must observe him when he is alone and left to himself. Society of any
kind and conversation throw a reflection upon him which is not his own,
generally to his advantage; as he is thereby placed in a state of action
and reaction which sets him off. But alone and left to himself, plunged
in the depths of his own thoughts and sensations, he is wholly himself,
and a penetrating eye for physiognomy can at one glance take a general
view of his entire character. For his face, looked at by and in itself,
expresses the keynote of all his thoughts and endeavors, the _arrêt
irrevocable_, the irrevocable decree of his destiny, the consciousness
of which only comes to him when he is alone.
The study of physiognomy is one of the chief means of a knowledge of
mankind, because the cast of a man's face is the only sphere in which
his arts of dissimulation are of no avail, since these arts extended
only to that play of feature which is akin to mimicry. And that is why I
recommend such a study to be undertaken when the subject of it is alone
and given up to his own thoughts, and before he is spoken to: and this
partly for the reason that it is only in such a condition that
inspection of the physiognomy pure and simple is possible, because
conversation at once lets in a pathognomical element, in which a man can
apply the arts of dissimulation which he has learned: partly again
because personal contact, even of the very slightest kind, gives a
certain bias and so corrupts the judgment of the observer.
And in regard to the study of physiognomy in general, it is further to
be observed that intellectual capacity is much easier of discernment
than moral character. The former naturally takes a much more outward
direction, and expresses itself not only in the face and the play of
feature, but also in the gait, down even to the very slightest movement.
One could perhaps discriminate from behind between a blockhead, a fool
and a man of genius. The blockhead would be discerned by the torpidity
and sluggishness of all his movements: folly sets its mark upon every
gesture, and so does intellect and a studious nature. Hence that remark
of La Bruyère that there is nothing so slight, so simple or
imperceptible but that our way of doing it enters in and betrays us: a
fool neither comes nor goes, nor sits down, nor gets up, nor holds his
tongue, nor moves about in the same way as an intelligent man. (And this
is, be it observed by way of parenthesis, the explanation of that sure
and certain instinct which, according to Helvetius, ordinary folk
possess of discerning people of genius, and of getting out of their
way.)
The chief reason for this is that, the larger and more developed the
brain, and the thinner, in relation to it, the spine and nerves, the
greater is the intellect; and not the intellect alone, but at the same
time the mobility and pliancy of all the limbs; because the brain
controls them more immediately and resolutely; so that everything hangs
more upon a single thread, every movement of which gives a precise
expression to its purpose.
This is analogous to, nay, is immediately connected with the fact that
the higher an animal stands in the scale of development, the easier it
becomes to kill it by wounding a single spot. Take, for example,
batrachia: they are slow, cumbrous and sluggish in their movements; they
are unintelligent, and, at the same time, extremely tenacious of life;
the reason of which is that, with a very small brain, their spine and
nerves are very thick. Now gait and movement of the arms are mainly
functions of the brain; our limbs receive their motion and every little
modification of it from the brain through the medium of the spine.
This is why conscious movements fatigue us: the sensation of fatigue,
like that of pain, has its seat in the brain, not, as people commonly
suppose, in the limbs themselves; hence motion induces sleep.
On the other hand those motions which are not excited by the brain, that
is, the unconscious movements of organic life, of the heart, of the
lungs, etc., go on in their course without producing fatigue. And as
thought, equally with motion, is a function of the brain, the character
of the brain's activity is expressed equally in both, according to the
constitution of the individual; stupid people move like lay-figures,
while every joint of an intelligent man is eloquent.
But gesture and movement are not nearly so good an index of intellectual
qualities as the face, the shape and size of the brain, the contraction
and movement of the features, and above all the eye,--from the small,
dull, dead-looking eye of a pig up through all gradations to the
irradiating, flashing eyes of a genius.
The look of good sense and prudence, even of the best kind, differs from
that of genius, in that the former bears the stamp of subjection to the
will, while the latter is free from it.
And therefore one can well believe the anecdote told by Squarzafichi in
his life of Petrarch, and taken from Joseph Brivius, a contemporary of
the poet, how once at the court of the Visconti, when Petrarch and other
noblemen and gentlemen were present, Galeazzo Visconti told his son, who
was then a mere boy (he was afterwards first Duke of Milan), to pick out
the wisest of the company; how the boy looked at them all for a little,
and then took Petrarch by the hand and led him up to his father, to the
great admiration of all present. For so clearly does nature set the mark
of her dignity on the privileged among mankind that even a child can
discern it.
Therefore, I should advise my sagacious countrymen, if ever again they
wish to trumpet about for thirty years a very commonplace person as a
great genius, not to choose for the purpose such a beerhouse-keeper
physiognomy as was possessed by that philosopher, upon whose face nature
had written, in her clearest characters, the familiar inscription,
"commonplace person."
But what applies to intellectual capacity will not apply to moral
qualities, to character. It is more difficult to discern its
physiognomy, because, being of a metaphysical nature, it lies
incomparably deeper.
It is true that moral character is also connected with the constitution,
with the organism, but not so immediately or in such direct connection
with definite parts of its system as is intellectual capacity.
Hence while everyone makes a show of his intelligence and endeavors to
exhibit it at every opportunity, as something with which he is in
general quite contented, few expose their moral qualities freely, and
most people intentionally cover them up; and long practice makes the
concealment perfect. In the meantime, as I explained above, wicked
thoughts and worthless efforts gradually set their mask upon the face,
especially the eyes. So that, judging by physiognomy, it is easy to
warrant that a given man will never produce an immortal work; but not
that he will never commit a great crime.
PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.
For every animal, and more especially for man, a certain conformity and
proportion between the will and the intellect is necessary for existing
or making any progress in the world. The more precise and correct the
proportion which nature establishes, the more easy, safe and agreeable
will be the passage through the world. Still, if the right point is only
approximately reached, it will be enough to ward off destruction. There
are, then, certain limits within which the said proportion may vary, and
yet preserve a correct standard of conformity. The normal standard is as
follows. The object of the intellect is to light and lead the will on
its path, and therefore, the greater the force, impetus and passion,
which spurs on the will from within, the more complete and luminous must
be the intellect which is attached to it, that the vehement strife of
the will, the glow of passion, and the intensity of the emotions, may
not lead man astray, or urge him on to ill considered, false or ruinous
action; this will, inevitably, be the result, if the will is very
violent and the intellect very weak. On the other hand, a phlegmatic
character, a weak and languid will, can get on and hold its own with a
small amount of intellect; what is naturally moderate needs only
moderate support. The general tendency of a want of proportion between
the will and the intellect, in other words, of any variation from the
normal proportion I have mentioned, is to produce unhappiness, whether
it be that the will is greater than the intellect, or the intellect
greater than the will. Especially is this the case when the intellect is
developed to an abnormal degree of strength and superiority, so as to be
out of all proportion to the will, a condition which is the essence of
real genius; the intellect is then not only more than enough for the
needs and aims of life, it is absolutely prejudicial to them. The result
is that, in youth, excessive energy in grasping the objective world,
accompanied by a vivid imagination and a total lack of experience, makes
the mind susceptible, and an easy prey to extravagant ideas, nay, even
to chimeras; and the result is an eccentric and phantastic character.
And when, in later years, this state of mind yields and passes away
under the teaching of experience, still the genius never feels himself
at home in the common world of every day and the ordinary business of
life; he will never take his place in it, and accommodate himself to it
as accurately as the person of moral intellect; he will be much more
likely to make curious mistakes. For the ordinary mind feels itself so
completely at home in the narrow circle of its ideas and views of the
world that no one can get the better of it in that sphere; its faculties
remain true to their original purpose, viz., to promote the service of
the will; it devotes itself steadfastly to this end, and abjures
extravagant aims. The genius, on the other hand, is at bottom a
_monstrum per excessum_; just as, conversely, the passionate, violent
and unintelligent man, the brainless barbarian, is a _monstrum per
defectum_.
* * * * *
_The will to live_, which forms the inmost core of every living being,
exhibits itself most conspicuously in the higher order of animals, that
is, the cleverer ones; and so in them the nature of the will may be seen
and examined most clearly. For in the lower orders its activity is not
so evident; it has a lower degree of objectivation; whereas, in the
class which stands above the higher order of animals, that is, in men,
reason enters in; and with reason comes discretion, and with discretion,
the capacity of dissimulation, which throws a veil over the operations
of the will. And in mankind, consequently, the will appears without its
mask only in the affections and the passions. And this is the reason why
passion, when it speaks, always wins credence, no matter what the
passion may be; and rightly so. For the same reason the passions are the
main theme of poets and the stalking horse of actors. The
conspicuousness of the will in the lower order of animals explains the
delight we take in dogs, apes, cats, etc.; it is the entirely naive way
in which they express themselves that gives us so much pleasure.
The sight of any free animal going about its business undisturbed,
seeking its food, or looking after its young, or mixing in the company
of its kind, all the time being exactly what it ought to be and can
be,--what a strange pleasure it gives us! Even if it is only a bird, I
can watch it for a long time with delight; or a water rat or a hedgehog;
or better still, a weasel, a deer, or a stag. The main reason why we
take so much pleasure in looking at animals is that we like to see our
own nature in such a simplified form. There is only one mendacious being
in the world, and that is man. Every other is true and sincere, and
makes no attempt to conceal what it is, expressing its feelings just as
they are.
* * * * *
Many things are put down to the force of habit which are rather to be
attributed to the constancy and immutability of original, innate
character, according to which under like circumstances we always do the
same thing: whether it happens for the first or the hundredth time, it
is in virtue of the same necessity. Real force of habit, as a matter of
fact, rests upon that indolent, passive disposition which seeks to
relieve the intellect and the will of a fresh choice, and so makes us do
what we did yesterday and have done a hundred times before, and of which
we know that it will attain its object. But the truth of the matter lies
deeper, and a more precise explanation of it can be given than appears
at first sight. Bodies which may be moved by mechanical means only are
subject to the power of inertia; and applied to bodies which may be
acted on by motives, this power becomes the force of habit. The actions
which we perform by mere habit come about, in fact, without any
individual separate motive brought into play for the particular case:
hence, in performing them, we really do not think about them. A motive
was present only on the first few occasions on which the action
happened, which has since become a habit: the secondary after-effect of
this motive is the present habit, and it is sufficient to enable the
action to continue: just as when a body had been set in motion by a
push, it requires no more pushing in order to continue its motion; it
will go on to all eternity, if it meets with no friction. It is the same
in the case of animals: training is a habit which is forced upon them.
The horse goes on drawing his cart quite contentedly, without having to
be urged on: the motion is the continued effect of those strokes of the
whip, which urged him on at first: by the law of inertia they have
become perpetuated as habit. All this is really more than a mere
parable: it is the underlying identity of the will at very different
degrees of its objectivation, in virtue of which the same law of motion
takes such different forms.
* * * * *
_Vive muchos años_ is the ordinary greeting in Spain, and all over the
earth it is quite customary to wish people a long life. It is presumably
not a knowledge of life which directs such a wish; it is rather
knowledge of what man is in his inmost nature, _the will to live_.
The wish which everyone has that he may be remembered after his
death,--a wish which rises to the longing for posthumous glory in the
case of those whose aims are high,--seems to me to spring from this
clinging to life. When the time comes which cuts a man off from every
possibility of real existence, he strives after a life which is still
attainable, even though it be a shadowy and ideal one.
* * * * *
The deep grief we feel at the loss of a friend arises from the feeling
that in every individual there is something which no words can express,
something which is peculiarly his own and therefore irreparable. _Omne
individuum ineffabile_.
* * * * *
We may come to look upon the death of our enemies and adversaries, even
long after it has occurred, with just as much regret as we feel for that
of our friends, viz., when we miss them as witnesses of our brilliant
success.
* * * * *
That the sudden announcement of a very happy event may easily prove
fatal rests upon the fact that happiness and misery depend merely on the
proportion which our claims bear to what we get. Accordingly, the good
things we possess, or are certain of getting, are not felt to be such;
because all pleasure is in fact of a negative nature and effects the
relief of pain, while pain or evil is what is really positive; it is the
object of immediate sensation. With the possession or certain
expectation of good things our demands rises, and increases our capacity
for further possession and larger expectations. But if we are depressed
by continual misfortune, and our claims reduced to a minimum, the sudden
advent of happiness finds no capacity for enjoying it. Neutralized by an
absence of pre-existing claims, its effects are apparently positive, and
so its whole force is brought into play; hence it may possibly break our
feelings, _i.e._, be fatal to them. And so, as is well known, one must
be careful in announcing great happiness. First, one must get the person
to hope for it, then open up the prospect of it, then communicate part
of it, and at last make it fully known. Every portion of the good news
loses its efficacy, because it is anticipated by a demand, and room is
left for an increase in it. In view of all this, it may be said that our
stomach for good fortune is bottomless, but the entrance to it is
narrow. These remarks are not applicable to great misfortunes in the
same way. They are more seldom fatal, because hope always sets itself
against them. That an analogous part is not played by fear in the case
of happiness results from the fact that we are instinctively more
inclined to hope than to fear; just as our eyes turn of themselves
towards light rather than darkness.
* * * * *
Hope is the result of confusing the desire that something should take
place with the probability that it will. Perhaps no man is free from
this folly of the heart, which deranges the intellect's correct
appreciation of probability to such an extent that, if the chances are a
thousand to one against it, yet the event is thought a likely one. Still
in spite of this, a sudden misfortune is like a death stroke, whilst a
hope that is always disappointed and still never dies, is like death by
prolonged torture.
He who has lost all hope has also lost all fear; this is the meaning of
the expression "desperate." It is natural to a man to believe what he
wishes to be true, and to believe it because he wishes it, If this
characteristic of our nature, at once beneficial and assuaging, is
rooted out by many hard blows of fate, and a man comes, conversely, to a
condition in which he believes a thing must happen because he does not
wish it, and what he wishes to happen can never be, just because he
wishes it, this is in reality the state described as "desperation."
* * * * *
That we are so often deceived in others is not because our judgment is
at fault, but because in general, as Bacon says, _intellectus luminis
sicci non est, sed recipit infusionem a voluntate et affectibus_: that
is to say, trifles unconsciously bias us for or against a person from
the very beginning. It may also be explained by our not abiding by the
qualities which we really discover; we go on to conclude the presence of
others which we think inseparable from them, or the absence of those
which we consider incompatible. For instance, when we perceive
generosity, we infer justice; from piety, we infer honesty; from lying,
deception; from deception, stealing, etc.; a procedure which opens the
door to many false views, partly because human nature is so strange,
partly because our standpoint is so one-sided. It is true, indeed, that
character always forms a consistent and connected whole; but the roots
of all its qualities lie too deep to allow of our concluding from
particular data in a given case whether certain qualities can or cannot
exist together.
* * * * *
We often happen to say things that may in some way or other be
prejudicial to us; but we keep silent about things that might make us
look ridiculous; because in this case effect follows very quickly on
cause.
* * * * *
The pain of an unfulfilled wish is small in comparison with that of
repentance; for the one stands in the presence of the vast open future,
whilst the other has the irrevocable past closed behind it.
* * * * *
_Geduld, patientia_, patience, especially the Spanish _sufrimiento_, is
strongly connected with the notion of _suffering_. It is therefore a
passive state, just as the opposite is an active state of the mind, with
which, when great, patience is incompatible. It is the innate virtue of
a phlegmatic, indolent, and spiritless people, as also of women. But
that it is nevertheless so very useful and necessary is a sign that the
world is very badly constituted.
* * * * *
Money is human happiness in the abstract: he, then, who is no longer
capable of enjoying human happiness in the concrete, devotes his heart
entirely to money.
* * * * *
Obstinacy is the result of the will forcing itself into the place of the
intellect.
* * * * *
If you want to find out your real opinion of anyone, observe the
impression made upon you by the first sight of a letter from him.
* * * * *
The course of our individual life and the events in it, as far as their
true meaning and connection is concerned, may be compared to a piece of
rough mosaic. So long as you stand close in front of it, you cannot get
a right view of the objects presented, nor perceive their significance
or beauty. Both come in sight only when you stand a little way off. And
in the same way you often understand the true connection of important
events in your life, not while they are going on, nor soon after they
are past, but only a considerable time afterwards.
Is this so, because we require the magnifying effect of imagination? or
because we can get a general view only from a distance? or because the
school of experience makes our judgment ripe? Perhaps all of these
together: but it is certain that we often view in the right light the
actions of others, and occasionally even our own, only after the lapse
of years. And as it is in one's own life, so it is in history.
Happy circumstances in life are like certain groups of trees. Seen from
a distance they look very well: but go up to them and amongst them, and
the beauty vanishes; you don't know where it can be; it is only trees
you see. And so it is that we often envy the lot of others.
* * * * *
The doctor sees all the weakness of mankind, the lawyer all the
wickedness, the theologian all the stupidity.
* * * * *
A person of phlegmatic disposition who is a blockhead, would, with a
sanguine nature, be a fool.
* * * * *
Now and then one learns something, but one forgets the whole day long.
Moreover our memory is like a sieve, the holes of which in time get
larger and larger: the older we get, the quicker anything entrusted to
it slips from the memory, whereas, what was fixed fast in it in early
days is there still. The memory of an old man gets clearer and clearer,
the further it goes back, and less clear the nearer it approaches the
present time; so that his memory, like his eyes, becomes short-sighted.
* * * * *
In the process of learning you may be apprehensive about bewildering and
confusing the memory, but not about overloading it, in the strict sense
of the word. The faculty for remembering is not diminished in proportion
to what one has learnt, just as little as the number of moulds in which
you cast sand, lessens its capacity for being cast in new moulds. In
this sense the memory is bottomless. And yet the greater and more
various any one's knowledge, the longer he takes to find out anything
that may suddenly be asked him; because he is like a shopkeeper who has
to get the article wanted from a large and multifarious store; or, more
strictly speaking, because out of many possible trains of thought he has
to recall exactly that one which, as a result of previous training,
leads to the matter in question. For the memory is not a repository of
things you wish to preserve, but a mere dexterity of the intellectual
powers; hence the mind always contains its sum of knowledge only
potentially, never actually.