to Abstract Knowledge.
It has been shown that conceptions derive their material from knowledge of
perception, and therefore the entire structure of our world of thought
rests upon the world of perception. We must therefore be able to go back
from every conception, even if only indirectly through intermediate
conceptions, to the perceptions from which it is either itself directly
derived or those conceptions are derived of which it is again an
abstraction. That is to say, we must be able to support it with
perceptions which stand to the abstractions in the relation of examples.
These perceptions thus afford the real content of all our thought, and
whenever they are wanting we have not had conceptions but mere words in
our heads. In this respect our intellect is like a bank, which, if it is
to be sound, must have cash in its safe, so as to be able to meet all the
notes it has issued, in case of demand; the perceptions are the cash, the
conceptions are the notes. In this sense the perceptions might very
appropriately be called _primary_, and the conceptions, on the other hand,
_secondary_ ideas. Not quite so aptly, the Schoolmen, following the
example of Aristotle (_Metaph._, vi. 11, xi. 1), called real things
_substantiæ primæ_, and the conceptions _substantiæ secundæ_. Books impart
only secondary ideas. Mere conceptions of a thing without perception give
only a general knowledge of it. We only have a thorough understanding of
things and their relations so far as we are able to represent them to
ourselves in pure, distinct perceptions, without the aid of words. To
explain words by words, to compare concepts with concepts, in which most
philosophising consists, is a trivial shifting about of the
concept-spheres in order to see which goes into the other and which does
not. At the best we can in this way only arrive at conclusions; but even
conclusions give no really new knowledge, but only show us all that lay in
the knowledge we already possessed, and what part of it perhaps might be
applicable to the particular case. On the other hand, to perceive, to
allow the things themselves to speak to us, to apprehend new relations of
them, and then to take up and deposit all this in conceptions, in order to
possess it with certainty—that gives new knowledge. But, while almost
every one is capable of comparing conceptions with conceptions, to compare
conceptions with perceptions is a gift of the select few. It is the
condition, according to the degree of its perfection, of wit, judgment,
ingenuity, genius. The former faculty, on the contrary, results in little
more than possibly rational reflections. The inmost kernel of all genuine
and actual knowledge is a perception; and every new truth is the profit or
gain yielded by a perception. All original thinking takes place in images,
and this is why imagination is so necessary an instrument of thought, and
minds that lack imagination will never accomplish much, unless it be in
mathematics. On the other hand, merely abstract thoughts, which have no
kernel of perception, are like cloud-structures, without reality. Even
writing and speaking, whether didactic or poetical, has for its final aim
to guide the reader to the same concrete knowledge from which the author
started; if it has not this aim it is bad. This is why the contemplation
and observing of every real thing, as soon as it presents something new to
the observer, is more instructive than any reading or hearing. For indeed,
if we go to the bottom of the matter, all truth and wisdom, nay, the
ultimate secret of things, is contained in each real object, yet certainly
only _in concreto_, just as gold lies hidden in the ore; the difficulty is
to extract it. From a book, on the contrary, at the best we only receive
the truth at second hand, and oftener not at all.
In most books, putting out of account those that are thoroughly bad, the
author, when their content is not altogether empirical, has certainly
_thought_ but not _perceived_; he has written from reflection, not from
intuition, and it is this that makes them commonplace and tedious. For
what the author has thought could always have been thought by the reader
also, if he had taken the same trouble; indeed it consists simply of
intelligent thought, full exposition of what is _implicite_ contained in
the theme. But no actually new knowledge comes in this way into the world;
this is only created in the moment of perception, of direct comprehension
of a new side of the thing. When, therefore, on the contrary, _sight_ has
formed the foundation of an author’s thought, it is as if he wrote from a
land where the reader has never been, for all is fresh and new, because it
is drawn directly from the original source of all knowledge. Let me
illustrate the distinction here touched upon by a perfectly easy and
simple example. Any commonplace writer might easily describe profound
contemplation or petrifying astonishment by saying: “He stood like a
statue;” but Cervantes says: “Like a clothed statue, for the wind moved
his garments” (_Don Quixote_, book vi. ch. 19). It is thus that all great
minds have ever _thought in presence of the perception_, and kept their
gaze steadfastly upon it in their thought. We recognise this from this
fact, among others, that even the most opposite of them so often agree and
coincide in some particular; because they all speak of the same thing
which they all had before their eyes, the world, the perceived reality;
indeed in a certain degree they all say the same thing, and others never
believe them. We recognise it further in the appropriateness and
originality of the expression, which is always perfectly adapted to the
subject because it has been inspired by perception, in the naivete of the
language, the freshness of the imagery, and the impressiveness of the
similes, all of which qualities, without exception, distinguish the works
of great minds, and, on the contrary, are always wanting in the works of
others. Accordingly only commonplace forms of expression and trite figures
are at the service of the latter, and they never dare to allow themselves
to be natural, under penalty of displaying their vulgarity in all its
dreary barrenness; instead of this they are affected mannerists. Hence
Buffon says: “_Le style est l’homme même_.” If men of commonplace mind
write poetry they have certain traditional conventional opinions,
passions, noble sentiments, &c., which they have received in the abstract,
and attribute to the heroes of their poems, who are in this way reduced to
mere personifications of those opinions, and are thus themselves to a
certain extent abstractions, and therefore insipid and tiresome. If they
philosophise, they have taken in a few wide abstract conceptions, which
they turn about in all directions, as if they had to do with algebraical
equations, and hope that something will come of it; at the most we see
that they have all read the same things. Such a tossing to and fro of
abstract conceptions, after the manner of algebraical equations, which is
now-a-days called dialectic, does not, like real algebra, afford certain
results; for here the conception which is represented by the word is not a
fixed and perfectly definite quality, such as are symbolised by the
letters in algebra, but is wavering and ambiguous, and capable of
extension and contraction. Strictly speaking, all thinking, _i.e._,
combining of abstract conceptions, has at the most the _recollections_ of
earlier perceptions for its material, and this only indirectly, so far as
it constitutes the foundation of all conceptions. Real knowledge, on the
contrary, that is, immediate knowledge, is perception alone, new, fresh
perception itself. Now the concepts which the reason has framed and the
memory has preserved cannot all be present to consciousness at once, but
only a very small number of them at a time. On the other hand, the energy
with which we apprehend what is present in perception, in which really all
that is essential in all things generally is virtually contained and
represented, is apprehended, fills the consciousness in one moment with
its whole power. Upon this depends the infinite superiority of genius to
learning; they stand to each other as the text of an ancient classic to
its commentary. All truth and all wisdom really lies ultimately in
perception. But this unfortunately can neither be retained nor
communicated. The _objective_ conditions of such communication can
certainly be presented to others purified and illustrated through plastic
and pictorial art, and even much more directly through poetry; but it
depends so much upon _subjective_ conditions, which are not at the command
of every one, and of no one at all times, nay, indeed in the higher
degrees of perfection, are only the gift of the favoured few. Only the
worst knowledge, abstract, secondary knowledge, the conception, the mere
shadow of true knowledge, is unconditionally communicable. If perceptions
were communicable, that would be a communication worth the trouble; but at
last every one must remain in his own skin and skull, and no one can help
another. To enrich the conception from perception is the unceasing
endeavour of poetry and philosophy. However, the aims of man are
essentially _practical_; and for these it is sufficient that what he has
apprehended through perception should leave traces in him, by virtue of
which he will recognise it in the next similar case; thus he becomes
possessed of worldly wisdom. Thus, as a rule, the man of the world cannot
teach his accumulated truth and wisdom, but only make use of it; he
rightly comprehends each event as it happens, and determines what is in
conformity with it. That books will not take the place of experience nor
learning of genius are two kindred phenomena. Their common ground is that
the abstract can never take the place of the concrete. Books therefore do
not take the place of experience, because _conceptions_ always remain
_general_, and consequently do not get down to the particular, which,
however, is just what has to be dealt with in life; and, besides this, all
conceptions are abstracted from what is particular and perceived in
experience, and therefore one must have come to know these in order
adequately to understand even the general conceptions which the books
communicate. Learning cannot take the place of genius, because it also
affords merely conceptions, but the knowledge of genius consists in the
apprehension of the (Platonic) Ideas of things, and therefore is
essentially intuitive. Thus in the first of these phenomena the
_objective_ condition of perceptive or intuitive knowledge is wanting; in
the second the _subjective_; the former may be attained, the latter
cannot.
Wisdom and genius, these two summits of the Parnassus of human knowledge,
have their foundation not in the abstract and discursive, but in the
perceptive faculty. Wisdom proper is something intuitive, not something
abstract. It does not consist in principles and thoughts, which one can
carry about ready in his mind, as results of his own research or that of
others; but it is the whole manner in which the world presents itself in
his mind. This varies so much that on account of it the wise man lives in
another world from the fool, and the genius sees another world from the
blockhead. That the works of the man of genius immeasurably surpass those
of all others arises simply from the fact that the world which he sees,
and from which he takes his utterances, is so much clearer, as it were
more profoundly worked out, than that in the minds of others, which
certainly contains the same objects, but is to the world of the man of
genius as the Chinese picture without shading and perspective is to the
finished oil-painting. The material is in all minds the same; but the
difference lies in the perfection of the form which it assumes in each,
upon which the numerous grades of intelligence ultimately depend. These
grades thus exist in the root, in the _perceptive_ or _intuitive_
apprehension, and do not first appear in the abstract. Hence original
mental superiority shows itself so easily when the occasion arises, and is
at once felt and hated by others.
In practical life the intuitive knowledge of the understanding is able to
guide our action and behaviour directly, while the abstract knowledge of
the reason can only do so by means of the memory. Hence arises the
superiority of intuitive knowledge in all cases which admit of no time for
reflection; thus for daily intercourse, in which, just on this account,
women excel. Only those who intuitively know the nature of men as they are
as a rule, and thus comprehend the individuality of the person before
them, will understand how to manage him with certainty and rightly.
Another may know by heart all the three hundred maxims of Gracian, but
this will not save him from stupid mistakes and misconceptions if he lacks
that intuitive knowledge. For all _abstract knowledge_ affords us
primarily mere general principles and rules; but the particular case is
almost never to be carried out exactly according to the rule; then the
rule itself has to be presented to us at the right time by the memory,
which seldom punctually happens; then the _propositio minor_ has to be
formed out of the present case, and finally the conclusion drawn. Before
all this is done the opportunity has generally turned its back upon us,
and then those excellent principles and rules serve at the most to enable
us to measure the magnitude of the error we have committed. Certainly with
time we gain in this way experience and practice, which slowly grows to
knowledge of the world, and thus, in connection with this, the abstract
rules may certainly become fruitful. On the other hand, the _intuitive
knowledge_, which always apprehends only the particular, stands in
immediate relation to the present case. Rule, case, and application are
for it one, and action follows immediately upon it. This explains why in
real life the scholar, whose pre-eminence lies in the province of abstract
knowledge, is so far surpassed by the man of the world, whose pre-eminence
consists in perfect intuitive knowledge, which original disposition
conferred on him, and a rich experience has developed. The two kinds of
knowledge always stand to each other in the relation of paper money and
hard cash; and as there are many cases and circumstances in which the
former is to be preferred to the latter, so there are also things and
situations for which abstract knowledge is more useful than intuitive. If,
for example, it is a conception that in some case guides our action, when
it is once grasped it has the advantage of being unalterable, and
therefore under its guidance we go to work with perfect certainty and
consistency. But this certainty which the conception confers on the
subjective side is outweighed by the uncertainty which accompanies it on
the objective side. The whole conception may be false and groundless, or
the object to be dealt with may not come under it, for it may be either
not at all or not altogether of the kind which belongs to it. Now if in
the particular case we suddenly become conscious of something of this
sort, we are put out altogether; if we do not become conscious of it, the
result brings it to light. Therefore Vauvenargue says: “_Personne n’est
sujet à plus de fautes, que ceux qui n’agissent que par réflexion_.” If,
on the contrary, it is direct perception of the objects to be dealt with
and their relations that guides our action, we easily hesitate at every
step, for the perception is always modifiable, is ambiguous, has
inexhaustible details in itself, and shows many sides in succession; we
act therefore without full confidence. But the subjective uncertainty is
compensated by the objective certainty, for here there is no conception
between the object and us, we never lose sight of it; if therefore we only
see correctly what we have before us and what we do, we shall hit the
mark. Our action then is perfectly sure only when it is guided by a
conception the right ground of which, its completeness, and applicability
to the given cause is perfectly certain. Action in accordance with
conceptions may pass into pedantry, action in accordance with the
perceived impression into levity and folly.
_Perception_ is not only the _source_ of all knowledge, but is itself
knowledge κατ᾽ εξοχην, is the only unconditionally true, genuine knowledge
completely worthy of the name. For it alone imparts _insight_ properly so
called, it alone is actually assimilated by man, passes into his nature,
and can with full reason be called _his_; while the conceptions merely
cling to him. In the fourth book we see indeed that true virtue proceeds
from knowledge of perception or intuitive knowledge; for only those
actions which are directly called forth by this, and therefore are
performed purely from the impulse of our own nature, are properly symptoms
of our true and unalterable character; not so those which, resulting from
reflection and its dogmas, are often extorted from the character, and
therefore have no unalterable ground in us. But _wisdom_ also, the true
view of life, the correct eye, and the searching judgment, proceeds from
the way in which the man apprehends the perceptible world, but not from
his mere abstract knowledge, _i.e._, not from abstract conceptions. The
basis or ultimate content of every science consists, not in proofs, nor in
what is proved, but in the unproved foundation of the proofs, which can
finally be apprehended only through perception. So also the basis of the
true wisdom and real insight of each man does not consist in conceptions
and in abstract rational knowledge, but in what is perceived, and in the
degree of acuteness, accuracy, and profundity with which he has
apprehended it. He who excels here knows the (Platonic) Ideas of the world
and life; every case he has seen represents for him innumerable cases; he
always apprehends each being according to its true nature, and his action,
like his judgment, corresponds to his insight. By degrees also his
countenance assumes the expression of penetration, of true intelligence,
and, if it goes far enough, of wisdom. For it is pre-eminence in knowledge
of perception alone that stamps its impression upon the features also;
while pre-eminence in abstract knowledge cannot do this. In accordance
with what has been said, we find in all classes men of intellectual
superiority, and often quite without learning. Natural understanding can
take the place of almost every degree of culture, but no culture can take
the place of natural understanding. The scholar has the advantage of such
men in the possession of a wealth of cases and facts (historical
knowledge) and of causal determinations (natural science), all in
well-ordered connection, easily surveyed; but yet with all this he has not
a more accurate and profound insight into what is truly essential in all
these cases, facts, and causations. The unlearned man of acuteness and
penetration knows how to dispense with this wealth; we can make use of
much; we can do with little. One case in his own experience teaches him
more than many a scholar is taught by a thousand cases which he _knows_,
but does not, properly speaking, _understand_. For the little knowledge of
that unlearned man is living, because every fact that is known to him is
supported by accurate and well-apprehended perception, and thus represents
for him a thousand similar facts. On the contrary, the much knowledge of
the ordinary scholar is _dead_, because even if it does not consist, as is
often the case, in mere words, it consists entirely in abstract knowledge.
This, however, receives its value only through the _perceptive_ knowledge
of the individual with which it must connect itself, and which must
ultimately realise all the conceptions. If now this perceptive knowledge
is very scanty, such a mind is like a bank with liabilities tenfold in
excess of its cash reserve, whereby in the end it becomes bankrupt.
Therefore, while the right apprehension of the perceptible world has
impressed the stamp of insight and wisdom on the brow of many an unlearned
man, the face of many a scholar bears no other trace of his much study
than that of exhaustion and weariness from excessive and forced straining
of the memory in the unnatural accumulation of dead conceptions. Moreover,
the insight of such a man is often so puerile, so weak and silly, that we
must suppose that the excessive strain upon the faculty of indirect
knowledge, which is concerned with abstractions, directly weakens the
power of immediate perceptive knowledge, and the natural and clear vision
is more and more blinded by the light of books. At any rate the constant
streaming in of the thoughts of others must confine and suppress our own,
and indeed in the long run paralyse the power of thought if it has not
that high degree of elasticity which is able to withstand that unnatural
stream. Therefore ceaseless reading and study directly injures the
mind—the more so that completeness and constant connection of the system
of our own thought and knowledge must pay the penalty if we so often
arbitrarily interrupt it in order to gain room for a line of thought
entirely strange to us. To banish my own thought in order to make room for
that of a book would seem to me like what Shakespeare censures in the
tourists of his time, that they sold their own land to see that of others.
Yet the inclination for reading of most scholars is a kind of _fuga
vacui_, from the poverty of their own minds, which forcibly draws in the
thoughts of others. In order to have thoughts they must read something;
just as lifeless bodies are only moved from without; while the man who
thinks for himself is like a living body that moves of itself. Indeed it
is dangerous to read about a subject before we have thought about it
ourselves. For along with the new material the old point of view and
treatment of it creeps into the mind, all the more so as laziness and
apathy counsel us to accept what has already been thought, and allow it to
pass for truth. This now insinuates itself, and henceforward our thought
on the subject always takes the accustomed path, like brooks that are
guided by ditches; to find a thought of our own, a new thought, is then
doubly difficult. This contributes much to the want of originality on the
part of scholars. Add to this that they suppose that, like other people,
they must divide their time between pleasure and work. Now they regard
reading as their work and special calling, and therefore they gorge
themselves with it, beyond what they can digest. Then reading no longer
plays the part of the mere initiator of thought, but takes its place
altogether; for they think of the subject just as long as they are reading
about it, thus with the mind of another, not with their own. But when the
book is laid aside entirely different things make much more lively claims
upon their interest; their private affairs, and then the theatre,
card-playing, skittles, the news of the day, and gossip. The man of
thought is so because such things have no interest for him. He is
interested only in his problems, with which therefore he is always
occupied, by himself and without a book. To give ourselves this interest,
if we have not got it, is impossible. This is the crucial point. And upon
this also depends the fact that the former always speak only of what they
have read, while the latter, on the contrary, speaks of what he has
thought, and that they are, as Pope says:
“For ever reading, never to be read.”
The mind is naturally free, not a slave; only what it does willingly, of
its own accord, succeeds. On the other hand, the compulsory exertion of a
mind in studies for which it is not qualified, or when it has become
tired, or in general too continuously and _invita Minerva_, dulls the
brain, just as reading by moonlight dulls the eyes. This is especially the
case with the straining of the immature brain in the earlier years of
childhood. I believe that the learning of Latin and Greek grammar from the
sixth to the twelfth year lays the foundation of the subsequent stupidity
of most scholars. At any rate the mind requires the nourishment of
materials from without. All that we eat is not at once incorporated in the
organism, but only so much of it as is digested; so that only a small part
of it is assimilated, and the remainder passes away; and thus to eat more
than we can assimilate is useless and injurious. It is precisely the same
with what we read. Only so far as it gives food for thought does it
increase our insight and true knowledge. Therefore Heracleitus says:
“πολυμαθια νουν ου διδασκει” (_multiscitia non dat intellectum_). It
seems, however, to me that learning may be compared to a heavy suit of
armour, which certainly makes the strong man quite invincible, but to the
weak man is a burden under which he sinks altogether.
The exposition given in our third book of the knowledge of the (Platonic)
Ideas, as the highest attainable by man, and at the same time entirely
_perceptive or intuitive_ knowledge, is a proof that the source of true
wisdom does not lie in abstract rational knowledge, but in the clear and
profound apprehension of the world in perception. Therefore wise men may
live in any age, and those of the past remain wise men for all succeeding
generations. Learning, on the contrary, is relative; the learned men of
the past are for the most part children as compared with us, and require
indulgence.
But to him who studies in order to gain _insight_ books and studies are
only steps of the ladder by which he climbs to the summit of knowledge. As
soon as a round of the ladder has raised him a step, he leaves it behind
him. The many, on the other hand, who study in order to fill their memory
do not use the rounds of the ladder to mount by, but take them off, and
load themselves with them to carry them away, rejoicing at the increasing
weight of the burden. They remain always below, because they bear what
ought to have borne them.
Upon the truth set forth here, that the kernel of all knowledge is the
_perceptive or intuitive_ apprehension, depends the true and profound
remark of Helvetius, that the really characteristic and original views of
which a gifted individual is capable, and the working up, development, and
manifold application of which is the material of all his works, even if
written much later, can arise in him only up to the thirty-fifth or at the
latest the fortieth year of his life, and are really the result of
combinations he has made in his early youth. For they are not mere
connections of abstract conceptions, but his own intuitive comprehension
of the objective world and the nature of things. Now, that this intuitive
apprehension must have completed its work by the age mentioned above
depends partly on the fact that by that time the ectypes of all (Platonic)
Ideas must have presented themselves to the man, and therefore cannot
appear later with the strength of the first impression; partly on this,
that the highest energy of brain activity is demanded for this
quintessence of all knowledge, for this proof before the letter of the
apprehension, and this highest energy of the brain is dependent on the
freshness and flexibility of its fibres and the rapidity with which the
arterial blood flows to the brain. But this again is at its strongest only
as long as the arterial system has a decided predominance over the venous
system, which begins to decline after the thirtieth year, until at last,
after the forty-second year, the venous system obtains the upper hand, as
Cabanis has admirably and instructively explained. Therefore the years
between twenty and thirty and the first few years after thirty are for the
intellect what May is for the trees; only then do the blossoms appear of
which all the later fruits are the development. The world of perception
has made its impression, and thereby laid the foundation of all the
subsequent thoughts of the individual. He may by reflection make clearer
what he has apprehended; he may yet acquire much knowledge as nourishment
for the fruit which has once set; he may extend his views, correct his
conceptions and judgments, it may be only through endless combinations
that he becomes completely master of the materials he has gained; indeed
he will generally produce his best works much later, as the greatest heat
begins with the decline of the day, but he can no longer hope for new
original knowledge from the one living fountain of perception. It is this
that Byron feels when he breaks forth into his wonderfully beautiful
lament:
“No more—no more—oh! never more on me
The freshness of the heart can fall like dew,
Which out of all the lovely things we see
Extracts emotions beautiful and new,
Hived in our bosoms like the bag o’ the bee:
Think’st thou the honey with those objects grew?
Alas! ’twas not in them, but in thy power
To double even the sweetness of a flower.”
Through all that I have said hitherto I hope I have placed in a clear
light the important truth that since all abstract knowledge springs from
knowledge of perception, it obtains its whole value from its relation to
the latter, thus from the fact that its conceptions, or the abstractions
which they denote, can be realised, _i.e._, proved, through perceptions;
and, moreover, that most depends upon the quality of these perceptions.
Conceptions and abstractions which do not ultimately refer to perceptions
are like paths in the wood that end without leading out of it. The great
value of conceptions lies in the fact that by means of them the original
material of knowledge is more easily handled, surveyed, and arranged. But
although many kinds of logical and dialectical operations are possible
with them, yet no entirely original and new knowledge will result from
these; that is to say, no knowledge whose material neither lay already in
perception nor was drawn from self-consciousness. This is the true meaning
of the doctrine attributed to Aristotle: _Nihil est in intellectu, nisi
quod antea fuerit in sensu_. It is also the meaning of the Lockeian
philosophy, which made for ever an epoch in philosophy, because it
commenced at last the serious discussion of the question as to the origin
of our knowledge. It is also principally what the “Critique of Pure
Reason” teaches. It also desires that we should not remain at the
_conceptions_, but go back to their _source_, thus to _perception_; only
with the true and important addition that what holds good of the
perception also extends to its subjective conditions, thus to the forms
which lie predisposed in the perceiving and thinking brain as its natural
functions; although these at least _virtualiter_ precede the actual
sense-perception, _i.e._, are _a priori_, and therefore do not depend upon
sense-perception, but it upon them. For these forms themselves have indeed
no other end, nor service, than to produce the empirical perception on the
nerves of sense being excited, as other forms are determined afterwards to
construct thoughts in the abstract from the material of perception. The
“Critique of Pure Reason” is therefore related to the Lockeian philosophy
as the analysis of the infinite to elementary geometry, but is yet
throughout to be regarded as the _continuation of the Lockeian
philosophy_. The given material of every philosophy is accordingly nothing
else than the _empirical consciousness_, which divides itself into the
consciousness of one’s own self (self-consciousness) and the consciousness
of other things (external perception). For this alone is what is
immediately and actually given. Every philosophy which, instead of
starting from this, takes for its starting-point arbitrarily chosen
abstract conceptions, such as, for example, absolute, absolute substance,
God, infinity, finitude, absolute identity, being, essence, &c., &c.,
moves in the air without support, and can therefore never lead to a real
result. Yet in all ages philosophers have attempted it with such
materials; and hence even Kant sometimes, according to the common usage,
and more from custom than consistency, defines philosophy as a science of
mere conceptions. But such a science would really undertake to extract
from the partial ideas (for that is what the abstractions are) what is not
to be found in the complete ideas (the perceptions), from which the former
were drawn by abstraction. The possibility of the syllogism leads to this
mistake, because here the combination of the judgments gives a new result,
although more apparent than real, for the syllogism only brings out what
already lay in the given judgments; for it is true the conclusion cannot
contain more than the premisses. Conceptions are certainly the material of
philosophy, but only as marble is the material of the sculptor. It is not
to work _out of_ them but _in_ them; that is to say, it is to deposit its
results in them, but not to start from them as what is given. Whoever
wishes to see a glaring example of such a false procedure from mere
conceptions may look at the “_Institutio Theologica_” of Proclus in order
to convince himself of the vanity of that whole method. There abstractions
such as “ἑν, πληθος, αγαθον, παραγον και παραγομενον, αυταρκες, αιτιον,
κρειττον, κινητον, ακινητον, κινουμενον” (_unum_, _multa_, _bonum_,
_producens et productum_, _sibi sufficiens_, _causa_, _melius_, _mobile_,
_immobile_, _motum_), &c., are indiscriminately collected, but the
perceptions to which alone they owe their origin and content ignored and
contemptuously disregarded. A theology is then constructed from these
conceptions, but its goal, the θεος, is kept concealed; thus the whole
procedure is apparently unprejudiced, as if the reader did not know at the
first page, just as well as the author, what it is all to end in. I have
already quoted a fragment of this above. This production of Proclus is
really quite peculiarly adapted to make clear how utterly useless and
illusory such combinations of abstract conceptions are, for we can make of
them whatever we will, especially if we further take advantage of the
ambiguity of many words, such, for example, as κρειττον. If such an
architect of conceptions were present in person we would only have to ask
naively where all the things are of which he has so much to tell us, and
whence he knows the laws from which he draws his conclusions concerning
them. He would then soon be obliged to turn to empirical perception, in
which alone the real world exhibits itself, from which those conceptions
are drawn. Then we would only have to ask further why he did not honestly
start from the given perception of such a world, so that at every step his
assertions could be proved by it, instead of operating with conceptions,
which are yet drawn from perception alone, and therefore can have no
further validity than that which it imparts to them. But of course this is
just his trick. Through such conceptions, in which, by virtue of
abstraction, what is inseparable is thought as separate, and what cannot
be united as united, he goes far beyond the perception which was their
source, and thus beyond the limits of their applicability, to an entirely
different world from that which supplied the material for building, but
just on this account to a world of chimeras. I have here referred to
Proclus because in him this procedure becomes specially clear through the
frank audacity with which he carries it out. But in Plato also we find
some examples of this kind, though not so glaring; and in general the
philosophical literature of all ages affords a multitude of instances of
the same thing. That of our own time is rich in them. Consider, for
example, the writings of the school of Schelling, and observe the
constructions that are built up out of abstractions like finite and
infinite—being, non-being, other being—activity, hindrance,
product—determining, being determined, determinateness—limit, limiting,
being limited—unity, plurality, multiplicity—identity, diversity,
indifference—thinking, being, essence, &c. Not only does all that has been
said above hold good of constructions out of such materials, but because
an infinite amount can be thought _through_ such wide abstractions, only
very little indeed can be thought _in_ them; they are empty husks. But
thus the matter of the whole philosophising becomes astonishingly trifling
and paltry, and hence arises that unutterable and excruciating tediousness
which is characteristic of all such writings. If indeed I now chose to
call to mind the way in which Hegel and his companions have abused such
wide and empty abstractions, I should have to fear that both the reader
and I myself would be ill; for the most nauseous tediousness hangs over
the empty word-juggling of this loathsome philophaster.
That in _practical_ philosophy also no wisdom is brought to light from
mere abstract conceptions is the one thing to be learnt from the ethical
dissertations of the theologian Schleiermacher, with the delivery of which
he has wearied the Berlin Academy for a number of years, and which are
shortly to appear in a collected form. In them only abstract conceptions,
such as duty, virtue, highest good, moral law, &c., are taken as the
starting-point, without further introduction than that they commonly occur
in ethical systems, and are now treated as given realities. He then
discusses these from all sides with great subtilty, but, on the other
hand, never makes for the source of these conceptions, for the thing
itself, the actual human life, to which alone they are related, from which
they ought to be drawn, and with which morality has, properly speaking, to
do. On this account these diatribes are just as unfruitful and useless as
they are tedious, which is saying a great deal. At all times we find
persons, like this theologian, who is too fond of philosophising, famous
while they are alive, afterwards soon forgotten. My advice is rather to
read those whose fate has been the opposite of this, for time is short and
valuable.
Now although, in accordance with all that has been said, wide, abstract
conceptions, which can be realised in no perception, must never be the
source of knowledge, the starting-point or the proper material of
philosophy, yet sometimes particular results of philosophy are such as can
only be thought in the abstract, and cannot be proved by any perception.
Knowledge of this kind will certainly only be half knowledge; it will, as
it were, only point out the place where what is to be known lies; but this
remains concealed. Therefore we should only be satisfied with such
conceptions in the most extreme case, and when we have reached the limit
of the knowledge possible to our faculties. An example of this might
perhaps be the conception of a being out of time; such as the proposition:
the indestructibility of our true being by death is not a continued
existence of it. With conceptions of this sort the firm ground which
supports our whole knowledge, the perceptible, seems to waver. Therefore
philosophy may certainly at times, and in case of necessity, extend to
such knowledge, but it must never begin with it.
The working with wide abstractions, which is condemned above, to the
entire neglect of the perceptive knowledge from which they are drawn, and
which is therefore their permanent and natural controller, was at all
times the principal source of the errors of dogmatic philosophy. A science
constructed from the mere comparison of conceptions, that is, from general
principles, could only be certain if all its principles were synthetical
_a priori_, as is the case in mathematics: for only such admit of no
exceptions. If, on the other hand, the principles have any empirical
content, we must keep this constantly at hand, to control the general
principles. For no truths which are in any way drawn from experience are
ever unconditionally true. They have therefore only an approximately
universal validity; for here there is no rule without an exception. If now
I link these principles together by means of the intersection of their
concept-spheres, one conception might very easily touch the other
precisely where the exception lies. But if this happens even only once in
the course of a long train of reasoning, the whole structure is loosed
from its foundation and moves in the air. If, for example, I say, “The
ruminants have no front incisors,” and apply this and what follows from it
to the camel, it all becomes false, for it only holds good of horned
ruminants. What Kant calls _das Vernünfteln_, mere abstract reasoning, and
so often condemns, is just of this sort. For it consists simply in
subsuming conceptions under conceptions, without reference to their
origin, and without proof of the correctness and exclusiveness of such
subsumption—a method whereby we can arrive by longer or shorter circuits
at almost any result we choose to set before us as our goal. Hence this
mere abstract reasoning differs only in degree from sophistication
strictly so called. But sophistication is in the theoretical sphere
exactly what chicanery is in the practical. Yet even Plato himself has
very frequently permitted such mere abstract reasoning; and Proclus, as we
have already mentioned, has, after the manner of all imitators, carried
this fault of his model much further. Dionysius the Areopagite, “_De
Divinis Nominibus_,” is also strongly affected with this. But even in the
fragments of the Eleatic Melissus we already find distinct examples of
such mere abstract reasoning (especially § 2-5 in Brandis’ _Comment.
Eleat._) His procedure with the conceptions, which never touch the reality
from which they have their content, but, moving in the atmosphere of
abstract universality, pass away beyond it, resembles blows which never
hit the mark. A good pattern of such mere abstract reasoning is the “_De
Diis et Mundo_” of the philosopher Sallustius Büchelchen; especially
chaps. 7, 12, and 17. But a perfect gem of philosophical mere abstract
reasoning passing into decided sophistication is the following reasoning
of the Platonist, Maximus of Tyre, which I shall quote, as it is short:
“Every injustice is the taking away of a good. There is no other good than
virtue: but virtue cannot be taken away: thus it is not possible that the
virtuous can suffer injustice from the wicked. It now remains either that
no injustice can be suffered, or that it is suffered by the wicked from
the wicked. But the wicked man possesses no good at all, for only virtue
is a good; therefore none can be taken from him. Thus he also can suffer
no injustice. Thus injustice is an impossible thing.” The original, which
is less concise through repetitions, runs thus: “Αδικια εστι αφαιρεσις
αγαθου; το δε αγαθον τι αν ειη αλλο η αρετη?—ἡ δε αρετη αναφαιρετον. Ουκ
αδικησεται τοινυν ὁ την αρετην εχων, η ουκ εστιν αδικια αφαιρεσις αγαθου;
ουδεν γαρ αγαθον αφαιρετον, ουδ᾽ χαποβλητον, ουδ ἑλετον, ουδε ληιστον.
Ειεν ουν, ουδ᾽ αδικειται ὁ χρηστος, ουδ ὑπο του μοχθηρου; αναφαιρετος γαρ.
Λειπεται τοινυν η μηδενα αδικεισθαι καθαπαξ, η τον μοχθηρον ὑπο του
ὁμοιου; αλλα τῳ μοχθηρῳ ουδενος μετεστιν αγαθου; ἡ δε αδικια ην αγαθου
αφαιρεσις; ὁ δε μη εχων ὁ, τι αφαιρεσθη, ουδε εις ὁ, τι αδικησθη, εχει”
(_Sermo 2_). I shall add further a modern example of such proofs from
abstract conceptions, by means of which an obviously absurd proposition is
set up as the truth, and I shall take it from the works of a great man,
Giordano Bruno. In his book, “_Del Infinito Universo e Mondi_” (p. 87 of
the edition of A. Wagner), he makes an Aristotelian prove (with the
assistance and exaggeration of the passage of Aristotle’s _De Cœlo_, i. 5)
that there can be _no space_ beyond the world. The world is enclosed by
the eight spheres of Aristotle, and beyond these there can be no space.
For if beyond these there were still a body, it must either be simple or
compound. It is now proved sophistically, from principles which are
obviously begged, that no _simple_ body could be there; and therefore,
also, no compound body, for it would necessarily be composed of simple
ones. Thus in general there can be no body there—but if not, then _no
space_. For space is defined as “that in which bodies can be;” and it has
just been proved that no body can be there. Thus there is also there no
space. This last is the final stroke of this proof from abstract
conceptions. It ultimately rests on the fact that the proposition, “Where
no space is, there can be no body” is taken as a universal negative, and
therefore converted simply, “Where no body can be there is no space.” But
the former proposition, when properly regarded, is a universal
affirmative: “Everything that has no space has no body,” thus it must not
be converted simply. Yet it is not every proof from abstract conceptions,
with a conclusion which clearly contradicts perception (as here the
finiteness of space), that can thus be referred to a logical error. For
the sophistry does not always lie in the form, but often in the matter, in
the premisses, and in the indefiniteness of the conceptions and their
extension. We find numerous examples of this in Spinoza, whose method
indeed it is to prove from conceptions. See, for example, the miserable
sophisms in his “Ethics,” P. iv., prop. 29-31, by means of the ambiguity
of the uncertain conceptions _convenire_ and _commune habere_. Yet this
does not prevent the neo-Spinozists of our own day from taking all that he
has said for gospel. Of these the Hegelians, of whom there are actually
still a few, are specially amusing on account of their traditional
reverence for his principle, _omnis determinatio est negatio_, at which,
according to the charlatan spirit of the school, they put on a face as if
it was able to unhinge the world; whereas it is of no use at all, for even
the simplest can see for himself that if I limit anything by
determinations, I thereby exclude and thus negate what lies beyond these
limits.
Thus in all mere reasonings of the above kind it becomes very apparent
what errors that algebra with mere conceptions, uncontrolled by
perception, is exposed to, and that therefore perception is for our
intellect what the firm ground upon which it stands is for our body: if we
forsake perception everything is _instabilis tellus, innabilis unda_. The
reader will pardon the fulness of these expositions and examples on
account of their instructiveness. I have sought by means of them to bring
forward and support the difference, indeed the opposition, between
perceptive and abstract or reflected knowledge, which has hitherto been
too little regarded, and the establishment of which is a fundamental
characteristic of my philosophy. For many phenomena of our mental life are
only explicable through this distinction. The connecting link between
these two such different kinds of knowledge is the _faculty of judgment_,
as I have shown in § 14 of the first volume. This faculty is certainly
also active in the province of mere abstract knowledge, in which it
compares conceptions only with conceptions; therefore every judgment, in
the logical sense of the word, is certainly a work of the faculty of
judgment, for it always consists in the subsumption of a narrower
conception under a wider one. Yet this activity of the faculty of
judgment, in which it merely compares conceptions with each other, is a
simpler and easier task than when it makes the transition from what is
quite particular, the perception, to the essentially general, the
conception. For by the analysis of conceptions into their essential
predicates it must be possible to decide upon purely logical grounds
whether they are capable of being united or not, and for this the mere
reason which every one possesses is sufficient. The faculty of judgment is
therefore only active here in shortening this process, for he who is
gifted with it sees at a glance what others only arrive at through a
series of reflections. But its activity in the narrower sense really only
appears when what is known through perception, thus the real experience,
has to be carried over into distinct abstract knowledge, subsumed under
accurately corresponding conceptions, and thus translated into reflected
rational knowledge. It is therefore this faculty which has to establish
the firm _basis_ of all sciences, which always consists of what is known
directly and cannot be further denied. Therefore here, in the fundamental
judgments, lies the difficulty of the sciences, not in the inferences from
these. To infer is easy, to judge is difficult. False inferences are rare,
false judgments are always the order of the day. Not less in practical
life has the faculty of judgment to give the decision in all fundamental
conclusions and important determinations. Its office is in the main like
that of the judicial sentence. As the burning-glass brings to a focus all
the sun’s rays, so when the understanding works, the intellect has to
bring together all the data which it has upon the subject so closely that
the understanding comprehends them at a glance, which it now rightly
fixes, and then carefully makes the result distinct to itself. Further,
the great difficulty of judging in most cases depends upon the fact that
we have to proceed from the consequent to the reason, a path which is
always uncertain; indeed I have shown that the source of all error lies
here. Yet in all the empirical sciences, and also in the affairs of real
life, this way is for the most part the only one open to us. The
experiment is an attempt to go over it again the other way; therefore it
is decisive, and at least brings out error clearly; provided always that
it is rightly chosen and honestly carried out; not like Newton’s
experiments in connection with the theory of colours. But the experiment
itself must also again be judged. The complete certainty of the _a priori_
sciences, logic and mathematics, depends principally upon the fact that in
them the path from the reason to the consequent is open to us, and it is
always certain. This gives them the character of _purely objective_
sciences, _i.e._, sciences with regard to whose truths all who understand
them must judge alike; and this is all the more remarkable as they are the
very sciences which rest on the subjective forms of the intellect, while
the empirical sciences alone have to do with what is palpably objective.
Wit and ingenuity are also manifestations of the faculty of judgment; in
the former its activity is reflective, in the latter subsuming. In most
men the faculty of judgment is only nominally present; it is a kind of
irony that it is reckoned with the normal faculties of the mind, instead
of being only attributed to the _monstris per excessum_. Ordinary men show
even in the smallest affairs want of confidence in their own judgment,
just because they know from experience that it is of no service. With them
prejudice and imitation take its place; and thus they are kept in a state
of continual non-age, from which scarcely one in many hundreds is
delivered. Certainly this is not avowed, for even to themselves they
appear to judge; but all the time they are glancing stealthily at the
opinion of others, which is their secret standard. While each one would be
ashamed to go about in a borrowed coat, hat, or mantle, they all have
nothing but borrowed opinions, which they eagerly collect wherever they
can find them, and then strut about giving them out as their own. Others
borrow them again from them and do the same thing. This explains the rapid
and wide spread of errors, and also the fame of what is bad; for the
professional purveyors of opinion, such as journalists and the like, give
as a rule only false wares, as those who hire out masquerading dresses
give only false jewels.