethe's own and later times that contrary
to their method he did not build up his study of the plant by starting
with its lowest form, and so the reproach has been levelled against him
of having unduly neglected the latter. Because of this, the views he
had come to were regarded as scientifically unfounded. Goethe's
note-books prove that there is no justification for such a reproach. He
was in actual fact deeply interested in the lower plants, but he
realized that they could not contribute anything fundamental to the
spiritual image of the plant as such which he was seeking to attain. To
understand the plant he found himself obliged to pay special attention
to examples in which it came to its most perfect expression. For what
was hidden in the alga was made manifest in the rose. To demand of
Goethe that in accordance with ordinary science he should have
explained nature 'from below upwards' is to misunderstand the
methodological basis of all his investigations.
Seen with Goethe's eyes, the plant kingdom as a whole appears to be a
single mighty plant. In it the ur-plant, while pressing into
appearance, is seen to observe the very rule which we have found
governing its action in the single plant - that of repeated expansion
and contraction.7 Taking the tree in the sense already indicated, as
the state of highest expansion along the ur-plant's way of entering
into spatial manifestation, we note that tree-formation occurs
successively at four different levels - as fern-tree (also the extinct
tree-form of the horsetail) among the cryptogams, as coniferous tree
among the gymnosperms, as palm-tree among the monocotyledons, and
lastly in the form of the manifold species of the leaf-trees at the
highest level of the plant kingdom, the dicotyledons. All these levels
have come successively into existence, as geological research has
shown; the ur-plant achieved these various tree-formations
successively, thus giving up again its state of expansion each time
after having reached it at a particular level.
From the concept of the ur-plant Goethe soon learned to develop another
concept which was to express the spiritual principle working in a
particular plant species, just as the ur-plant was the spiritual
principle covering the plant kingdom as a whole. He called it the type.
In the manifold types which are thus seen active in the plant world we
meet offsprings, as it were, of the mother, the 'ur-plant', which in
them assumes differentiated modes of action.
The present part of our discussion may be concluded by the introduction
of a concept which Goethe formed for the organ of cognition attained
through contemplating nature in the state of becoming, as the plant had
taught him to do.
Let us look back once again on the way in which we first tried to build
up the picture of leaf metamorphosis. There we made use, first of all,
of exact sense-perceptions to which we applied the power of memory in
its function as their keeper. We then endeavoured to transform within
our mind the single memory pictures (leaf forms) into one another. By
doing so we applied to them the activity of mobile fantasy. In this way
we actually endowed, on the one hand, objective memory, which by nature
is static, with the dynamic properties of fantasy, and, on the other
hand, mobile fantasy, which by nature is subjective, with the objective
character of memory. Now, for the new organ of cognition arising from
the union of these two polar faculties of the soul, Goethe coined the
significant expression, exact sensorial fantasy.8 In terms of our
knowledge of man's psycho-physical make-up, acquired earlier, we can
say that, just as the nervous system forms the basis for memory, and
the blood the basis for fantasy, so the 'exact sensorial fantasy' is
based on a newly created collaboration of the two.
*
Our observations have reached a point where we may consider that stage
in the life cycle of the single plant where, by means of the process of
pollination, the seed acquires the capacity to produce out of itself a
new example of the species. Our discussion of this will bring home the
fundamental difference in idea that arises when, instead of judging a
process from the standpoint of the mere onlooker, we try to comprehend
it through re-creating it inwardly.
Biological science of our day takes it for granted that the process
uniting pollen with seed in the plant is an act of fertilization
analogous to that which occurs among the higher organisms of nature.
Now it is not to be gainsaid that to external observation this
comparison seems obvious, and that it is therefore only natural to
speak of the pollen as the male, and of the ovule as the female,
element, and of their union as entirely parallel to that between the
sexes in the higher kingdoms of nature.
Goethe confesses that at first he himself 'had credulously put up with
the ruling dogma of sexuality'. He was first made aware of the
invalidity of this analogy by Professor Schelver who, as Superintendent
of the Jena Botanical Institute, was working under Goethe's direction
and had trained himself in Goethe's method of observing plants. This
man had come to see that if one held strictly to the Goethean practice
of using nothing for the explanation of the plant but what one could
read from the plant itself, one must not ascribe to it any sexual
process. He was convinced that for a Goethean kind of biology it must
be possible to find, even for the process of pollination, an idea
derived from nothing but the two principles of plant life: growth and
formation.
Goethe immediately recognized the Tightness of this thought, and set
about the task of relating the pollination process to the picture of
the plant which his investigations had already yielded. His way of
reporting the result shows how fully conscious he was of its
revolutionary nature. Nor was he in any doubt as to the kind of
reception it would be given by official biology.
In observing the growth of the plant, Goethe had perceived that this
proceeds simultaneously according to two different principles. On the
one hand the plant grows in an axial direction and thereby produces its
main and side stems. To this growth principle Goethe gave the name
'vertical tendency'. Were the plant to follow this principle only, its
lateral shoots would all stand vertically one above the other. But
observation shows that the different plant species obey very different
laws in this respect, as may be seen if one links up all the leaf buds
along any plant stem; they form a line which winds spiral fashion
around it. Each plant family is distinguishable by its own
characteristic spiral, which can be represented either geometrically by
a diagram, or arithmetically by a fraction. If, for example, the leaves
are so arranged in a plant that every fifth leaf recurs on the same
side of the stem, while the spiral connecting the five successive
leaf-buds winds twice round the stem, this is expressed in botany by
the fraction 2 / 5. To distinguish this principle of plant growth from
the vertical tendency, Goethe used the term 'spiral tendency'.
To help towards a clear understanding of both tendencies, Goethe
describes an exercise which is characteristic of his way of schooling
himself in what he called exact sensorial fantasy. He first looks out
for a phenomenon in which the 'secret' of the spiral tendency is made
'open'. This he finds in such a plant as the convolvulus; in this kind
of plant the vertical tendency is lacking, and the spiral principle
comes obviously into outer view. Accordingly, the convolvulus requires
an external support, around which it can wind itself. Goethe now
suggests that after looking at a convolvulus as it grows upwards around
its support, one should first make this clearly present to one's inner
eye, and then again picture the plant's growth without the vertical
support, allowing instead the upward-growing plant inwardly to produce
a vertical support for itself. By way of inward re-creation (which the
reader should not fail to carry out himself) Goethe attained a clear
experience of how, in all those plants which in growing upwards produce
their leaves spiral-wise around the stem, the vertical and spiral
tendencies work together.
In following the two growth-principles, Goethe saw that the vertical
comes to a halt in the blossom; the straight line here shrinks
together, so to say, into a point, surviving only in the ovary and
pistil as continuations of the plant's stalk. The spiral tendency, on
the other hand, is to be found in the circle of the stamens arranged
around these; the process which in the leaves strove outwards in spiral
succession around a straight line is now telescoped on to a single
plane. In other words, the vertical-spiral growth of the plant here
separates into its two components. And when a pollen grain lands on a
pistil and joins with the ovule prepared in the ovary, the two
components are united again. Out of the now complete seed a new and
complete plant can arise.
Goethe understood that he would be taught a correct conception of this
process only by the plant itself. Accordingly, he asked himself where
else in the growing plant something like separation and reunion could
be seen. This he found in the branching and reuniting of the veins in
the leaves, known as anastomosis.
In the dividing of the two growth-principles in the plant through the
formation of carpel and pistil, on the one hand, and the pollen-bearing
stamens on the other, and in their reunion through the coming together
of the pollen with the seed, Goethe recognized a metamorphosis of the
process of anastomosis at a higher level. His vision of it caused him
to term it 'spiritual anastomosis'.
Goethe held a lofty and comprehensive view of the significance of the
male and female principles as spiritual opposites in the cosmos. Among
the various manifestations of this polarity in earthly nature he found
one, but one only, in the duality of the sexes as characteristic of man
and animal. Nothing compelled him, therefore, to ascribe it in the same
form to the plant. This enabled him to discover how the plant bore the
same polarity in plant fashion.
In the neighbourhood of Weimar, Goethe often watched a vine slinging
its foliaged stem about the trunk and branches of an elm tree. In this
impressive sight nature offered him a picture of 'the female and male,
the one that needs and the one that gives, side by side in the vertical
and spiral directions'. Thus his artist's eye clearly detected in the
upward striving of the plant a decisively masculine principle, and in
its spiral winding an equally definite feminine principle. Since in the
normal plant both principles are inwardly connected, 'we can represent
vegetation as a whole as being in a secret androgynous union from the
root up. From this union, through the changes of growth, both systems
break away into open polarity and so stand in decisive opposition to
each other, only to unite again in a higher sense.'
Thus Goethe found himself led to ideas regarding the male and female
principles in the plant, which were the exact opposite of those one
obtains if, in trying to explain the process of pollination, one does
not keep to the plant itself but imports an analogy from another
kingdom of nature. For in continuance of the vertical principle of the
plant, the pistil and carpel represent the male aspect in the process
of spiritual anastomosis, and the mobile, wind- or insect-borne pollen,
in continuing the spiral principle, represents the female part.
If the process of pollination is what the plant tells us it is, then
the question arises as to the reason for the occurrence of such a
process in the life cycle of the fully developed plant. Goethe himself
has not expressed himself explicitly on this subject. But his term
'spiritual anastomosis' shows that he had some definite idea about it.
Let us picture in our mind what happens physically in the plant as a
result of pollination and then try to read from this picture, as from a
hieroglyph, what act of the spiritual principle in the plant comes to
expression through it.
Without pollination there is no ripening of the seed. Ripening means
for the seed its acquisition of the power to bring forth a new and
independent plant organism through which the species continues its
existence within nature. In the life cycle of the plant this event
takes place after the organism has reached its highest degree of
physical perfection. When we now read these facts in the light of the
knowledge that they are deeds of the activity of the type, we may
describe them as follows:
Stage by stage the type expends itself in ever more elaborate forms of
appearance, until in the blossom a triumph of form over matter is
reached. A mere continuation of this path could lead to nothing but a
loss of all connexion between the plant's superphysical and physical
component parts. Thus, to guarantee for the species its continuation in
a new generation, the formative power of the type must find a way of
linking itself anew to some part of the plant's materiality. This is
achieved by the plant's abandoning the union between its two polar
growth-principles and re-establishing it again, which in the majority
of cases takes place even in such a way that the bearers of the two
principles originate from two different organisms.
By picturing the process in this way we are brought face to face with a
rule of nature which, once we have recognized it, proves to hold sway
at all levels of organic nature. In general terms it may be expressed
as follows:
In order that spiritual continuity may be maintained within the coming
and going multitude of nature's creations, the physical stream must
suffer discontinuity at certain intervals.
In the case of the plant this discontinuity is achieved by the breaking
asunder of the male and female growth-principles. When they have
reunited, the type begins to abandon either the entire old plant or at
least part of it, according to whether the species is an annual or a
perennial one, in order to concentrate on the tiny seed, setting, as it
were, its living seal on it.
This is as far as we can go in describing this mysterious process, at
least at the present stage of our considerations.
*
Our pursuit of Goethe's way of observing the life of the plant has
brought us to a point where it becomes possible to rectify a widespread
error concerning his position as an evolutionary theorist.
Goethe has been honourably mentioned as a predecessor of Darwin. The
truth is, that the idea of evolution emerging from Goethe's mode of
regarding nature is the exact opposite of the one held by Darwin and -
in whatever modified form - by his followers. A brief consideration of
the Darwinian concepts of inheritance and adaptation will show this.
Goethe's approach to his conception of the type is clear evidence that
he did not undervalue the factor of adaptation as a formative element
in nature; we have seen that he became acquainted with it in studying
the same plant species under different climatic conditions. In his
view, however, adaptation appears not as the passive effect of a
blindly working, external cause, but as the response of the spiritual
type to the conditions meeting it from outside.
The same applies to the concept of inheritance. Through inheritance
Goethe saw single, accessory characteristics of a species being carried
over from one generation to the next; but never could the reappearance
of the basic features of the species itself be explained in this way.
He was sufficiently initiated into nature's methods to know that she
was not in need of a continuity of the stream of physical substance, in
the sense of the theory of inheritance, to guarantee a continuance of
the features of the species through successive generations, but that it
was her craft to achieve such continuance by means of physical
discontinuity.
*
Goethe was not temperamentally given to reflecting deliberately about
his own cognitional processes. Moreover, the excess of reflexion going
on around him in the intellectual life of his younger days inclined him
to guard himself with a certain anxiety against philosophical
cogitations. His words to a friend - 'Dear friend, I have done it well,
and never reflected about thinking' - bring this home to us. If in his
later years Goethe could become to some degree epistemologically
conscious of his spiritual achievements, as, for instance, his essay on
Intuitive Judgment shows, he owed this to his friendship with Schiller,
who became for him a kind of soul mirror, in which he could see the
reflexion of his own processes of consciousness. Indeed, at their first
personal encounter, significant as it was for their whole later
relationship, Schiller - though all unconsciously - performed a
decisive service of this kind for him. Goethe himself speaks of the
occasion in his essay Happy Encounter (Gliickliches Ereignis), written
twelve years after Schiller's death.
The occasion was, outwardly regarded, fortuitous: both men were leaving
a lecture on natural science at the University of Jena, Schiller having
been present as Professor of History in the University, and Goethe as
its patron and as a Weimar Minister of State. They met at the door of
the lecture hall and went out into the street together. Schiller, who
had been wanting to come into closer contact with Goethe for a long
time, used the opportunity to begin a conversation. He opened with a
comment on the lecture they had just heard, saying that such a
piecemeal way of handling nature could not bring the layman any real
satisfaction. Goethe, to whom this remark was heartily welcome, replied
that such a style of scientific observation 'was uncanny even for the
initiated, and that there must certainly be another way altogether,
which did not treat of nature as divided and in pieces, but presented
her as working and alive, striving out of the whole into the parts'.
Schiller's interest was at once aroused by this remark, although as a
thorough Kantian he could not conceal his doubts whether the kind of
thing indicated by Goethe was within human capacity. Goethe began to
explain himself further, and so the discussion proceeded, until the
speakers arrived at Schiller's house. Quite absorbed in his description
of plant metamorphosis, Goethe went in with Schiller and climbed the
stairs to the latter's study. Once there, he seized pen and paper from
Schiller's writing desk, and to bring his conception of the ur-plant
vividly before his companion's eyes he made 'a symbolic plant appear
with many a characteristic stroke of the pen'.
Although Schiller had listened up to this point 'with great interest
and definite understanding', he shook his head as Goethe finished, and
said - Kantian that he was at that time: 'That is no experience, that
is an idea.' These words were very disappointing to Goethe. At once his
old antipathy towards Schiller rose up, an antipathy caused by much in
Schiller's public utterances which he had found distasteful.
Once again he felt that Schiller and he were 'spiritual antipodes,
removed from each other by more than an earth diameter'. However,
Goethe restrained his rising annoyance, and answered Schiller in a
tranquil but determined manner: 'I am glad to have ideas without
knowing it, and to see them with my very eyes.'
Although at this meeting Goethe and Schiller came to no real agreement,
the personal relationship formed through it did not break off; both had
become aware of the value of each to the other. For Goethe his first
meeting with Schiller had the significant result of showing him that
'thinking about thought' could be fruitful. For Schiller this
significance consisted in his having met in Goethe a human intellect
which, simply by its existing properties, invalidated Kant's
philosophy. For him Goethe's mind became an object of empirical study
on which he based the beginnings of a new philosophy free from
onlooker-restrictions.
An essay, written by Goethe about the same time as the one just quoted,
shows how he came to think at a later date about the raising of human
perception into the realm of ideas. In this essay, entitled Discovery
of an Excellent Predecessor,9 Goethe comments on certain views of the
botanist, K. F. Wolff, regarding the relationships between the
different plant organs, which seemed to be similar to his own, and at
which Wolff had arrived in his own way.
Wolff had risen up as an opponent of the so-called preformation theory,
still widespread at that time, according to which the entire plant with
all its different parts is already present in embryonic physical form
in the seed, and simply grows out into space through physical
enlargement. Such a mode of thought seemed inadmissible to Wolff, for
it made use of an hypothesis 'resting on an extra-sensible conception,
which was held to be thinkable, although it could never be demonstrated
from the sense world. Wolff laid it down as a fundamental principle of
all research that 'nothing may be assumed, admitted or asserted that
has not been actually seen and cannot be made similarly visible to
others'. Thus in Wolff we meet with a phenomenologist who in his way
tried to oppose certain trends of contemporary biological thinking. As
such, Wolff had made certain observations which caused him to ascribe
to the plant features quite similar to those which Goethe had grasped
under the conception of progressive and regressive metamorphosis. In
this way Wolff had grown convinced that all plant organs are
transformed leaves. True to his own principle, he had then turned to
the microscope for his eyes to confirm what his mind had already
recognized.
The microscope gave him the confirmation he expected by showing that
all the different organs of the plant develop out of identical
embryonic beginnings. In his absolute reliance on physical observation,
however, he tried to go further than this and to detect in this way the
reason why the plant does not always bring forth the same organ. He saw
that the vegetative strength in the plant diminishes in proportion as
its organism enters upon its later stages. He therefore attributed the
differentiated evolution of plant organs from identical beginnings to
an ever weaker process of development in them.
Despite his joy in Wolff as someone who in his own fashion had arrived
at certain truths which he himself had also discovered, and despite his
agreement with Wolff's phenomenalistic principle, Goethe could in no
way accept his explanation of why metamorphosis took place in plants.
He said: 'In plant metamorphosis Wolff saw how the same organ
continuously draws together, makes itself smaller; he did not see that
this contraction alternates with an expansion. He saw that the organ
diminishes in volume, but not that at the same time it ennobles itself,
and so, against reason, he attributed decline to the path towards
perfection.' What was it, then, which had prevented Wolff from seeing
things aright? 'However admirable may be Wolff's method, through which
he has achieved so much, the excellent man never thought that there may
be a difference between seeing and seeing, that the eyes of the spirit
have to work in perpetual living connection with those of the body, for
one otherwise risks seeing and yet seeing past a thing (zu sehen und
doch vorbeizusehen).'
Wolff's case was to Goethe a symptom of the danger which he saw arising
for science from the rapidly increasing use of the microscope (and
similarly the telescope), if thinking was not developed correspondingly
but left at the mercy of these instruments. His concern over the state
of affairs speaks from his utterance: 'Microscopes and telescopes, in
actual fact, confuse man's innate clarity of mind.'
When we follow Goethe in this way he comes before us in characteristic
contrast to Robert Hooke. We remember Hooke's microscopic 'proof of the
unrelatedness of human thought to outer reality (Chapter III). There
can be no doubt how Goethe, if the occasion had arisen, would have
commented on Hooke's procedure. He would have pointed out that there
would be no such thing as a knife with its line-like edge unless man
were able to think the concept 'line', nor a needle with its point-like
end unless he were able to think the concept 'point'. In fact, knife
and needle are products of a human action which is guided by these two
concepts respectively. As such they are embodiments, though more or
less imperfect ones, of these concepts. Here too, therefore, just as
Goethe had discovered it through his way of observing the plant, we see
Ideas with our very eyes. What distinguishes objects of this kind from
organic entities, such as the plant, is the different relationship
between Object and Idea. Whereas in the case of an organism the Idea
actively indwells the object, its relationship to a man-made thing (and
similarly to nature's mineral entities) is a purely external one.
Hooke, so Goethe would have argued, allowed the microscope to confuse
his common sense. He would have seen in him an example confirming his
verdict that he who fails to let the eye of the spirit work in union
with the eye of the body 'risks seeing yet seeing past the thing'.
*
'Thus not through an extraordinary spiritual gift, not through
momentary inspiration, unexpected and unique, but through consistent
work did I eventually achieve such satisfactory results.' These words
of Goethe - they occur in his essay, History of my Botanical Studies,
which he wrote in later life as an account of his labours in this field
of science - show how anxious he was that it should be rightly
understood that the faculty of reading in the Book of Nature, as he
knew it, was the result of a systematic training of his mind. It is
important for our further studies to make clear to ourselves at this
point the nature of the change which man must bring to pass within
himself in order to brave Kant's 'adventure of reason'. Goethe's
concept for the newly acquired faculty of cognition, exact sensorial
fantasy, can give us the lead.
We remember that, to form this faculty, two existing functions of the
soul, as such polarically opposite, had to be welded together - memory
based on exact sense-perception and the freely working fantasy; one
connected with the nervous system of the body, the other with the
blood. We also know from earlier considerations (Chapter II) that in
the little child there is not yet any such polarization, in body or
soul, as there is in man's later life. Thus we see that training on
Goethe's lines aims at nothing less than restoring within oneself a
condition which is natural in early childhood.
In saying this we touch on the very foundations of the new pathway to
science discovered by Goethe. We shall hear more of it in the following
chapter.
1 Critique of Judgment, II, 11, 27. Goethe chose the title of his essay
so as to refute Kant by its very wording. Kant, through his inquiry
into man's Urteilskraft, arrived at the conclusion that man is denied
the power of Anschauung (intuition). Against this, Goethe puts his
Anschauende Urteilskraft.
2 'Der Alte vom Königsberge' - a play upon words with the name of Kant's
native town, Königsberg.
3 It is naturally to be expected that new light will also be thrown on
the various realms of knowledge as such dealt with in these pages.
4 Delphinium, in particular, has the peculiarity (which it shares with
a number of other species) that its calyx appears in the guise of a
flower, whilst the actual flower is quite inconspicuous.
5 Goethe also describes a proliferated pink.
6 The terms 'primeval' or 'primordial' sometimes suggested for
rendering the prefix 'ur' are unsuitable in a case like this. 'Primeval
plant', for instance, used by some translators of Goethe, raises the
misunderstanding - to which Goethe's concept has anyhow been subject
from the side of scientific botany - that by his ur-plant he had in
mind some primitive, prehistoric plant, the hypothetical ancestor in
the Darwinian sense of the present-day plant kingdom.
7 The following observation is not one made by Goethe himself. It is
presented here by the author as an example of the heuristic value of
Goethe's method of pictorial-dynamic contemplation of the sense-world.
8 'Exakte sinnliche Phantasie.'
9 Entdeckung eines trefflichen Vorarbeiters.