stretched further than the eye could reach, in the thought that of all
these, after a hundred years, not one would be alive. And in looking
over a huge catalogue of new books, one might weep at thinking that,
when ten years have passed, not one of them will be heard of.
It is in literature as in life: wherever you turn, you stumble at once
upon the incorrigible mob of humanity, swarming in all directions,
crowding and soiling everything, like flies in summer. Hence the number,
which no man can count, of bad books, those rank weeds of literature,
which draw nourishment from the corn and choke it. The time, money and
attention of the public, which rightfully belong to good books and their
noble aims, they take for themselves: they are written for the mere
purpose of making money or procuring places. So they are not only
useless; they do positive mischief. Nine-tenths of the whole of our
present literature has no other aim than to get a few shillings out of
the pockets of the public; and to this end author, publisher and
reviewer are in league.
Let me mention a crafty and wicked trick, albeit a profitable and
successful one, practised by littérateurs, hack writers, and voluminous
authors. In complete disregard of good taste and the true culture of the
period, they have succeeded in getting the whole of the world of fashion
into leading strings, so that they are all trained to read in time, and
all the same thing, viz., _the newest books_; and that for the purpose
of getting food for conversation in the circles in which they move. This
is the aim served by bad novels, produced by writers who were once
celebrated, as Spindler, Bulwer Lytton, Eugene Sue. What can be more
miserable than the lot of a reading public like this, always bound to
peruse the latest works of extremely commonplace persons who write for
money only, and who are therefore never few in number? and for this
advantage they are content to know by name only the works of the few
superior minds of all ages and all countries. Literary newspapers, too,
are a singularly cunning device for robbing the reading public of the
time which, if culture is to be attained, should be devoted to the
genuine productions of literature, instead of being occupied by the
daily bungling commonplace persons.
Hence, in regard to reading, it is a very important thing to be able to
refrain. Skill in doing so consists in not taking into one's hands any
book merely because at the time it happens to be extensively read; such
as political or religious pamphlets, novels, poetry, and the like, which
make a noise, and may even attain to several editions in the first and
last year of their existence. Consider, rather, that the man who writes
for fools is always sure of a large audience; be careful to limit your
time for reading, and devote it exclusively to the works of those great
minds of all times and countries, who o'ertop the rest of humanity,
those whom the voice of fame points to as such. These alone really
educate and instruct. You can never read bad literature too little, nor
good literature too much. Bad books are intellectual poison; they
destroy the mind. Because people always read what is new instead of the
best of all ages, writers remain in the narrow circle of the ideas which
happen to prevail in their time; and so the period sinks deeper and
deeper into its own mire.
There are at all times two literatures in progress, running side by
side, but little known to each other; the one real, the other only
apparent. The former grows into permanent literature; it is pursued by
those who live _for_ science or poetry; its course is sober and quiet,
but extremely slow; and it produces in Europe scarcely a dozen works in
a century; these, however, are permanent. The other kind is pursued by
persons who live _on_ science or poetry; it goes at a gallop with much
noise and shouting of partisans; and every twelve-month puts a thousand
works on the market. But after a few years one asks, Where are they?
where is the glory which came so soon and made so much clamor? This kind
may be called fleeting, and the other, permanent literature.
In the history of politics, half a century is always a considerable
time; the matter which goes to form them is ever on the move; there is
always something going on. But in the history of literature there is
often a complete standstill for the same period; nothing has happened,
for clumsy attempts don't count. You are just where you were fifty years
previously.
To explain what I mean, let me compare the advance of knowledge among
mankind to the course taken by a planet. The false paths on which
humanity usually enters after every important advance are like the
epicycles in the Ptolemaic system, and after passing through one of
them, the world is just where it was before it entered it. But the great
minds, who really bring the race further on its course do not accompany
it on the epicycles it makes from time to time. This explains why
posthumous fame is often bought at the expense of contemporary praise,
and _vice versa_. An instance of such an epicycle is the philosophy
started by Fichte and Schelling, and crowned by Hegel's caricature of
it. This epicycle was a deviation from the limit to which philosophy had
been ultimately brought by Kant; and at that point I took it up again
afterwards, to carry it further. In the intervening period the sham
philosophers I have mentioned and some others went through their
epicycle, which had just come to an end; so that those who went with
them on their course are conscious of the fact that they are exactly at
the point from which they started.
This circumstance explains why it is that, every thirty years or so,
science, literature, and art, as expressed in the spirit of the time,
are declared bankrupt. The errors which appear from time to time amount
to such a height in that period that the mere weight of their absurdity
makes the fabric fall; whilst the opposition to them has been gathering
force at the same time. So an upset takes place, often followed by an
error in the opposite direction. To exhibit these movements in their
periodical return would be the true practical aim of the history of
literature: little attention, however, is paid to it. And besides, the
comparatively short duration of these periods makes it difficult to
collect the data of epochs long gone by, so that it is most convenient
to observe how the matter stands in one's own generation. An instance of
this tendency, drawn from physical science, is supplied in the Neptunian
geology of Werter.
But let me keep strictly to the example cited above, the nearest we can
take. In German philosophy, the brilliant epoch of Kant was immediately
followed by a period which aimed rather at being imposing than at
convincing. Instead of being thorough and clear, it tried to be
dazzling, hyperbolical, and, in a special degree, unintelligible:
instead of seeking truth, it intrigued. Philosophy could make no
progress in this fashion; and at last the whole school and its method
became bankrupt. For the effrontery of Hegel and his fellows came to
such a pass,--whether because they talked such sophisticated nonsense,
or were so unscrupulously puffed, or because the entire aim of this
pretty piece of work was quite obvious,--that in the end there was
nothing to prevent charlatanry of the whole business from becoming
manifest to everybody: and when, in consequence of certain disclosures,
the favor it had enjoyed in high quarters was withdrawn, the system was
openly ridiculed. This most miserable of all the meagre philosophies
that have ever existed came to grief, and dragged down with it into the
abysm of discredit, the systems of Fichte and Schelling which had
preceded it. And so, as far as Germany is concerned, the total
philosophical incompetence of the first half of the century following
upon Kant is quite plain: and still the Germans boast of their talent
for philosophy in comparison with foreigners, especially since an
English writer has been so maliciously ironical as to call them "a
nation of thinkers."
For an example of the general system of epicycles drawn from the history
of art, look at the school of sculpture which flourished in the last
century and took its name from Bernini, more especially at the
development of it which prevailed in France. The ideal of this school
was not antique beauty, but commonplace nature: instead of the
simplicity and grace of ancient art, it represented the manners of a
French minuet.
This tendency became bankrupt when, under Winkelman's direction, a
return was made to the antique school. The history of painting furnishes
an illustration in the first quarter of the century, when art was looked
upon merely as a means and instrument of mediaeval religious sentiment,
and its themes consequently drawn from ecclesiastical subjects alone:
these, however, were treated by painters who had none of the true
earnestness of faith, and in their delusion they followed Francesco
Francia, Pietro Perugino, Angelico da Fiesole and others like them,
rating them higher even than the really great masters who followed. It
was in view of this terror, and because in poetry an analogous aim had
at the same time found favor, that Goethe wrote his parable
_Pfaffenspiel_. This school, too, got the reputation of being whimsical,
became bankrupt, and was followed by a return to nature, which
proclaimed itself in _genre_ pictures and scenes of life of every kind,
even though it now and then strayed into what was vulgar.
The progress of the human mind in literature is similar. The history of
literature is for the most part like the catalogue of a museum of
deformities; the spirit in which they keep best is pigskin. The few
creatures that have been born in goodly shape need not be looked for
there. They are still alive, and are everywhere to be met with in the
world, immortal, and with their years ever green. They alone form what I
have called real literature; the history of which, poor as it is in
persons, we learn from our youth up out of the mouths of all educated
people, before compilations recount it for us.
As an antidote to the prevailing monomania for reading literary
histories, in order to be able to chatter about everything, without
having any real knowledge at all, let me refer to a passage in
Lichtenberg's works (vol. II., p. 302), which is well worth perusal.
I believe that the over-minute acquaintance with the history of science
and learning, which is such a prevalent feature of our day, is very
prejudicial to the advance of knowledge itself. There is pleasure in
following up this history; but as a matter of fact, it leaves the mind,
not empty indeed, but without any power of its own, just because it
makes it so full. Whoever has felt the desire, not to fill up his mind,
but to strengthen it, to develop his faculties and aptitudes, and
generally, to enlarge his powers, will have found that there is nothing
so weakening as intercourse with a so-called littérateur, on a matter of
knowledge on which he has not thought at all, though he knows a thousand
little facts appertaining to its history and literature. It is like
reading a cookery-book when you are hungry. I believe that so-called
literary history will never thrive amongst thoughtful people, who are
conscious of their own worth and the worth of real knowledge. These
people are more given to employing their own reason than to troubling
themselves to know how others have employed theirs. The worst of it is
that, as you will find, the more knowledge takes the direction of
literary research, the less the power of promoting knowledge becomes;
the only thing that increases is pride in the possession of it. Such
persons believe that they possess knowledge in a greater degree than
those who really possess it. It is surely a well-founded remark, that
knowledge never makes its possessor proud. Those alone let themselves be
blown out with pride, who incapable of extending knowledge in their own
persons, occupy themselves with clearing up dark points in its history,
or are able to recount what others have done. They are proud, because
they consider this occupation, which is mostly of a mechanical nature,
the practice of knowledge. I could illustrate what I mean by examples,
but it would be an odious task.
Still, I wish some one would attempt a _tragical_ history of literature,
giving the way in which the writers and artists, who form the proudest
possession of the various nations which have given them birth, have been
treated by them during their lives. Such a history would exhibit the
ceaseless warfare, which what was good and genuine in all times and
countries has had to wage with what was bad and perverse. It would tell
of the martyrdom of almost all those who truly enlightened humanity, of
almost all the great masters of every kind of art: it would show us how,
with few exceptions, they were tormented to death, without recognition,
without sympathy, without followers; how they lived in poverty and
misery, whilst fame, honor, and riches, were the lot of the unworthy;
how their fate was that of Esau, who while he was hunting and getting
venison for his father, was robbed of the blessing by Jacob, disguised
in his brother's clothes, how, in spite of all, they were kept up by the
love of their work, until at last the bitter fight of the teacher of
humanity is over, until the immortal laurel is held out to him, and the
hour strikes when it can be said:
Der sehwere Panzer wird zum Flügelkleide
Kurz ist der Schmerz, unendlich ist die Freude.
PHYSIOGNOMY.
That the outer man is a picture of the inner, and the face an expression
and revelation of the whole character, is a presumption likely enough in
itself, and therefore a safe one to go by; evidenced as it is by the
fact that people are always anxious to see anyone who has made himself
famous by good or evil, or as the author of some extraordinary work; or
if they cannot get a sight of him, to hear at any rate from others what
he looks like. So people go to places where they may expect to see the
person who interests them; the press, especially in England, endeavors
to give a minute and striking description of his appearance; painters
and engravers lose no time in putting him visibly before us; and finally
photography, on that very account of such high value, affords the most
complete satisfaction of our curiosity. It is also a fact that in
private life everyone criticises the physiognomy of those he comes
across, first of all secretly trying to discern their intellectual and
moral character from their features. This would be a useless proceeding
if, as some foolish people fancy, the exterior of a man is a matter of
no account; if, as they think, the soul is one thing and the body
another, and the body related to the soul merely as the coat to the man
himself.
On the contrary, every human face is a hieroglyphic, and a hieroglyphic,
too, which admits of being deciphered, the alphabet of which we carry
about with us already perfected. As a matter of fact, the face of a man
gives us a fuller and more interesting information than his tongue; for
his face is the compendium of all he will ever say, as it is the one
record of all his thoughts and endeavors. And, moreover, the tongue
tells the thought of one man only, whereas the face expresses a thought
of nature itself: so that everyone is worth attentive observation, even
though everyone may not be worth talking to. And if every individual is
worth observation as a single thought of nature, how much more so is
beauty, since it is a higher and more general conception of nature, is,
in fact, her thought of a species. This is why beauty is so captivating:
it is a fundamental thought of nature: whereas the individual is only a
by-thought, a corollary.
In private, people always proceed upon the principle that a man is what
he looks; and the principle is a right one, only the difficulty lies in
its application. For though the art of applying the principle is partly
innate and may be partly gained by experience, no one is a master of it,
and even the most experienced is not infallible. But for all that,
whatever Figaro may say, it is not the face which deceives; it is we who
deceive ourselves in reading in it what is not there.
The deciphering of a face is certainly a great and difficult art, and
the principles of it can never be learnt in the abstract. The first
condition of success is to maintain a purely objective point of view,
which is no easy matter. For, as soon as the faintest trace of anything
subjective is present, whether dislike or favor, or fear or hope, or
even the thought of the impression we ourselves are making upon the
object of our attention the characters we are trying to decipher become
confused and corrupt. The sound of a language is really appreciated only
by one who does not understand it, and that because, in thinking of the
signification of a word, we pay no regard to the sign itself. So, in the
same way, a physiognomy is correctly gauged only by one to whom it is
still strange, who has not grown accustomed to the face by constantly
meeting and conversing with the man himself. It is, therefore, strictly
speaking, only the first sight of a man which affords that purely
objective view which is necessary for deciphering his features. An odor
affects us only when we first come in contact with it, and the first
glass of wine is the one which gives us its true taste: in the same way,
it is only at the first encounter that a face makes its full impression
upon us. Consequently the first impression should be carefully attended
to and noted, even written down if the subject of it is of personal
importance, provided, of course, that one can trust one's own sense of
physiognomy. Subsequent acquaintance and intercourse will obliterate the
impression, but time will one day prove whether it is true.
Let us, however, not conceal from ourselves the fact that this first
impression is for the most part extremely unedifying. How poor most
faces are! With the exception of those that are beautiful, good-natured,
or intellectual, that is to say, the very few and far between, I believe
a person of any fine feeling scarcely ever sees a new face without a
sensation akin to a shock, for the reason that it presents a new and
surprising combination of unedifying elements. To tell the truth, it is,
as a rule, a sorry sight. There are some people whose faces bear the
stamp of such artless vulgarity and baseness of character, such an
animal limitation of intelligence, that one wonders how they can appear
in public with such a countenance, instead of wearing a mask. There are
faces, indeed, the very sight of which produces a feeling of pollution.
One cannot, therefore, take it amiss of people, whose privileged
position admits of it, if they manage to live in retirement and
completely free from the painful sensation of "seeing new faces." The
metaphysical explanation of this circumstance rests upon the
consideration that the individuality of a man is precisely that by the
very existence of which he should be reclaimed and corrected. If, on the
other hand, a psychological explanation is satisfactory, let any one ask
himself what kind of physiognomy he may expect in those who have all
their life long, except on the rarest occasions, harbored nothing but
petty, base and miserable thoughts, and vulgar, selfish, envious, wicked
and malicious desires. Every one of these thoughts and desires has set
its mark upon the face during the time it lasted, and by constant
repetition, all these marks have in course of time become furrows and
blotches, so to speak. Consequently, most people's appearance is such as
to produce a shock at first sight; and it is only gradually that one
gets accustomed to it, that is to say, becomes so deadened to the
impression that it has no more effect on one.
And that the prevailing facial expression is the result of a long
process of innumerable, fleeting and characteristic contractions of the
features is just the reason why intellectual countenances are of gradual
formation. It is, indeed, only in old age that intellectual men attain
their sublime expression, whilst portraits of them in their youth show
only the first traces of it. But on the other hand, what I have just
said about the shock which the first sight of a face generally produces,
is in keeping with the remark that it is only at that first sight that
it makes its true and full impression. For to get a purely objective and
uncorrupted impression of it, we must stand in no kind of relation to
the person; if possible, we must not yet have spoken with him. For every
conversation places us to some extent upon a friendly footing,
establishes a certain _rapport_, a mutual subjective relation, which is
at once unfavorable to an objective point of view. And as everyone's
endeavor is to win esteem or friendship for himself, the man who is
under observation will at once employ all those arts of dissimulation in
which he is already versed, and corrupt us with his airs, hypocrisies
and flatteries; so that what the first look clearly showed will soon be
seen by us no more.
This fact is at the bottom of the saying that "most people gain by
further acquaintance"; it ought, however, to run, "delude us by it." It
is only when, later on, the bad qualities manifest themselves, that our
first judgment as a rule receives its justification and makes good its
scornful verdict. It may be that "a further acquaintance" is an
unfriendly one, and if that is so, we do not find in this case either
that people gain by it. Another reason why people apparently gain on a
nearer acquaintance is that the man whose first aspect warns us from
him, as soon as we converse with him, no longer shows his own being and
character, but also his education; that is, not only what he really is
by nature, but also what he has appropriated to himself out of the
common wealth of mankind. Three-fourths of what he says belongs not to
him, but to the sources from which he obtained it; so that we are often
surprised to hear a minotaur speak so humanly. If we make a still closer
acquaintance, the animal nature, of which his face gave promise, will
manifest itself "in all its splendor." If one is gifted with an acute
sense for physiognomy, one should take special note of those verdicts
which preceded a closer acquaintance and were therefore genuine. For the
face of a man is the exact impression of what he is; and if he deceives
us, that is our fault, not his. What a man says, on the other hand, is
what he thinks, more often what he has learned, or it may be even, what
he pretends to think. And besides this, when we talk to him, or even
hear him talking to others, we pay no attention to his physiognomy
proper. It is the underlying substance, the fundamental _datum_, and we
disregard it; what interests us is its pathognomy, its play of feature
during conversation. This, however, is so arranged as to turn the good
side upwards.
When Socrates said to a young man who was introduced to him to have his
capabilities tested, "Talk in order that I may see you," if indeed by
"seeing" he did not simply mean "hearing," he was right, so far as it is
only in conversation that the features and especially the eyes become
animated, and the intellectual resources and capacities set their mark
upon the countenance. This puts us in a position to form a provisional
notion of the degree and capacity of intelligence; which was in that
case Socrates' aim. But in this connection it is to be observed,
firstly, that the rule does not apply to moral qualities, which lie
deeper, and in the second place, that what from an objective point of
view we gain by the clearer development of the countenance in
conversation, we lose from a subjective standpoint on account of the
personal relation into which the speaker at once enters in regard to us,
and which produces a slight fascination, so that, as explained above, we
are not left impartial observers. Consequently from the last point of
view we might say with greater accuracy, "Do not speak in order that I
may see you."