What is properly denoted by the name genius is the predominating capacity
for that kind of knowledge which has been described in the two preceding
chapters, the knowledge from which all genuine works of art and poetry,
and even of philosophy, proceed. Accordingly, since this has for its
objects the Platonic Ideas, and these are not comprehended in the
abstract, but _only perceptibly_, the essence of genius must lie in the
perfection and energy of the knowledge of _perception_. Corresponding to
this, the works which we hear most decidedly designated works of genius
are those which start immediately from perception and devote themselves to
perception; thus those of plastic and pictorial art, and then those of
poetry, which gets its perceptions by the assistance of the imagination.
The difference between genius and mere talent makes itself noticeable even
here. For talent is an excellence which lies rather in the greater
versatility and acuteness of discursive than of intuitive knowledge. He
who is endowed with talent thinks more quickly and more correctly than
others; but the genius beholds another world from them all, although only
because he has a more profound perception of the world which lies before
them also, in that it presents itself in his mind more objectively, and
consequently in greater purity and distinctness.
The intellect is, according to its destination, merely the medium of
motives; and in accordance with this it originally comprehends nothing in
things but their relations to the will, the direct, the indirect, and the
possible. In the case of the brutes, where it is almost entirely confined
to the direct relations, the matter is just on that account most apparent:
what has no relation to their will does not exist for them. Therefore we
sometimes see with surprise that even clever animals do not observe at all
something conspicuous to them; for example, they show no surprise at
obvious alterations in our person and surroundings. In the case of normal
men the indirect, and even the possible, relations to the will are added,
the sum of which make up the total of useful knowledge; but here also
knowledge remains confined to the relations. Therefore the normal mind
does not attain to an absolutely pure, objective picture of things,
because its power of perception, whenever it is not spurred on by the will
and set in motion, at once becomes tired and inactive, because it has not
enough energy of its own elasticity and without an end in view to
apprehend the world in a purely objective manner. Where, on the other
hand, this takes place—where the brain has such a surplus of the power of
ideation that a pure, distinct, objective image of the external world
exhibits itself _without any aim_; an image which is useless for the
intentions of the will, indeed, in the higher degrees, disturbing, and
even injurious to them—there, the natural disposition, at least, is
already present for that abnormity which the name genius denotes, which
signifies that here a _genius_ foreign to the will, _i.e._, to the I
proper, as it were coming from without, seems to be active. But to speak
without a figure: genius consists in this, that the knowing faculty has
received a considerably greater development than the _service of the
will_, for which alone it originally appeared, demands. Therefore,
strictly speaking, physiology might to a certain extent class such a
superfluity of brain activity, and with it of brain itself, among the
_monstra per excessum_, which, it is well known, it co‐ordinates with
_monstra per defectum_ and those _per situm mutatum_. Thus genius consists
in an abnormally large measure of intellect, which can only find its use
by being applied to the universal of existence, whereby it then devotes
itself to the service of the whole human race, as the normal intellect to
that of the individual. In order to make this perfectly comprehensible one
might say: if the normal man consists of two‐thirds will and one‐third
intellect, the genius, on the contrary, has two‐thirds intellect and one‐
third will. This might, then, be further illustrated by a chemical simile:
the base and the acid of a neutral salt are distinguished by the fact that
in each of the two the radical has the converse relation to oxygen to that
which it has in the other. The base or the alkali is so because in it the
radical predominates with reference to oxygen, and the acid is so because
in it oxygen predominates. In the same way now the normal man and the
genius are related in respect of will and intellect. From this arises a
thorough distinction between them, which is visible even in their whole
nature and behaviour, but comes out most clearly in their achievements.
One might add the difference that while that total opposition between the
chemical materials forms the strongest affinity and attraction between
them, in the human race the opposite is rather wont to be found.
The first manifestation which such a superfluity of the power of knowledge
calls forth shows itself for the most part in the most original and
fundamental knowledge, _i.e._, in knowledge of _perception_, and occasions
the repetition of it in an image; hence arises the painter and the
sculptor. In their case, then, the path between the apprehension of genius
and the artistic production is the shortest; therefore the form in which
genius and its activity here exhibits itself is the simplest and its
description the easiest. Yet here also the source is shown from which all
genuine productions in every art, in poetry, and indeed in philosophy,
have their origin, although in the case of these the process is not so
simple.
Let the result arrived at in the first book be here borne in mind, that
all perception is intellectual and not merely sensuous. If one now adds
the exposition given here, and, at the same time, in justice considers
that the philosophy of last century denoted the perceptive faculty of
knowledge by the name “lower powers of the soul,” we will not think it so
utterly absurd nor so deserving of the bitter scorn with which Jean Paul
quotes it in his “_Vorschule der Æsthetik_,” that Adelung, who had to
speak the language of his age, placed genius in “a remarkable strength of
the lower powers of the soul.” The work just referred to of this author,
who is so worthy of our admiration, has great excellences, but yet I must
remark that all through, whenever a theoretical explanation and, in
general, instruction is the end in view, a style of exposition which is
constantly indulging in displays of wit and hurrying along in mere similes
cannot be well adapted to the purpose.
It is, then, _perception_ to which primarily the peculiar and true nature
of things, although still in a conditioned manner, discloses and reveals
itself. All conceptions and everything thought are mere abstractions,
consequently partial ideas taken from perception, and have only arisen by
thinking away. All profound knowledge, even wisdom properly so called, is
rooted in the _perceptive_ apprehension of things, as we have fully
considered in the supplements to the first book. A _perceptive_
apprehension has always been the generative process in which every genuine
work of art, every immortal thought, received the spark of life. All
primary thought takes place in pictures. From conceptions, on the other
hand, arise the works of mere talent, the merely rational thoughts,
imitations, and indeed all that is calculated merely with reference to the
present need and contemporary conditions.
But if now our perception were constantly bound to the real present of
things, its material would be entirely under the dominion of chance, which
seldom produces things at the right time, seldom arranges them for an end
and for the most part presents them to us in very defective examples.
Therefore the _imagination_ is required in order to complete, arrange,
give the finishing touches to, retain, and repeat at pleasure all those
significant pictures of life, according as the aims of a profoundly
penetrating knowledge and of the significant work whereby they are to be
communicated may demand. Upon this rests the high value of imagination,
which is an indispensable tool of genius. For only by virtue of
imagination can genius ever, according to the requirements of the
connection of its painting or poetry or thinking, call up to itself each
object or event in a lively image, and thus constantly draw fresh
nourishment from the primary source of all knowledge, perception. The man
who is endowed with imagination is able, as it were, to call up spirits,
who at the right time reveal to him the truths which the naked reality of
things exhibits only weakly, rarely, and then for the most part at the
wrong time. Therefore the man without imagination is related to him, as
the mussel fastened to its rock, which must wait for what chance may bring
it, is related to the freely moving or even winged animal. For such a man
knows nothing but the actual perception of the senses: till it comes he
gnaws at conceptions and abstractions which are yet mere shells and husks,
not the kernel of knowledge. He will never achieve anything great, unless
it be in calculating and mathematics. The works of plastic and pictorial
art and of poetry, as also the achievements of mimicry, may also be
regarded as means by which those who have no imagination may make up for
this defect as far as possible, and those who are gifted with it may
facilitate the use of it.
Thus, although the kind of knowledge which is peculiar and essential to
genius is knowledge of _perception_, yet the special object of this
knowledge by no means consists of the particular things, but of the
Platonic Ideas which manifest themselves in these, as their apprehension
was analysed in chapter 29. Always to see the universal in the particular
is just the fundamental characteristic of genius, while the normal man
knows in the particular only the particular as such, for only as such does
it belong to the actual which alone has interests for him, _i.e._,
relations to his _will_. The degree in which every one not merely thinks,
but actually perceives, in the particular thing, only the particular, or a
more or less universal up to the most universal of the species, is the
measure of his approach to genius. And corresponding to this, only the
nature of things generally, the universal in them, the whole, is the
special object of genius. The investigation of the particular phenomena is
the field of the talents, in the real sciences, whose special object is
always only the relations of things to each other.
What was fully shown in the preceding chapter, that the apprehension of
the Ideas is conditioned by the fact that the knower is the _pure subject_
of knowledge, _i.e._, that the will entirely vanishes from consciousness,
must be borne in mind here. The pleasure which we have in many of Goethe’s
songs which bring the landscape before our eyes, or in Jean Paul’s
sketches of nature, depends upon the fact that we thereby participate in
the objectivity of those minds, _i.e._, the purity with which in them the
world as idea separated from the world as will, and, as it were, entirely
emancipated itself from it. It also follows from the fact that the kind of
knowledge peculiar to genius is essentially that which is purified from
all will and its relations, that the works of genius do not proceed from
intention or choice, but it is guided in them by a kind of instinctive
necessity. What is called the awaking of genius, the hour of initiation,
the moment of inspiration, is nothing but the attainment of freedom by the
intellect, when, delivered for a while from its service under the will, it
does not now sink into inactivity or lassitude, but is active for a short
time entirely alone and spontaneously. Then it is of the greatest purity,
and becomes the clear mirror of the world; for, completely severed from
its origin, the will, it is now the world as idea itself, concentrated in
_one_ consciousness. In such moments, as it were, the souls of immortal
works are begotten. On the other hand, in all intentional reflection the
intellect is not free, for indeed the will guides it and prescribes it its
theme.
The stamp of commonness, the expression of vulgarity, which is impressed
on the great majority of countenances consists really in this, that in
them becomes visible the strict subordination of their knowledge to their
will, the firm chain which binds these two together, and the impossibility
following from this of apprehending things otherwise than in their
relation to the will and its aims. On the other hand, the expression of
genius which constitutes the evident family likeness of all highly gifted
men consists in this, that in it we distinctly read the liberation, the
manumission of the intellect from the service of the will, the
predominance of knowledge over volition; and because all anxiety proceeds
from the will, and knowledge, on the contrary, is in and for itself
painless and serene, this gives to their lofty brow and clear, perceiving
glance, which are not subject to the service of the will and its wants,
that look of great, almost supernatural serenity which at times breaks
through, and consists very well with the melancholy of their other
features, especially the mouth, and which in this relation may be aptly
described by the motto of Giordano Bruno: _In tristitia hilaris, in
hilaritate tristis_.
The will, which is the root of the intellect, opposes itself to any
activity of the latter which is directed to anything else but its own
aims. Therefore the intellect is only capable of a purely objective and
profound comprehension of the external world when it has freed itself at
least for a while from this its root. So long as it remains bound to the
will, it is of its own means capable of no activity, but sleeps in a
stupor, whenever the will (the interests) does not awake it, and set it in
motion. If, however, this happens, it is indeed very well fitted to
recognise the relations of things according to the interest of the will,
as the prudent mind does, which, however, must always be an awakened mind,
_i.e._, a mind actively aroused by volition; but just on this account it
is not capable of comprehending the purely objective nature of things. For
the willing and the aims make it so one‐sided that it sees in things only
that which relates to these, and the rest either disappears or enters
consciousness in a falsified form. For example, the traveller in anxiety
and haste will see the Rhine and its banks only as a line, and the bridges
over it only as lines cutting it. In the mind of the man who is filled
with his own aims the world appears as a beautiful landscape appears on
the plan of a battlefield. Certainly these are extremes, taken for the
sake of distinctness; but every excitement of the will, however slight,
will have as its consequence a slight but constantly proportionate
falsification of knowledge. The world can only appear in its true colour
and form, in its whole and correct significance, when the intellect,
devoid of willing, moves freely over the objects, and without being driven
on by the will is yet energetically active. This is certainly opposed to
the nature and determination of the intellect, thus to a certain extent
unnatural, and just on this account exceedingly rare; but it is just in
this that the essential nature of genius lies, in which alone that
condition takes place in a high degree and is of some duration, while in
others it only appears approximately and exceptionally. I take it to be in
the sense expounded here that Jean Paul (_Vorschule der Æsthetik_, § 12)
places the essence of genius in _reflectiveness_. The normal man is sunk
in the whirl and tumult of life, to which he belongs through his will; his
intellect is filled with the things and events of life; but he does not
know these things nor life itself in their objective significance; as the
merchant on ’Change in Amsterdam apprehends perfectly what his neighbour
says, but does not hear the hum of the whole Exchange, like the sound of
the sea, which astonishes the distant observer. From the genius, on the
contrary, whose intellect is delivered from the will, and thus from the
person, what concerns these does not conceal the world and things
themselves; but he becomes distinctly conscious of them, he apprehends
them in and for themselves in objective perception; in this sense he is
_reflective_.
It is _reflectiveness_ which enables the painter to repeat the natural
objects which he contemplates faithfully upon the canvas, and the poet
accurately to call up again the concrete present, by means of abstract
conceptions, by giving it utterance and so bringing it to distinct
consciousness, and also to express everything in words which others only
feel. The brute lives entirely without reflection. It has consciousness,
_i.e._, it knows itself and its good and ill, also the objects which
occasion these. But its knowledge remains always subjective, never becomes
objective; everything that enters it seems a matter of course, and
therefore can never become for it a theme (an object of exposition) nor a
problem (an object of meditation). Its consciousness is thus entirely
_immanent_. Not certainly the same, but yet of kindred nature, is the
consciousness of the common type of man, for his apprehension also of
things and the world is predominantly subjective and remains prevalently
immanent. It apprehends the things in the world, but not the world; its
own action and suffering, but not itself. As now in innumerable gradations
the distinctness of consciousness rises, reflectiveness appears more and
more; and thus it is brought about little by little that sometimes, though
rarely, and then again in very different degrees of distinctness, the
question passes through the mind like a flash, “What is all this?” or
again, “How is it really fashioned?” The first question, if it attains
great distinctness and continued presence, will make the philosopher, and
the other, under the same conditions, the artist or the poet. Therefore,
then, the high calling of both of these has its root in the reflectiveness
which primarily springs from the distinctness with which they are
conscious of the world and their own selves, and thereby come to reflect
upon them. But the whole process springs from the fact that the intellect
through its preponderance frees itself for a time from the will, to which
it is originally subject.
The considerations concerning genius here set forth are connected by way
of supplement with the exposition contained in chapter 21, of the _ever
wider separation of the will and the intellect_, which can be traced in
the whole series of existences. This reaches its highest grade in genius,
where it extends to the entire liberation of the intellect from its root
the will, so that here the intellect becomes perfectly free, whereby the
_world as idea_ first attains to complete objectification.
A few remarks now concerning the individuality of genius. Aristotle has
already said, according to Cicero (_Tusc._, i. 33), “_Omnes ingeniosos
melancholicos esse_;” which without doubt is connected with the passage of
Aristotle’s “_Problemata_,” xxx. 1. Goethe also says: “My poetic rapture
was very small, so long as I only encountered good; but it burnt with a
bright flame when I fled from threatening evil. The tender poem, like the
rainbow, is only drawn on a dark ground; hence the genius of the poet
loves the element of melancholy.”
This is to be explained from the fact that since the will constantly re‐
establishes its original sway over the intellect, the latter more easily
withdraws from this under unfavourable personal relations; because it
gladly turns from adverse circumstances, in order to a certain extent to
divert itself, and now directs itself with so much the greater energy to
the foreign external world, thus more easily becomes purely objective.
Favourable personal relations act conversely. Yet as a whole and in
general the melancholy which accompanies genius depends upon the fact that
the brighter the intellect which enlightens the will to live, the more
distinctly does it perceive the misery of its condition. The melancholy
disposition of highly gifted minds which has so often been observed has
its emblem in Mont Blanc, the summit of which is for the most part lost in
clouds; but when sometimes, especially in the early morning, the veil of
clouds is rent and now the mountain looks down on Chamounix from its
height in the heavens above the clouds, then it is a sight at which the
heart of each of us swells from its profoundest depths. So also the
genius, for the most part melancholy, shows at times that peculiar
serenity already described above, which is possible only for it, and
springs from the most perfect objectivity of the mind. It floats like a
ray of light upon his lofty brow: _In tristitia hilaris, in hilaritate
tristis_.
All bunglers are so ultimately because their intellect, still too firmly
bound to the will, only becomes active when spurred on by it, and
therefore remains entirely in its service. They are accordingly only
capable of personal aims. In conformity with these they produce bad
pictures, insipid poems, shallow, absurd, and very often dishonest
philosophemes, when it is to their interest to recommend themselves to
high authorities by a pious disingenuousness. Thus all their action and
thought is personal. Therefore they succeed at most in appropriating what
is external, accidental, and arbitrary in the genuine works of others as
mannerisms, in doing which they take the shell instead of the kernel, and
yet imagine they have attained to everything, nay, have surpassed those
works. If, however, the failure is patent, yet many hope to attain success
in the end through their good intentions. But it is just this good will
which makes success impossible; because this only pursues personal ends,
and with these neither art nor poetry nor philosophy can ever be taken
seriously. Therefore the saying is peculiarly applicable to such persons:
“They stand in their own light.” They have no idea that it is only the
intellect delivered from the government of the will and all its projects,
and therefore freely active, that makes one capable of genuine
productions, because it alone imparts true seriousness; and it is well for
them that they have not, otherwise they would leap into the water. The
_good will_ is in _morality_ everything; but in art it is nothing. In art,
as the word itself indicates (_Kunst_), what alone is of consequence is
ability (_Können_). It all amounts ultimately to this, where the true
_seriousness_ of the man lies. In almost all it lies exclusively in their
own well‐being and that of their families; therefore they are in a
position to promote this and nothing else; for no purpose, no voluntary
and intentional effort, imparts the true, profound, and proper
seriousness, or makes up for it, or more correctly, takes its place. For
it always remains where nature has placed it; and without it everything is
only half performed. Therefore, for the same reason, persons of genius
often manage so badly for their own welfare. As a leaden weight always
brings a body back to the position which its centre of gravity thereby
determined demands, so the true seriousness of the man always draws the
strength and attention of the intellect back to that in which it lies;
everything else the man does _without true seriousness_. Therefore only
the exceedingly rare and abnormal men whose true seriousness does not lie
in the personal and practical, but in the objective and theoretical, are
in a position to apprehend what is essential in the things of the world,
thus the highest truths, and reproduce them in any way. For such a
seriousness of the individual, falling outside himself in the objective,
is something foreign to the nature of man, something unnatural, or really
supernatural: yet on account of this alone is the man _great_; and
therefore what he achieves is then ascribed to a _genius_ different from
himself, which takes possession of him. To such a man his painting,
poetry, or thinking is an _end_; to others it is a _means_. The latter
thereby seek their own things, and, as a rule, they know how to further
them, for they flatter their contemporaries, ready to serve their wants
and humours; therefore for the most part they live in happy circumstances;
the former often in very miserable circumstances. For he sacrifices his
personal welfare to his _objective end_; he cannot indeed do otherwise,
because his seriousness lies there. They act conversely; therefore they
are _small_, but he is _great_. Accordingly his work is for all time, but
the recognition of it generally only begins with posterity: they live and
die with their time. In general he only is great who in his work, whether
it is practical or theoretical, seeks _not his own concerns_, but pursues
an _objective end_ alone; he is so, however, even when in the practical
sphere this end is a misunderstood one, and even if in consequence of this
it should be a crime. _That he seeks not himself and his own concerns_,
this makes him under all circumstances _great_. _Small_, on the other
hand, is all action which is directed to personal ends; for whoever is
thereby set in activity knows and finds himself only in his own transient
and insignificant person. He who is great, again, finds himself in all,
and therefore in the whole: he lives not, like others, only in the
microcosm, but still more in the macrocosm. Hence the whole interests him,
and he seeks to comprehend it in order to represent it, or to explain it,
or to act practically upon it. For it is not strange to him; he feels that
it concerns him. On account of this extension of his sphere he is called
_great_. Therefore that lofty predicate belongs only to the true hero, in
some sense, and to genius: it signifies that they, contrary to human
nature, have not sought their own things, have not lived for themselves,
but for all. As now clearly the great majority must _constantly_ be small,
and can _never_ become great, the converse of this, that one should be
great throughout, that is, constantly and every moment, is yet not
possible—
“For man is made of common clay,
And custom is his nurse.”
Every great man must often be only the individual, have only himself in
view, and that means he must be small. Upon this depends the very true
remark, that no man is a hero to his valet, and not upon the fact that the
valet cannot appreciate the hero; which Goethe, in the
“_Wahlverwandhschaften_” (vol. ii. chap. 5), serves up as an idea of
Ottilie’s.
Genius is its own reward: for the best that one is, one must necessarily
be for oneself. “Whoever is born with a talent, to a talent, finds in this
his fairest existence,” says Goethe. When we look back at a great man of
former times, we do not think, “How happy is he to be still admired by all
of us!” but, “How happy must he have been in the immediate enjoyment of a
mind at the surviving traces of which centuries revive themselves!” Not in
the fame, but in that whereby it is attained, lies the value, and in the
production of immortal children the pleasure. Therefore those who seek to
show the vanity of posthumous fame from the fact that he who obtains it
knows nothing of it, may be compared to the wiseacre who very learnedly
tried to demonstrate to the man who cast envious glances at a heap of
oyster‐shells in his neighbour’s yard the absolute uselessness of them.
According to the exposition of the nature of genius which has been given,
it is so far contrary to nature, inasmuch as it consists in this, that the
intellect, whose real destination is the service of the will, emancipates
itself from this service in order to be active on its own account.
Accordingly genius is an intellect which has become untrue to its
destination. Upon this depend the _disadvantages_ connected with it, for
the consideration of which we shall now prepare the way by comparing
genius with the less decided predominance of the intellect.
The intellect of the normal man, strictly bound to the service of the
will, and therefore really only occupied with the apprehension of motives,
may be regarded as a complex system of wires, by means of which each of
these puppets is set in motion in the theatre of the world. From this
arises the dry, grave seriousness of most people, which is only surpassed
by that of the brutes, who never laugh. On the other hand, we might
compare the genius, with his unfettered intellect, to a living man playing
along with the large puppets of the famous puppet‐show at Milan, who would
be the only one among them who would understand everything, and would
therefore gladly leave the stage for a while to enjoy the play from the
boxes;—that is the reflectiveness of genius. But even the man of great
understanding and reason, whom one might almost call wise, is very
different from the genius, and in this way, that his intellect retains a
_practical_ tendency, is concerned with the choice of the best ends and
means, therefore remains in the service of the will, and accordingly is
occupied in a manner that is thoroughly in keeping with nature. The firm,
practical seriousness of life which the Romans denoted _gravitas_
presupposes that the intellect does not forsake the service of the will in
order to wander away after that which does not concern the will; therefore
it does not admit of that separation of the will and the intellect which
is the condition of genius. The able, nay, eminent man, who is fitted for
great achievements in the practical sphere, is so precisely because
objects rouse his will in a lively manner, and spur him on to the
ceaseless investigation of their relations and connections. Thus his
intellect has grown up closely connected with his will. Before the man of
genius, on the contrary, there floats in his objective comprehension the
phenomenon of the world, as something foreign to him, an object of
contemplation, which expels his will from consciousness. Round this point
turns the distinction between the capacity for _deeds_ and for _works_.
The latter demand objectivity and depth of knowledge, which presupposes
entire separation of the intellect from the will; the former, on the other
hand, demands the application of knowledge, presence of mind, and
decision, which required that the intellect should uninterruptedly attend
to the service of the will. Where the bond between the intellect and the
will is loosened, the intellect, turned away from its natural destination,
will neglect the service of the will; it will, for example, even in the
need of the moment, preserve its emancipation, and perhaps be unable to
avoid taking in the picturesque impression of the surroundings, from which
danger threatens the individual. The intellect of the reasonable and
understanding man, on the other hand, is constantly at its post, is
directed to the circumstances and their requirements. Such a man will
therefore in all cases determine and carry out what is suitable to the
case, and consequently will by no means fall into those eccentricities,
personal slips, nay, follies, to which the genius is exposed, because his
intellect does not remain exclusively the guide and guardian of his will,
but sometimes more, sometimes less, is laid claim to by the purely
objective. In the contrast of Tasso and Antonio, Goethe has illustrated
the opposition, here explained in the abstract, in which these two
entirely different kinds of capacity stand to each other. The kinship of
genius and madness, so often observed, depends chiefly upon that
separation of the intellect from the will which is essential to genius,
but is yet contrary to nature. But this separation itself is by no means
to be attributed to the fact that genius is accompanied by less intensity
of will; for it is rather distinguished by a vehement and passionate
character; but it is to be explained from this, that the practically
excellent person, the man of deeds, has merely the whole, full measure of
intellect required for an energetic will while most men lack even this;
but genius consists in a completely abnormal, actual superfluity of
intellect, such as is required for the service of no will. On this account
the men of genuine works are a thousand times rarer than the men of deeds.
It is just that abnormal superfluity of intellect by virtue of which it
obtains the decided preponderance, sets itself free from the will, and
now, forgetting its origin, is freely active from its own strength and
elasticity; and from this the creations of genius proceed.
Now further, just this, that genius in working consists of the free
intellect, _i.e._, of the intellect emancipated from the service of the
will, has as a consequence that its productions serve no useful ends. The
work of genius is music, or philosophy, or paintings, or poetry; it is
nothing to use. To be of no use belongs to the character of the works of
genius; it is their patent of nobility. All other works of men are for the
maintenance or easing of our existence; only those we are speaking of are
not; they alone exist for their own sake, and are in this sense to be
regarded as the flower or the net profit of existence. Therefore our heart
swells at the enjoyment of them, for we rise out of the heavy earthly
atmosphere of want. Analogous to this, we see the beautiful, even apart
from these, rarely combined with the useful. Lofty and beautiful trees
bear no fruit; the fruit‐trees are small, ugly cripples. The full garden
rose is not fruitful, but the small, wild, almost scentless roses are. The
most beautiful buildings are not the useful ones; a temple is no dwelling‐
house. A man of high, rare mental endowments compelled to apply himself to
a merely useful business, for which the most ordinary man would be fitted,
is like a costly vase decorated with the most beautiful painting which is
used as a kitchen pot; and to compare useful people with men of genius is
like comparing building‐stone with diamonds.
Thus the merely practical man uses his intellect for that for which nature
destined it, the comprehension of the relations of things, partly to each
other, partly to the will of the knowing individual. The genius, on the
other hand, uses it, contrary to its destination, for the comprehension of
the objective nature of things. His mind, therefore, belongs not to
himself, but to the world, to the illumination of which, in some sense, it
will contribute. From this must spring manifold _disadvantages_ to the
individual favoured with genius. For his intellect will in general show
those faults which are rarely wanting in any tool which is used for that
for which it has not been made. First of all, it will be, as it were, the
servant of two masters, for on every opportunity it frees itself from the
service to which it was destined in order to follow its own ends, whereby
it often leaves the will very inopportunely in a fix, and thus the
individual so gifted becomes more or less useless for life, nay, in his
conduct sometimes reminds us of madness. Then, on account of its highly
developed power of knowledge, it will see in things more the universal
than the particular; while the service of the will principally requires
the knowledge of the particular. But, again, when, as opportunity offers,
that whole abnormally heightened power of knowledge directs itself with
all its energy to the circumstances and miseries of the will, it will be
apt to apprehend these too vividly, to behold all in too glaring colours,
in too bright a light, and in a fearfully exaggerated form, whereby the
individual falls into mere extremes. The following may serve to explain
this more accurately. All great theoretical achievements, in whatever
sphere they may be, are brought about in this way: Their author directs
all the forces of his mind upon one point, in which he lets them unite and
concentrate so strongly, firmly, and exclusively that now the whole of the
rest of the world vanishes for him, and his object fills all reality. Now
this great and powerful concentration which belongs to the privileges of
genius sometimes appears for it also in the case of objects of the real
world and the events of daily life, which then, brought under such a
focus, are magnified to such a monstrous extent that they appear like the
flea, which under the solar microscope assumes the stature of an elephant.
Hence it arises that highly gifted individuals sometimes are thrown by
trifles into violent emotions of the most various kinds, which are
incomprehensible to others, who see them transported with grief, joy,
care, fear, anger, &c., by things which leave the every‐day man quite
composed. Thus, then, the genius lacks _soberness_, which simply consists
in this, that one sees in things nothing more than actually belongs to
them, especially with reference to our possible ends; therefore no sober‐
minded man can be a genius. With the disadvantages which have been
enumerated there is also associated hyper‐sensibility, which an abnormally
developed nervous and cerebral system brings with it, and indeed in union
with the vehemence and passionateness of will which is certainly
characteristic of genius, and which exhibits itself physically as energy
of the pulsation of the heart. From all this very easily arises that
extravagance of disposition, that vehemence of the emotions, that quick
change of mood under prevailing melancholy, which Goethe has presented to
us in Tasso. What reasonableness, quiet composure, finished surveyal,
certainty and proportionateness of behaviour is shown by the well‐endowed
normal man in comparison with the now dreamy absentness, and now
passionate excitement of the man of genius, whose inward pain is the
mother’s lap of immortal works! To all this must still be added that
genius lives essentially alone. It is too rare to find its like with ease,
and too different from the rest of men to be their companion. With them it
is the will, with him it is knowledge, that predominates; therefore their
pleasures are not his, and his are not theirs. They are merely moral
beings, and have merely personal relations; he is at the same time a pure
intellect, and as such belongs to the whole of humanity. The course of
thought of the intellect which is detached from its mother soil, the will,
and only returns to it periodically, will soon show itself entirely
different from that of the normal intellect, still cleaving to its stem.
For this reason, and also on account of the dissimilarity of the pace, the
former is not adapted for thinking in common, _i.e._, for conversation
with the others: they will have as little pleasure in him and his
oppressive superiority as he will in them. They will therefore feel more
comfortable with their equals, and he will prefer the entertainment of his
equals, although, as a rule, this is only possible through the works they
have left behind them. Therefore Chamfort says very rightly: “_Il y a peu
de vices qui empêchent un homme d’avoir beaucoup d’amis, autant que
peuvent le faire de trop grandes qualités_.” The happiest lot that can
fall to the genius is release from action, which is not his element, and
leisure for production. From all this it results that although genius may
highly bless him who is gifted with it, in the hours in which, abandoned
to it, he revels unhindered in its delight, yet it is by no means fitted
to procure for him a happy course of life; rather the contrary. This is
also confirmed by the experience recorded in biographies. Besides this
there is also an external incongruity, for the genius, in his efforts and
achievements themselves, is for the most part in contradiction and
conflict with his age. Mere men of talent come always at the right time;
for as they are roused by the spirit of their age, and called forth by its
needs, they are also capable only of satisfying these. They therefore go
hand in hand with the advancing culture of their contemporaries or with
the gradual progress of a special science: for this they reap reward and
approval. But to the next generation their works are no longer enjoyable;
they must be replaced by others, which again are not permanent. The
genius, on the contrary, comes into his age like a comet into the paths of
the planets, to whose well‐regulated and comprehensible order its entirely
eccentric course is foreign. Accordingly he cannot go hand in hand with
the existing, regular progress of the culture of the age, but flings his
works far out on to the way in front (as the dying emperor flung his spear
among the enemy), upon which time has first to overtake them. His relation
to the culminating men of talent of his time might be expressed in the
words of the Evangelist: “Ὁ καιρος ὁ εμος ουπω παρεστιν; ὁ δε καιρος ὁ
ὑμετερος παντοτε εστιν ἑτοιμος” (John vii. 6). The man of talent can
achieve what is beyond the power of achievement of other men, but not what
is beyond their power of apprehension: therefore he at once finds those
who prize him. But the achievement of the man of genius, on the contrary,
transcends not only the power of achievement, but also the power of
apprehension of others; therefore they do not become directly conscious of
him. The man of talent is like the marksman who hits a mark the others
cannot hit; the man of genius is like the marksman who hits a mark they
cannot even see to; therefore they only get news of him indirectly, and
thus late; and even this they only accept upon trust and faith.
Accordingly Goethe says in one of his letters, “Imitation is inborn in us;
what to imitate is not easily recognised. Rarely is what is excellent
found; still more rarely is it prized.” And Chamfort says: “_Il en est de
la valeur des hommes comme de celle des diamans, qui à une certaine mesure
de grosseur, de pureté, de perfection, ont un prix fixe et marqué, mais
qui, par‐delà cette mesure, restent sans prix, et ne trouvent point
d’acheteurs_.” And Bacon of Verulam has also expressed it: “_Infimarum
virtutum, apud vulgus, laus est, mediarum admiratio, supremarum sensus
nullus_” (_De augm. sc._, L. vi. c. 3). Indeed, one might perhaps reply,
_Apud vulgus!_ But I must then come to his assistance with Machiavelli’s
assurance: “_Nel mondo non è se non volgo_;”(12) as also Thilo (_Ueber den
Ruhm_) remarks, that to the vulgar herd there generally belongs one more
than each of us believes. It is a consequence of this late recognition of
the works of the man of genius that they are rarely enjoyed by their
contemporaries, and accordingly in the freshness of colour which
synchronism and presence imparts, but, like figs and dates, much more in a
dry than in a fresh state.
If, finally, we consider genius from the somatic side, we find it
conditioned by several anatomical and physiological qualities, which
individually are seldom present in perfection, and still more seldom
perfect together, but which are yet all indispensably required; so that
this explains why genius only appears as a perfectly isolated and almost
portentous exception. The fundamental condition is an abnormal
predominance of sensibility over irritability and reproductive power; and
what makes the matter more difficult, this must take place in a male body.
(Women may have great talent, but no genius, for they always remain
subjective.) Similarly the cerebral system must be perfectly separated
from the ganglion system by complete isolation, so that it stands in
complete opposition to the latter; and thus the brain pursues its
parasitic life on the organism in a very decided, isolated, powerful, and
independent manner. Certainly it will thereby very easily affect the rest
of the organism injuriously, and through its heightened life and ceaseless
activity wear it out prematurely, unless it is itself possessed of
energetic vital force and a good constitution: thus the latter belong to
the conditions of genius. Indeed even a good stomach is a condition on
account of the special and close agreement of this part with the brain.
But chiefly the brain must be of unusual development and magnitude,
especially broad and high. On the other hand, its depth will be inferior,
and the cerebrum will abnormally preponderate in proportion to the
cerebellum. Without doubt much depends upon the configuration of the brain
as a whole and in its parts; but our knowledge is not yet sufficient to
determine this accurately, although we easily recognise the form of skull
that indicates a noble and lofty intelligence. The texture of the mass of
the brain must be of extreme fineness and perfection, and consist of the
purest, most concentrated, tenderest, and most excitable nerve‐substance;
certainly the quantitative proportion of the white to the grey matter has
a decided influence, which, however, we are also unable as yet to specify.
However, the report of the _post‐mortem_ on the body of Byron(13) shows
that in his case the white matter was in unusually large proportion to the
grey, and also that his brain weighed six pounds. Cuvier’s brain weighed
five pounds; the normal weight is three pounds. In contrast to the
superior size of the brain, the spinal cord and nerves must be unusually
thin. A beautifully arched, high and broad skull of thin bone must protect
the brain without in any way cramping it. This whole quality of the brain
and nervous system is the inheritance from the mother, to which we shall
return in the following book. But it is quite insufficient to produce the
phenomenon of genius if the inheritance from the father is not added, a
lively, passionate temperament, which exhibits itself somatically as
unusual energy of the heart, and consequently of the circulation of the
blood, especially towards the head. For, in the first place, that
turgescence peculiar to the brain on account of which it presses against
its walls is increased by this; therefore it forces itself out of any
opening in these which has been occasioned by some injury; and secondly,
from the requisite strength of the heart the brain receives that internal
movement different from its constant rising and sinking at every breath,
which consists in a shaking of its whole mass at every pulsation of the
four cerebral arteries, and the energy of which must correspond to the
here increased quantity of the brain, as this movement in general is an
indispensable condition of its activity. To this, therefore, small stature
and especially a short neck is favourable, because by the shorter path the
blood reaches the brain with more energy; and on this account great minds
have seldom large bodies. Yet that shortness of the distance is not
indispensable; for example, Goethe was of more than middle height. If,
however, the whole condition connected with the circulation of the blood,
and therefore coming from the father is wanting, the good quality of the
brain coming from the mother, will at most produce a man of talent, a fine
understanding, which the phlegmatic temperament thus introduced supports;
but a phlegmatic genius is impossible. This condition coming from the
father explains many faults of temperament described above. But, on the
other hand, if this condition exists without the former, thus with an
ordinarily or even badly constructed brain, it gives vivacity without
mind, heat without light, hot‐headed persons, men of unsupportable
restlessness and petulance. That of two brothers only one has genius, and
that one generally the elder, as, for example, in Kant’s case, is
primarily to be explained from the fact that the father was at the age of
strength and passion only when he was begotten; although also the other
condition originating with the mother may be spoiled by unfavourable
circumstances.
I have further to add here a special remark on the _childlike_ character
of the genius, _i.e._, on a certain resemblance which exists between
genius and the age of childhood. In childhood, as in the case of genius,
the cerebral and nervous system decidedly preponderates, for its
development hurries far in advance of that of the rest of the organism; so
that already at the seventh year the brain has attained its full extension
and mass. Therefore, Bichat says: “_Dans l’enfance le système nerveux,
comparé au musculaire, est proportionellement plus considérable que dans
tous les âges suivans, tandis que par la suite, la pluspart des autres
systèmes prédominent sur celui‐ci. On sait que, pour bien voir les nerfs,
on choisit toujours les enfans_” (_De la vie et de la mort_, art. 8, § 6).
On the other hand, the development of the genital system begins latest,
and irritability, reproduction, and genital function are in full force
only at the age of manhood, and then, as a rule, they predominate over the
brain function. Hence it is explicable that children, in general, are so
sensible, reasonable, desirous of information, and teachable, nay, on the
whole, are more disposed and fitted for all theoretical occupation than
grown‐up people. They have, in consequence of that course of development,
more intellect than will, _i.e._, than inclinations, desire, and passion.
For intellect and brain are one, and so also is the genital system one
with the most vehement of all desires: therefore I have called the latter
the focus of the will. Just because the fearful activity of this system
still slumbers, while that of the brain has already full play, childhood
is the time of innocence and happiness, the paradise of life, the lost
Eden on which we look longingly back through the whole remaining course of
our life. But the basis of that happiness is that in childhood our whole
existence lies much more in knowing than in willing—a condition which is
also supported from without by the novelty of all objects. Hence in the
morning sunshine of life the world lies before us so fresh, so magically
gleaming, so attractive. The small desires, the weak inclinations, and
trifling cares of childhood are only a weak counterpoise to that
predominance of intellectual activity. The innocent and clear glance of
children, at which we revive ourselves, and which sometimes in particular
cases reaches the sublime contemplative expression with which Raphael has
glorified his cherubs, is to be explained from what has been said.
Accordingly the mental powers develop much earlier than the needs they are
destined to serve; and here, as everywhere, nature proceeds very
designedly. For in this time of predominating intelligence the man
collects a great store of knowledge for future wants which at the time are
foreign to him. Therefore his intellect, now unceasingly active, eagerly
apprehends all phenomena, broods over them and stores them up carefully
for the coming time,—like the bees, who gather a great deal more honey
than they can consume, in anticipation of future need. Certainly what a
man acquires of insight and knowledge up to the age of puberty is, taken
as a whole, more than all that he afterwards learns, however learned he
may become; for it is the foundation of all human knowledge. Up till the
same time plasticity predominates in the child’s body, and later, by a
metastasis, its forces throw themselves into the system of generation; and
thus with puberty the sexual passion appears, and now, little by little,
the will gains the upper hand. Then childhood, which is prevailingly
theoretical and desirous of learning, is followed by the restless, now
stormy, now melancholy, period of youth, which afterwards passes into the
vigorous and earnest age of manhood. Just because that impulse pregnant
with evil is wanting in the child is its volition so adapted and
subordinated to knowledge, whence arises that character of innocence,
intelligence, and reasonableness which is peculiar to the age of
childhood. On what, then, the likeness between childhood and genius
depends I scarcely need to express further: upon the surplus of the powers
of knowledge over the needs of the will, and the predominance of the
purely intellectual activity which springs from this. Really every child
is to a certain extent a genius, and the genius is to a certain extent a
child. The relationship of the two shows itself primarily in the naïveté
and sublime simplicity which is characteristic of true genius; and besides
this it appears in several traits, so that a certain childishness
certainly belongs to the character of the genius. In Riemer’s
“_Mittheilungen über Goethe_” (vol. i. p. 184) it is related that Herder
and others found fault with Goethe, saying he was always a big child.
Certainly they were right in what they said, but they were not right in
finding fault with it. It has also been said of Mozart that all his life
he remained a child (Nissen’s Biography of Mozart, p. 2 and 529).
Schlichtegroll’s “_Nekrology_” (for 1791, vol. ii. p. 109) says of him:
“In his art he early became a man, but in all other relations he always
remained a child.” Every genius is even for this reason a big child; he
looks out into the world as into something strange, a play, and therefore
with purely objective interest. Accordingly he has just as little as the
child that dull gravity of ordinary men, who, since they are capable only
of subjective interests, always see in things mere motives for their
action. Whoever does not to a certain extent remain all his life a big
child, but becomes a grave, sober, thoroughly composed, and reasonable
man, may be a very useful and capable citizen of this world; but never a
genius. In fact, the genius is so because that predominance of the
sensible system and of intellectual activity which is natural to childhood
maintains itself in him in an abnormal manner through his whole life, thus
here becomes perennial. A trace of this certainly shows itself in many
ordinary men up to the period of their youth; therefore, for example, in
many students a purely intellectual tendency and an eccentricity
suggestive of genius is unmistakable. But nature returns to her track;
they assume the chrysalis form and reappear at the age of manhood, as
incarnate Philistines, at whom we are startled when we meet them again in
later years. Upon all this that has been expounded here depends Goethe’s
beautiful remark: “Children do not perform what they promise; young people
very seldom; and if they do keep their word, the world does not keep its
word with them” (_Wahlverwandtschaften_, Pt. i. ch. 10)—the world which
afterwards bestows the crowns which it holds aloft for merit on those who
are the tools of its low aims or know how to deceive it. In accordance
with what has been said, as there is a mere beauty of youth, which almost
every one at some time possesses (_beauté du diable_), so there is a mere
intellectuality of youth, a certain mental nature disposed and adapted for
apprehending, understanding, and learning, which every one has in
childhood, and some have still in youth, but which is afterwards lost,
just like that beauty. Only in the case of a very few, the chosen, the
one, like the other, lasts through the whole life; so that even in old age
a trace of it still remains visible: these are the truly beautiful and the
men of true genius.
The predominance of the cerebral nervous system and of intelligence in
childhood, which is here under consideration, together with the decline of
it in riper age, receives important illustration and confirmation from the
fact that in the species of animals which stands nearest to man, the apes,
the same relation is found in a striking degree. It has by degrees become
certain that the highly intelligent orang‐outang is a young pongo, which
when it has grown up loses the remarkable human look of its countenance,
and also its astonishing intelligence, because the lower and brutal part
of its face increases in size, the forehead thereby recedes, large
_cristæ_, muscular developments, give the skull a brutish form, the
activity of the nervous system sinks, and in its place extraordinary
muscular strength develops, which, as it is sufficient for its
preservation, makes the great intelligence now superfluous. Especially
important is what Fréd. Cuvier has said in this reference, and Flourens
has illustrated in a review of the “_Histoire Naturelle_” of the former,
which appeared in the September number of the “_Journal des Savans_” of
1839, and was also separately printed with some additions, under the
title, “_Résumé analytique des observations de Fr. Cuvier sur l’instinct
et l’intelligence des animaux_,” _p. Flourens_, 1841. It is there said, p.
50: “_L’intelligence de l’orang‐outang, cette intelligence si développée,
et développée de si bonne heure, décroit avec l’âge. L’orang‐outang,
lorsqu’il est jeune, nous étonne par sa pénétration, par sa ruse, par son
adresse; l’orang‐outang, devenu adulte, n’est plus qu’un animal grossier,
brutal, intraitable. Et il en est de tous les singes comme de l’orang‐
outang. Dans tous, l’intelligence décroit à mesure que les forces
s’accroissent. L’animal qui a le plus d’intelligence, n’a toute cette
intelligence que dans le jeune âge._” Further, p. 87: “_Les singes de tous
les genres offrent ce rapport inverse de l’âge et de l’intelligence.
Ainsi, par exemple, l’Entelle (espèce de guenon du sous‐genre des Semno‐
pithèques et l’un des singes vénérés dans la religion des Brames) a, dans
le __ jeune âge, le front large, le museau peu saillant, le crâne élevé,
arrondi, etc. Avec l’âge le front disparait, recule, le museau proémine;
et le moral ne change pas moins que le physique: l’apathie, la violence,
le besoin de solitude, remplacent la pénétration, la docilité, la
confiance. __‹ __Ces différences sont si grandes,__ ›__ dit Mr. Fréd.
Cuvier, __‹ __que dans l’habitude où nous sommes de juger des actions des
animaux par les nôtres, nous prendrions le jeune animal pour un individu
de l’âge, où toutes les qualités morales de l’espèce sont acquises, et
l’Entelle adulte pour un individu qui n’aurait encore que ses forces
physiques. Mais la nature n’en agit pas ainsi avec ces animaux, qui ne
doivent pas sortir de la sphère étroite, qui leur est fixée, et à qui il
suffit en quelque sorte de pouvoir veiller à leur conservation. Pour cela
l’intelligence était nécessaire, quand la force n’existait pas, et quand
celle‐ci est acquise, toute autre puissance perd de son utilité.__ ›_” And
p. 118: “_La conservation des espèces ne repose pas moins sur les qualités
intellectuelles des animaux, que sur leurs qualités organiques_.” This
last confirms my principle that the intellect, like the claws and teeth,
is nothing else than a weapon in the service of the will.