That the will which we find within us does not proceed, as philosophy has
hitherto assumed, first from knowledge, and indeed is a mere modification
of it, thus something secondary, derived, and, like knowledge itself,
conditioned by the brain; but that it is the _prius_ of knowledge, the
kernel of our nature, and that original force itself which forms and
sustains the animal body, in that it carries out both its unconscious and
its conscious functions;—this is the first step in the fundamental
knowledge of my metaphysics. Paradoxical as it even now seems to many that
the will in itself is without knowledge, yet the scholastics in some way
already recognised and confessed it; for Jul. Cæs. Vaninus (that well‐
known sacrifice to fanaticism and priestly fury), who was thoroughly
versed in their philosophy, says in his “_Amphitheatro_,” p. 181:
“_Voluntas potentia cœca est, ex scholasticorum opinione_.” That, further,
it is that same will which in the plant forms the bud in order to develop
the leaf and the flower out of it; nay, that the regular form of the
crystal is only the trace which its momentary effort has left behind, and
that in general, as the true and only αυτοματον, in the proper sense of
the word, it lies at the foundation of all the forces of unorganised
nature, plays, acts, in all their multifarious phenomena, imparts power to
their laws, and even in the crudest mass manifests itself as gravity;—this
insight is the second step in that fundamental knowledge, and is brought
about by further reflection. But it would be the grossest misunderstanding
to suppose that this is a mere question of a word to denote an unknown
quantity. It is rather the most real of all real knowledge which is here
expressed in language. For it is the tracing back of that which is quite
inaccessible to our immediate knowledge, and therefore in its essence
foreign and unknown to us, which we denote by the words _force of nature_,
to that which is known to us most accurately and intimately, but which is
yet only accessible to us in our own being and directly, and must
therefore be carried over from this to other phenomena. It is the insight
that what is inward and original in all the changes and movements of
bodies, however various they may be, is in its nature identical; that yet
we have only one opportunity of getting to know it more closely and
directly, and that is in the movements of our own body. In consequence of
this knowledge we must call it _will_. It is the insight that that which
acts and strives in nature, and exhibits itself in ever more perfect
phenomena, when it has worked itself up so far that the light of knowledge
falls directly upon it, _i.e._, when it has attained to the state of self‐
consciousness—exists as that _will_, which is what is most intimately
known to us, and therefore cannot be further explained by anything else,
but rather affords the explanation of all other things. It is accordingly
the _thing in itself_ so far as this can ever be reached by knowledge.
Consequently it is that which must express itself in some way in
everything in the world, for it is the inner nature of the world and the
kernel of all phenomena.
As my essay, “_Ueber den Willen in der Natur_,” specially refers to the
subject of this chapter, and also adduces the evidence of unprejudiced
empiricists in favour of this important point of my doctrine, I have only
to add now to what is said there a few supplementary remarks, which are
therefore strung together in a somewhat fragmentary manner.
First, then, with reference to plant life, I draw attention to the
remarkable first two chapters of Aristotle’s work upon plants. What is
most interesting in them, as is so often the case with Aristotle, are the
opinions of earlier profound philosophers quoted by him. We see there that
Anaxagoras and Empedocles quite rightly taught that plants have the motion
of their growth by virtue of their indwelling _desires_ (επιθυμια); nay,
that they also attributed to them pleasure and pain, therefore sensation.
But Plato only ascribed to them desires, and that on account of their
strong appetite for nutrition (_cf._ Plato in the “_Timœus_,” p. 403,
Bip.) Aristotle, on the other hand, true to his customary method, glides
on the surface of things, confines himself to single characteristics and
conceptions fixed by current expressions, and asserts that without
sensation there can be no desires, and that plants have not sensation. He
is, however, in considerable embarrassment, as his confused language
shows, till here also, “where fails the comprehension, a word steps
promptly in as deputy,” namely, το θρεπτικον, the faculty of nourishing.
Plants have this, and thus a part of the so‐called soul, according to his
favourite division into _anima vegetativa_, _sensitiva_, and
_intellectiva_. This, however, is just a scholastic _Quidditas_, and
signifies _plantœ nutriuntur quia habent facultatem nutritivam_. It is
therefore a bad substitute for the more profound research of his
predecessors, whom he is criticising. We also see, in the second chapter,
that Empedocles even recognised the sexuality of plants; which Aristotle
then also finds fault with, and conceals his want of special knowledge
behind general propositions, such as this, that plants could not have both
sexes combined, for if so they would be more complete than animals. By
quite an analogous procedure he displaces the correct astronomical system
of the world of the Pythagoreans, and by his absurd fundamental
principles, which he specially explains in the books _de Cœlo_, introduces
the system of Ptolemy, whereby mankind was again deprived of an already
discovered truth of the greatest importance for almost two thousand years.
I cannot refrain from giving here the saying of an excellent biologist of
our own time who fully agrees with my teaching. It is G. R. Treviranus,
who, in his work, “_Ueber die Erscheinungen und Gesetze des organischen
Lebens_,” 1832, Bd. 2, Abth. 1, § 49, has said what follows: “A form of
life is, however, conceivable in which the effect of the external upon the
internal produces merely feelings of desire or dislike. Such is the life
of plants. In the higher forms of animal life the external is felt as
something objective.” Treviranus speaks here from pure unprejudiced
comprehension of nature, and is as little conscious of the metaphysical
importance of his words as of the _contradictio in adjecto_ which lies in
the conception of something “felt as objective,” a conception which indeed
he works out at great length. He does not know that all feeling is
essentially subjective, and all that is objective is, on the other hand,
perception, and therefore a product of the understanding. Yet this does
not detract at all from the truth and importance of what he says.
In fact, in the life of plants the truth that will can exist without
knowledge is apparent—one might say palpably recognisable. For here we see
a decided effort, determined by wants, modified in various ways, and
adapting itself to the difference of the circumstances, yet clearly
without knowledge. And just because the plant is without knowledge it
bears its organs of generation ostentatiously in view, in perfect
innocence; it knows nothing about it. As soon, on the other hand, as in
the series of existences knowledge appears the organs of generation are
transferred to a hidden part. Man, however, with whom this is again less
the case, conceals them intentionally: he is ashamed of them.
Primarily, then, the vital force is identical with the will, but so also
are all other forces of nature; though this is less apparent. If,
therefore, we find the recognition of a desire, _i.e._, of a will, as the
basis of _plant life_, expressed at all times, with more or less
distinctness of conception, on the other hand, the reference of the forces
of _unorganised_ nature to the same foundation is rarer in proportion as
their remoteness from our own nature is greater. In fact, the boundary
between the organised and the unorganised is the most sharply drawn in the
whole of nature, and perhaps the only one that admits of no
transgressions; so that _natura non facit saltus_ seems to suffer an
exception here. Although certain crystallisations display an external form
resembling the vegetable, yet even between the smallest lichen, the lowest
fungus, and everything unorganised there remains a fundamental and
essential difference. In the _unorganised_ body that which is essential
and permanent, thus that upon which its identity and integrity rests, is
the material, the _matter_; what is unessential and changing is, on the
other hand, the _form_. With the _organised_ body the case is exactly
reversed; for its life, _i.e._, its existence as an organised being,
simply consists in the constant change of the _material_, while the _form_
remains permanent. Its being and its identity thus lies in the _form_
alone. Therefore the continuance of the _unorganised_ body depends upon
_repose_ and exclusion from external influences: thus alone does it retain
its existence; and if this condition is perfect, such a body lasts for
ever. The continuance of the _organised_ body, on the contrary, just
depends upon continual _movement_ and the constant reception of external
influences. As soon as these are wanting and the movement in it stops it
is dead, and thereby ceases to be organic, although the trace of the
organism that has been still remains for a while. Therefore the talk,
which is so much affected in our own day, of the life of what is
unorganised, indeed of the globe itself, and that it, and also the
planetary system, is an organism, is entirely inadmissible. The predicate
life belongs only to what is organised. Every organism, however, is
throughout organised, is so in all its parts; and nowhere are these, even
in their smallest particles, composed by aggregation of what is
unorganised. Thus if the earth were an organism, all mountains and rocks,
and the whole interior of their mass, would necessarily be organised, and
accordingly really nothing unorganised would exist; and therefore the
whole conception of it would be wanting.
On the other hand, that the manifestation of a _will_ is as little bound
up with life and organisation as with knowledge, and that therefore the
unorganised has also a will, the manifestations of which are all its
fundamental qualities, which cannot be further explained,—this is an
essential point in my doctrine; although the trace of such a thought is
far seldomer found in writers who have preceded me than that of the will
in plants, where, however, it is still unconscious.
In the forming of the crystal we see, as it were, a tendency towards an
attempt at life, to which, however, it does not attain, because the
fluidity of which, like a living thing, it is composed at the moment of
that movement is not enclosed in a _skin_, as is always the case with the
latter, and consequently it has neither vessels in which that movement
could go on, nor does anything separate it from the external world.
Therefore, rigidity at once seizes that momentary movement, of which only
the trace remains as the crystal.
The thought that the will, which constitutes the basis of our own nature,
is also the same will which shows itself even in the lowest unorganised
phenomena, on account of which the conformity to law of both phenomena
shows a perfect analogy, lies at the foundation of Goethe’s
“_Wahlverwandtschaften_,” as the title indeed indicates, although he
himself was unconscious of this.
Mechanics and astronomy specially show us how this will conducts itself so
far as it appears at the lowest grade of its manifestation merely as
gravity, rigidity, and inertia. Hydraulics shows us the same thing where
rigidity is wanting and the fluid material is now unrestrainedly
surrendered to its predominating passion, gravity. In this sense
hydraulics may be conceived as a characteristic sketch of water, for it
presents to us the manifestations of will to which water is moved by
gravity; these always correspond exactly to the external influences, for
in the case of all non‐individual existences there is no particular
character in addition to the general one; thus they can easily be referred
to fixed characteristics, which are called laws, and which are learned by
experience of water. These laws accurately inform us how water will
conduct itself under all different circumstances, on account of its
gravity, the unconditioned mobility of its parts, and its want of
elasticity. Hydrostatics teaches how it is brought to rest through
gravity; hydrodynamics, how it is set in motion; and the latter has also
to take account of hindrances which adhesion opposes to the will of water:
the two together constitute hydraulics. In the same way Chemistry teaches
us how the will conducts itself when the inner qualities of materials
obtain free play by being brought into a fluid state, and there appears
that wonderful attraction and repulsion, separating and combining, leaving
go of one to seize upon another, from which every precipitation
originates, and the whole of which is denoted by “elective affinity” (an
expression which is entirely borrowed from the conscious will). But
Anatomy and Physiology allow us to see how the will conducts itself in
order to bring about the phenomenon of life and sustain it for a while.
Finally, the poet shows us how the will conducts itself under the
influence of motives and reflection. He exhibits it therefore for the most
part in the most perfect of its manifestations, in rational beings, whose
character is individual, and whose conduct and suffering he brings before
us in the Drama, the Epic, the Romance, &c. The more correctly, the more
strictly according to the laws of nature his characters are there
presented, the greater is his fame; hence Shakespeare stands at the top.
The point of view which is here taken up corresponds at bottom to the
spirit in which Goethe followed and loved the natural sciences, although
he was not conscious of the matter in the abstract. Nay more, this not
only appears from his writings, but is also known to me from his personal
utterances.
If we consider the will, where no one denies it, in conscious beings, we
find everywhere, as its fundamental effort, the _self‐preservation_ of
every being: _omnis natura vult esse conservatrix sui_. But all
manifestations of this fundamental effort may constantly be traced back to
a seeking or pursuit and a shunning or fleeing from, according to the
occasion. Now this also may be shown even at the lowest grades of nature,
that is, of the objectification of the will, where the bodies still act
only as bodies in general, thus are the subject‐matter of mechanics, and
are considered only with reference to the manifestations of
impenetrability, cohesion, rigidity, elasticity, and gravity. Here also
the _seeking_ shows itself as gravitation, and the _shunning_ as the
receiving of motion; and the _movableness_ of bodies by pressure or
impact, which constitutes the basis of mechanics, is at bottom a
manifestation of the effort after _self‐preservation_, which dwells in
them also. For, since as bodies they are impenetrable, this is the sole
means of preserving their cohesion, thus their continuance at any time.
The body which is impelled or exposed to pressure would be crushed to
pieces by the impelling or pressing body if it did not withdraw itself
from its power by flight, in order to preserve its cohesion; and when
flight is impossible for it this actually happens. Indeed, one may regard
_elastic_ bodies as the more _courageous_, which seek to repel the enemy,
or at least to prevent him from pursuing further. Thus in the one secret
which (besides gravity) is left by mechanics otherwise so clear, in the
communicability of motion, we see a manifestation of the fundamental
effort of the will in all its phenomena, the effort after self‐
preservation, which shows itself even at the lowest grades as that which
is essential.
In unorganised nature the will objectifies itself primarily in the
universal forces, and only by means of these in the phenomena of the
particular things which are called forth by causes. In § 26 of the first
volume I have fully explained the relation between cause, force of nature,
and will as thing in itself. One sees from that explanation that
metaphysics never interrupts the course of physics, but only takes up the
thread where physics leaves it, at the original forces in which all causal
explanation has its limits. Only here does the metaphysical explanation
from the will as the thing in itself begin. In the case of every physical
phenomenon, of every _change_ of material things, its cause is primarily
to be looked for; and this cause is just such a particular _change_ which
has appeared immediately before it. Then, however, the original force of
nature is to be sought by virtue of which this cause was capable of
acting. And first of all the _will_ is to be recognised as the inner
nature of this force in opposition to its manifestation. Yet the will
shows itself just as directly in the fall of a stone as in the action of
the man; the difference is only that its particular manifestation is in
the one case called forth by a motive, in the other by a mechanically
acting cause, for example, the taking away of what supported the stone;
yet in both cases with equal necessity; and that in the one case it
depends upon an individual character, in the other upon an universal force
of nature. This identity of what is fundamentally essential is even made
palpable to the senses. If, for instance, we carefully observe a body
which has lost its equilibrium, and on account of its special form rolls
back and forward for a long time till it finds its centre of gravity
again, a certain appearance of life forces itself upon us, and we directly
feel that something analogous to the foundation of life is also active
here. This is certainly the universal force of nature, which, however, in
itself identical with the _will_, becomes here, as it were, the soul of a
very brief _quasi_ life. Thus what is identical in the two extremes of the
manifestation of the will makes itself faintly known here even to direct
perception, in that this raises a feeling in us that here also something
entirely original, such as we only know in the acts of our own will,
directly succeeded in manifesting itself.
We may attain to an intuitive knowledge of the existence and activity of
the will in unorganised nature in quite a different and a sublime manner
if we study the problem of the three heavenly bodies, and thus learn more
accurately and specially the course of the moon round the earth. By the
different combinations which the constant change of the position of these
three heavenly bodies towards each other introduces, the course of the
moon is now accelerated; now retarded, now it approaches the earth, and
again recedes from it; and this again takes place differently in the
perihelion of the earth from in its aphelion, all of which together
introduces such irregularity into the moon’s course that it really obtains
a capricious appearance; for, indeed, Kepler’s third law is no longer
constantly valid, but in equal times it describes unequal areas. The
consideration of this course is a small and separate chapter of celestial
mechanics, which is distinguished in a sublime manner from terrestrial
mechanics by the absence of all impact and pressure, thus of the _vis a
tergo_ which appears to us so intelligible, and indeed of the actually
completed case, for besides _vis inertiœ_ it knows no other moving and
directing force, except only gravitation, that longing for union which
proceeds from the very inner nature of bodies. If now we construct for
ourselves in imagination the working of this given case in detail, we
recognise distinctly and directly in the moving force here that which is
given to us in self‐consciousness as will. For the alterations in the
course of the earth and the moon, according as one of them is by its
position more or less exposed to the influence of the sun, are evidently
analogous to the influence of newly appearing motives upon our wills, and
to the modifications of our action which result.
The following is an illustrative example of another kind. Liebig (_Chemie
in Anwendung auf Agrikultur_, p. 501), says: “If we bring moist copper
into air which contains carbonic acid, the affinity of the metal for the
oxygen of the air will be increased by the contact with this acid to such
a degree that the two will combine with each other; its surface will be
coated with green carbonic oxide of copper. But now two bodies which have
the capacity of combining, the moment they meet assume opposite electrical
conditions. Therefore if we touch the copper with iron, by producing a
special electrical state, the capacity of the copper to enter into
combination with the oxygen is destroyed; even under the above conditions
it remains bright.” The fact is well known and of technical use. I quote
it in order to say that here the will of the copper, laid claim to and
occupied by the electrical opposition to iron, leaves unused the
opportunity which presents itself for its chemical affinity for oxygen and
carbonic acid. Accordingly it conducts itself exactly as the will in a man
who omits an action which he would otherwise feel himself moved to in
order to perform another to which a stronger motive urges him.
I have shown in the first volume that the forces of nature lie outside the
chain of causes and effects, because they constitute their accompanying
condition, their metaphysical foundation, and therefore prove themselves
to be eternal and omnipresent, _i.e._, independent of time and space. Even
in the uncontested truth that what is essential to a _cause_ as such
consists in this, that it will produce the same effect at any future time
as it does now, it is already involved that something lies in the cause
which is independent of the course of time, _i.e._, is outside of all
time; this is the force of nature which manifests itself in it. One can
even convince oneself to a certain extent empirically and as a matter of
fact of the _ideality_ of this form of our perception by fixing one’s eyes
upon the powerlessness of time as opposed to natural forces. If, for
example, a rotatory motion is imparted to a planet by some external cause,
if no new cause enters to stop it, this motion will endure for ever. This
could not be so if time were something in itself and had an objective,
real existence; for then it would necessarily also produce some effect.
Thus we see here, on the one hand, the _forces of nature_, which manifest
themselves in that rotation, and, if it is once begun, carry it on for
ever without becoming weary or dying out, prove themselves to be eternal
or timeless, and consequently absolutely real and existing in themselves;
and, on the other hand, _time_ as something which consists only in the
manner in which we apprehend that phenomenon, since it exerts no power and
no influence upon the phenomenon itself; for _what does not act is not_.
We have a natural inclination whenever it is possible to explain every
natural phenomenon _mechanically_; doubtless because mechanics calls in
the assistance of the fewest original, and hence inexplicable, forces,
and, on the other hand, contains much that can be known _a priori_, and
therefore depends upon the forms of our own intellect, which as such
carries with it the highest degree of comprehensibility and clearness.
However, in the “Metaphysical First Principles of Natural Science” Kant
has referred mechanical activity itself to a dynamical activity. On the
other hand, the application of mechanical explanatory hypotheses, beyond
what is demonstrably mechanical, to which, for example, Acoustics also
belongs, is entirely unjustified, and I will never believe that even the
simplest chemical combination or the difference of the three states of
aggregation will ever admit of mechanical explanation, much less the
properties of light, of heat, and electricity. These will always admit
only of a dynamical explanation, _i.e._, one which explains the phenomenon
from original forces which are entirely different from those of impact,
pressure, weight, &c., and are therefore of a higher kind, _i.e._, are
more distinct objectifications of that will which obtains visible form in
all things. I am of opinion that light is neither an emanation nor a
vibration; both views are akin to that which explains transparency from
pores and the evident falseness of which is proved by the fact that light
is subject to no mechanical laws. In order to obtain direct conviction of
this one only requires to watch the effects of a storm of wind, which
bends, upsets, and scatters everything, but during which a ray of light
shooting down from a break in the clouds is entirely undisturbed and
steadier than a rock, so that with great directness it imparts to us the
knowledge that it belongs to another order of things than the mechanical:
it stands there unmoved like a ghost. Those constructions of light from
molecules and atoms which have originated with the French are indeed a
revolting absurdity. An article by Ampère, who is otherwise so acute, upon
light and heat, which is to be found in the April number of the “_Annales
de chimie et physique_,” of 1835, may be considered as a flagrant
expression of this, and indeed of the whole of atomism in general. There
the solid, the fluid, and the elastic consist of the same atoms, and all
differences arise solely from their aggregation; nay, it is said that
space indeed is infinitely divisible, but not matter; because, if the
division has been carried as far as the atoms, the further division must
fall in the spaces between the atoms! Light and heat, then, are here
vibrations of the atoms; and sound, on the other hand, is a vibration of
the molecules composed of the atoms. In truth, however, these atoms are a
fixed idea of the French savants, and therefore they just speak of them as
if they had seen them. Otherwise one would necessarily marvel that such a
matter‐of‐fact nation as the French can hold so firmly to a completely
transcendent hypothesis, which is quite beyond the possibility of
experience, and confidently build upon it up to the sky. This is just a
consequence of the backward state of the metaphysics they shun so much,
which is poorly represented by M. Cousin, who, with all good will, is
shallow and very scantily endowed with judgment. At bottom they are still
Lockeians, owing to the earlier influence of Condillac. Therefore for them
the thing in itself is really matter, from the fundamental properties of
which, such as impenetrability, form, hardness, and the other primary
qualities, everything in the world must be ultimately explicable. They
will not let themselves be talked out of this, and their tacit assumption
is that matter can only be moved by mechanical forces. In Germany Kant’s
teaching has prevented the continuance of the absurdities of the atomistic
and purely mechanical physics for any length of time; although at the
present moment these views prevail here also, which is a consequence of
the shallowness, crudeness, and folly introduced by Hegel. However, it
cannot be denied that not only the evidently porous nature of natural
bodies, but also two special doctrines of modern physics, apparently
render assistance to the atomic nuisance. These are, Hauz’s
Crystallography, which traces every crystal back to its kernel form, which
is an ultimate form, though only _relatively_ indivisible; and Berzelius’s
doctrine of chemical atoms, which are yet mere expressions for combining
proportions, thus only arithmetical quantities, and at bottom nothing more
than counters. On the other hand, Kant’s thesis in the second antinomy in
defence of atoms, which is certainly only set up for dialectical purposes,
is a mere sophism, as I have proved in my criticism of his philosophy, and
our understanding itself by no means leads us necessarily to the
assumption of atoms. For just as little as I am obliged to think that the
slow but constant and uniform _motion_ of a body before my eyes is
composed of innumerable motions which are absolutely quick, but broken and
interrupted by just as many absolutely short moments of rest, but, on the
contrary, know very well that the stone that has been thrown flies more
slowly than the projected bullet, yet never pauses for an instant on the
way, so little am I obliged to think of the mass of a body as consisting
of atoms and the spaces between them, _i.e._, of absolute density and
absolute vacuity; but I comprehend those two phenomena without difficulty
as constant _continua_, one of which uniformly fills time and the other
space. But just as the one motion may yet be quicker than another, _i.e._,
in an equal time can pass through more space, so also one body may have a
greater specific gravity than another, _i.e._, in equal space may contain
more matter: in both cases the difference depends upon the intensity of
the acting force; for Kant (following Priestley) has quite correctly
reduced matter to forces. But even if the analogy here set up should not
be admitted as valid, and it should be insisted upon that the difference
of specific gravity can only have its ground in porosity, even this
assumption would always lead, not to atoms, but only to a perfectly dense
matter, unequally distributed among different bodies; a matter which would
certainly be no longer _compressible_, when no pores ran through it, but
yet, like the space which it fills, would always remain infinitely
_divisible_. For the fact that it would have no pores by no means involves
that no possible force could do away with the continuity of its spatial
parts. For to say that everywhere this is only possible by extending the
already existing intervals is a purely arbitrary assertion.
The assumption of atoms rests upon the two phenomena which have been
touched upon, the difference of the specific gravity of bodies and that of
their compressibility, for both are conveniently explained by the
assumption of atoms. But then both must also always be present in like
measure, which is by no means the case. For, for example, water has a far
lower specific gravity than all metals properly so called. It must thus
have fewer atoms and greater interstices between them, and consequently be
very compressible: but it is almost entirely incompressible.
The defence of atoms might be conducted in this way. One may start from
porosity and say something of this sort: All bodies have pores, and
therefore so also have all parts of a body: now if this were carried out
to infinity, there would ultimately be nothing left of a body but pores.
The refutation would be that what remained over would certainly have to be
assumed as without pores, and so far as absolutely dense, yet not on that
account as consisting of absolutely indivisible particles, atoms;
accordingly it would certainly be absolutely incompressible, but not
absolutely indivisible. It would therefore be necessary that it should be
asserted that the division of a body is only possible by penetrating into
its pores; which, however, is entirely unproved. If, however, this is
assumed, then we certainly have atoms, _i.e._, absolutely indivisible
bodies, thus bodies of such strong cohesion of their spatial parts that no
possible power can separate them: but then one may just as well assume
such bodies to be large as small, and an atom might be as big as an ox, if
it only would resist all possible attacks upon it.
Imagine two bodies of very different kinds, entirely freed from all pores
by compression, as by means of hammering, or by pulverisation;—would their
specific gravity then be the same? This would be the criterion of
dynamics.