Our second book closed with the question as to the goal and aim of that
will which had shown itself to be the inner nature of all things in the
world. The following remarks may serve to supplement the answer to this
question given there in general terms, for they lay down the character of
the will as a whole.
Such a characterisation is possible because we have recognised as the
inner nature of the world something thoroughly real and empirically given.
On the other hand, the very name “world‐soul,” by which many have denoted
that inner being, gives instead of this a mere _ens rationis_; for “soul”
signifies an individual unity of consciousness which clearly does not
belong to that nature, and in general, since the conception “soul”
supposes knowing and willing in inseparable connection and yet independent
of the animal organism, it is not to be justified, and therefore not to be
used. The word should never be applied except in a metaphorical sense, for
it is much more insidious than ψυχη or anima, which signify breath.
Much more unsuitable, however, is the way in which so‐called pantheists
express themselves, whose whole philosophy consists chiefly in this, that
they call the inner nature of the world, which is unknown to them, “God;”
by which indeed they imagine they have achieved much. According to this,
then, the world would be a theophany. But let one only look at it: this
world of constantly needy creatures, who continue for a time only by
devouring one another, fulfil their existence in anxiety and want, and
often suffer terrible miseries, till at last they fall into the arms of
death; whoever distinctly looks upon this will allow that Aristotle was
right in saying: “ἡ φυσις δαιομονια, αλλ᾽ ου θεια εστι” (_Natura dæmonia
est, non divina_), _De divinat._, c. 2, p. 463; nay, he will be obliged to
confess that a God who could think of changing Himself into such a world
as this must certainly have been tormented by the devil. I know well that
the pretended philosophers of this century follow Spinoza in this, and
think themselves thereby justified. But Spinoza had special reasons for
thus naming his one substance, in order, namely, to preserve at least the
word, although not the thing. The stake of Giordano Bruno and of Vanini
was still fresh in the memory; they also had been sacrificed to that God
for whose honour incomparably more human sacrifices have bled than on the
altars of all heathen gods of both hemispheres together. If, then, Spinoza
calls the world God, it is exactly the same thing as when Rousseau in the
“_Contrat social_,” constantly and throughout denotes the people by the
word _le souverain_; we might also compare it with this, that once a
prince who intended to abolish the nobility in his land, in order to rob
no one of his own, hit upon the idea of ennobling all his subjects. Those
philosophers of our day have certainly one other ground for the
nomenclature we are speaking of, but it is no more substantial. In their
philosophising they all start, not from the world or our consciousness of
it, but from God, as something given and known; He is not their
_quæsitum_, but their _datum_. If they were boys I would then explain to
them that this is a _petitio principii_, but they know this as well as I
do. But since Kant has shown that the path of the earlier dogmatism, which
proceeded honestly, the path from the world to a God, does not lead there,
these gentlemen now imagine they have found a fine way of escape and made
it cunningly. Will the reader of a later age pardon me for detaining him
with persons of whom he has never heard.
Every glance at the world, to explain which is the task of the
philosopher, confirms and proves that _will to live_, far from being an
arbitrary hypostasis or an empty word, is the only true expression of its
inmost nature. Everything presses and strives towards _existence_, if
possible _organised existence_, _i.e._, _life_, and after that to the
highest possible grade of it. In animal nature it then becomes apparent
that _will to live_ is the keynote of its being, its one unchangeable and
unconditioned quality. Let any one consider this universal desire for
life, let him see the infinite willingness, facility, and exuberance with
which the will to live presses impetuously into existence under a million
forms everywhere and at every moment, by means of fructification and of
germs, nay, when these are wanting, by means of _generatio æquivoca_,
seizing every opportunity, eagerly grasping for itself every material
capable of life: and then again let him cast a glance at its fearful alarm
and wild rebellion when in any particular phenomenon it must pass out of
existence; especially when this takes place with distinct consciousness.
Then it is precisely the same as if in this single phenomenon the whole
world would be annihilated for ever, and the whole being of this
threatened living thing is at once transformed into the most desperate
struggle against death and resistance to it. Look, for example, at the
incredible anxiety of a man in danger of his life, the rapid and serious
participation in this of every witness of it, and the boundless rejoicing
at his deliverance. Look at the rigid terror with which a sentence of
death is heard, the profound awe with which we regard the preparations for
carrying it out, and the heartrending compassion which seizes us at the
execution itself. We would then suppose there was something quite
different in question than a few less years of an empty, sad existence,
embittered by troubles of every kind, and always uncertain: we would
rather be amazed that it was a matter of any consequence whether one
attained a few years earlier to the place where after an ephemeral
existence he has billions of years to be. In such phenomena, then, it
becomes visible that I am right in declaring that _the will to live_ is
that which cannot be further explained, but lies at the foundation of all
explanations, and that this, far from being an empty word, like the
absolute, the infinite, the idea, and similar expressions, is the most
real thing we know, nay, the kernel of reality itself.
But if now, abstracting for a while from this interpretation drawn from
our inner being, we place ourselves as strangers over against nature, in
order to comprehend it objectively, we find that from the grade of
organised life upwards it has only one intention—that of the _maintenance
of the species_. To this end it works, through the immense superfluity of
germs, through the urgent vehemence of the sexual instinct, through its
willingness to adapt itself to all circumstances and opportunities, even
to the production of bastards, and through the instinctive maternal
affection, the strength of which is so great that in many kinds of animals
it even outweighs self‐love, so that the mother sacrifices her life in
order to preserve that of the young. The individual, on the contrary, has
for nature only an indirect value, only so far as it is the means of
maintaining the species. Apart from this its existence is to nature a
matter of indifference; indeed nature even leads it to destruction as soon
as it has ceased to be useful for this end. Why the individual exists
would thus be clear; but why does the species itself exist? That is a
question which nature when considered merely objectively cannot answer.
For in vain do we seek by contemplating her for an end of this restless
striving, this ceaseless pressing into existence, this anxious care for
the maintenance of the species. The strength and time of the individuals
are consumed in the effort to procure sustenance for themselves and their
young, and are only just sufficient, sometimes even not sufficient, for
this. Even if here and there a surplus of strength, and therefore of
comfort—in the case of the _one_ rational species also of
knowledge—remains, this is much too insignificant to pass for the end of
that whole process of nature. The whole thing, when regarded thus purely
objectively, and indeed as extraneous to us, looks as if nature was only
concerned that of all her (Platonic) _Ideas_, _i.e._, permanent forms,
none should be lost. Accordingly, as if she had so thoroughly satisfied
herself with the fortunate discovery and combination of these Ideas (for
which the three preceding occasions on which she stocked the earth’s
surface with animals were only the preparation), that now her only fear is
lest any one of these beautiful fancies should be lost, _i.e._, lest any
one of these forms should disappear from time and the causal series. For
the individuals are fleeting as the water in the brook; the Ideas, on the
contrary, are permanent, like its eddies: but the exhaustion of the water
would also do away with the eddies. We would have to stop at this
unintelligible view if nature were known to us only from without, thus
were given us merely _objectively_, and we accepted it as it is
comprehended by knowledge, and also as sprung from knowledge, _i.e._, in
the sphere of the idea, and were therefore obliged to confine ourselves to
this province in solving it. But the case is otherwise, and a glance at
any rate is afforded us into the _interior of nature_; inasmuch as this is
nothing else than _our own inner being_, which is precisely where nature,
arrived at the highest grade to which its striving could work itself up,
is now by the light of knowledge found directly in self‐consciousness.
Here the will shows itself to us as something _toto genere_ different from
the idea, in which nature appears unfolded in all her (Platonic) Ideas;
and it now gives us, at one stroke, the explanation which could never be
found upon the objective path of the idea. Thus the subjective here gives
the key for the exposition of the objective. In order to recognise, as
something original and unconditioned, that exceedingly strong tendency of
all animals and men to retain life and carry it on as long as possible—a
tendency which was set forth above as characteristic of the subjective, or
of the will—it is necessary to make clear to ourselves that this is by no
means the result of any objective _knowledge_ of the worth of life, but is
independent of all knowledge; or, in other words, that those beings
exhibit themselves, not as drawn from in front, but as impelled from
behind.
If with this intention we first of all review the interminable series of
animals, consider the infinite variety of their forms, as they exhibit
themselves always differently modified according to their element and
manner of life, and also ponder the inimitable ingenuity of their
structure and mechanism, which is carried out with equal perfection in
every individual; and finally, if we take into consideration the
incredible expenditure of strength, dexterity, prudence, and activity
which every animal has ceaselessly to make through its whole life; if,
approaching the matter more closely, we contemplate the untiring diligence
of wretched little ants, the marvellous and ingenious industry of the
bees, or observe how a single burying‐beetle (_Necrophorus vespillo_)
buries a mole of forty times its own size in two days in order to deposit
its eggs in it and insure nourishment for the future brood (_Gleditsch,
Physik. Bot. Œkon. Abhandl._, iii. 220), at the same time calling to mind
how the life of most insects is nothing but ceaseless labour to prepare
food and an abode for the future brood which will arise from their eggs,
and which then, after they have consumed the food and passed through the
chrysalis state, enter upon life merely to begin again from the beginning
the same labour; then also how, like this, the life of the birds is for
the most part taken up with their distant and laborious migrations, then
with the building of their nests and the collecting of food for the brood,
which itself has to play the same rôle the following year; and so all work
constantly for the future, which afterwards makes bankrupt;—then we cannot
avoid looking round for the reward of all this skill and trouble, for the
end which these animals have before their eyes, which strive so
ceaselessly—in short, we are driven to ask: What is the result? what is
attained by the animal existence which demands such infinite preparation?
And there is nothing to point to but the satisfaction of hunger and the
sexual instinct, or in any case a little momentary comfort, as it falls to
the lot of each animal individual, now and then in the intervals of its
endless need and struggle. If we place the two together, the indescribable
ingenuity of the preparations, the enormous abundance of the means, and
the insufficiency of what is thereby aimed at and attained, the insight
presses itself upon us that life is a business, the proceeds of which are
very far from covering the cost of it. This becomes most evident in some
animals of a specially simple manner of life. Take, for example, the mole,
that unwearied worker. To dig with all its might with its enormous shovel
claws is the occupation of its whole life; constant night surrounds it;
its embryo eyes only make it avoid the light. It alone is truly an _animal
nocturnum_; not cats, owls, and bats, who see by night. But what, now,
does it attain by this life, full of trouble and devoid of pleasure? Food
and the begetting of its kind; thus only the means of carrying on and
beginning anew the same doleful course in new individuals. In such
examples it becomes clear that there is no proportion between the cares
and troubles of life and the results or gain of it. The consciousness of
the world of perception gives a certain appearance of objective worth of
existence to the life of those animals which can see, although in their
case this consciousness is entirely subjective and limited to the
influence of motives upon them. But the _blind_ mole, with its perfect
organisation and ceaseless activity, limited to the alternation of insect
larvæ and hunger, makes the disproportion of the means to the end
apparent. In this respect the consideration of the animal world left to
itself in lands uninhabited by men is also specially instructive. A
beautiful picture of this, and of the suffering which nature prepares for
herself without the interference of man, is given by Humboldt in his
“_Ansichten der Natur_” (second edition, p. 30 _et seq._); nor does he
neglect to cast a glance (p. 44) at the analogous suffering of the human
race, always and everywhere at variance with itself. Yet in the simple and
easily surveyed life of the brutes the emptiness and vanity of the
struggle of the whole phenomenon is more easily grasped. The variety of
the organisations, the ingenuity of the means, whereby each is adapted to
its element and its prey contrasts here distinctly with the want of any
lasting final aim; instead of which there presents itself only momentary
comfort, fleeting pleasure conditioned by wants, much and long suffering,
constant strife, _bellum omnium_, each one both a hunter and hunted,
pressure, want, need, and anxiety, shrieking and howling; and this goes on
_in secula seculorum_, or till once again the crust of the planet breaks.
Yunghahn relates that he saw in Java a plain far as the eye could reach
entirely covered with skeletons, and took it for a battlefield; they were,
however, merely the skeletons of large turtles, five feet long and three
feet broad, and the same height, which come this way out of the sea in
order to lay their eggs, and are then attacked by wild dogs (_Canis
rutilans_), who with their united strength lay them on their backs, strip
off their lower armour, that is, the small shell of the stomach, and so
devour them alive. But often then a tiger pounces upon the dogs. Now all
this misery repeats itself thousands and thousands of times, year out,
year in. For this, then, these turtles are born. For whose guilt must they
suffer this torment? Wherefore the whole scene of horror? To this the only
answer is: it is thus that the will to live objectifies itself.(7) Let one
consider it well and comprehend it in all its objectifications; and then
one will arrive at an understanding of its nature and of the world; but
not if one frames general conceptions and builds card houses out of them.
The comprehension of the great drama of the objectification of the will to
live, and the characterisation of its nature, certainly demands somewhat
more accurate consideration and greater thoroughness than the dismissal of
the world by attributing to it the title of God, or, with a silliness
which only the German fatherland offers and knows how to enjoy, explaining
it as the “Idea in its other being,” in which for twenty years the
simpletons of my time have found their unutterable delight. Certainly,
according to pantheism or Spinozism, of which the systems of our century
are mere travesties, all that sort of thing reels itself off actually
without end, straight on through all eternity. For then the world is a
God, _ens perfectissimum_, _i.e._, nothing better can be or be conceived.
Thus there is no need of deliverance from it; and consequently there is
none. But why the whole tragi‐comedy exists cannot in the least be seen;
for it has no spectators, and the actors themselves undergo infinite
trouble, with little and merely negative pleasure.
Let us now add the consideration of the human race. The matter indeed
becomes more complicated, and assumes a certain seriousness of aspect; but
the fundamental character remains unaltered. Here also life presents
itself by no means as a gift for enjoyment, but as a task, a drudgery to
be performed; and in accordance with this we see, in great and small,
universal need, ceaseless cares, constant pressure, endless strife,
compulsory activity, with extreme exertion of all the powers of body and
mind. Many millions, united into nations, strive for the common good, each
individual on account of his own; but many thousands fall as a sacrifice
for it. Now senseless delusions, now intriguing politics, incite them to
wars with each other; then the sweat and the blood of the great multitude
must flow, to carry out the ideas of individuals, or to expiate their
faults. In peace industry and trade are active, inventions work miracles,
seas are navigated, delicacies are collected from all ends of the world,
the waves engulf thousands. All strive, some planning, others acting; the
tumult is indescribable. But the ultimate aim of it all, what is it? To
sustain ephemeral and tormented individuals through a short span of time
in the most fortunate case with endurable want and comparative freedom
from pain, which, however, is at once attended with ennui; then the
reproduction of this race and its striving. In this evident disproportion
between the trouble and the reward, the will to live appears to us from
this point of view, if taken objectively, as a fool, or subjectively, as a
delusion, seized by which everything living works with the utmost exertion
of its strength for something that is of no value. But when we consider it
more closely, we shall find here also that it is rather a blind pressure,
a tendency entirely without ground or motive.
The law of motivation, as was shown in § 29 of the first volume, only
extends to the particular actions, not to willing _as a whole and in
general_. It depends upon this, that if we conceive of the human race and
its action _as a whole and universally_, it does not present itself to us,
as when we contemplate the particular actions, as a play of puppets who
are pulled after the ordinary manner by threads outside them; but from
this point of view, as puppets which are set in motion by internal
clockwork. For if, as we have done above, one compares the ceaseless,
serious, and laborious striving of men with what they gain by it, nay,
even with what they ever can gain, the disproportion we have pointed out
becomes apparent, for one recognises that that which is to be gained,
taken as the motive‐power, is entirely insufficient for the explanation of
that movement and that ceaseless striving. What, then, is a short
postponement of death, a slight easing of misery or deferment of pain, a
momentary stilling of desire, compared with such an abundant and certain
victory over them all as death? What could such advantages accomplish
taken as actual moving causes of a human race, innumerable because
constantly renewed, which unceasingly moves, strives, struggles, grieves,
writhes, and performs the whole tragi‐comedy of the history of the world,
nay, what says more than all, _perseveres_ in such a mock‐existence as
long as each one possibly can? Clearly this is all inexplicable if we seek
the moving causes outside the figures and conceive the human race as
striving, in consequence of rational reflection, or something analogous to
this (as moving threads), after those good things held out to it, the
attainment of which would be a sufficient reward for its ceaseless cares
and troubles. The matter being taken thus, every one would rather have
long ago said, “_Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle_,” and have gone out.
But, on the contrary, every one guards and defends his life, like a
precious pledge intrusted to him under heavy responsibility, under
infinite cares and abundant misery, even under which life is tolerable.
The wherefore and the why, the reward for this, certainly he does not see;
but he has accepted the worth of that pledge without seeing it, upon trust
and faith, and does not know what it consists in. Hence I have said that
these puppets are not pulled from without, but each bears in itself the
clockwork from which its movements result. This is _the will to live_,
manifesting itself as an untiring machine, an irrational tendency, which
has not its sufficient reason in the external world. It holds the
individuals firmly upon the scene, and is the _primum mobile_ of their
movements; while the external objects, the motives, only determine their
direction in the particular case; otherwise the cause would not be at all
suitable to the effect. For, as every manifestation of a force of nature
has a cause, but the force of nature itself none, so every particular act
of will has a motive, but the will in general has none: indeed at bottom
these two are one and the same. The will, as that which is metaphysical,
is everywhere the boundary‐stone of every investigation, beyond which it
cannot go. From the original and unconditioned nature of the will, which
has been proved, it is explicable that man loves beyond everything else an
existence full of misery, trouble, pain, and anxiety, and, again, full of
ennui, which, if he considered and weighed it purely objectively, he would
certainly abhor, and fears above all things the end of it, which is yet
for him the one thing certain.(8) Accordingly we often see a miserable
figure, deformed and shrunk with age, want, and disease, implore our help
from the bottom of his heart for the prolongation of an existence, the end
of which would necessarily appear altogether desirable if it were an
objective judgment that determined here. Thus instead of this it is the
blind will, appearing as the tendency to life, the love of life, and the
sense of life; it is the same which makes the plants grow. This sense of
life may be compared to a rope which is stretched above the puppet‐show of
the world of men, and on which the puppets hang by invisible threads,
while apparently they are supported only by the ground beneath them (the
objective value of life). But if the rope becomes weak the puppet sinks;
if it breaks the puppet must fall, for the ground beneath it only seemed
to support it: _i.e._, the weakening of that love of life shows itself as
hypochondria, spleen, melancholy: its entire exhaustion as the inclination
to suicide, which now takes place on the slightest occasion, nay, for a
merely imaginary reason, for now, as it were, the man seeks a quarrel with
himself, in order to shoot himself dead, as many do with others for a like
purpose;—indeed, upon necessity, suicide is resorted to without any
special occasion. (Evidence of this will be found in Esquirol, _Des
maladies mentales_, 1838.) And as with the persistence in life, so is it
also with its action and movement. This is not something freely chosen;
but while every one would really gladly rest, want and ennui are the whips
that keep the top spinning. Therefore the whole and every individual bears
the stamp of a forced condition; and every one, in that, inwardly weary,
he longs for rest, but yet must press forward, is like his planet, which
does not fall into the sun only because a force driving it forward
prevents it. Therefore everything is in continual strain and forced
movement, and the course of the world goes on, to use an expression of
Aristotle’s (_De cœlo_, ii. 13), “ου φυσει, αλλα βιᾳ” (_Motu, non naturali
sed violento_). Men are only apparently drawn from in front; really they
are pushed from behind; it is not life that tempts them on, but necessity
that drives them forward. The law of motivation is, like all causality,
merely the form of the phenomenon. We may remark in passing that this is
the source of the comical, the burlesque, the grotesque, the ridiculous
side of life; for, urged forward against his will, every one bears himself
as best he can, and the straits that thus arise often look comical enough,
serious as is the misery which underlies them.
In all these considerations, then, it becomes clear to us that the will to
live is not a consequence of the knowledge of life, is in no way a
_conclusio ex præmissis_, and in general is nothing secondary. Rather, it
is that which is first and unconditioned, the premiss of all premisses,
and just on that account that from which philosophy must _start_, for the
will to live does not appear in consequence of the world, but the world in
consequence of the will to live.
I scarcely need to draw attention to the fact that the considerations with
which we now conclude the second book already point forcibly to the
serious theme of the fourth book, indeed would pass over into it directly
if it were not that my architectonic symmetry makes it necessary that the
third book, with its fair contents, should come between, as a second
consideration of _the world as idea_, the conclusion of which, however,
again points in the same direction.
SUPPLEMENTS TO THE THIRD BOOK.
“_Et is similis spectatori est, quad ab omni separatus spectaculum
videt._”
—OUPNEKHAT, vol. i. p. 304.