There are two fundamentally different ways of regarding the intellect,
which depend upon the difference of the point of view, and, much as they
are opposed to each other in consequence of this, must yet be brought into
agreement. One is the _subjective_, which, starting from _within_ and
taking the _consciousness_ as the given, shows us by what mechanism the
world exhibits itself in it, and how, out of the materials which the
senses and the understanding provide, it constructs itself in it. We must
look upon Locke as the originator of this method of consideration; Kant
brought it to incomparably higher perfection; and our first book also,
together with its supplements, are devoted to it.
The method of considering the intellect which is opposed to this is the
_objective_, which starts from _without_, takes as its object not our own
consciousness, but the beings given in outward experience, conscious of
themselves and of the world, and now investigates the relation of their
intellect to their other qualities, how it has become possible, how it has
become necessary, and what it accomplishes for them. The standpoint of
this method of consideration is the empirical. It takes the world and the
animal existences present in it as absolutely given, in that it starts
from them. It is accordingly primarily zoological, anatomical,
physiological, and only becomes philosophical by connection with that
first method of consideration, and from the higher point of view thereby
attained. The only foundations of this which as yet have been given we owe
to zootomists and physiologists, for the most part French. Here Cabanis is
specially to be named, whose excellent work, “_Des rapports du physique au
moral_,” is initiatory of this method of consideration on the path of
physiology. The famous Bichat was his contemporary, but his theme was a
much more comprehensive one. Even Gall may be named here, although his
chief aim was missed. Ignorance and prejudice have raised against this
method of consideration the accusation of materialism, because, adhering
simply to experience, it does not know the immaterial substance, soul. The
most recent advances in the physiology of the nervous system, through Sir
Charles Bell, Magendie, Marshall Hall, and others, have also enriched and
corrected the material of this method of consideration. A philosophy
which, like the Kantian, entirely ignores this point of view for the
intellect is one‐sided, and consequently inadequate. It leaves an
impassable gulf between our philosophical and our physiological knowledge,
with which we can never find satisfaction.
Although what I have said in the two preceding chapters concerning the
life and the activity of the brain belongs to this method of
consideration, and in the same way all the discussions to be found under
the heading, “_Pflanzenphysiologie_,” in the essay, “_Ueber den Willen in
der Natur_,” and also a portion of those under the heading “_Vergleichende
Anatomie_,” are devoted to it, the following exposition of its results in
general will be by no means superfluous.
We become most vividly conscious of the glaring contrast between the two
methods of considering the intellect opposed to each other above if we
carry the matter to the extreme and realise that what the one, as
reflective thought and vivid perception, directly assumes and makes its
material is for the other nothing more than the physiological function of
an internal organ, the brain; nay, that we are justified in asserting that
the whole objective world, so boundless in space, so infinite in time, so
unsearchable in its perfection, is really only a certain movement or
affection of the pulpy matter in the skull. We then ask in astonishment:
what is this brain whose function produces such a phenomenon of all
phenomena? What is the matter which can be refined and potentiated to such
a pulp that the stimulation of a few of its particles becomes the
conditional supporter of the existence of an objective world? The fear of
such questions led to the hypothesis of the simple substance of an
immaterial soul, which merely dwelt in the brain. We say boldly: this pulp
also, like every vegetable or animal part, is an organic structure, like
all its poorer relations in the inferior accommodation of the heads of our
irrational brethren, down to the lowest, which scarcely apprehends at all;
yet that organic pulp is the last product of nature, which presupposes all
the rest. But in itself, and outside the idea, the brain also, like
everything else, is _will_. _For existing for another is being perceived;
being in itself is willing_: upon this it depends that on the purely
objective path we never attain to the inner nature of things; but if we
attempt to find their inner nature from without and empirically, this
inner always becomes an outer again in our hands,—the pith of the tree, as
well as its bark; the heart of the animal, as well as its hide; the white
and the yolk of an egg, as well as its shell. On the other hand, upon the
subjective path the inner is accessible to us at every moment; for we find
it as the _will_ primarily in ourselves, and must, by the clue of the
analogy with our own nature, be able to solve that of others, in that we
attain to the insight that a being in itself independent of being known,
_i.e._, of exhibiting itself in an intellect, is only conceivable as
willing.
If now, in the _objective_ comprehension of the intellect, we go back as
far as we possibly can, we shall find that the necessity or the need of
_knowledge in general_ arises from the multiplicity and the _separate_
existence of beings, thus from individuation. For suppose there only
existed _a single_ being, such a being would have no need of knowledge:
because nothing would exist which was different from it, and whose
existence it would therefore have to take up into itself indirectly
through knowledge, _i.e._, image and concept. It would _itself_ already be
all in all, and therefore there would remain nothing for it to know,
_i.e._, nothing foreign that could be apprehended as object. In the case
of a multiplicity of beings, on the other hand, every individual finds
itself in a condition of isolation from all the rest, and hence arises the
necessity of knowledge. The nervous system, by means of which the animal
individual primarily becomes conscious of itself, is bounded by a skin;
yet in the brain that has attained to intellect it passes beyond this
limit by means of its form of knowledge, causality, and thus there arises
for it perception as a consciousness of _other_ things, as an image of
beings in space and time, which change in accordance with causality. In
this sense it would be more correct to say, “Only the different is known
by the different,” than as Empedocles said, “Only the like is known by the
like,” which was a very indefinite and ambiguous proposition; although
points of view may certainly also be conceived from which it is true; as,
for instance, we may observe in passing that of Helvetius when he says so
beautifully and happily: “_Il n’y a que l’esprit qui sente l’esprit: c’est
une corde qui ne frémit qu’à l’unison_,” which corresponds with Xenophon’s
“σοφον ειναι δει τον επιγνωσομενον τον σοφον” (_sapientem esse opportet
eum, qui sapientem agniturus sit_), and is a great sorrow. But now, again,
from the other side we know that multiplicity of similars only becomes
possible through time and space; thus through the forms of our knowledge.
Space first arises in that the knowing subject sees externally; it is the
manner in which the subject comprehends something as different from
itself. But we also saw knowledge in general conditioned by multiplicity
and difference. Thus knowledge and multiplicity, or individuation, stand
and fall together, for they reciprocally condition each other. Hence it
must be inferred that, beyond the phenomenon in the true being of all
things, to which time and space, and consequently also multiplicity, must
be foreign, there can also be no knowledge. Buddhism defines this as
_Pratschna Paramita_, _i.e._, that which is beyond all knowledge (J. J.
Schmidt, “On the Maha‐Jana and Pratschna Paramita”). A “knowledge of
things in themselves,” in the strictest sense of the word, would
accordingly be already impossible from the fact that where the thing in
itself begins knowledge ceases, and all knowledge is essentially concerned
only with phenomena. For it springs from a limitation, by which it is made
necessary, in order to extend the limits.
For the objective consideration the brain is the efflorescence of the
organism; therefore only where the latter has attained its highest
perfection and complexity does the brain appear in its greatest
development. But in the preceding chapter we have recognised the organism
as the objectification of the will; therefore the brain also, as a part of
it, must belong to this objectification. Further, from the fact that the
organism is only the visibility of the will, thus in itself is the will, I
have deduced that every affection of the organism at once and directly
affects the will, _i.e._, is felt as agreeable or painful. Yet, with the
heightening of sensibility, in the higher development of the nervous
system, the possibility arises that in the nobler, _i.e._, the
_objective_, organs of sense (sight and hearing) the exquisitely delicate
affections proper to them are perceived without in themselves and directly
affecting the will, that is, without being either painful or agreeable,
and that therefore they appear in consciousness as indifferent, merely
perceived, sensations. But in the brain this heightening of sensibility
reaches such a high degree that upon received impressions of sense a
reaction even takes place, which does not proceed directly from the will,
but is primarily a spontaneity of the function of understanding, which
makes the transition from the directly perceived sensation of the senses
to its _cause_; and since the brain then at once produces the form of
space, there thus arises the perception of an _external object_. We may
therefore regard the point at which the understanding makes the transition
from the mere sensation upon the retina, which is still a mere affection
of the body and therefore of the will, to the _cause_ of that sensation,
which it projects by means of its form of space, as something external and
different from its own body, as the boundary between the world as will and
the world as idea, or as the birthplace of the latter. In man, however,
the spontaneity of the activity of the brain, which in the last instance
is certainly conferred by the will, goes further than mere _perception_
and immediate comprehension of causal relations. It extends to the
construction of abstract conceptions out of these perceptions, and to
operating with these conceptions, _i.e._, to _thinking_, as that in which
his _reason_ consists. _Thoughts_ are therefore furthest removed from the
affections of the body, which, since the body is the objectification of
the will, may, through increased intensity, pass at once into pain, even
in the organs of sense. Accordingly idea and thought may also be regarded
as the efflorescence of the will, because they spring from the highest
perfection and development of the organism; but the organism, in itself
and apart from the idea, is the _will_. Of course, in my explanation, the
existence of the body presupposes the world of idea; inasmuch as it also,
as body or real object, is only in this world; and, on the other hand, the
idea itself just as much presupposes the body, for it arises only through
the function of an organ of the body. That which lies at the foundation of
the whole phenomenon, that in it which alone has being in itself and is
original, is exclusively the _will_; for it is the will which through this
very process assumes the form of the _idea_, _i.e._, enters the secondary
existence of an objective world, or the sphere of the knowable.
Philosophers before Kant, with few exceptions, approached the explanation
of the origin of our knowledge from the wrong side. They set out from a
so‐called soul, an existence whose inner nature and peculiar function
consisted in thinking, and indeed quite specially in abstract thinking,
with mere conceptions, which belonged to it the more completely the
further they lay from all perception. (I beg to refer here to the note at
the end of § 6 of my prize essay on the foundation of morals.) This soul
has in some inconceivable manner entered the body, and there it is only
disturbed in its pure thinking, first by impressions of the senses and
perceptions, still more by the desires which these excite, and finally by
the emotions, nay, passions, to which these desires develop; while the
characteristic and original element of this soul is mere abstract
thinking, and given up to this it has only universals, inborn conceptions,
and _æternæ veritates_ for its objects, and leaves everything perceptible
lying far below it. Hence, also, arises the contempt with which even now
“sensibility” and the "sensuous" are referred to by professors of
philosophy, nay, are even made the chief source of immorality, while it is
just the senses which are the genuine and innocent source of all our
knowledge, from which all thinking must first borrow its material, for in
combination with the _a priori_ functions of the intellect they produce
the _perception_. One might really suppose that in speaking of sensibility
these gentlemen always think only of the pretended sixth sense of the
French. Thus, as we have said, in the process of knowledge, its ultimate
product was made that which is first and original in it, and accordingly
the matter was taken hold of by the wrong end. According to my exposition,
the intellect springs from the organism, and thereby from the will, and
hence could not be without the latter. Thus, without the will it would
also find no material to occupy it; for everything that is knowable is
just the objectification of the will.
But not only the perception of the external world, or the consciousness of
other things, is conditioned by the brain and its functions, but also
self‐consciousness. The will in itself is without consciousness, and
remains so in the greater part of its phenomena. The secondary world of
idea must be added, in order that it may become conscious of itself, just
as light only becomes visible through the bodies which reflect it, and
without them loses itself in darkness without producing any effect.
Because the will, with the aim of comprehending its relations to the
external world, produces a brain in the animal individual, the
consciousness of its own self arises in it, by means of the subject of
knowledge, which comprehends things as existing and the _ego_ as willing.
The sensibility, which reaches its highest degree in the brain, but is yet
dispersed through its different parts, must first of all collect all the
rays of its activity, concentrate them, as it were, in a focus, which,
however, does not lie without, as in the case of the concave mirror, but
within, as in the convex mirror. With this point now it first describes
the line of time, upon which, therefore, all that it presents to itself as
idea must exhibit itself, and which is the first and most essential form
of all knowledge, or the form of inner sense. This focus of the whole
activity of the brain is what Kant called the synthetic unity of
apperception (_cf._ vol. ii. p. 475). Only by means of this does the will
become conscious of itself, because this focus of the activity of the
brain, or that which knows, apprehends itself as identical with its own
basis, from which it springs, that which wills; and thus the _ego_ arises.
Yet this focus of the brain activity remains primarily a mere subject of
knowledge, and as such capable of being the cold and impartial spectator,
the mere guide and counsellor of the will, and also of comprehending the
external world in a purely objective manner, without reference to the will
and its weal or woe. But whenever it turns within, it recognises the will
as the basis of its own phenomenon, and therefore combines with it in the
consciousness of an _ego_. That focus of the activity of the brain (or the
subject of knowledge) is indeed, as an indivisible point, simple, but yet
is not on this account a substance (soul), but a mere condition or state.
That of which it is itself a condition or state can only be known by it
indirectly, as it were through reflection. But the ceasing of this state
must not be regarded as the annihilation of that of which it is a state.
This _knowing_ and conscious _ego_ is related to the will, which is the
basis of its phenomenal appearance, as the picture in the focus of a
concave mirror is related to the mirror itself, and has, like that
picture, only a conditioned, nay, really a merely apparent, reality. Far
from being the absolutely first (as, for example, Fichte teaches), it is
at bottom tertiary, for it presupposes the organism, and the organism
presupposes the will. I admit that all that is said here is really only an
image and a figure, and in part also hypothetical; but we stand at a point
to which thought can scarcely reach, not to speak of proof. I therefore
request the reader to compare with this what I have adduced at length on
this subject in chapter 20.
Now, although the true being of everything that exists consists in its
will, and knowledge together with consciousness are only added at the
higher grades of the phenomenon as something secondary, yet we find that
the difference which the presence and the different degree of
consciousness places between one being and another is exceedingly great
and of important results. The subjective existence of the plant we must
think of as a weak analogue, a mere shadow of comfort and discomfort; and
even in this exceedingly weak degree the plant knows only of itself, not
of anything outside of it. On the other hand, even the lowest animal
standing next to it is forced by increased and more definitely specified
wants to extend the sphere of its existence beyond the limits of its own
body. This takes place through knowledge. It has a dim apprehension of its
immediate surroundings, out of which the motives for its action with a
view to its own maintenance arise. Thus accordingly the _medium of
motives_ appears, and this is—the world existing objectively in time and
space, _the world as idea_, however weak, obscure, and dimly dawning this
first and lowest example of it may be. But it imprints itself ever more
and more distinctly, ever wider and deeper, in proportion as in the
ascending scale of animal organisations the brain is ever more perfectly
produced. This progress in the development of the brain, thus of the
intellect, and of the clearness of the idea, at each of these ever higher
grades is, however, brought about by the constantly increasing and more
complicated _wants_ of this phenomenon of the will. This must always first
afford the occasion for it, for without necessity nature (_i.e._, the will
which objectifies itself in it) produces nothing, least of all the hardest
of its productions—a more perfect brain: in consequence of its _lex
parsimoniæ_: _natura nihil agit frustra et nihil facit supervacaneum_. It
has provided every animal with the organs which are necessary for its
sustenance and the weapons necessary for its conflict, as I have shown at
length in my work, “_Ueber den Willen in der Natur_,” under the heading,
“_Vergleichende Anatomie_.” According to this measure, therefore, it
imparts to each the most important of those organs concerned with what is
without, the brain, with its function the intellect. The more complicated,
through higher development, its organisation became, the more multifarious
and specially determined did its wants also become, and consequently the
more difficult and the more dependent upon opportunity was the provision
of what would satisfy them. Thus there was needed here a wider range of
sight, a more accurate comprehension, a more correct distinction of things
in the external world, in all their circumstances and relations.
Accordingly we see the faculty of forming ideas, and its organs, brain,
nerves, and special senses, appear ever more perfect the higher we advance
in the scale of animals; and in proportion as the cerebral system
develops, the external world appears ever more distinct, many‐sided, and
complete in consciousness. The comprehension of it now demands ever more
attention, and ultimately in such a degree that sometimes its relation to
the will must momentarily be lost sight of in order that it may take place
more purely and correctly. Quite definitely this first appears in the case
of man. With him alone does a _pure separation of knowing and willing_
take place. This is an important point, which I merely touch on here in
order to indicate its position, and be able to take it up again later.
But, like all the rest, nature takes this last step also in extending and
perfecting the brain, and thereby in increasing the powers of knowledge,
only in consequence of the increased needs, thus in the service of the
_will_. What this aims at and attains in man is indeed essentially the
same, and not more than what is also its goal in the brutes—nourishment
and propagation. But the requisites for the attainment of this goal became
so much increased in number, and of so much higher quality and greater
definiteness through the organisation of man, that a very much more
considerable heightening of the intellect than the previous steps demanded
was necessary, or at least was the easiest means of reaching the end. But
since now the intellect, in accordance with its nature, is a tool of the
most various utility, and is equally applicable to the most different
kinds of ends, nature, true to her spirit of parsimony, could now meet
through it alone all the demands of the wants which had now become so
manifold. Therefore she sent forth man without clothing, without natural
means of protection or weapons of attack, nay, with relatively little
muscular power, combined with great frailty and little endurance of
adverse influences and wants, in reliance upon that one great tool, in
addition to which she had only to retain the hands from the next grade
below him, the ape. But through the predominating intellect which here
appears not only is the comprehension of motives, their multiplicity, and
in general the horizon of the aims infinitely increased, but also the
distinctness with which the will is conscious _of itself_ is enhanced in
the highest degree in consequence of the clearness of the whole
consciousness which has been brought about, which is supported by the
capacity for abstract knowledge, and now attains to complete
reflectiveness. But thereby, and also through the vehemence of the will,
which is necessarily presupposed as the supporter of such a heightened
intellect, an intensifying of all the _emotions_ appears, and indeed the
possibility of the _passions_, which, properly speaking, are unknown to
the brute. For the vehemence of the will keeps pace with the advance of
intelligence, because this advance really always springs from the
increased needs and pressing demands of the will: besides this, however,
the two reciprocally support each other. Thus the vehemence of the
character corresponds to the greater energy of the beating of the heart
and the circulation of the blood, which physically heighten the activity
of the brain. On the other hand, the clearness of the intelligence
intensifies the emotions, which are called forth by the outward
circumstances, by means of the more vivid apprehension of the latter.
Hence, for example, young calves quietly allow themselves to be packed in
a cart and carried off; but young lions, if they are only separated from
their mother, remain permanently restless, and roar unceasingly from
morning to night; children in such a position would cry and vex themselves
almost to death. The vivaciousness and impetuosity of the ape is in exact
proportion to its greatly developed intellect. It depends just on this
reciprocal relationship that man is, in general, capable of far greater
sorrows than the brute, but also of greater joy in satisfied and pleasing
emotions. In the same way his higher intelligence makes him more sensible
to _ennui_ than the brute; but it also becomes, if he is individually very
complete, an inexhaustible source of entertainment. Thus, as a whole, the
manifestation of the will in man is related to that in the brute of the
higher species, as a note that has been struck to its fifth pitched two or
three octaves lower. But between the different kinds of brutes also the
differences of intellect, and thereby of consciousness, are great and
endlessly graduated. The mere analogy of consciousness which we must yet
attribute to plants will be related to the still far deader subjective
nature of an unorganised body, very much as the consciousness of the
lowest species of animals is related to the _quasi_ consciousness of
plants. We may present to our imagination the innumerable gradations in
the degree of consciousness under the figure of the different velocity of
points which are unequally distant from the centre of a revolving sphere.
But the most correct, and indeed, as our third book teaches, the natural
figure of that gradation is afforded us by the scale in its whole compass
from the lowest audible note to the highest. It is, however, the grade of
consciousness which determines the grade of existence of a being. For
every immediate existence is subjective: the objective existence is in the
consciousness of another, thus only for this other, consequently quite
indirect. Through the grade of consciousness beings are as different as
through the will they are alike, for the will is what is common to them
all.
But what we have now considered between the plant and the animal, and then
between the different species of animals, occurs also between man and man.
Here also that which is secondary, the intellect, by means of the
clearness of consciousness and distinctness of knowledge which depends
upon it, constitutes a fundamental and immeasurably great difference in
the whole manner of the existence, and thereby in the grade of it. The
higher the consciousness has risen, the more distinct and connected are
the thoughts, the clearer the perceptions the more intense the sensations.
Through it everything gains more depth: emotion, sadness, joy, and sorrow.
Commonplace blockheads are not even capable of real joy: they live on in
dull insensibility. While to one man his consciousness only presents his
own existence, together with the motives which must be apprehended for the
purpose of sustaining and enlivening it, in a bare comprehension of the
external world, it is to another a _camera obscura_ in which the macrocosm
exhibits itself:
“He feels that he holds a little world
Brooding in his brain,
That it begins to work and to live,
That he fain would give it forth.”
The difference of the whole manner of existence which the extremes of the
gradation of intellectual capacity establish between man and man is so
great that that between a king and a day labourer seems small in
comparison. And here also, as in the case of the species of animals, a
connection between the vehemence of the will and the height of the
intellect can be shown. Genius is conditioned by a passionate temperament,
and a phlegmatic genius is inconceivable: it seems as if an exceptionally
vehement, thus a violently longing, will must be present if nature is to
give an abnormally heightened intellect, as corresponding to it; while the
merely physical account of this points to the greater energy with which
the arteries of the head move the brain and increase its turgescence.
Certainly, however, the quantity, quality, and form of the brain itself is
the other and incomparably more rare condition of genius. On the other
hand, phlegmatic persons are as a rule of very moderate mental power; and
thus the northern, cold‐blooded, and phlegmatic nations are in general
noticeably inferior in mind to the southern vivacious and passionate
peoples; although, as Bacon(2) has most pertinently remarked, if once a
man of a northern nation is highly gifted by nature, he can then reach a
grade which no southern ever attains to. It is accordingly as perverse as
it is common to take the great minds of different nations as the standard
for comparing their mental powers: for that is just attempting to prove
the rule by the exceptions. It is rather the great majority of each nation
that one has to consider: for one swallow does not make a summer. We have
further to remark here that that very passionateness which is a condition
of genius, bound up with its vivid apprehension of things, produces in
practical life, where the will comes into play, and especially in the case
of sudden occurrences, so great an excitement of the emotions that it
disturbs and confuses the intellect; while the phlegmatic man in such a
case still retains the full use of his mental faculties, though they are
much more limited, and then accomplishes much more with them than the
greatest genius can achieve. Accordingly a passionate temperament is
favourable to the original quality of the intellect, but a phlegmatic
temperament to its use. Therefore genius proper is only for theoretical
achievements, for which it can choose and await its time, which will just
be the time at which the will is entirely at rest, and no waves disturb
the clear mirror of the comprehension of the world. On the other hand,
genius is ill adapted and unserviceable for practical life, and is
therefore for the most part unfortunate. Goethe’s “Tasso” is written from
this point of view. As now genius proper depends upon the _absolute_
strength of the intellect, which must be purchased by a correspondingly
excessive vehemence of disposition, so, on the other hand, the great pre‐
eminence in practical life that makes generals and statesmen depends upon
the _relative_ strength of the intellect, thus upon the highest degree of
it that can be attained without too great excitability of the emotions,
and too great vehemence of character, and that therefore can hold its own
even in the storm. Great firmness of will and constancy of mind, together
with a capable and fine understanding, are here sufficient; and whatever
goes beyond this acts detrimentally, for too great a development of the
intelligence directly impedes firmness of character and resolution of
will. Hence this kind of eminence is not so abnormal, and is a hundred
times less rare than the former kind; and accordingly we see great
generals and great ministers appear in every age, whenever the merely
external conditions are favourable to their efficiency. Great poets and
philosophers, on the other hand, leave centuries waiting for them; and yet
humanity may be contented even with this rare appearance of them, for
their works remain, and do not exist only for the present, like the
achievements of those other men. It is also quite in keeping with the law
of the parsimony of nature referred to above that it bestows great
eminence of mind in general upon very few, and genius only as the rarest
of all exceptions, while it equips the great mass of the human race with
no more mental power than is required for the maintenance of the
individual and the species. For the great, and through their very
satisfaction, constantly increasing needs of the human race make it
necessary that the great majority of men should pass their lives in
occupations of a coarsely physical and entirely mechanical description.
And what would be the use to them of an active mind, a glowing
imagination, a subtle understanding, and a profoundly penetrating
intellect? These would only make them useless and unhappy. Therefore
nature has thus gone about the most costly of all her productions in the
least extravagant manner. In order not to judge unfairly one ought also to
settle definitely one’s expectations of the mental achievements of men
generally from this point of view, and to regard, for example, even
learned men, since as a rule they have become so only by the force of
outward circumstances, primarily as men whom nature really intended to be
tillers of the soil; indeed even professors of philosophy ought to be
estimated according to this standard, and then their achievements will be
found to come up to all fair expectations. It is worth noticing that in
the south, where the necessities of life press less severely upon the
human race, and more leisure is allowed, the mental faculties even of the
multitude also become more active and finer. It is physiologically
noteworthy that the preponderance of the mass of the brain over that of
the spinal cord and the nerves, which, according to Sömmerring’s acute
discovery, affords the true and closest measure of the degree of
intelligence both of species of brutes and of individual men, at the same
time increases the direct power of moving, the agility of the limbs;
because, through the great inequality of the relation, the dependence of
all motor nerves upon the brain becomes more decided; and besides this the
cerebellum, which is the primary controller of movements, shares the
qualitative perfection of the cerebrum; thus through both all voluntary
movements gain greater facility, rapidity, and manageableness, and by the
concentration of the starting‐point of all activity that arises which
Lichtenberg praises in Garrick: “that he appeared to be present in all the
muscles of his body.” Hence clumsiness in the movement of the body
indicates clumsiness in the movement of the thoughts, and will be regarded
as a sign of stupidity both in individuals and nations, as much as
sleepiness of the countenance and vacancy of the glance. Another symptom
of the physiological state of the case referred to is the fact that many
persons are obliged at once to stand still whenever their conversation
with any one who is walking with them begins to gain some connection;
because their brain, as soon as it has to link together a few thoughts,
has no longer as much power over as is required to keep the limbs in
motion by means of the motory nerves, so closely is everything measured
with them.
It results from this whole objective consideration of the intellect and
its origin, that it is designed for the comprehension of those ends upon
the attainment of which depends the individual life and its propagation,
but by no means for deciphering the inner nature of things and of the
world, which exists independently of the knower. What to the plant is the
susceptibility to light, in consequence of which it guides its growth in
the direction of it, that is, in kind, the knowledge of the brute, nay,
even of man, although in degree it is increased in proportion as the needs
of each of these beings demand. With them all apprehension remains a mere
consciousness of their relations to other things, and is by no means
intended to present again in the consciousness of the knower the peculiar,
absolutely real nature of these things. Rather, as springing from the
will, the intellect is also only designed for its service, thus for the
apprehension of motives; it is adapted for this, and is therefore of a
thoroughly practical tendency. This also holds good if we conceive the
significance of life as ethical; for in this regard too we find man
knowing only for the benefit of his conduct. Such a faculty of knowledge,
existing exclusively for practical ends, will from its nature always
comprehend only the relations of things to each other, but not the inner
nature of them, as it is in itself. But to regard the complex of these
relations as the absolute nature of the world as it is in itself, and the
manner in which it necessarily exhibits itself in accordance with the laws
predisposed in the brain as the eternal laws of the existence of all
things, and then to construct ontology, cosmology, and theology in
accordance with this view—this was really the old fundamental error, of
which Kant’s teaching has made an end. Here, then, our objective, and
therefore for the most part physiological consideration of the intellect
meets _his_ transcendental consideration of it; nay, appears in a certain
sense even as an _a priori_ insight into it; for, from a point of view
which we have taken up outside of it, our objective view enables us to
know in its origin, and therefore as _necessary_, what that transcendental
consideration, starting from facts of consciousness, presents only as a
matter of fact. For it follows from our objective consideration of the
intellect, that the world as idea, as it exists stretched out in space and
time, and moves on regularly according to the strict law of causality, is
primarily only a physiological phenomenon, a function of the brain, which
brings it about, certainly upon the occasion of certain external stimuli,
but yet in conformity with its own laws. Accordingly it is beforehand a
matter of course, that what goes on in this function itself, and therefore
through it and for it, must by no means be regarded as the nature of
_things in themselves_, which exist independently of it and are entirely
different from it, but primarily exhibits only the mode or manner of this
function itself, which can always receive only a very subordinate
modification through that which exists completely independently of it, and
sets it in motion as a stimulus. As, then, Locke claimed for the organs of
sense all that comes into our apprehension by means of the sensation, in
order to deny that it belongs to things in themselves, so Kant, with the
same intention, and pursuing the same path further, has proved all that
makes _perception_ proper possible, thus space, time, and causality, to be
functions of the brain; although he has refrained from using this
physiological expression, to which, however, our present method of
investigation, coming from the opposite side, the side of the real,
necessarily leads us. Kant arrived upon his analytical path at the result
that what we know are mere _phenomena_. What this mysterious expression
really means becomes clear from our objective and genetic investigation of
the intellect. The phenomena are the motives for the aims of individual
will as they exhibit themselves in the intellect which the will has
produced for this purpose (which itself appears as a phenomenon
objectively, as the brain), and which, when comprehended, as far as one
can follow their concatenation, afford us in their connection the world
which extends itself objectively in time and space, and which I call the
world as idea. Moreover, from our point of view, the objectionable element
vanishes which in the Kantian doctrine arises from the fact that, because
the intellect knows merely phenomena instead of things as they are in
themselves, nay, in consequence of this is led astray into paralogisms and
unfounded hypostases by means of “sophistications, not of men but of the
reason itself, from which even the wisest does not free himself, and if,
perhaps indeed after much trouble, he avoids error, can yet never get quit
of the illusion which unceasingly torments and mocks him”—because of all
this, I say, the appearance arises that our intellect is intentionally
designed to lead us into errors. For the objective view of the intellect
given here, which contains a genesis of it, makes it conceivable that,
being exclusively intended for practical ends, it is merely the _medium of
motives_, and therefore fulfils its end by an accurate presentation of
these, and that if we undertake to discover the nature of things in
themselves, from the manifold phenomena which here exhibit themselves
objectively to us, and their laws, we do this at our own peril and on our
own responsibility. We have recognised that the original inner force of
nature, without knowledge and working in the dark, which, if it has worked
its way up to self‐consciousness, reveals itself to this as _will_,
attains to this grade only by the production of an animal brain and of
knowledge, as its function, whereupon the phenomenon of the world of
perception arises in this brain. But to explain this mere brain
phenomenon, with the conformity to law which is invariably connected with
its functions, as the objective inner nature of the world and the things
in it, which is independent of the brain, existing before and after it, is
clearly a spring which nothing warrants us in making. From this _mundus
phœnomenon_, however, from this perception which arises under such a
variety of conditions, all our conceptions are drawn. They have all their
content from it, or even only in relation to it. Therefore, as Kant says,
they are only for immanent, not for transcendental, use; that is to say,
these conceptions of ours, this first material of thought, and
consequently still more the judgments which result from their combination,
are unfitted for the task of thinking the nature of things in themselves,
and the true connection of the world and existence; indeed, to undertake
this is analogous to expressing the stereometrical content of a body in
square inches. For our intellect, originally only intended to present to
an individual will its paltry aims, comprehends accordingly mere
_relations_ of things, and does not penetrate to their inner being, to
their real nature. It is therefore a merely superficial force, clings to
the surface of things, and apprehends mere _species transitivas_, not the
true being of things. From this it arises that we cannot understand and
comprehend any single thing, even the simplest and smallest, through and
through, but something remains entirely inexplicable to us in each of
them. Just because the intellect is a product of nature, and is therefore
only intended for its ends, the Christian mystics have very aptly called
it “the light of nature,” and driven it back within its limits; for nature
is the object to which alone it is the subject. The thought from which the
Critique of Pure Reason has sprung really lies already at the foundation
of this expression. That we cannot comprehend the world on the direct
path, _i.e._, through the uncritical, direct application of the intellect
and its data, but when we reflect upon it become ever more deeply involved
in insoluble mysteries, points to the fact that the intellect, thus
knowledge itself, is secondary, a mere product, brought about by the
development of the inner being of the world, which consequently till then
preceded it, and it at last appeared as a breaking through to the light
out of the obscure depths of the unconscious striving the nature of which
exhibits itself as _will_ to the self‐consciousness which now at once
arises. That which preceded knowledge as its condition, whereby it first
became possible, thus its own basis, cannot be directly comprehended by
it; as the eye cannot see itself. It is rather the relations of one
existence to another, exhibiting themselves upon the surface of things,
which alone are its affair, and are so only by means of the apparatus of
the intellect, its forms, space, time, and causality. Just because the
world has made itself without the assistance of knowledge, its whole being
does not enter into knowledge, but knowledge presupposes the existence of
the world; on which account the origin of the world does not lie within
its sphere. It is accordingly limited to the relations between the things
which lie before it, and is thus sufficient for the individual will, for
the service of which alone it appeared. For the intellect is, as has been
shown, conditioned by nature, lies in it, belongs to it, and cannot
therefore place itself over against it as something quite foreign to it,
in order thus to take up into itself its whole nature, absolutely,
objectively, and thoroughly. It can, if fortune favours it, understand all
that is in nature, but not nature itself, at least not directly.
However discouraging to metaphysics this essential limitation of the
intellect may be, which arises from its nature and origin, it has yet
another side which is very consoling. It deprives the direct utterances of
nature of their unconditional validity, in the assertion of which
_naturalism_ proper consists. If, therefore, nature presents to us every
living thing as appearing out of nothing, and, after an ephemeral
existence, returning again for ever to nothing, and if it seems to take
pleasure in the unceasing production of new beings, in order that it may
be able unceasingly to destroy, and, on the other hand, is unable to bring
anything permanent to light; if accordingly we are forced to recognise
_matter_ as that which alone is permanent, which never came into being and
never passes away, but brings forth all things from its womb, whence its
name appears to be derived from _mater rerum_, and along with it, as the
father of things, _form_, which, just as fleeting as matter is permanent,
changes really every moment, and can only maintain itself so long as it
clings as a parasite to matter (now to one part of it, now to another),
but when once it entirely loses hold, disappears, as is shown by the
palæotheria and the ichthyosaurians, we must indeed recognise this as the
direct and genuine utterance of nature, but on account of the origin of
the intellect explained above, and the nature of it which results from
this origin, we cannot ascribe to this utterance an _unconditional truth_,
but rather only an entirely _conditional_ truth, which Kant has
appropriately indicated as such by calling it the _phenomenon_ in
opposition to the _thing in itself_.
If, in spite of this essential limitation of the intellect, it is
possible, by a circuitous route, to arrive at a certain understanding of
the world and the nature of things, by means of reflection widely pursued,
and the skilful combination of objective knowledge directed towards
without, with the data of self‐consciousness, this will yet be only a very
limited, entirely indirect, and relative understanding, a parabolical
translation into the forms of knowledge, thus a _quadam prodire tenus_,
which must always leave many problems still unsolved. On the other hand,
the fundamental error of the old _dogmatism_ in all its forms, which was
destroyed by Kant, was this, that it started absolutely from _knowledge_,
i.e., _the world as idea_, in order to deduce and construct from its laws
being in general, whereby it accepted that world of idea, together with
its laws, as absolutely existing and absolutely real; while its whole
existence is throughout relative, and a mere result or phenomenon of the
true being which lies at its foundation,—or, in other words, that it
constructed an ontology when it had only materials for a dianoiology. Kant
discovered the subjectively conditioned and therefore entirely immanent
nature of knowledge, _i.e._, its unsuitableness for transcendental use,
from the constitution of knowledge itself; and therefore he very
appropriately called his doctrine the _Critique of Reason_. He
accomplished this partly by showing the important and thoroughly _a
priori_ part of all knowledge, which, as throughout subjective, spoils all
objectivity, and partly by professedly proving that if they were followed
out to the end the principles of knowledge, taken as purely objective, led
to contradictions. He had, however, hastily assumed that, apart from
_objective_ knowledge, _i.e._, apart from the world as _idea_, there is
nothing given us except conscience, out of which he constructed the little
that still remained of metaphysics, his moral theology, to which, however,
he attributed absolutely only a practical validity, and no theoretical
validity at all. He had overlooked that although certainly objective
knowledge, or the world as idea, affords nothing but phenomena, together
with their phenomenal connection and regressus, yet our own nature
necessarily also belongs to the world of things in themselves, for it must
have its root in it. But here, even if the root itself cannot be brought
to light, it must be possible to gather some data for the explanation of
the connection of the world of phenomena with the inner nature of things.
Thus here lies the path upon which I have gone beyond Kant and the limits
which he drew, yet always restricting myself to the ground of reflection,
and consequently of honesty, and therefore without the vain pretension of
intellectual intuition or absolute thought which characterises the period
of pseudo‐philosophy between Kant and me. In his proof of the
insufficiency of rational knowledge to fathom the nature of the world Kant
started from knowledge as a _fact_, which our consciousness affords us,
thus in this sense he proceeded _a posteriori_. But in this chapter, and
also in my work, “_Ueber den Willen in der Natur_,” I have sought to show
what knowledge is in its _nature and origin_, something secondary,
designed for individual ends; whence it follows that it _must be_
insufficient to fathom the nature of the world. Thus so far I have reached
the same goal _a priori_. But one never knows anything wholly and
completely until one has gone right round it for that purpose, and has got
back to it from the opposite side from which one started. Therefore also,
in the case of the important fundamental knowledge here considered, one
must not merely go from the intellect to the knowledge of the world, as
Kant has done, but also from the world, taken as given, to the intellect,
as I have undertaken here. Then this physiological consideration, in the
wider sense, becomes the supplement of that ideological, as the French
say, or, more accurately, transcendental consideration.
In the above, in order not to break the thread of the exposition, I have
postponed the explanation of one point which I touched upon. It was this,
that in proportion as, in the ascending series of animals, the intellect
appears ever more developed and complete, _knowledge_ always separates
itself more distinctly from _will_, and thereby becomes purer. What is
essential upon this point will be found in my work, “_Ueber den Willen in
der Natur_,” under the heading, “_Pflanzenphysiologie_” (p. 68‐72 of the
second, and 74‐77 of the third edition), to which I refer, in order to
avoid repetition, and merely add here a few remarks. Since the plant
possesses neither irritability nor sensibility, but the will objectifies
itself in it only as plastic or reproductive power, it has neither muscle
nor nerve. In the lowest grades of the animal kingdom, in zoophites,
especially in polyps, we cannot as yet distinctly recognise the separation
of these two constituent parts, but still we assume their existence,
though in a state of fusion; because we perceive movements which follow,
not, as in the case of plants, upon mere stimuli, but upon motives,
_i.e._, in consequence of a certain apprehension. Now in proportion as, in
the ascending series of animals, the nervous and muscular systems
_separate_ ever more distinctly from each other, till in the vertebrate
animals, and most completely in man, the former divides into an organic
and a cerebral nervous system, and of these the latter again develops into
the excessively complicated apparatus of the cerebrum and cerebellum,
spinal marrow, cerebral and spinal nerves, sensory and motor nerve
fascicles, of which only the cerebrum, together with the sensory nerves
depending upon it, and the posterior spinal nerve fascicles are intended
for the _apprehension of the motive_ from the external world, while all
the other parts are intended for the _transmission_ of the motive to the
muscles in which the will manifests itself directly; in the same
proportion does the _motive_ separate ever more distinctly in
_consciousness_ from the _act of will_ which it calls forth, thus the
_idea_ from the _will_; and thereby the _objectivity_ of consciousness
constantly increases, for the ideas exhibit themselves ever more
distinctly and purely in it. These two _separations_ are, however, really
only one and the same, which we have here considered from two sides, the
objective and the subjective, or first in the consciousness of other
things and then in self‐consciousness. Upon the degree of this separation
ultimately depends the difference and the gradation of intellectual
capacity, both between different kinds of animals and between individual
human beings; thus it gives the standard for the intellectual completeness
of these beings. For the clearness of the consciousness of the external
world, the objectivity of the perception, depends upon it. In the passage
referred to above I have shown that the brute only perceives things so far
as they are _motives_ for its will, and that even the most intelligent of
the brutes scarcely overstep these limits, because their intellect is too
closely joined to the will from which it has sprung. On the other hand,
even the stupidest man comprehends things in some degree _objectively_;
for he recognises not merely what they are with reference to him, but also
something of what they are with reference to themselves and to other
things. Yet in the case of very few does this reach such a degree that
they are in a position to examine and judge of anything purely
_objectively_; but “that must I do, that must I say, that must I believe,”
is the goal to which on every occasion their thought hastens in a direct
line, and at which their understanding at once finds welcome rest. For
thinking is as unendurable to the weak head as the lifting of a burden to
the weak arm; therefore both hasten to set it down. The objectivity of
knowledge, and primarily of perceptive knowledge, has innumerable grades,
which depend upon the energy of the intellect and its separation from the
will, and the highest of which is _genius_, in which the comprehension of
the external world becomes so pure and objective that to it even more
reveals itself directly in the individual thing than the individual thing
itself, namely, the nature of its whole _species_, _i.e._, its Platonic
Idea; which is brought about by the fact that in this case the will
entirely vanishes from consciousness. Here is the point at which the
present investigation, starting from physiological grounds, connects
itself with the subject of our third book, the metaphysics of the
beautiful, where æsthetic comprehension proper, which, in a high degree,
is peculiar to genius alone, is fully considered as the condition of pure,
_i.e._, perfectly will‐less, and on that account completely objective
knowledge. According to what has been said, the rise of intelligence, from
the obscurest animal consciousness up to that of man, is a progressive
_loosening of the intellect from the will_, which appears complete,
although only as an exception, in the _genius_. Therefore genius may be
defined as the highest grade of the _objectivity_ of knowledge. The
condition of this, which so seldom occurs, is a decidedly larger measure
of intelligence than is required for the service of the will, which
constitutes its basis; it is accordingly this free surplus which first
really properly comes to know the world, _i.e._, comprehends it perfectly
_objectively_, and now paints pictures, composes poems, and thinks in
accordance with this comprehension.