The comprehension of an Idea, the entrance of it into our consciousness,
is only possible by means of a change in us, which might also be regarded
as an act of self‐denial; for it consists in this, that knowledge turns
away altogether from our own will, thus now leaves out of sight entirely
the valuable pledge intrusted to it, and considers things as if they could
never concern the will at all. For thus alone does knowledge become a pure
mirror of the objective nature of things. Knowledge conditioned in this
way must lie at the foundation of every genuine work of art as its origin.
The change in the subject which is required for this cannot proceed from
the will, just because it consists in the elimination of all volition;
thus it can be no act of the will, _i.e._, it cannot lie in our choice. On
the contrary, it springs only from a temporary preponderance of the
intellect over the will, or, physiologically considered, from a strong
excitement of the perceptive faculty of the brain, without any excitement
of the desires or emotions. To explain this somewhat more accurately I
remind the reader that our consciousness has two sides; partly, it is a
consciousness of our _own selves_, which is the will; partly a
consciousness of other things, and as such primarily, knowledge, _through
perception_, of the external world, the apprehension of objects. Now the
more one side of the whole consciousness comes to the front, the more the
other side withdraws. Accordingly, the consciousness of _other things_,
thus knowledge of perception, becomes the more perfect, _i.e._, the more
objective, the less we are conscious of ourselves at the time. Here exists
an actual antagonism. The more we are conscious of the object, the less we
are conscious of the subject; the more, on the other hand, the latter
occupies our consciousness, the weaker and more imperfect is our
perception of the external world. The state which is required for pure
objectivity of perception has partly permanent conditions in the
perfection of the brain and the general physiological qualities favourable
to its activity, partly temporary conditions, inasmuch as such a state is
favoured by all that increases the attention and heightens the
susceptibility of the cerebral nervous system, yet without exciting any
passion. One must not think here of spirituous drinks or opium; what is
rather required is a night of quiet sleep, a cold bath, and all that
procures for the brain activity an unforced predominance by quieting the
circulation and calming the passions. It is especially these natural means
of furthering the cerebral nervous activity which bring it about,
certainly so much the better the more developed and energetic in general
the brain is, that the object separates itself ever more from the subject,
and finally introduces the state of pure objectivity of perception, which
of itself eliminates the will from consciousness, and in which all things
stand before us with increased clearness and distinctness, so that we are
conscious almost only of them and scarcely at all of ourselves; thus our
whole consciousness is almost nothing more than the medium through which
the perceived object appears in the world as an idea. Thus it is necessary
for pure, will‐less knowledge that the consciousness of ourselves should
vanish, since the consciousness of other things is raised to such a pitch.
For we only apprehend the world in a purely objective manner when we no
longer know that we belong to it; and all things appear the more beautiful
the more we are conscious merely of them and the less we are conscious of
ourselves. Since now all suffering proceeds from the will, which
constitutes the real self, with the withdrawal of this side of
consciousness all possibility of suffering is also abolished; therefore
the condition of the pure objectivity of perception is one which
throughout gives pleasure; and hence I have shown that in it lies one of
the two constituent elements of æsthetic satisfaction. As soon, on the
other hand, as the consciousness of our own self, thus subjectivity,
_i.e._, the will, again obtains the upper hand, a proportional degree of
discomfort or unrest also enters; of discomfort, because our corporealness
(the organism which in itself is the will) is again felt; of unrest,
because the will, on the path of thought, again fills the consciousness
through wishes, emotions, passions, and cares. For the will, as the
principle of subjectivity, is everywhere the opposite, nay, the antagonist
of knowledge. The greatest concentration of subjectivity consists in the
_act of will_ proper, in which therefore we have the most distinct
consciousness of our own self. All other excitements of the will are only
preparations for this; the act of will itself is for subjectivity what for
the electric apparatus is the passing of the spark. Every bodily sensation
is in itself an excitement of the will, and indeed oftener of the
_noluntas_ than of the _voluntas_. The excitement of the will on the path
of thought is that which occurs by means of motives; thus here the
subjectivity is awakened and set in play by the objectivity itself. This
takes place whenever any object is apprehended no longer in a purely
objective manner, thus without participation in it, but, directly or
indirectly, excites desire or aversion, even if it is only by means of a
recollection, for then it acts as a motive in the widest sense of the
word.
I remark here that abstract thinking and reading, which are connected with
words, belong indeed in the wider sense to the consciousness _of other
things_, thus to the objective employment of the mind; yet only
indirectly, by means of conceptions. But the latter are the artificial
product of the reason, and are therefore already a work of intention.
Moreover, the will is the ruler of all abstract exercise of the mind, for,
according to its aims, it imparts the direction, and also fixes the
attention; therefore such mental activity is always accompanied by some
effort; and this presupposes the activity of the will. Thus complete
objectivity of consciousness does not exist with this kind of mental
activity, as it accompanies the æsthetic apprehension, _i.e._, the
knowledge of the Ideas, as a condition.
In accordance with the above, the pure objectivity of perception, by
virtue of which no longer the individual thing as such, but the Idea of
its species is known, is conditioned by the fact that one is no longer
conscious of oneself, but only of the perceived objects, so that one’s own
consciousness only remains as the supporter of the objective existence of
these objects. What increases the difficulty of this state, and therefore
makes it more rare, is, that in it the accident (the intellect) overcomes
and annuls the substance (the will), although only for a short time. Here
also lies the analogy and, indeed, the relationship of this with the
denial of the will expounded at the end of the following book. Although
knowledge, as was shown in the preceding book, is sprung from the will and
is rooted in the manifestation of the will, the organism, yet it is just
by the will that its purity is disturbed, as the flame is by the fuel and
its smoke. It depends upon this that we can only apprehend the purely
objective nature of things, the Ideas which appear in them, when we have
ourselves no interest in them, because they stand in no relation to our
will. From this, again, it arises that the Ideas of anything appeal to us
more easily from a work of art than from reality. For what we behold only
in a picture or in poetry stands outside all possibility of having any
relation to our will; for in itself it exists only for knowledge and
appeals immediately to knowledge alone. On the other hand, the
apprehension of Ideas from reality assumes some measure of abstraction
from our own volition, arising above its interests which demands a special
power of the intellect. In a high degree, and for some duration, this
belongs only to genius, which consists indeed in this, that a greater
measure of the power of knowledge exists than is required for the service
of an individual will, and this surplus becomes free, and now comprehends
the world without reference to the will. Thus that the work of art
facilitates so greatly the apprehension of the Ideas, in which æsthetic
satisfaction consists, depends not merely upon the fact that art, by
giving prominence to what is essential and eliminating what is
unessential, presents the things more distinctly and characteristically,
but just as much on the fact that the absolute silence of the will, which
is demanded for the purely objective comprehension of the nature of the
things, is attained with the greatest certainty when the perceived object
itself lies entirely outside the province of things which are capable of
having a relation to the will, because it is nothing real, but a mere
picture. Now this holds good, not only of the works of plastic and
pictorial art, but also of poetry; the effect of which is also conditioned
by indifferent, will‐less, and thereby purely objective apprehension. It
is exactly this which makes a perceived object _picturesque_, an event of
actual life _poetical_; for it is only this that throws over the objects
of the real world that magic gleam which in the case of sensibly perceived
objects is called the picturesque, and in the case of those which are only
perceived in imagination is called the poetical. If poets sing of the
blithe morning, the beautiful evening, the still moonlight night, and many
such things, the real object of their praise is, unknown to themselves,
the pure subject of knowledge which is called forth by those beauties of
nature, and on the appearance of which the will vanishes from
consciousness, and so that peace of heart enters which, apart from this,
is unattainable in the world. How otherwise, for example, could the verse—
“_Nox erat, at cœlo fulgebat luna sereno,_
_Inter minora sidera_,”
affect us so beneficently, nay, so magically? Further, that the stranger
or the mere passing traveller feels the picturesque or poetical effect of
objects which are unable to produce this effect upon those who live among
them may be explained from the fact that the novelty and complete
strangeness of the objects of such an indifferent, purely objective
apprehension are favourable to it. Thus, for example, the sight of an
entirely strange town often makes a specially agreeable impression upon
the traveller, which it by no means produces in the inhabitant of it; for
it arises from the fact that the former, being out of all relation to this
town and its inhabitants, perceives it purely objectively. Upon this
depends partly the pleasure of travelling. This seems also to be the
reason why it is sought to increase the effect of narrative or dramatic
works by transferring the scene to distant times or lands: in Germany, to
Italy or Spain; in Italy, to Germany, Poland, or even Holland. If now
perfectly objective, intuitive apprehension, purified from all volition,
is the condition of the _enjoyment_ of æsthetic objects, so much the more
is it the condition of their _production_. Every good picture, every
genuine poem, bears the stamp of the frame of mind described. For only
what has sprung from perception, and indeed from purely objective
perception, or is directly excited by it, contains the living germ from
which genuine and original achievements can grow up: not only in plastic
and pictorial art, but also in poetry, nay, even in philosophy. The
_punctum saliens_ of every beautiful work, of every great or profound
thought, is a purely objective perception. Such perception, however, is
absolutely conditioned by the complete silence of the will, which leaves
the man simply the pure subject of knowledge. The natural disposition for
the predominance of this state is genius.
With the disappearance of volition from consciousness, the individuality
also, and with it its suffering and misery, is really abolished. Therefore
I have described the pure subject of knowledge which then remains over as
the eternal eye of the world, which, although with very different degrees
of clearness, looks forth from all living creatures, untouched by their
appearing and passing away, and thus, as identical with itself, as
constantly one and the same, is the supporter of the world of permanent
Ideas, _i.e._, of the adequate objectivity of the will; while the
individual subject, whose knowledge is clouded by the individuality which
springs from the will, has only particular things as its object, and is
transitory as these themselves. In the sense here indicated a double
existence may be attributed to every one. As will, and therefore as
individual, he is only one, and this one exclusively, which gives him
enough to do and to suffer. As the purely objective perceiver, he is the
pure subject of knowledge in whose consciousness alone the objective world
has its existence; as such he is _all things_ so far as he perceives them.
and in him is their existence without burden or inconvenience. It is _his_
existence, so far as it exists in _his_ idea; but it is there without
will. So far, on the other hand, as it is will, it is not in him. It is
well with every one when he is in that state in which he is all things; it
is ill with him when in the state in which he is exclusively one. Every
state, every man, every scene of life, requires only to be purely
objectively apprehended and be made the subject of a sketch, whether with
pencil or with words, in order to appear interesting, charming, and
enviable; but if one is in it, if one is it oneself, then (it is often a
case of) may the devil endure it. Therefore Goethe says—
“What in life doth only grieve us,
That in art we gladly see.”
There was a period in the years of my youth when I was always trying to
see myself and my action from without, and picture it to myself; probably
in order to make it more enjoyable to me.
As I have never spoken before on the subject I have just been considering,
I wish to add a psychological illustration of it.
In the immediate perception of the world and of life we consider things,
as a rule, merely in their relations, consequently according to their
relative and not their absolute nature and existence. For example, we will
regard houses, ships, machines, and the like with the thought of their end
and their adaptation to it; men, with the thought of their relation to us,
if they have any such; and then with that of their relations to each
other, whether in their present action or with regard to their position
and business, judging perhaps their fitness for it, &c. Such a
consideration of the relations we can follow more or less far to the most
distant links of their chain: the consideration will thereby gain in
accuracy and extent, but in its quality and nature it remains the same. It
is the consideration of things in their relations, nay, _by means of
these_, thus according to the principle of sufficient reason. Every one,
for the most part and as a rule, is given up to this method of
consideration; indeed I believe that most men are capable of no other. But
if, as an exception, it happens that we experience a momentary heightening
of the intensity of our intuitive intelligence, we at once see things with
entirely different eyes, in that we now apprehend them no longer according
to their relations, but according to that which they are in and for
themselves, and suddenly perceive their absolute existence apart from
their relative existence. At once every individual represents its species;
and accordingly we now apprehend the universal of every being. Now what we
thus know are the _Ideas of things_; but out of these there now speaks a
higher wisdom than that which knows of mere relations. And we also have
then passed out of the relations, and have thus become the pure subject of
knowledge. But what now exceptionally brings about this state must be
internal physiological processes, which purify the activity of the brain,
and heighten it to such a degree that a sudden spring‐tide of activity
like this ensues. The external conditions of this are that we remain
completely strange to the scene to be considered, and separated from it,
and are absolutely not actively involved in it.
In order to see that a purely objective, and therefore correct,
comprehension of things is only possible when we consider them without any
personal participation in them, thus when the will is perfectly silent,
let one call to mind how much every emotion or passion disturbs and
falsifies our knowledge, indeed how every inclination and aversion alters,
colours, and distorts not only the judgment, but even the original
perception of things. Let one remember how when we are gladdened by some
fortunate occurrence the whole world at once assumes a bright colour and a
smiling aspect, and, on the contrary, looks gloomy and sad when we are
pressed with cares; also, how even a lifeless thing, if it is to be made
use of in doing something which we abhor, seems to have a hideous
physiognomy; for example, the scaffold, the fortress, to which we have
been brought, the surgeon’s cases of instruments; the travelling carriage
of our loved one, &c., nay, numbers, letters, seals, may seem to grin upon
us horribly and affect us as fearful monstrosities. On the other hand, the
tools for the accomplishment of our wishes at once appear to us agreeable
and pleasing; for example, the hump‐backed old woman with the love‐letter,
the Jew with the louis d’ors, the rope‐ladder to escape by, &c. As now
here the falsification of the idea through the will in the case of special
abhorrence or love is unmistakable, so is it present in a less degree in
every object which has any even distant relation to our will, that is, to
our desire or aversion. Only when the will with its interests has left
consciousness, and the intellect freely follows its own laws, and as pure
subject mirrors the objective world, yet in doing so, although spurred on
by no volition, is of its own inclination in the highest state of tension
and activity, do the colours and forms of things appear in their true and
full significance. Thus it is from such comprehension alone that genuine
works of art can proceed whose permanent worth and ever renewed approval
arises simply from the fact that they express the purely objective
element, which lies at the foundation of and shines through the different
subjective, and therefore distorted, perceptions, as that which is common
to them all and alone stands fast; as it were the common theme of all
those subjective variations. For certainly the nature which is displayed
before our eyes exhibits itself very differently in different minds; and
as each one sees it so alone can he repeat it, whether with the pencil or
the chisel, or with words and gestures on the stage. Objectivity alone
makes one capable of being an artist; but objectivity is only possible in
this way, that the intellect, separated from its root the will, moves
freely, and yet acts with the highest degree of energy.
To the youth whose perceptive intellect still acts with fresh energy
nature often exhibits itself with complete objectivity, and therefore with
perfect beauty. But the pleasure of such a glance is sometimes disturbed
by the saddening reflection that the objects present which exhibit
themselves in such beauty do not stand in a personal relation to this
will, by virtue of which they could interest and delight him; he expects
his life in the form of an interesting romance. “Behind that jutting cliff
the well‐mounted band of friends should await me,—beside that waterfall my
love should rest; this beautifully lighted building should be her
dwelling, and that vine‐clad window hers;—but this beautiful world is for
me a desert!” and so on. Such melancholy youthful reveries really demand
something exactly contradictory to themselves; for the beauty with which
those objects present themselves depends just upon the pure objectivity,
_i.e._, disinterestedness of their perception, and would therefore at once
be abolished by the relation to his own will which the youth painfully
misses, and thus the whole charm which now affords him pleasure, even
though alloyed with a certain admixture of pain, would cease to exist. The
same holds good, moreover, of every age and every relation; the beauty of
the objects of a landscape which now delights us would vanish if we stood
in personal relations to them, of which we remained always conscious.
Everything is beautiful only so long as it does not concern us. (We are
not speaking here of sensual passion, but of æsthetic pleasure.) Life is
never beautiful, but only the pictures of life are so in the transfiguring
mirror of art or poetry; especially in youth, when we do not yet know it.
Many a youth would receive great peace of mind if one could assist him to
this knowledge.
Why has the sight of the full moon such a beneficent, quieting, and
exalting effect? Because the moon is an object of perception, but never of
desire:
“The stars we yearn not after
Delight us with their glory.”—G.
Further, it is sublime, _i.e._, it induces a lofty mood in us, because,
without any relation to us, it moves along for ever strange to earthly
doings, and sees all while it takes part in nothing. Therefore, at the
sight of it the will, with its constant neediness, vanishes from
consciousness, and leaves a purely knowing consciousness behind. Perhaps
there is also mingled here a feeling that we share this sight with
millions, whose individual differences are therein extinguished, so that
in this perception they are one, which certainly increases the impression
of the sublime. Finally, this is also furthered by the fact that the moon
lights without heating, in which certainly lies the reason why it has been
called chaste and identified with Diana. In consequence of this whole
beneficent impression upon our feeling, the moon becomes gradually our
bosom friend. The sun, again, never does so; but is like an over‐plenteous
benefactor whom we can never look in the face.
The following remark may find room here as an addition to what is said in
§ 38 of the first volume on the æsthetic pleasure afforded by light,
reflection, and colours. The whole immediate, thoughtless, but also
unspeakable, pleasure which is excited in us by the impression of colours,
strengthened by the gleam of metal, and still more by transparency, as,
for example, in coloured windows, and in a greater measure by means of the
clouds and their reflection at sunset,—ultimately depends upon the fact
that here in the easiest manner, almost by a physical necessity, our whole
interest is won for knowledge, without any excitement of our will, so that
we enter the state of pure knowing, although for the most part this
consists here in a mere sensation of the affection of the retina, which,
however, as it is in itself perfectly free from pain or pleasure, and
therefore entirely without direct influence on the will, thus belongs to
pure knowledge.