Our self-consciousness has not space but only time as its form, and
therefore we do not think in three dimensions, as we perceive, but only in
_one_, thus in a line, without breadth or depth. This is the source of the
greatest of the essential imperfections of our intellect. We can know all
things only in _succession_, and can become conscious of only one at a
time, indeed even of this one only under the condition that for the time
we forget everything else, thus are absolutely unconscious of everything
else, so that for the time it ceases to exist as far as we are concerned.
In respect of this quality our intellect may be compared to a telescope
with a very narrow field of vision; just because our consciousness is not
stationary but fleeting. The intellect apprehends only successively, and
in order to grasp one thing must let another go, retaining nothing but
traces of it, which are ever becoming weaker. The thought which is vividly
present to me now must after a little while have escaped me altogether;
and if a good night’s sleep intervene, it may be that I shall never find
it again, unless it is connected with my personal interests, that is, with
my will, which always commands the field.
Upon this imperfection of the intellect depends the disconnected and often
_fragmentary nature_ of our course of thought, which I have already
touched on at the close of last chapter; and from this again arises the
unavoidable _distraction_ of our thinking. Sometimes external impressions
of sense throng in upon it, disturbing and interrupting it, forcing
different kinds of things upon it every moment; sometimes _one_ thought
draws in _another_ by the bond of association, and is now itself dislodged
by it; sometimes, lastly, the intellect itself is not capable of fixing
itself very long and continuously at a time upon _one_ thought, but as the
eye when it gazes long at one object is soon unable to see it any more
distinctly, because the outlines run into each other and become confused,
until finally all is obscure, so through long-continued reflection upon
one subject our thinking also is gradually confused, becomes dull, and
ends in complete stupor. Therefore after a certain time, which varies with
the individual, we must for the present give up every meditation or
deliberation which has had the fortune to remain undisturbed, but yet has
not been brought to an end, even if it concerns a matter which is most
important and pertinent to us; and we must dismiss from our consciousness
the subject which interests us so much, however heavily our anxiety about
it may weigh upon us, in order to occupy ourselves now with insignificant
and indifferent things. During this time that important subject no longer
exists for us; it is like the heat in cold water, _latent_. If now we
resume it again at another time, we approach it like a new thing, with
which we become acquainted anew, although more quickly, and the agreeable
or disagreeable impression of it is also produced anew upon our will. We
ourselves, however, do not come back quite unchanged. For with the
physical composition of the humours and tension of the nerves, which
constantly changes with the hours, days, and years, our mood and point of
view also changes. Moreover, the different kinds of ideas which have been
there in the meantime have left an echo behind them, the tone of which
influences the ideas which follow. Therefore the same thing appears to us
at different times, in the morning, in the evening, at mid-day, or on
another day, often very different; opposite views of it now press upon
each other and increase our doubt. Hence we speak of sleeping upon a
matter, and for important determinations we demand a long time for
consideration. Now, although this quality of our intellect, as springing
from its weakness, has its evident disadvantages, yet, on the other hand,
it affords the advantage that after the distraction and the physical
change we return to our subject as comparatively new beings, fresh and
strange, and thus are able to see it repeatedly in very different lights.
From all this it is plain that human consciousness and thought is in its
nature necessarily fragmentary, on account of which the theoretical and
practical results which are achieved by piecing together such fragments
are for the most part defective. In this our thinking consciousness is
like a magic lantern, in the focus of which only one picture can appear at
a time, and each, even if it represents the noblest objects, must yet soon
pass away in order to make room for others of a different, and even most
vulgar, description. In practical matters the most important plans and
resolutions are formed in general; but others are subordinated to these as
means to an end, and others again are subordinated to these, and so on
down to the particular case that has to be carried out _in concreto_. They
do not, however, come to be carried out in the order of their dignity, but
while we are occupied with plans which are great and general, we have to
contend with the most trifling details and the cares of the moment. In
this way our consciousness becomes still more desultory. In general,
theoretical occupations of the mind unfit us for practical affairs, and
_vice versâ_.
In consequence of the inevitably distracted and fragmentary nature of all
our thinking, which has been pointed out, and the mingling of ideas of
different kinds thereby introduced, to which even the noblest human minds
are subject, we really have only _half a consciousness_ with which to
grope about in the labyrinth of our life and the obscurity of our
investigations; bright moments sometimes illuminate our path like
lightning. But what is to be expected of heads of which even the wisest is
every night the scene of the strangest and most senseless dreams, and
which has to take up its meditations again on awakening from these?
Clearly a consciousness which is subject to such great limitations is
little suited for solving the riddle of the world; and such an endeavour
would necessarily appear strange and pitiful to a being of a higher order
whose intellect had not time as its form, and whose thinking had thus true
completeness and unity. Indeed it is really wonderful that we are not
completely confused by the very heterogeneous mixture of ideas and
fragments of thought of every kind which are constantly crossing each
other in our minds, but are yet always able to see our way again and make
everything agree together. Clearly there must exist a simpler thread upon
which everything ranges itself together: but what is this? Memory alone is
not sufficient, for it has essential limitations of which I shall speak
shortly, and besides this, it is exceedingly imperfect and untrustworthy.
The _logical ego_ or even the _transcendental synthetic unity of
apperception_ are expressions and explanations which will not easily serve
to make the matter comprehensible; they will rather suggest to many:
“’Tis true your beard is curly, yet it will not draw you the
bolt.”
Kant’s proposition, “The _I think_ must accompany all our ideas,” is
insufficient; for the “I” is an unknown quantity, _i.e._, it is itself a
secret. That which gives unity and connection to consciousness in that it
runs through all its ideas, and is thus its substratum, its permanent
supporter, cannot itself be conditioned by consciousness, therefore cannot
be an idea. Rather it must be the _prius_ of consciousness, and the root
of the tree of which that is the fruit. This, I say, is the _will_. It
alone is unchangeable and absolutely identical, and has brought forth
consciousness for its own ends. Therefore it is also the will which gives
it unity and holds together all its ideas and thoughts, accompanying them
like a continuous harmony. Without it the intellect would no longer have
the unity of consciousness, as a mirror in which now this and now that
successively presents itself, or at the most only so much as a convex
mirror whose rays unite in an imaginary point behind its surface. But the
_will_ alone is that which is permanent and unchangeable in consciousness.
It is the will which holds together all thoughts and ideas as means to its
ends, and tinges them with the colour of its own character, its mood, and
its interests, commands the attention, and holds in its hand the train of
motives whose influence ultimately sets memory and the association of
ideas in activity; at bottom it is the will that is spoken of whenever “I”
appears in a judgment. Thus it is the true and final point of unity of
consciousness, and the bond of all its functions and acts; it does not
itself, however, belong to the intellect, but is only its root, source,
and controller.
From the _form of time and the single dimension_ of the series of ideas,
on account of which, in order to take up one, the intellect must let all
the others fall, there follows not only its distraction, but also its
_forgetfulness_. Most of what it lets fall it never takes up again;
especially since the taking up again is bound to the principle of
sufficient reason, and thus demands an occasion which the association of
thoughts and motivation have first to supply; an occasion, however, which
may be the more remote and smaller in proportion as our sensibility for it
is heightened by our interest in the subject. But memory, as I have
already shown in the essay on the principle of sufficient reason, is not a
store-house, but merely a faculty acquired by practice of calling up ideas
at pleasure, which must therefore constantly be kept in practice by use;
for otherwise it will gradually be lost. Accordingly the knowledge even of
the learned man exists only _virtualiter_ as an acquired facility in
calling up certain ideas; _actualiter_, on the other hand, it also is
confined to one idea, and is only conscious of this one at a time. Hence
arises a strange contrast between what he knows _potentiâ_ and what he
knows _actu_; that is, between his knowledge and what he thinks at any
moment: the former is an immense and always somewhat chaotic mass, the
latter is a single distinct thought. The relation resembles that between
the innumerable stars of the heavens and the limited field of vision of
the telescope; it appears in a striking manner when upon some occasion he
wishes to call distinctly to his remembrance some particular circumstance
in his knowledge, and time and trouble are required to produce it from
that chaos. Rapidity in doing this is a special gift, but is very
dependent upon day and hour; therefore memory sometimes refuses us its
service, even in things which at another time it has readily at hand. This
consideration calls us in our studies to strive more to attain to correct
insight than to increase our learning, and to lay it to heart that the
_quality_ of knowledge is more important than its _quantity_. The latter
imparts to books only thickness, the former thoroughness and also style;
for it is an _intensive_ quantity, while the other is merely _extensive_.
It consists in the distinctness and completeness of the conceptions,
together with the purity and accuracy of the knowledge of perception which
forms their foundation; therefore the whole of knowledge in all its parts
is penetrated by it, and in proportion as it is so is valuable or
trifling. With a small quantity, but of good quality, one achieves more
than with a very large quantity of bad quality.
The most perfect and satisfactory knowledge is that of perception, but it
is limited absolutely to the particular, the individual. The combination
of the many and the different in _one_ idea is only possible through the
_conception_, that is, through the omission of the differences; therefore
this is a very imperfect manner of presenting things to the mind.
Certainly the particular also can be directly comprehended as a universal,
if it is raised to the (Platonic) Idea; but in this process, which I have
analysed in the third book, the intellect already passes beyond the limits
of individuality, and therefore of time; moreover it is only an exception.
These inner and essential imperfections of the intellect are further
increased by a disturbance which, to a certain extent, is external to it,
but yet is unceasing—the influence exerted by the will upon all its
operations whenever it is in any way concerned in their result. Every
passion, indeed every inclination and aversion, tinges the objects of
knowledge with its colour. Of most common occurrence is the falsifying of
knowledge which is brought about by wishes and hopes, for they picture to
us the scarcely possible as probable and well nigh certain, and make us
almost incapable of comprehending what is opposed to it: fear acts in a
similar way; and every preconceived opinion, every partiality, and, as has
been said, every interest, every emotion and inclination of the will, acts
in an analogous manner.
To all these imperfections of the intellect we have finally to add this,
that it grows old with the brain, that is, like all physiological
functions, it loses its energy in later years, whereby all its
imperfections are then much increased.
The defective nature of the intellect here set forth will not, however,
surprise us if we look back at its origin and destiny as established by me
in the second book. Nature has produced it for the service of an
individual will. Therefore it is only designed to know things so far as
they afford the motives of such a will, but not to fathom them or
comprehend their true being. Human intellect is only a higher gradation of
the intellect of the brutes; and as this is entirely confined to the
present, our intellect also bears strong traces of this limitation,
Therefore our memory and recollection is something very imperfect. How
little of all that we have done, experienced, learnt, or read, can we
recall! And even this little for the most part only laboriously and
imperfectly. For the same reasons is it so very difficult for us to keep
ourselves free from the impressions of the present. Unconsciousness is the
original and natural condition of all things, and therefore also the basis
from which, in particular species of beings, consciousness results as
their highest efflorescence; wherefore even then unconsciousness always
continues to predominate. Accordingly most existences are without
consciousness; but yet they act according to the laws of their nature,
_i.e._, of their will. Plants have at most a very weak analogue of
consciousness; the lowest species of animals only the dawn of it. But even
after it has ascended through the whole series of animals to man and his
reason, the unconsciousness of plants, from which it started, still
remains the foundation, and may be traced in the necessity for sleep, and
also in all those essential and great imperfections, here set forth, of
every intellect produced through physiological functions; and of another
intellect we have no conception.
The imperfections here proved to be _essential_ to the intellect are
constantly increased, however, in particular cases, by _non-essential_
imperfections. The intellect is never in _every_ respect what it possibly
might be. The perfections possible to it are so opposed that they exclude
each other. Therefore no man can be at once Plato and Aristotle, or
Shakspeare and Newton, or Kant and Goethe. The imperfections of the
intellect, on the contrary, consort very well together; therefore in
reality it for the most part remains far below what it might be. Its
functions depend upon so very many conditions, which we can only
comprehend as anatomical and physiological, in the _phenomenon_ in which
alone they are given us, that a decidedly excelling intellect, even in
_one_ respect alone, is among the rarest of natural phenomena. Therefore
the productions of such an intellect are preserved through thousands of
years, indeed every relic of such a highly favoured individual becomes a
most valuable treasure. From such an intellect down to that which
approaches imbecility the gradations are innumerable. And primarily, in
conformity with these gradations, the _mental horizon_ of each of us
varies very much from the mere comprehension of the present, which even
the brute has, to that which also embraces the next hour, the day, even
the morrow, the week, the year, the life, the century, the thousand years,
up to that of the consciousness which has almost always present, even
though obscurely dawning, the horizon of the infinite, and whose thoughts
therefore assume a character in keeping with this. Further, that
difference among intelligences shows itself in the rapidity of their
thinking, which is very important, and which may be as different and as
finely graduated as that of the points in the radius of a revolving disc.
The remoteness of the consequents and reasons to which any one’s thought
can extend seems to stand in a certain relation to the rapidity of his
thinking, for the greatest exertion of thought-power in general can only
last quite a short time, and yet only while it lasts can a thought be
thought out in its complete unity. It therefore amounts to this, how far
the intellect can pursue it in so short a time, thus what length of path
it can travel in it. On the other hand, in the case of some, rapidity may
be made up for by the greater duration of that time of perfectly
concentrated thought. Probably the slow and lasting thought makes the
mathematical mind, while rapidity of thought makes the genius. The latter
is a flight, the former a sure advance upon firm ground, step by step. Yet
even in the sciences, whenever it is no longer a question of mere
quantities, but of understanding the nature of phenomena, this last kind
of thinking is inadequate. This is shown, for example, by Newton’s theory
of colour, and later by Biot’s nonsense about colour rings, which yet
agrees with the whole atomistic method of treating light among the French,
with its _molécules de lumière_, and in general with their fixed idea of
reducing everything in nature to mere mechanical effects. Lastly, the
great individual diversity of intelligence we are speaking about shows
itself excellently in the _degrees of the clearness of understanding_, and
accordingly in the distinctness of _the whole thinking_. To one man that
is to understand which to another is only in some degree to observe; the
one is already done and at the goal while the other is only at the
beginning; to the one that is the solution which to the other is only the
problem. This depends on the _quality of thought_ and knowledge, which was
already referred to above. As in rooms the degree of light varies, so does
it in minds. We can detect this _quality of the whole thought_ as soon as
we have read only a few pages of an author. For in doing so we have been
obliged to understand both with his understanding and in his sense; and
therefore before we know all that he has thought we see already how he
thinks, what is the _formal_ nature, the _texture_ of his thinking, which
remains the same in everything about which he thinks, and whose expression
is the train of thought and the style. In this we feel at once the pace,
the flexibleness and lightness, even indeed the soaring power of his mind;
or, on the contrary, its dulness, formality, lameness and leaden quality.
For, as language is the expression of the mind of a nation, style is the
more immediate expression of the mind of an author than even his
physiognomy. We throw a book aside when we observe that in it we enter an
obscurer region than our own, unless we have to learn from it mere facts,
not thoughts. Apart from mere facts, only that author will afford us
profit whose understanding is keener and clearer than our own, who
forwards our thinking instead of hindering it, like the dull mind that
will force us to keep pace with the toad-like course of its thought; thus
that author with whose mind it gives us sensible relief and assistance
sometimes to think, by whom we feel ourselves borne where we could not
have gone alone. Goethe once said to me that if he read a page of Kant he
felt as if he entered a brightly lighted room. Inferior minds are so not
merely because they are distorted, and therefore judge falsely, but
primarily through the _indistinctness_ of their whole thinking, which may
be compared to seeing through a bad telescope, when all the outlines
appear indistinct and as if obliterated, and the different objects run
into each other. The weak understanding of such minds shrinks from the
demand for distinctness of conceptions, and therefore they do not
themselves make this claim upon it, but put up with haziness; and to
satisfy themselves with this they gladly have recourse to _words_,
especially such as denote indefinite, very abstract, unusual conceptions
which are hard to explain; such, for example, as infinite and finite,
sensible and supersensible, the Idea of being, Ideas of the reason, the
absolute, the Idea of the good, the divine, moral freedom, power of
spontaneous generation, the absolute Idea, subject-object, &c. The like of
these they confidently fling about, imagine they really express thoughts,
and expect every one to be content with them; for the highest summit of
wisdom which they can see is to have at command such ready-made words for
every possible question. This immense _satisfaction in words_ is
thoroughly characteristic of inferior minds. It depends simply upon their
incapacity for distinct conceptions, whenever these must rise above the
most trivial and simple relations. Hence upon the weakness and indolence
of their intellect, and indeed upon the secret consciousness of this,
which in the case of scholars is bound up with the early learnt and hard
necessity of passing themselves off as thinking beings, to meet which
demand in all cases they keep such a suitable store of ready-made words.
It must really be amusing to see a professor of philosophy of this kind in
the chair, who _bonâ fide_ delivers such a juggle of words destitute of
thoughts, quite sincerely, under the delusion that they are really
thoughts, and in front of him the students, who just as _bonâ fide_,
_i.e._, under the same delusion, listen attentively and take notes, while
yet in reality neither the one nor the other goes beyond the words, but
rather these words themselves, together with the audible scratching of
pens, are the only realities in the whole matter. This peculiar
_satisfaction in words_ has more than anything else to do with the
perpetuation of errors. For, relying on the words and phrases received
from his predecessors, each one confidently passes over obscurities and
problems, and thus these are propagated through centuries from book to
book; and the thinking man, especially in youth, is in doubt whether it
may be that he is incapable of understanding it, or that there is really
nothing here to understand; and similarly, whether for others the problem
which they all slink past with such comical seriousness by the same path
is no problem at all, or whether it is only that they will not see it.
Many truths remain undiscovered simply on this account, that no one has
the courage to look the problem in the face and grapple with it. On the
contrary, the distinctness of thought and clearness of conceptions
peculiar to eminent minds produces the effect that even known truths when
brought forward by them gain new light, or at least a new stimulus. If we
hear them or read them, it is as if we exchanged a bad telescope for a
good one. Let one only read, for example, in Euler’s “Letters to the
Princess,” his exposition of the fundamental truths of mechanics and
optics. Upon this rests the remark of Diderot in the _Neveu de Rameau_,
that only the perfect masters are capable of teaching really well the
elements of a science; just because it is only they who really understand
the questions, and for them words never take the place of thoughts.
But we ought to know that inferior minds are the rule, good minds the
exception, eminent minds very rare, and genius a portent. How otherwise
could a human race consisting of about eight hundred million individuals
have left so much after six thousand years to discover, to invent, to
think out, and to say? The intellect is calculated for the support of the
individual alone, and as a rule it is only barely sufficient even for
this. But nature has wisely been very sparing of conferring a larger
measure; for the man of limited intelligence can survey the few and simple
relations which lie within reach of his narrow sphere of action, and can
control the levers of them with much greater ease than could the eminently
intellectual man who commands an incomparably larger sphere and works with
long levers. Thus the insect sees everything on its stem or leaf with the
most minute exactness, and better than we, and yet is not aware of the man
who stands within three steps of it. This is the reason of the slyness of
half-witted persons, and the ground of the paradox: _Il y a un mystère
dans l’esprit des gens qui n’en ont pas_. For practical life genius is
about as useful as an astral telescope in a theatre. Thus, with regard to
the intellect nature is highly _aristocratic_. The distinctions which it
has established are greater than those which are made in any country by
birth, rank, wealth, or caste. But in the aristocracy of intellect, as in
other aristocracies, there are many thousands of plebeians for one
nobleman, many millions for one prince, and the great multitude of men are
mere populace, mob, rabble, _la canaille_. Now certainly there is a
glaring contrast between the scale of rank of nature and that of
convention, and their agreement is only to be hoped for in a golden age.
Meanwhile those who stand very high in the one scale of rank and in the
other have this in common, that for the most part they live in exalted
isolation, to which Byron refers when he says:—
“To feel me in the solitude of kings
Without the power that makes them bear a crown.”
—_Proph. of Dante_, c. I.
For intellect is a differentiating, and therefore a separating principle.
Its different grades, far more than those of mere culture, give to each
man different conceptions, in consequence of which each man lives to a
certain extent in a different world, in which he can directly meet those
only who are like himself, and can only attempt to speak to the rest and
make himself understood by them from a distance. Great differences in the
grade and in the cultivation of the understanding fix a wide gulf between
man and man, which can only be crossed by benevolence; for it is, on the
contrary, the unifying principle, which identifies every one else with its
own self. Yet the connection remains a moral one; it cannot become
intellectual. Indeed, when the degree of culture is about the same, the
conversation between a man of great intellect and an ordinary man is like
the journey together of two men, one of whom rides on a spirited horse and
the other goes on foot. It soon becomes very trying to both of them, and
for any length of time impossible. For a short way the rider can indeed
dismount, in order to walk with the other, though even then the impatience
of his horse will give him much to do.
But the public could be benefited by nothing so much as by the recognition
of that _intellectual aristocracy of nature_. By virtue of such
recognition it would comprehend that when facts are concerned, thus when
the matter has to be decided from experiments, travels, codes, histories,
and chronicles, the normal mind is certainly sufficient; but, on the other
hand, when mere thoughts are in question, especially those thoughts the
material or data of which are within reach of every one, thus when it is
really only a question of _thinking before_ others, decided
reflectiveness, native eminence, which only nature bestows, and that very
seldom, is inevitably demanded, and no one deserves to be heard who does
not at once give proofs of this. If the public could be brought to see
this for itself, it would no longer waste the time which is sparingly
measured out to it for its culture on the productions of ordinary minds,
thus on the innumerable botches of poetry and philosophy which are
produced every day. It would no longer seize always what is newest, in the
childish delusion that books, like eggs, must be enjoyed while they are
fresh, but would confine itself to the works of the few select and chosen
minds of all ages and nations, would strive to learn to know and
understand them, and might thus by degrees attain to true culture. And
then, also, those thousands of uncalled-for productions which, like tares,
hinder the growth of the good wheat would be discontinued.