Chapter XIX.(30) On The Primacy Of The Will In Self-Consciousness.

The will, as the thing in itself, constitutes the inner, true, and

indestructible nature of man; in itself, however, it is unconscious. For

consciousness is conditioned by the intellect, and the intellect is a mere

accident of our being; for it is a function of the brain, which, together

with the nerves and spinal cord connected with it, is a mere fruit, a

product, nay, so far, a parasite of the rest of the organism; for it does

not directly enter into its inner constitution, but merely serves the end

of self-preservation by regulating the relations of the organism to the

external world. The organism itself, on the other hand, is the visibility,

the objectivity, of the individual will, the image of it as it presents

itself in that very brain (which in the first book we learned to recognise

as the condition of the objective world in general), therefore also

brought about by its forms of knowledge, space, time, and causality, and

consequently presenting itself as extended, successively acting, and

material, _i.e._, as something operative or efficient. The members are

both directly felt and also perceived by means of the senses only in the

brain. According to this one may say: The intellect is the secondary

phenomenon; the organism the primary phenomenon, that is, the immediate

manifestation of the will; the will is metaphysical, the intellect

physical;—the intellect, like its objects, is merely phenomenal

appearance; the will alone is the thing in itself. Then, in a more and

more _figurative sense_, thus by way of simile: The will is the substance

of man, the intellect the accident; the will is the matter, the intellect

is the form; the will is warmth, the intellect is light.

We shall now first of all verify and also elucidate this thesis by the

following facts connected with the inner life of man; and on this

opportunity perhaps more will be done for the knowledge of the inner man

than is to be found in many systematic psychologies.

1. Not only the consciousness of other things, _i.e._, the apprehension of

the external world, but also _self-consciousness_, contains, as was

mentioned already above, a knower and a known; otherwise it would not be

_consciousness_. For _consciousness_ consists in knowing; but knowing

requires a knower and a known; therefore there could be no

self-consciousness if there were not in it also a known opposed to the

knower and different from it. As there can be no object without a subject,

so also there can be no subject without an object, _i.e._, no knower

without something different from it which is known. Therefore a

consciousness which is through and through pure intelligence is

impossible. The intelligence is like the sun, which does not illuminate

space if there is no object from which its rays are reflected. The knower

himself, as such, cannot be known; otherwise he would be the known of

another knower. But now, as the _known_ in self-consciousness we find

exclusively the _will_. For not merely willing and purposing in the

narrowest sense, but also all striving, wishing, shunning, hoping,

fearing, loving, hating, in short, all that directly constitutes our own

weal and woe, desire and aversion, is clearly only affection of the will,

is a moving, a modification of willing and not-willing, is just that

which, if it takes outward effect, exhibits itself as an act of will

proper.(31) In all knowledge, however, the known is first and essential,

not the knower; for the former is the πρωτοτυπος, the latter the εκτυπος.

Therefore in self-consciousness also the known, thus the will, must be

what is first and original; the knower, on the other hand, only what is

secondary, that which has been added, the mirror. They are related very

much as the luminous to the reflecting body; or, again, as the vibrating

strings to the resounding-board, in which case the note produced would be

consciousness. We may also regard the plant as a like symbol of

consciousness. It has, we know, two poles, the root and the corona: the

former struggling into darkness, moisture, and cold, the latter into

light, dryness, and warmth; then, as the point of indifference of the two

poles, where they part asunder, close to the ground, the collum

(_rhizoma_, _le collet_). The root is what is essential, original,

perennial, the death of which involves that of the corona, is thus the

primary; the corona, on the other hand, is the ostensible, but it has

sprung from something else, and it passes away without the root dying; it

is thus secondary. The root represents the will, the corona the intellect,

and the point of indifference of the two, the collum, would be the _I_,

which, as their common termination, belongs to both. This I is the _pro

tempore_ identical subject of knowing and willing, whose identity I called

in my very first essay (on the principle of sufficient reason), and in my

first philosophical wonder, the miracle κατ εξοχην. It is the temporal

starting-point and connecting-link of the whole phenomenon, _i.e._, of the

objectification of the will: it conditions indeed the phenomenon, but is

also conditioned by it. This comparison may even be carried to the

individual nature of men. As a large corona commonly springs only from a

large root, so the greatest intellectual capabilities are only found in

connection with a vehement and passionate will. A genius of a phlegmatic

character and weak passions would resemble those succulent plants that,

with a considerable corona consisting of thick leaves, have very small

roots; will not, however, be found. That vehemence of will and

passionateness of character are conditions of heightened intelligence

exhibits itself physiologically through the fact that the activity of the

brain is conditioned by the movement which the great arteries running

towards the _basis cerebri_ impart to it with each pulsation; therefore an

energetic pulse, and even, according to Bichat, a short neck, is a

requisite of great activity of the brain. But the opposite of the above

certainly occurs: vehement desires, passionate, violent character, along

with weak intellect, _i.e._, a small brain of bad conformation in a thick

skull. This is a phenomenon as common as it is repulsive: we might perhaps

compare it to beetroot.

2. But in order not merely to describe consciousness figuratively, but to

know it thoroughly, we have first of all to find out what appears in the

same way in every consciousness, and therefore, as the common and constant

element, will also be the essential. Then we shall consider what

distinguishes _one_ consciousness from another, which accordingly will be

the adventitious and secondary element.

Consciousness is positively only known to us as a property of animal

nature; therefore we must not, and indeed cannot, think of it otherwise

than as _animal consciousness_, so that this expression is tautological.

Now, that which in _every_ animal consciousness, even the most imperfect

and the weakest, is always present, nay, lies at its foundation, is an

immediate sense of _longing_, and of the alternate satisfaction and

non-satisfaction of it, in very different degrees. This we know to a

certain extent _a priori_. For marvellously different as the innumerable

species of animals are, and strange as some new form, never seen before,

appears to us, we yet assume beforehand its inmost nature, with perfect

certainty, as well known, and indeed fully confided to us. We know that

the animal _wills_, indeed also _what_ it wills, existence, well-being,

life, and propagation; and since in this we presuppose with perfect

certainty identity with us, we do not hesitate to attribute to it

unchanged all the affections of will which we know in ourselves, and speak

at once of its desire, aversion, fear, anger, hatred, love, joy, sorrow,

longing, &c. On the other hand, whenever phenomena of mere knowledge come

to be spoken of we fall at once into uncertainty. We do not venture to say

that the animal conceives, thinks, judges, knows: we only attribute to it

with certainty ideas in general; because without them its _will_ could not

have those emotions referred to above. But with regard to the definite

manner of knowing of the brutes and the precise limits of it in a given

species, we have only indefinite conceptions, and make conjectures. Hence

our understanding with them is also often difficult, and is only brought

about by skill, in consequence of experience and practice. Here then lie

distinctions of consciousness. On the other hand, a longing, desiring,

wishing, or a detesting, shunning, and not wishing, is proper to every

consciousness: man has it in common with the polyp. This is accordingly

the essential element in and the basis of every consciousness. The

difference of the manifestations of this in the different species of

animal beings depends upon the various extension of their sphere of

knowledge, in which the motives of those manifestations lie. We understand

directly from our own nature all actions and behaviour of the brutes which

express movements of the will; therefore, so far, we sympathise with them

in various ways. On the other hand, the gulf between us and them results

simply and solely from the difference of intellect. The gulf which lies

between a very sagacious brute and a man of very limited capacity is

perhaps not much greater than that which exists between a blockhead and a

man of genius; therefore here also the resemblance between them in another

aspect, which springs from the likeness of their inclinations and

emotions, and assimilates them again to each other, sometimes appears with

surprising prominence, and excites astonishment. This consideration makes

it clear that in all animal natures the _will_ is what is primary and

substantial, the _intellect_ again is secondary, adventitious, indeed a

mere tool for the service of the former, and is more or less complete and

complicated, according to the demands of this service. As a species of

animals is furnished with hoofs, claws, hands, wings, horns, or teeth

according to the aims of its will, so also is it furnished with a more or

less developed brain, whose function is the intelligence necessary for its

endurance. The more complicated the organisation becomes, in the ascending

series of animals, the more numerous also are its wants, and the more

varied and specially determined the objects which are capable of

satisfying them; hence the more complicated and distant the paths by which

these are to be obtained, which must now be all known and found: therefore

in the same proportion the ideas of the animal must be more versatile,

accurate, definite, and connected, and also its attention must be more

highly strung, more sustained, and more easily roused, consequently its

intellect must be more developed and perfect. Accordingly we see the organ

of intelligence, the cerebral system, together with all the organs of

sense, keep pace with the increasing wants and the complication of the

organism; and the increase of the part of consciousness that has to do

with ideas (as opposed to the willing part) exhibits itself in a bodily

form in the ever-increasing proportion of the brain in general to the rest

of the nervous system, and of the cerebrum to the cerebellum; for

(according to Flourens) the former is the workshop of ideas, while the

latter is the disposer and orderer of movements. The last step which

nature has taken in this respect is, however, disproportionately great.

For in man not only does the faculty of ideas of _perception_, which alone

existed hitherto, reach the highest degree of perfection, but the

_abstract_ idea, thought, _i.e._, _reason_, and with it reflection, is

added. Through this important advance of the intellect, thus of the

secondary part of consciousness, it now gains a preponderance over the

primary part, in so far as it becomes henceforward the predominantly

active part. While in the brute the immediate sense of its satisfied or

unsatisfied desire constitutes by far the most important part of its

consciousness, and the more so indeed the lower the grade of the animal,

so that the lowest animals are only distinguished from plants by the

addition of a dull idea, in man the opposite is the case. Vehement as are

his desires, even more vehement than those of any brute, rising to the

level of passions, yet his consciousness remains continuously and

predominantly occupied and filled with ideas and thoughts. Without doubt

this has been the principal occasion of that fundamental error of all

philosophers on account of which they make thought that which is essential

and primary in the so-called soul, _i.e._, in the inner or spiritual life

of man, always placing it first, but will, as a mere product of thought,

they regard as only a subordinate addition and consequence of it. But if

willing merely proceeded from knowing, how could the brutes, even the

lower grades of them, with so very little knowledge, often show such an

unconquerable and vehement will? Accordingly, since that fundamental error

of the philosophers makes, as it were, the accident the substance, it

leads them into mistaken paths, which there is afterwards no way of

getting out of. Now this relative predominance of the _knowing_

consciousness over the _desiring_, consequently of the secondary part over

the primary, which appears in man, may, in particular exceptionally

favoured individuals, go so far that at the moments of its highest

ascendancy, the secondary or knowing part of consciousness detaches itself

altogether from the willing part, and passes into free activity for

itself, _i.e._, untouched by the will, and consequently no longer serving

it. Thus it becomes purely objective, and the clear mirror of the world,

and from it the conceptions of genius then arise, which are the subject of

our third book.

3. If we run through the series of grades of animals downwards, we see the

intellect always becoming weaker and less perfect, but we by no means

observe a corresponding degradation of the will. Rather it retains

everywhere its identical nature and shows itself in the form of great

attachment to life, care for the individual and the species, egoism and

regardlessness of all others, together with the emotions that spring from

these. Even in the smallest insect the will is present, complete and

entire; it wills what it wills as decidedly and completely as the man. The

difference lies merely in _what_ it wills, _i.e._, in the motives, which,

however, are the affair of the intellect. It indeed, as the secondary part

of consciousness, and bound to the bodily organism, has innumerable

degrees of completeness, and is in general essentially limited and

imperfect. The _will_, on the contrary, as original and the thing in

itself, can never be imperfect, but every act of will is all that it can

be. On account of the simplicity which belongs to the will as the thing in

itself, the metaphysical in the phenomenon, its nature admits of no

degrees, but is always completely itself. Only its _excitement_ has

degrees, from the weakest inclination to the passion, and also its

susceptibility to excitement, thus its vehemence from the phlegmatic to

the choleric temperament. The _intellect_, on the other hand, has not

merely degrees of _excitement_, from sleepiness to being in the vein, and

inspiration, but also degrees of its nature, of the completeness of this,

which accordingly rises gradually from the lowest animals, which can only

obscurely apprehend, up to man, and here again from the fool to the

genius. The _will_ alone is everywhere completely itself. For its function

is of the utmost simplicity; it consists in willing and not willing, which

goes on with the greatest ease, without effort, and requires no practice.

Knowing, on the contrary, has multifarious functions, and never takes

place entirely without effort, which is required to fix the attention and

to make clear the object, and at a higher stage is certainly needed for

thinking and deliberation; therefore it is also capable of great

improvement through exercise and education. If the intellect presents a

simple, perceptible object to the will, the latter expresses at once its

approval or disapproval of it, and this even if the intellect has

laboriously inquired and pondered, in order from numerous data, by means

of difficult combinations, ultimately to arrive at the conclusion as to

which of the two seems to be most in conformity with the interests of the

will. The latter has meanwhile been idly resting, and when the conclusion

is arrived at it enters, as the Sultan enters the Divan, merely to express

again its monotonous approval or disapproval, which certainly may vary in

degree, but in its nature remains always the same.

This fundamentally different nature of the will and the intellect, the

essential simplicity and originality of the former, in contrast to the

complicated and secondary character of the latter, becomes still more

clear to us if we observe their remarkable interaction within us, and now

consider in the particular case, how the images and thoughts which arise

in the intellect move the will, and how entirely separated and different

are the parts which the two play. We can indeed perceive this even in

actual events which excite the will in a lively manner, while primarily

and in themselves they are merely objects of the intellect. But, on the

one hand, it is here not so evident that this reality primarily existed

only in the intellect; and, on the other hand, the change does not

generally take place so rapidly as is necessary if the thing is to be

easily surveyed, and thereby become thoroughly comprehensible. Both of

these conditions, however, are fulfilled if it is merely thoughts and

phantasies which we allow to act on the will. If, for example, alone with

ourselves, we think over our personal circumstances, and now perhaps

vividly present to ourselves the menace of an actually present danger and

the possibility of an unfortunate issue, anxiety at once compresses the

heart, and the blood ceases to circulate in the veins. But if then the

intellect passes to the possibility of an opposite issue, and lets the

imagination picture the long hoped for happiness thereby attained, all the

pulses quicken at once with joy and the heart feels light as a feather,

till the intellect awakes from its dream. Thereupon, suppose that an

occasion should lead the memory to an insult or injury once suffered long

ago, at once anger and bitterness pour into the breast that was but now at

peace. But then arises, called up by accident, the image of a long-lost

love, with which the whole romance and its magic scenes is connected; then

that anger will at once give place to profound longing and sadness.

Finally, if there occurs to us some former humiliating incident, we shrink

together, would like to sink out of sight, blush with shame, and often try

forcibly to distract and divert our thoughts by some loud exclamation, as

if to scare some evil spirit. One sees, the intellect plays, and the will

must dance to it. Indeed the intellect makes the will play the part of a

child which is alternately thrown at pleasure into joyful or sad moods by

the chatter and tales of its nurse. This depends upon the fact that the

will is itself without knowledge, and the understanding which is given to

it is without will. Therefore the former is like a body which is moved,

the latter like the causes which set it in motion, for it is the medium of

motives. Yet in all this the primacy of the will becomes clear again, if

this will, which, as we have shown, becomes the sport of the intellect as

soon as it allows the latter to control it, once makes its supremacy in

the last instance felt by prohibiting the intellect from entertaining

certain ideas, absolutely preventing certain trains of thought from

arising, because it knows, _i.e._, learns from that very intellect, that

they would awaken in it some one of the emotions set forth above. It now

bridles the intellect, and compels it to turn to other things. Hard as

this often may be, it must yet be accomplished as soon as the will is in

earnest about it, for the resistance in this case does not proceed from

the intellect, which always remains indifferent, but from the will itself,

which in one respect has an inclination towards an idea that in another

respect it abhors. It is in itself interesting to the will simply because

it excites it, but at the same time abstract knowledge tells it that this

idea will aimlessly cause it a shock of painful or unworthy emotion: it

now decides in conformity with this abstract knowledge, and compels the

obedience of the intellect. This is called “being master of oneself.”

Clearly the master here is the will, the servant the intellect, for in the

last instance the will always keeps the upper hand, and therefore

constitutes the true core, the inner being of man. In this respect the

title Ηγεμονικον would belong to the _will_; yet it seems, on the other

hand, to apply to the _intellect_, because it is the leader and guide,

like the _valet de place_ who conducts a stranger. In truth, however, the

happiest figure of the relation of the two is the strong blind man who

carries on his shoulders the lame man who can see.

The relation of the will to the intellect here explained may also be

further recognised in the fact that the intellect is originally entirely a

stranger to the purposes of the will. It supplies the motives to the will,

but it only learns afterwards, completely _a posteriori_, how they have

affected it, as one who makes a chemical experiment applies the reagents

and awaits the result. Indeed the intellect remains so completely excluded

from the real decisions and secret purposes of its own will that sometimes

it can only learn them like those of a stranger, by spying upon them and

surprising them, and must catch the will in the act of expressing itself

in order to get at its real intentions. For example, I have conceived a

plan, about which, however, I have still some scruple, but the

feasibleness of which, as regards its possibility, is completely

uncertain, for it depends upon external and still undecided circumstances.

It would therefore certainly be unnecessary to come to a decision about it

at present, and so for the time I leave the matter as it is. Now in such a

case I often do not know how firmly I am already attached to that plan in

secret, and how much, in spite of the scruple, I wish to carry it out:

that is, my intellect does not know. But now only let me receive news that

it is practicable, at once there rises within me a jubilant, irresistible

gladness, that passes through my whole being and takes permanent

possession of it, to my own astonishment. For now my intellect learns for

the first time how firmly my will had laid hold of that plan, and how

thoroughly the plan suited it, while the intellect had regarded it as

entirely problematical, and had with difficulty been able to overcome that

scruple. Or in another case, I have entered eagerly into a contract which

I believed to be very much in accordance with my wishes. But as the matter

progresses the disadvantages and burdens of it are felt, and I begin to

suspect that I even repent of what I so eagerly pursued; yet I rid myself

of this feeling by assuring myself that even if I were not bound I would

follow the same course. Now, however, the contract is unexpectedly broken

by the other side, and I perceive with astonishment that this happens to

my great satisfaction and relief. Often we don’t know what we wish or what

we fear. We may entertain a wish for years without even confessing it to

ourselves, or even allowing it to come to clear consciousness; for the

intellect must know nothing about it, because the good opinion which we

have of ourselves might thereby suffer. But if it is fulfilled we learn

from our joy, not without shame, that we have wished this. For example,

the death of a near relation whose heir we are. And sometimes we do not

know what we really fear, because we lack the courage to bring it to

distinct consciousness. Indeed we are often in error as to the real motive

from which we have done something or left it undone, till at last perhaps

an accident discovers to us the secret, and we know that what we have held

to be the motive was not the true one, but another which we had not wished

to confess to ourselves, because it by no means accorded with the good

opinion we entertained of ourselves. For example, we refrain from doing

something on purely moral grounds, as we believe, but afterwards we

discover that we were only restrained by fear, for as soon as all danger

is removed we do it. In particular cases this may go so far that a man

does not even guess the true motive of his action, nay, does not believe

himself capable of being influenced by such a motive; and yet it is the

true motive of his action. We may remark in passing that in all this we

have a confirmation and explanation of the rule of Larochefoucauld:

“_L’amour-propre est plus habile que le plus habile homme du monde;_” nay,

even a commentary on the Delphic γνωθι σαυτον and its difficulty. If now,

on the contrary, as all philosophers imagine, the intellect constituted

our true nature and the purposes of the will were a mere result of

knowledge, then only the motive from which we imagined that we acted would

be decisive of our moral worth; in analogy with the fact that the

intention, not the result, is in this respect decisive. But really then

the distinction between imagined and true motive would be impossible. Thus

all cases here set forth, to which every one who pays attention may

observe analogous cases in himself, show us how the intellect is so

strange to the will that it is sometimes even mystified by it: for it

indeed supplies it with motives, but does not penetrate into the secret

workshop of its purposes. It is indeed a confidant of the will, but a

confidant that is not told everything. This is also further confirmed by

the fact, which almost every one will some time have the opportunity of

observing in himself, that sometimes the intellect does not thoroughly

trust the will. If we have formed some great and bold purpose, which as

such is yet really only a promise made by the will to the intellect, there

often remains within us a slight unconfessed doubt whether we are quite in

earnest about it, whether in carrying it out we will not waver or draw

back, but will have sufficient firmness and persistency to fulfil it. It

therefore requires the deed to convince us ourselves of the sincerity of

the purpose.

All these facts prove the absolute difference of the will and the

intellect, the primacy of the former and the subordinate position of the

latter.

4. The _intellect_ becomes tired; the _will_ is never tired. After

sustained work with the head we feel the tiredness of the brain, just like

that of the arm after sustained bodily work. All _knowing_ is accompanied

with effort; _willing_, on the contrary, is our very nature, whose

manifestations take place without any weariness and entirely of their own

accord. Therefore, if our will is strongly excited, as in all emotions,

thus in anger, fear, desire, grief, &c., and we are now called upon to

know, perhaps with the view of correcting the motives of that emotion, the

violence which we must do ourselves for this purpose is evidence of the

transition from the original natural activity proper to ourselves to the

derived, indirect, and forced activity. For the will alone is αυτοματος,

and therefore ακαματος και αγηρατος ηματα παντα (_lassitudinis et senii

expers in sempiternum_). It alone is active without being called upon, and

therefore often too early and too much, and it knows no weariness. Infants

who scarcely show the first weak trace of intelligence are already full of

self-will: through unlimited, aimless roaring and shrieking they show the

pressure of will with which they swell, while their willing has yet no

object, _i.e._, they will without knowing what they will. What Cabanis has

observed is also in point here: “_Toutes ces passions, qui se succèdent

d’une mannière si rapide, et se peignent avec tant de naïveté, sur le

visage mobile des enfants. Tandis que les faibles muscles de leurs bras et

de leurs jambes savent encore a peine former quelque mouvemens indécis,

les muscles de la face expriment déjà par des mouvemens distincts presque

toute la suite des affections générales propres a __ la nature humaine: et

l’observateur attentif reconnait facilement dans ce tableau les traits

caractéristiques de l’homme futur_” (_Rapports du Physique et Moral_, vol.

i. p. 123). The intellect, on the contrary, develops slowly, following the

completion of the brain and the maturity of the whole organism, which are

its conditions, just because it is merely a somatic function. It is

because the brain attains its full size in the seventh year that from that

time forward children become so remarkably intelligent, inquisitive, and

reasonable. But then comes puberty; to a certain extent it affords a

support to the brain, or a resounding-board, and raises the intellect at

once by a large step, as it were by an octave, corresponding to the

lowering of the voice by that amount. But at once the animal desires and

passions that now appear resist the reasonableness that has hitherto

prevailed and to which they have been added. Further evidence is given of

the indefatigable nature of the will by the fault which is, more or less,

peculiar to all men by nature, and is only overcome by

education—_precipitation_. It consists in this, that the will hurries to

its work before the time. This work is the purely active and executive

part, which ought only to begin when the explorative and deliberative

part, thus the work of knowing, has been completely and thoroughly carried

out. But this time is seldom waited for. Scarcely are a few data

concerning the circumstances before us, or the event that has occurred, or

the opinion of others conveyed to us, superficially comprehended and

hastily gathered together by knowledge, than from the depths of our being

the will, always ready and never weary, comes forth unasked, and shows

itself as terror, fear, hope, joy, desire, envy, grief, zeal, anger, or

courage, and leads to rash words and deeds, which are generally followed

by repentance when time has taught us that the hegemonicon, the intellect,

has not been able to finish half its work of comprehending the

circumstances, reflecting on their connection, and deciding what is

prudent, because the will did not wait for it, but sprang forward long

before its time with “Now it is my turn!” and at once began the active

work, without the intellect being able to resist, as it is a mere slave

and bondman of the will, and not, like it, αυτοματος, nor active from its

own power and its own impulse; therefore it is easily pushed aside and

silenced by a nod of the will, while on its part it is scarcely able, with

the greatest efforts, to bring the will even to a brief pause, in order to

speak. This is why the people are so rare, and are found almost only among

Spaniards, Turks, and perhaps Englishmen, who even under circumstances of

provocation _keep the head uppermost_, imperturbably proceed to comprehend

and investigate the state of affairs, and when others would already be

beside themselves, _con mucho sosiego_, still ask further questions, which

is something quite different from the indifference founded upon apathy and

stupidity of many Germans and Dutchmen. Iffland used to give an excellent

representation of this admirable quality, as Hetmann of the Cossacks, in

Benjowski, when the conspirators have enticed him into their tent and hold

a rifle to his head, with the warning that they will fire it if he utters

a cry, Iffland blew into the mouth of the rifle to try whether it was

loaded. Of ten things that annoy us, nine would not be able to do so if we

understood them thoroughly in their causes, and therefore knew their

necessity and true nature; but we would do this much oftener if we made

them the object of reflection before making them the object of wrath and

indignation. For what bridle and bit are to an unmanageable horse the

intellect is for the will in man; by this bridle it must be controlled by

means of instruction, exhortation, culture, &c., for in itself it is as

wild and impetuous an impulse as the force that appears in the descending

waterfall, nay, as we know, it is at bottom identical with this. In the

height of anger, in intoxication, in despair, it has taken the bit between

its teeth, has run away, and follows its original nature. In the _Mania __

sine delirio_ it has lost bridle and bit altogether, and shows now most

distinctly its original nature, and that the intellect is as different

from it as the bridle from the horse. In this condition it may also be

compared to a clock which, when a certain screw is taken away, runs down

without stopping.

Thus this consideration also shows us the will as that which is original,

and therefore metaphysical; the intellect, on the other hand, as something

subordinate and physical. For as such the latter is, like everything

physical, subject to _vis inertiæ_, consequently only active if it is set

agoing by something else, the will, which rules it, manages it, rouses it

to effort, in short, imparts to it the activity which does not originally

reside in it. Therefore it willingly rests whenever it is permitted to do

so, often declares itself lazy and disinclined to activity; through

continued effort it becomes weary to the point of complete stupefaction,

is exhausted, like the voltaic pile, through repeated shocks. Hence all

continuous mental work demands pauses and rest, otherwise stupidity and

incapacity ensue, at first of course only temporarily; but if this rest is

persistently denied to the intellect it will become excessively and

continuously fatigued, and the consequence is a permanent deterioration of

it, which in an old man may pass into complete incapacity, into

childishness, imbecility, and madness. It is not to be attributed to age

in and for itself, but to long-continued tyrannical over-exertion of the

intellect or brain, if this misfortune appears in the last years of life.

This is the explanation of the fact that Swift became mad, Kant became

childish, Walter Scott, and also Wordsworth, Southey, and many _minorum

gentium_, became dull and incapable. Goethe remained to the end clear,

strong, and active-minded, because he, who was always a man of the world

and a courtier, never carried on his mental occupations with

self-compulsion. The same holds good of Wieland and of Kuebel, who lived

to the age of ninety-one, and also of Voltaire. Now all this proves how

very subordinate and physical and what a mere tool the intellect is. Just

on this account it requires, during almost a third part of its lifetime,

the entire suspension of its activity in sleep, _i.e._, the rest of the

brain, of which it is the mere function, and which therefore just as truly

precedes it as the stomach precedes digestion, or as a body precedes its

impulsion, and with which in old age it flags and decays. The will, on the

contrary, as the thing in itself, is never lazy, is absolutely untiring,

its activity is its essence, it never ceases willing, and when, during

deep sleep, it is forsaken of the intellect, and therefore cannot act

outwardly in accordance with motives, it is active as the vital force,

cares the more uninterruptedly for the inner economy of the organism, and

as _vis naturæ medicatrix_ sets in order again the irregularities that

have crept into it. For it is not, like the intellect, a function of the

body; _but the body is its function_; therefore it is, _ordine rerum_,

prior to the body, as its metaphysical substratum, as the in-itself of its

phenomenal appearance. It shares its unwearying nature, for the time that

life lasts, with the heart, that _primum mobile_ of the organism, which

has therefore become its symbol and synonym. Moreover, it does not

disappear in the old man, but still continues to will what it has willed,

and indeed becomes firmer, more inflexible, than it was in youth, more

implacable, self-willed, and unmanageable, because the intellect has

become less susceptible: therefore in old age the man can perhaps only be

matched by taking advantage of the weakness of his intellect.

Moreover, the prevailing _weakness_ and _imperfection_ of the intellect,

as it is shown in the want of judgment, narrow-mindedness, perversity, and

folly of the great majority of men, would be quite inexplicable if the

intellect were not subordinate, adventitious, and merely instrumental, but

the immediate and original nature of the so-called soul, or in general of

the inner man: as all philosophers have hitherto assumed it to be. For how

could the original nature in its immediate and peculiar function so

constantly err and fail? The _truly_ original in human consciousness, the

_willing_, always goes on with perfect success; every being wills

unceasingly, capably, and decidedly. To regard the immorality in the will

as an imperfection of it would be a fundamentally false point of view. For

morality has rather a source which really lies above nature, and therefore

its utterances are in contradiction with it. Therefore morality is in

direct opposition to the natural will, which in itself is completely

egoistic; indeed the pursuit of the path of morality leads to the

abolition of the will. On this subject I refer to our fourth book and to

my prize essay, “_Ueber das Fundament der Moral_.”

5. That the _will_ is what is real and essential in man, and the

_intellect_ only subordinate, conditioned, and produced, is also to be

seen in the fact that the latter can carry on its function with perfect

purity and correctness only so long as the will is silent and pauses. On

the other hand, the function of the intellect is disturbed by every

observable excitement of the will, and its result is falsified by the

intermixture of the latter; but the converse does not hold, that the

intellect should in the same way be a hindrance to the will. Thus the moon

cannot shine when the sun is in the heavens, but when the moon is in the

heavens it does not prevent the sun from shining.

A great _fright_ often deprives us of our senses to such an extent that we

are petrified, or else do the most absurd things; for example, when fire

has broken out run right into the flames. _Anger_ makes us no longer know

what we do, still less what we say. _Zeal_, therefore called blind, makes

us incapable of weighing the arguments of others, or even of seeking out

and setting in order our own. _Joy_ makes us inconsiderate, reckless, and

foolhardy, and _desire_ acts almost in the same way. _Fear_ prevents us

from seeing and laying hold of the resources that are still present, and

often lie close beside us. Therefore for overcoming sudden dangers, and

also for fighting with opponents and enemies, the most essential

qualifications are _coolness and presence of mind_. The former consists in

the silence of the will so that the intellect can act; the latter in the

undisturbed activity of the intellect under the pressure of events acting

on the will; therefore the former is the condition of the latter, and the

two are nearly related; they are seldom to be found, and always only in a

limited degree. But they are of inestimable advantage, because they permit

the use of the intellect just at those times when we stand most in need of

it, and therefore confer decided superiority. He who is without them only

knows what he should have done or said when the opportunity has passed. It

is very appropriately said of him who is violently moved, _i.e._, whose

will is so strongly excited that it destroys the purity of the function of

the intellect, he is _disarmed_; for the correct knowledge of the

circumstances and relations is our defence and weapon in the conflict with

things and with men. In this sense Balthazar Gracian says: “_Es la passion

enemiga declarada de la cordura_” (Passion is the declared enemy of

prudence). If now the intellect were not something completely different

from the will, but, as has been hitherto supposed, knowing and willing had

the same root, and were equally original functions of an absolutely simple

nature, then with the rousing and heightening of the will, in which the

emotion consists, the intellect would necessarily also be heightened; but,

as we have seen, it is rather hindered and depressed by this; whence the

ancients called emotion _animi perturbatio_. The intellect is really like

the reflecting surface of water, but the water itself is like the will,

whose disturbance therefore at once destroys the clearness of that mirror

and the distinctness of its images. The _organism_ is the will itself, is

embodied will, _i.e._, will objectively perceived in the brain. Therefore

many of its functions, such as respiration, circulation, secretion of

bile, and muscular power, are heightened and accelerated by the

pleasurable, and in general the healthy, emotions. The _intellect_, on the

other hand, is the mere function of the brain, which is only nourished and

supported by the organism as a parasite. Therefore every perturbation of

the _will_, and with it of the _organism_, must disturb and paralyse the

function of the brain, which exists for itself and for no other wants than

its own, which are simply rest and nourishment.

But this disturbing influence of the activity of the will upon the

intellect can be shown, not only in the perturbations brought about by

emotions, but also in many other, more gradual, and therefore more lasting

falsifications of thought by our inclinations. _Hope_ makes us regard what

we wish, and _fear_ what we are apprehensive of, as probable and near, and

both exaggerate their object. Plato (according to Ælian, V.H., 13, 28)

very beautifully called hope the dream of the waking. Its nature lies in

this, that the will, when its servant the intellect is not able to produce

what it wishes, obliges it at least to picture it before it, in general to

undertake the roll of comforter, to appease its lord with fables, as a

nurse a child, and so to dress these out that they gain an appearance of

likelihood. Now in this the intellect must do violence to its own nature,

which aims at the truth, for it compels it, contrary to its own laws, to

regard as true things which are neither true nor probable, and often

scarcely possible, only in order to appease, quiet, and send to sleep for

a while the restless and unmanageable _will_. Here we see clearly who is

master and who is servant. Many may well have observed that if a matter

which is of importance to them may turn out in several different ways, and

they have brought all of these into one disjunctive judgment which in

their opinion is complete, the actual result is yet quite another, and one

wholly unexpected by them: but perhaps they will not have considered this,

that this result was then almost always the one which was unfavourable to

them. The explanation of this is, that while their _intellect_ intended to

survey the possibilities completely, the worst of all remained quite

invisible to it; because the _will_, as it were, covered it with its hand,

that is, it so mastered the intellect that it was quite incapable of

glancing at the worst case of all, although, since it actually came to

pass, this was also the most probable case. Yet in very melancholy

dispositions, or in those that have become prudent through experience like

this, the process is reversed, for here apprehension plays the part which

was formerly played by hope. The first appearance of danger throws them

into groundless anxiety. If the intellect begins to investigate the matter

it is rejected as incompetent, nay, as a deceitful sophist, because the

heart is to be believed, whose fears are now actually allowed to pass for

arguments as to the reality and greatness of the danger. So then the

intellect dare make no search for good reasons on the other side, which,

if left to itself, it would soon recognise, but is obliged at once to

picture to them the most unfortunate issue, even if it itself can scarcely

think this issue possible:

“Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth,

Because the worst is ever nearest truth.”

—BYRON (_Lara_, c. 1).

_Love_ and _hate_ falsify our judgment entirely. In our enemies we see

nothing but faults—in our loved ones nothing but excellences, and even

their faults appear to us amiable. Our _interest_, of whatever kind it may

be, exercises a like secret power over our judgment; what is in conformity

with it at once seems to us fair, just, and reasonable; what runs contrary

to it presents itself to us, in perfect seriousness, as unjust and

outrageous, or injudicious and absurd. Hence so many prejudices of

position, profession, nationality, sect, and religion. A conceived

hypothesis gives us lynx-eyes for all that confirms it, and makes us blind

to all that contradicts it. What is opposed to our party, our plan, our

wish, our hope, we often cannot comprehend and grasp at all, while it is

clear to every one else; but what is favourable to these, on the other

hand, strikes our eye from afar. What the heart opposes the head will not

admit. We firmly retain many errors all through life, and take care never

to examine their ground, merely from a fear, of which we ourselves are

conscious, that we might make the discovery that we had so long believed

and so often asserted what is false. Thus then is the intellect daily

befooled and corrupted by the impositions of inclination. This has been

very beautifully expressed by Bacon of Verulam in the words: _Intellectus_

LUMINIS SICCI _non est; sed recipit infusionem a voluntate et affectibus:

id quod generat ad quod vult scientias: quod enim mavult homo, id potius

credit. Innumeris modis, iisque interdum imperceptibilibus, affectus

intellectum imbuit et inficit_ (_Org. Nov._, i. 14). Clearly it is also

this that opposes all new fundamental opinions in the sciences and all

refutations of sanctioned errors, for one will not easily see the truth of

that which convicts one of incredible want of thought. It is explicable,

on this ground alone, that the truths of Goethe’s doctrine of colours,

which are so clear and simple, are still denied by the physicists; and

thus Goethe himself has had to learn what a much harder position one has

if one promises men instruction than if one promises them amusement. Hence

it is much more fortunate to be born a poet than a philosopher. But the

more obstinately an error was held by the other side, the more shameful

does the conviction afterwards become. In the case of an overthrown

system, as in the case of a conquered army, the most prudent is he who

first runs away from it.

A trifling and absurd, but striking example of that mysterious and

immediate power which the will exercises over the intellect, is the fact

that in doing accounts we make mistakes much oftener in our own favour

than to our disadvantage, and this without the slightest dishonest

intention, merely from the unconscious tendency to diminish our _Debit_

and increase our _Credit_.

Lastly, the fact is also in point here, that when advice is given the

slightest aim or purpose of the adviser generally outweighs his insight,

however great it may be; therefore we dare not assume that he speaks from

the latter when we suspect the existence of the former. How little perfect

sincerity is to be expected even from otherwise honest persons whenever

their interests are in any way concerned we can gather from the fact that

we so often deceive ourselves when hope bribes us, or fear befools us, or

suspicion torments us, or vanity flatters us, or an hypothesis blinds us,

or a small aim which is close at hand injures a greater but more distant

one; for in this we see the direct and unconscious disadvantageous

influence of the will upon knowledge. Accordingly it ought not to surprise

us if in asking advice the will of the person asked directly dictates the

answer even before the question could penetrate to the forum of his

judgment.

I wish in a single word to point out here what will be fully explained in

the following book, that the most perfect knowledge, thus the purely

objective comprehension of the world, _i.e._, the comprehension of genius,

is conditioned by a silence of the will so profound that while it lasts

even the individuality vanishes from consciousness and the man remains _as

the pure subject of knowing_, which is the correlative of the _Idea_.

The disturbing influence of the will upon the intellect, which is proved

by all these phenomena, and, on the other hand, the weakness and frailty

of the latter, on account of which it is incapable of working rightly

whenever the will is in any way moved, gives us then another proof that

the will is the radical part of our nature, and acts with original power,

while the intellect, as adventitious and in many ways conditioned, can

only act in a subordinate and conditional manner.

There is no direct disturbance of the will by the intellect corresponding

to the disturbance and clouding of knowledge by the will that has been

shown. Indeed we cannot well conceive such a thing. No one will wish to

construe as such the fact that motives wrongly taken up lead the will

astray, for this is a fault of the intellect in its own function, which is

committed quite within its own province, and the influence of which upon

the will is entirely indirect. It would be plausible to attribute

_irresolution_ to this, for in its case, through the conflict of the

motives which the intellect presents to the will, the latter is brought to

a standstill, thus is hindered. But when we consider it more closely, it

becomes very clear that the cause of this hindrance does not lie in the

activity of the _intellect_ as such, but entirely in _external objects_

which are brought about by it, for in this case they stand in precisely

such a relation to the will, which is here interested, that they draw it

with nearly equal strength in different directions. This real cause merely

acts _through_ the intellect as the medium of motives, though certainly

under the assumption that it is keen enough to comprehend the objects in

their manifold relations. Irresolution, as a trait of character, is just

as much conditioned by qualities of the will as of the intellect. It is

certainly not peculiar to exceedingly limited minds, for their weak

understanding does not allow them to discover such manifold qualities and

relations in things, and moreover is so little fitted for the exertion of

reflection and pondering these, and then the probable consequences of each

step, that they rather decide at once according to the first impression,

or according to some simple rule of conduct. The converse of this occurs

in the case of persons of considerable understanding. Therefore, whenever

such persons also possess a tender care for their own well-being, _i.e._,

a very sensitive egoism, which constantly desires to come off well and

always to be safe, this introduces a certain anxiety at every step, and

thereby irresolution. This quality therefore indicates throughout not a

want of understanding but a want of courage. Yet very eminent minds survey

the relations and their probable developments with such rapidity and

certainty, that if they are only supported by some courage they thereby

acquire that quick decision and resolution that fits them to play an

important part in the affairs of the world, if time and circumstances

afford them the opportunity.

The only decided, direct restriction and disturbance which the will can

suffer from the intellect as such may indeed be the quite exceptional one,

which is the consequence of an abnormally preponderating development of

the intellect, thus of that high endowment which has been defined as

genius. This is decidedly a hindrance to the energy of the character, and

consequently to the power of action. Hence it is not the really great

minds that make historical characters, because they are capable of

bridling and ruling the mass of men and carrying out the affairs of the

world; but for this persons of much less capacity of mind are qualified

when they have great firmness, decision, and persistency of will, such as

is quite inconsistent with very high intelligence. Accordingly, where this

very high intelligence exists we actually have a case in which the

intellect directly restricts the will.

6. In opposition to the hindrances and restrictions which it has been

shown the intellect suffers from the will, I wish now to show, in a few

examples, how, conversely, the functions of the intellect are sometimes

aided and heightened by the incitement and spur of the will; so that in

this also we may recognise the primary nature of the one and the secondary

nature of the other, and it may become clear that the intellect stands to

the will in the relation of a tool.

A motive which affects us strongly, such as a yearning desire or a

pressing need, sometimes raises the intellect to a degree of which we had

not previously believed it capable. Difficult circumstances, which impose

upon us the necessity of certain achievements, develop entirely new

talents in us, the germs of which were hidden from us, and for which we

did not credit ourselves with any capacity. The understanding of the

stupidest man becomes keen when objects are in question that closely

concern his wishes; he now observes, weighs, and distinguishes with the

greatest delicacy even the smallest circumstances that have reference to

his wishes or fears. This has much to do with the cunning of half-witted

persons, which is often remarked with surprise. On this account Isaiah

rightly says, _vexatio dat intellectum_, which is therefore also used as a

proverb. Akin to it is the German proverb, “_Die Noth ist die Mutter der

Künste_” (“Necessity is the mother of the arts”); when, however, the fine

arts are to be excepted, because the heart of every one of their works,

that is, the conception, must proceed from a perfectly will-less, and only

thereby purely objective, perception, if they are to be genuine. Even the

understanding of the brutes is increased considerably by necessity, so

that in cases of difficulty they accomplish things at which we are

astonished. For example, they almost all calculate that it is safer not to

run away when they believe they are not seen; therefore the hare lies

still in the furrow of the field and lets the sportsman pass close to it;

insects, when they cannot escape, pretend to be dead, &c. We may obtain a

fuller knowledge of this influence from the special history of the

self-education of the wolf, under the spur of the great difficulty of its

position in civilised Europe; it is to be found in the second letter of

Leroy’s excellent book, “_Lettres sur l’intelligence et la perfectibilité

des animaux_.” Immediately afterwards, in the third letter, there follows

the high school of the fox, which in an equally difficult position has far

less physical strength. In its case, however, this is made up for by great

understanding; yet only through the constant struggle with want on the one

hand and danger on the other, thus under the spur of the will, does it

attain that high degree of cunning which distinguishes it especially in

old age. In all these enhancements of the intellect the will plays the

part of a rider who with the spur urges the horse beyond the natural

measure of its strength.

In the same way the memory is enhanced through the pressure of the will.

Even if it is otherwise weak, it preserves perfectly what has value for

the ruling passion. The lover forgets no opportunity favourable to him,

the ambitious man forgets no circumstance that can forward his plans, the

avaricious man never forgets the loss he has suffered, the proud man never

forgets an injury to his honour, the vain man remembers every word of

praise and the most trifling distinction that falls to his lot. And this

also extends to the brutes: the horse stops at the inn where once long ago

it was fed; dogs have an excellent memory for all occasions, times, and

places that have afforded them choice morsels; and foxes for the different

hiding-places in which they have stored their plunder.

Self-consideration affords opportunity for finer observations in this

regard. Sometimes, through an interruption, it has entirely escaped me

what I have just been thinking about, or even what news I have just heard.

Now if the matter had in any way even the most distant personal interest,

the after-feeling of the impression which it made upon the _will_ has

remained. I am still quite conscious how far it affected me agreeably or

disagreeably, and also of the special manner in which this happened,

whether, even in the slightest degree, it vexed me, or made me anxious, or

irritated me, or depressed me, or produced the opposite of these

affections. Thus the mere relation of the thing to my will is retained in

the memory after the thing itself has vanished, and this often becomes the

clue to lead us back to the thing itself. The sight of a man sometimes

affects us in an analogous manner, for we remember merely in general that

we have had something to do with him, yet without knowing where, when, or

what it was, or who he is. But the sight of him still recalls pretty

accurately the feeling which our dealings with him excited in us, whether

it was agreeable or disagreeable, and also in what degree and in what way.

Thus our memory has preserved only the response of the will, and not that

which called it forth. We might call what lies at the foundation of this

process the memory of the heart; it is much more intimate than that of the

head. Yet at bottom the connection of the two is so far-reaching that if

we reflect deeply upon the matter we will arrive at the conclusion that

memory in general requires the support of a will as a connecting point, or

rather as a thread upon which the memories can range themselves, and which

holds them firmly together, or that the will is, as it were, the ground to

which the individual memories cleave, and without which they could not

last; and that therefore in a pure intelligence, _i.e._, in a merely

knowing and absolutely will-less being, a memory cannot well be conceived.

Accordingly the improvement of the memory under the spur of the ruling

passion, which has been shown above, is only the higher degree of that

which takes place in all retention and recollection; for its basis and

condition is always the will. Thus in all this also it becomes clear how

very much more essential to us the will is than the intellect. The

following facts may also serve to confirm this.

The intellect often obeys the will; for example, if we wish to remember

something, and after some effort succeed; so also if we wish now to ponder

something carefully and deliberately, and in many such cases. Sometimes,

again, the intellect refuses to obey the will; for example, if we try in

vain to fix our minds upon something, or if we call in vain upon the

memory for something that was intrusted to it. The anger of the will

against the intellect on such occasions makes its relation to it and the

difference of the two very plain. Indeed the intellect, vexed by this

anger, sometimes officiously brings what was asked of it hours afterwards,

or even the following morning, quite unexpectedly and unseasonably. On the

other hand, the will never really obeys the intellect; but the latter is

only the ministerial council of that sovereign; it presents all kinds of

things to the will, which then selects what is in conformity with its

nature, though in doing so it determines itself with necessity, because

this nature is unchangeable and the motives now lie before it. Hence no

system of ethics is possible which moulds and improves the will itself.

For all teaching only affects _knowledge_, and knowledge never determines

the will itself, _i.e._, the _fundamental character_ of willing, but only

its application to the circumstances present. Rectified knowledge can only

modify conduct so far as it proves more exactly and judges more correctly

what objects of the will’s choice are within its reach; so that the will

now measures its relation to things more correctly, sees more clearly what

it desires, and consequently is less subject to error in its choice. But

over the will itself, over the main tendency or fundamental maxim of it,

the intellect has no power. To believe that knowledge really and

fundamentally determines the will is like believing that the lantern which

a man carries by night is the _primum mobile_ of his steps. Whoever,

taught by experience or the admonitions of others, knows and laments a

fundamental fault of his character, firmly and honestly forms the

intention to reform and give it up; but in spite of this, on the first

opportunity, the fault receives free course. New repentance, new

intentions, new transgressions. When this has been gone through several

times he becomes conscious that he cannot improve himself, that the fault

lies in his nature and personality, indeed is one with this. Now he will

blame and curse his nature and personality, will have a painful feeling,

which may rise to anguish of consciousness, but to change these he is not

able. Here we see that which condemns and that which is condemned

distinctly separate: we see the former as a merely theoretical faculty,

picturing and presenting the praiseworthy, and therefore desirable, course

of life, but the other as something real and unchangeably present, going

quite a different way in spite of the former: and then again the first

remaining behind with impotent lamentations over the nature of the other,

with which, through this very distress, it again identifies itself. Will

and intellect here separate very distinctly. But here the will shows

itself as the stronger, the invincible, unchangeable, primitive, and at

the same time as the essential thing in question, for the intellect

deplores its errors, and finds no comfort in the correctness of the

_knowledge_, as its own function. Thus the intellect shows itself entirely

secondary, as the spectator of the deeds of another, which it accompanies

with impotent praise and blame, and also as determinable from without,

because it learns from experience, weighs and alters its precepts. Special

illustrations of this subject will be found in the “_Parerga_,” vol. ii. §

118 (second ed., § 119.) Accordingly, a comparison of our manner of

thinking at different periods of our life will present a strange mixture

of permanence and changeableness. On the one hand, the moral tendency of

the man in his prime and the old man is still the same as was that of the

boy; on the other hand, much has become so strange to him that he no

longer knows himself, and wonders how he ever could have done or said this

and that. In the first half of life to-day for the most part laughs at

yesterday, indeed looks down on it with contempt; in the second half, on

the contrary, it more and more looks back at it with envy. But on closer

examination it will be found that the changeable element was the

_intellect_, with its functions of insight and knowledge, which, daily

appropriating new material from without, presents a constantly changing

system of thought, while, besides this, it itself rises and sinks with the

growth and decay of the organism. The will, on the contrary, the basis of

this, thus the inclinations, passions, and emotions, the character, shows

itself as what is unalterable in consciousness. Yet we have to take

account of the modifications that depend upon physical capacities for

enjoyment, and hence upon age. Thus, for example, the eagerness for

sensuous pleasure will show itself in childhood as a love of dainties, in

youth and manhood as the tendency to sensuality, and in old age again as a

love of dainties.

7. If, as is generally assumed, the will proceeded from knowledge, as its

result or product, then where there is much will there would necessarily

also be much knowledge, insight, and understanding. This, however, is

absolutely not the case; rather, we find in many men a strong, _i.e._,

decided, resolute, persistent, unbending, wayward, and vehement will,

combined with a very weak and incapable understanding, so that every one

who has to do with them is thrown into despair, for their will remains

inaccessible to all reasons and ideas, and is not to be got at, so that it

is hidden, as it were, in a sack, out of which it wills blindly. Brutes

have often violent, often stubborn wills, but yet very little

understanding. Finally, plants only will without any knowledge at all.

If willing sprang merely from knowledge, our _anger_ would necessarily be

in every case exactly proportionate to the occasion, or at least to our

relation to it, for it would be nothing more than the result of the

present knowledge. This, however, is rarely the case; rather, anger

generally goes far beyond the occasion. Our fury and rage, the _furor

brevis_, often upon small occasions, and without error regarding them, is

like the raging of an evil spirit which, having been shut up, only waits

its opportunity to dare to break loose, and now rejoices that it has found

it. This could not be the case if the foundation of our nature were a

_knower_, and willing were merely a result of _knowledge_; for how came

there into the result what did not lie in the elements? The conclusion

cannot contain more than the premisses. Thus here also the will shows

itself as of a nature quite different from knowledge, which only serves it

for communication with the external world, but then the will follows the

laws of its own nature without taking from the intellect anything but the

occasion.

The intellect, as the mere tool of the will, is as different from it as

the hammer from the smith. So long as in a conversation the intellect

alone is active it remains _cold_. It is almost as if the man himself were

not present. Moreover, he cannot then, properly speaking, compromise

himself, but at the most can make himself ridiculous. Only when the will

comes into play is the man really present: now he becomes _warm_, nay, it

often happens, _hot_. It is always the will to which we ascribe the warmth

of life; on the other hand, we say the _cold_ understanding, or to

investigate a thing _coolly_, _i.e._, to think without being influenced by

the will. If we attempt to reverse the relation, and to regard the will as

the tool of the intellect, it is as if we made the smith the tool of the

hammer.

Nothing is more provoking, when we are arguing against a man with reasons

and explanations, and taking all pains to convince him, under the

impression that we have only to do with his _understanding_, than to

discover at last that he _will_ not understand; that thus we had to do

with his _will_, which shuts itself up against the truth and brings into

the field wilful misunderstandings, chicaneries, and sophisms in order to

intrench itself behind its understanding and its pretended want of

insight. Then he is certainly not to be got at, for reasons and proofs

applied against the will are like the blows of a phantom produced by

mirrors against a solid body. Hence the saying so often repeated, “_Stat

pro ratione voluntas._” Sufficient evidence of what has been said is

afforded by ordinary life. But unfortunately proofs of it are also to be

found on the path of the sciences. The recognition of the most important

truths, of the rarest achievements, will be looked for in vain from those

who have an interest in preventing them from being accepted, an interest

which either springs from the fact that such truths contradict what they

themselves daily teach, or else from this, that they dare not make use of

them and teach them; or if all this be not the case they will not accept

them, because the watchword of mediocrity will always be, _Si quelqu’un __

excelle parmi nous, qu’il aille exceller ailleurs_, as Helvetius has

admirably rendered the saying of the Ephesian in the fifth book of

Cicero’s “_Tusculanæ_” (c. 36), or as a saying of the Abyssinian Fit Arari

puts it, “Among quartzes adamant is outlawed.” Thus whoever expects from

this always numerous band a just estimation of what he has done will find

himself very much deceived, and perhaps for a while he will not be able to

understand their behaviour, till at last he finds out that while he

applied himself to _knowledge_ he had to do with the _will_, thus is

precisely in the position described above, nay, is really like a man who

brings his case before a court the judges of which have all been bribed.

Yet in particular cases he will receive the fullest proof that their will

and not their insight opposed him, when one or other of them makes up his

mind to plagiarism. Then he will see with astonishment what good judges

they are, what correct perception of the merit of others they have, and

how well they know how to find out the best, like the sparrows, who never

miss the ripest cherries.

The counterpart of the victorious resistance of the will to knowledge here

set forth appears if in expounding our reasons and proofs we have the will

of those addressed with us. Then all are at once convinced, all arguments

are telling, and the matter is at once clear as the day. This is well

known to popular speakers. In the one case, as in the other, the will

shows itself as that which has original power, against which the intellect

can do nothing.

8. But now we shall take into consideration the individual qualities, thus

excellences and faults of the will and character on the one hand, and of

the intellect on the other, in order to make clear, in their relation to

each other, and their relative worth, the complete difference of the two

fundamental faculties. History and experience teach that the two appear

quite independently of each other. That the greatest excellence of mind

will not easily be found combined with equal excellence of character is

sufficiently explained by the extraordinary rarity of both, while their

opposites are everywhere the order of the day; hence we also daily find

the latter in union. However, we never infer a good will from a superior

mind, nor the latter from the former, nor the opposite from the opposite,

but every unprejudiced person accepts them as perfectly distinct

qualities, the presence of which each for itself has to be learned from

experience. Great narrowness of mind may coexist with great goodness of

heart, and I do not believe Balthazar Gracian was right in saying

(_Discreto_, p. 406), “_No ay simple, que no sea malicioso_” (“There is no

simpleton who would not be malicious”), though he has the Spanish proverb

in his favour, “_Nunca la necedad anduvo sin malicia_” (“Stupidity is

never without malice”). Yet it may be that many stupid persons become

malicious for the same reason as many hunchbacks, from bitterness on

account of the neglect they have suffered from nature, and because they

think they can occasionally make up for what they lack in understanding

through malicious cunning, seeking in this a brief triumph. From this, by

the way, it is also comprehensible why almost every one easily becomes

malicious in the presence of a very superior mind. On the other hand,

again, stupid people have very often the reputation of special

good-heartedness, which yet so seldom proves to be the case that I could

not help wondering how they had gained it, till I was able to flatter

myself that I had found the key to it in what follows. Moved by a secret

inclination, every one likes best to choose for his more intimate

intercourse some one to whom he is a little superior in understanding, for

only in this case does he find himself at his ease, because, according to

Hobbes, “_Omnis animi voluptas, omnisgue alacritas in eo sita est, quod

quis habeat, quibuscum conferens se, possit magnifice sentire de se ipso_”

(_De Cive_, i. 5). For the same reason every one avoids him who is

superior to himself; wherefore Lichtenberg quite rightly observes: “To

certain men a man of mind is a more odious production than the most

pronounced rogue.” And similarly Helvetius says: “_Les gens médiocres ont

un instinct sûr et prompt, pour connaître et fuir les gens d’esprit._” And

Dr. Johnson assures us that “there is nothing by which a man exasperates

most people more than by displaying a superior ability of brilliancy in

conversation. They seem pleased at the time, but their envy makes them

curse him in their hearts” (Boswell; aet. anno 74). In order to bring this

truth, so universal and so carefully concealed, more relentlessly to

light, I add the expression of it by Merck, the celebrated friend of

Goethe’s youth, from his story “_Lindor:_” “He possessed talents which

were given him by nature and acquired by himself through learning; and

thus it happened that in most society he left the worthy members of it far

behind.” If, in the moment of delight at the sight of an extraordinary

man, the public swallows these superiorities also, without actually at

once putting a bad construction upon them, yet a certain impression of

this phenomenon remains behind, which, if it is often repeated, may on

serious occasions have disagreeable future consequences for him who is

guilty of it. Without any one consciously noting that on this occasion he

was insulted, no one is sorry to place himself tacitly in the way of the

advancement of this man. Thus on this account great mental superiority

isolates more than anything else, and makes one, at least silently, hated.

Now it is the opposite of this that makes stupid people so generally

liked; especially since many can only find in them what, according to the

law of their nature referred to above, they must seek. Yet this the true

reason of such an inclination no one will confess to himself, still less

to others; and therefore, as a plausible pretext for it, will impute to

those he has selected a special goodness of heart, which, as we have said,

is in reality only very rarely and accidentally found in combination with

mental incapacity. Want of understanding is accordingly by no means

favourable or akin to goodness of character. But, on the other hand, it

cannot be asserted that great understanding is so; nay, rather, no

scoundrel has in general been without it. Indeed even the highest

intellectual eminence can coexist with the worst moral depravity. An

example of this is afforded by Bacon of Verulam: “Ungrateful, filled with

the lust of power, wicked and base, he at last went so far that, as Lord

Chancellor and the highest judge of the realm, he frequently allowed

himself to be bribed in civil actions. Impeached before his peers, he

confessed himself guilty, was expelled by them from the House of Lords,

and condemned to a fine of forty thousand pounds and imprisonment in the

Tower” (see the review of the latest edition of Bacon’s Works in the

_Edinburgh Review_, August 1837). Hence also Pope called him “the wisest,

brightest, meanest of mankind” (“Essay on Man,” iv. 282). A similar

example is afforded by the historian Guicciardini, of whom Rosini says in

the _Notizie Storiche_, drawn from good contemporary sources, which is

given in his historical romance “_Luisa Strozzi_:” “_Da coloro, che

pongono l’ingegno e il sapere al di sopra di tutte le umane qualità,

questo uomo sarà riguardato come fra i più grandi del suo secolo: ma da

quelli, che reputano la virtù dovere andare innanzi a tutto, non potra

esecrarsi abbastanza la sua memoria. Esso fu il più crudele fra i

cittadini a perseguitare, uccidere e confinare_,” &c.(32)

If now it is said of one man, “He has a good heart, though a bad head,”

but of another, “He has a very good head, yet a bad heart,” every one

feels that in the first case the praise far outweighs the blame—in the

other case the reverse. Answering to this, we see that if some one has

done a bad deed his friends and he himself try to remove the guilt from

the _will_ to the _intellect_, and to give out that faults of the heart

were faults of the head; roguish tricks they will call _errors_, will say

they were merely want of understanding, want of reflection,

light-mindedness, folly; nay, if need be, they will plead a paroxysm,

momentary mental aberration, and if a heavy crime is in question, even

madness, only in order to free the _will_ from the guilt. And in the same

way, we ourselves, if we have caused a misfortune or injury, will before

others and ourselves willingly impeach our _stultitia_, simply in order to

escape the reproach of _malitia_. In the same way, in the case of the

equally unjust decision of the judge, the difference, whether he has erred

or been bribed, is so infinitely great. All this sufficiently proves that

the _will_ alone is the real and essential, the kernel of the man, and the

_intellect_ is merely its tool, which may be constantly faulty without the

will being concerned. The accusation of want of understanding is, at the

moral judgment-seat, no accusation at all; on the contrary, it even gives

privileges. And so also, before the courts of the world, it is everywhere

sufficient to deliver a criminal from all punishment that his guilt should

be transferred from his will to his intellect, by proving either

unavoidable error or mental derangement, for then it is of no more

consequence than if hand or foot had slipped against the will. I have

fully discussed this in the appendix, “_Ueber die Intellektuelle

Freiheit_,” to my prize essay on the freedom of the will, to which I refer

to avoid repetition.

Everywhere those who are responsible for any piece of work appeal, in the

event of its turning out unsatisfactorily, to their good intentions, of

which there was no lack. Hereby they believe that they secure the

essential, that for which they are properly answerable, and their true

self; the inadequacy of their faculties, on the other hand, they regard as

the want of a suitable tool.

If a man is _stupid_, we excuse him by saying that he cannot help it; but

if we were to excuse a _bad_ man on the same grounds we would be laughed

at. And yet the one, like the other, is innate. This proves that the will

is the man proper, the intellect merely its tool.

Thus it is always only our _willing_ that is regarded as depending upon

ourselves, _i.e._, as the expression of our true nature, and for which we

are therefore made responsible. Therefore it is absurd and unjust if we

are taken to task for our beliefs, thus for our knowledge: for we are

obliged to regard this as something which, although it changes in us, is

as little in our power as the events of the external world. And here,

also, it is clear that the _will_ alone is the inner and true nature of

man; the _intellect_, on the contrary, with its operations, which go on as

regularly as the external world, stands to the will in the relation of

something external to it, a mere tool.

High mental capacities have always been regarded as the gift of nature or

the gods; and on that account they have been called _Gaben_, _Begabung_,

_ingenii dotes_, gifts (a man highly gifted), regarding them as something

different from the man himself, something that has fallen to his lot

through favour. No one, on the contrary, has ever taken this view of moral

excellences, although they also are innate; they have rather always been

regarded as something proceeding from the man himself, essentially

belonging to him, nay, constituting his very self. But it follows now from

this that the will is the true nature of man; the intellect, on the other

hand, is secondary, a tool, a gift.

Answering to this, all religions promise a reward beyond life, in

eternity, for excellences of the _will_ or heart, but none for excellences

of the head or understanding. Virtue expects its reward in that world;

prudence hopes for it in this; genius, again, neither in this world nor in

that; it is its own reward. Accordingly the will is the eternal part, the

intellect the temporal.

Connection, communion, intercourse among men is based, as a rule, upon

relations which concern the _will_, not upon such as concern the

_intellect_. The first kind of communion may be called the _material_, the

other the _formal_. Of the former kind are the bonds of family and

relationship, and further, all connections that rest upon any common aim

or interest, such as that of trade or profession, of the corporation, the

party, the faction, &c. In these it merely amounts to a question of views,

of aims; along with which there may be the greatest diversity of

intellectual capacity and culture. Therefore not only can any one live in

peace and unity with any one else, but can act with him and be allied to

him for the common good of both. Marriage also is a bond of the heart, not

of the head. It is different, however, with merely formal communion, which

aims only at an exchange of thought; this demands a certain equality of

intellectual capacity and culture. Great differences in this respect place

between man and man an impassable gulf: such lies, for example, between a

man of great mind and a fool, between a scholar and a peasant, between a

courtier and a sailor. Natures as heterogeneous as this have therefore

trouble in making themselves intelligible so long as it is a question of

exchanging thoughts, ideas, and views. Nevertheless close _material_

friendship may exist between them, and they may be faithful allies,

conspirators, or men under mutual pledges. For in all that concerns the

will alone, which includes friendship, enmity, honesty, fidelity,

falseness, and treachery, they are perfectly homogeneous, formed of the

same clay, and neither mind nor culture make any difference here; indeed

here the ignorant man often shames the scholar, the sailor the courtier.

For at the different grades of culture there are the same virtues and

vices, emotions and passions; and although somewhat modified in their

expression, they very soon mutually recognise each other even in the most

heterogeneous individuals, upon which the similarly disposed agree and the

opposed are at enmity.

Brilliant qualities of mind win admiration, but never affection; this is

reserved for the moral, the qualities of the character. Every one will

choose as his friend the honest, the good-natured, and even the agreeable,

complaisant man, who easily concurs, rather than the merely able man.

Indeed many will be preferred to the latter, on account of insignificant,

accidental, outward qualities which just suit the inclination of another.

Only the man who has much mind himself will wish able men for his society;

his friendship, on the other hand, he will bestow with reference to moral

qualities; for upon this depends his really high appreciation of a man in

whom a single good trait of character conceals and expiates great want of

understanding. The known goodness of a character makes us patient and

yielding towards weaknesses of understanding, as also towards the dulness

and childishness of age. A distinctly noble character along with the

entire absence of intellectual excellence and culture presents itself as

lacking nothing; while, on the contrary, even the greatest mind, if

affected with important moral faults, will always appear blamable. For as

torches and fireworks become pale and insignificant in the presence of the

sun, so intellect, nay, genius, and also beauty, are outshone and eclipsed

by the goodness of the heart. When this appears in a high degree it can

make up for the want of those qualities to such an extent that one is

ashamed of having missed them. Even the most limited understanding, and

also grotesque ugliness, whenever extraordinary goodness of heart declares

itself as accompanying them, become as it were transfigured, outshone by a

beauty of a higher kind, for now a wisdom speaks out of them before which

all other wisdom must be dumb. For goodness of heart is a transcendent

quality; it belongs to an order of things that reaches beyond this life,

and is incommensurable with any other perfection. When it is present in a

high degree it makes the heart so large that it embraces the world, so

that now everything lies within it, no longer without; for it identifies

all natures with its own. It then extends to others also that boundless

indulgence which otherwise each one only bestows on himself. Such a man is

incapable of becoming angry; even if the malicious mockery and sneers of

others have drawn attention to his own intellectual or physical faults, he

only reproaches himself in his heart for having been the occasion of such

expressions, and therefore, without doing violence to his own feelings,

proceeds to treat those persons in the kindest manner, confidently hoping

that they will turn from their error with regard to him, and recognise

themselves in him also. What is wit and genius against this?—what is Bacon

of Verulam?

Our estimation of our own selves leads to the same result as we have here

obtained by considering our estimation of others. How different is the

self-satisfaction which we experience in a moral regard from that which we

experience in an intellectual regard! The former arises when, looking back

on our conduct, we see that with great sacrifices we have practised

fidelity and honesty, that we have helped many, forgiven many, have

behaved better to others than they have behaved to us; so that we can say

with King Lear, “I am a man more sinned against than sinning;” and to its

fullest extent if perhaps some noble deed shines in our memory. A deep

seriousness will accompany the still peace which such a review affords us;

and if we see that others are inferior to us here, this will not cause us

any joy, but we will rather deplore it, and sincerely wish that they were

as we are. How entirely differently does the knowledge of our intellectual

superiority affect us! Its ground bass is really the saying of Hobbes

quoted above: _Omnis animi voluptas, omnisque alacritas in eo sita est,

quad quis habeat, quibuscum conferens se, possit magnifice sentire de se

ipso._ Arrogant, triumphant vanity, proud, contemptuous looking down on

others, inordinate delight in the consciousness of decided and

considerable superiority, akin to pride of physical advantages,—that is

the result here. This opposition between the two kinds of

self-satisfaction shows that the one concerns our true inner and eternal

nature, the other a more external, merely temporal, and indeed scarcely

more than a mere physical excellence. The _intellect_ is in fact simply

the function of the brain; the _will_, on the contrary, is that whose

function is the whole man, according to his being and nature.

If, looking without us, we reflect that ὁ βιος βραχυς, ἡ δε τεχνη μακρα

(_vita brevis, ars longa_), and consider how the greatest and most

beautiful minds, often when they have scarcely reached the summit of their

power, and the greatest scholars, when they have only just attained to a

thorough knowledge of their science, are snatched away by death, we are

confirmed in this, that the meaning and end of life is not intellectual

but moral.

The complete difference between the mental and moral qualities displays

itself lastly in the fact that the intellect suffers very important

changes through time, while the will and character remain untouched by it.

The new-born child has as yet no use of its understanding, but obtains it

within the first two months to the extent of perception and apprehension

of the things in the external world—a process which I have described more

fully in my essay, “_Ueber das Sehn und die Farben_,” p. 10 of the second

(and third) edition. The growth of reason to the point of speech, and

thereby of thought, follows this first and most important step much more

slowly, generally only in the third year; yet the early childhood remains

hopelessly abandoned to silliness and folly, primarily because the brain

still lacks physical completeness, which, both as regards its size and

texture, it only attains in the seventh year. But then for its energetic

activity there is still wanting the antagonism of the genital system; it

therefore only begins with puberty. Through this, however, the intellect

has only attained to the _capacity_ for its psychical improvement; this

itself can only be won by practice, experience, and instruction. Thus as

soon as the mind has escaped from the folly of childhood it falls into the

snares of innumerable errors, prejudices, and chimeras, sometimes of the

absurdest and crudest kind, which it obstinately sticks to, till

experience gradually removes them, and many of them also are insensibly

lost. All this takes many years to happen, so that one grants it majority

indeed soon after the twentieth year, yet has placed full maturity, years

of discretion, not before the fortieth year. But while this psychical

education, resting upon help from without, is still in process of growth,

the inner _physical_ energy of the brain already begins to sink again.

This has reached its real culminating point about the thirtieth year, on

account of its dependence upon the pressure of blood and the effect of the

pulsation upon the brain, and through this again upon the predominance of

the arterial over the venous system, and the fresh tenderness of the brain

fibre, and also on account of the energy of the genital system. After the

thirty-fifth year a slight diminution of the physical energy of the brain

becomes noticeable, which, through the gradually approaching predominance

of the venous over the arterial system, and also through the increasing

firmer and drier consistency of the brain fibre, more and more takes

place, and would be much more observable if it were not that, on the other

hand, the psychical perfecting, through exercise, experience, increase of

knowledge, and acquired skill in the use of it, counteracts it—an

antagonism which fortunately lasts to an advanced age, for the brain

becomes more and more like a worn-out instrument. But yet the diminution

of the original energy of the intellect, resting entirely upon organic

conditions, continues, slowly indeed, but unceasingly: the faculty of

original conception, the imagination, the plastic power, the memory,

become noticeably weaker; and so it goes on step by step downwards into

old age, garrulous, without memory, half-unconscious, and ultimately quite

childish.

The will, on the contrary, is not affected by all this becoming, this

change and vicissitude, but is from beginning to end unalterably the same.

_Willing_ does not require to be learned like _knowing_, but succeeds

perfectly at once. The new-born child makes violent movements, rages, and

cries; it wills in the most vehement manner, though it does not yet know

what it wills. For the medium of motives, the intellect, is not yet fully

developed. The will is in darkness concerning the external world, in which

its objects lie, and now rages like a prisoner against the walls and bars

of his dungeon. But little by little it becomes light: at once the

fundamental traits of universal human willing, and, at the same time, the

individual modification of it here present, announce themselves. The

already appearing character shows itself indeed at first in weak and

uncertain outline, on account of the defective service of the intellect,

which has to present it with motives; but to the attentive observer it

soon declares its complete presence, and in a short time it becomes

unmistakable. The characteristics appear which last through the whole of

life; the principal tendencies of the will, the easily excited emotions,

the ruling passion, declare themselves. Therefore the events at school

stand to those of the future life for the most part as the dumb-show in

“Hamlet” that precedes the play to be given at the court, and foretells

its content in the form of pantomime, stands to the play itself. But it is

by no means possible to prognosticate in the same way the future

intellectual capacities of the man from those shown in the boy; rather as

a rule the _ingenia præcocia_, prodigies, turn out block-heads; genius, on

the contrary, is often in childhood of slow conception, and comprehends

with difficulty, just because it comprehends deeply. This is how it is

that every one relates laughing and without reserve the follies and

stupidities of his childhood. For example, Goethe, how he threw all the

kitchen crockery out of the window (_Dichtung und Wahrheit_, vol. i. p.

7); for we know that all this only concerns what changes. On the other

hand, a prudent man will not favour us with the bad features, the

malicious or deceitful actions, of his youth, for he feels that they also

bear witness to his present character. I have been told that when Gall,

the phrenologist and investigator of man, had to put himself into

connection with a man as yet unknown to him, he used to get him to speak

about his youthful years and actions, in order, if possible, to gather

from these the distinctive traits of his character; because this must

still be the same now. This is the reason why we are indifferent to the

follies and want of understanding of our youthful years, and even look

back on them with smiling satisfaction, while the bad features of

character even of that time, the ill-natured actions and the misdeeds then

committed exist even in old age as inextinguishable reproaches, and

trouble our consciences. Now, just as the character appears complete, so

it remains unaltered to old age. The advance of age, which gradually

consumes the intellectual powers, leaves the moral qualities untouched.

The goodness of the heart still makes the old man honoured and loved when

his head already shows the weaknesses which are the commencement of second

childhood. Gentleness, patience, honesty, veracity, disinterestedness,

philanthropy, &c., remain through the whole life, and are not lost through

the weaknesses of old age; in every clear moment of the worn-out old man

they come forth undiminished, like the sun from the winter clouds. And, on

the other hand, malice, spite, avarice, hard-heartedness, infidelity,

egoism, and baseness of every kind also remain undiminished to our latest

years. We would not believe but would laugh at any one who said to us, “In

former years I was a malicious rogue, but now I am an honest and

noble-minded man.” Therefore Sir Walter Scott, in the “Fortunes of Nigel,”

has shown very beautifully, in the case of the old usurer, how burning

avarice, egoism, and injustice are still in their full strength, like a

poisonous plant in autumn, when the intellect has already become childish.

The only alterations that take place in our inclinations are those which

result directly from the decrease of our physical strength, and with it of

our capacities for enjoyment. Thus voluptuousness will make way for

intemperance, the love of splendour for avarice, and vanity for ambition;

just like the man who before he has a beard will wear a false one, and

later, when his own beard has become grey, will dye it brown. Thus while

all organic forces, muscular power, the senses, the memory, wit,

understanding, genius, wear themselves out, and in old age become dull,

the will alone remains undecayed and unaltered: the strength and the

tendency of willing remains the same. Indeed in many points the will shows

itself still more decided in age: thus, in the clinging to life, which, it

is well known, increases; also in the firmness and persistency with regard

to what it has once embraced, in obstinacy; which is explicable from the

fact that the susceptibility of the intellect for other impressions, and

thereby the movement of the will by motives streaming in upon it, has

diminished. Hence the implacable nature of the anger and hate of old

persons—

“The young man’s wrath is like light straw on fire,

But like red-hot steel is the old man’s ire.”

—_Old Ballad._

From all these considerations it becomes unmistakable to the more

penetrating glance that, while the _intellect_ has to run through a long

series of gradual developments, but then, like everything physical, must

encounter decay, the _will_ takes no part in this, except so far as it has

to contend at first with the imperfection of its tool, the intellect, and,

again, at last with its worn-out condition, but itself appears perfect and

remains unchanged, not subject to the laws of time and of becoming and

passing away in it. Thus in this way it makes itself known as that which

is metaphysical, not itself belonging to the phenomenal world.

9. The universally used and generally very well understood expressions

_heart_ and _head_ have sprung from a true feeling of the fundamental

distinction here in question; therefore they are also apt and significant,

and occur in all languages. _Nec cor nec caput habet_, says Seneca of the

Emperor Claudius (_Ludus de morte Claudii Cæsaris_, c. 8). The heart, this

_primum mobile_ of the animal life, has with perfect justice been chosen

as the symbol, nay, the synonym, of the _will_, as the primary kernel of

our phenomenon, and denotes this in opposition to the intellect, which is

exactly identical with the head. All that, in the widest sense, is matter

of the will, as wish, passion, joy, grief, goodness, wickedness, also what

we are wont to understand under “Gemüth,” and what Homer expresses through

φιλον ἠτορ, is attributed to the _heart_. Accordingly we say: He has a bad

heart;—his heart is in the thing;—it comes from his heart;—it cut him to

the heart;—it breaks his heart;—his heart bleeds;—the heart leaps for

joy;—who can see the heart of man?—it is heart-rending, heart-crushing,

heart-breaking, heart-inspiring, heart-touching;—he is good-hearted,

hard-hearted, heartless, stout-hearted, faint-hearted, &c. &c. Quite

specially, however, love affairs are called affairs of the heart,

_affaires de cœur_; because the sexual impulse is the focus of the will,

and the selection with reference to it constitutes the chief concern of

natural, human volition, the ground of which I shall show in a full

chapter supplementary to the fourth book. Byron in “Don Juan,” c. xi. v.

34, is satirical about love being to women an affair of the head instead

of an affair of the heart. On the other hand, the _head_ denotes

everything that is matter of _knowledge_. Hence a man of head, a good

head, a fine head, a bad head, to lose one’s head, to keep one’s head

uppermost, &c. Heart and head signifies the whole man. But the head is

always the second, the derived; for it is not the centre but the highest

efflorescence of the body. When a hero dies his heart is embalmed, not his

brain; on the other hand, we like to preserve the skull of the poet, the

artist, and the philosopher. So Raphael’s skull was preserved in the

Academia di S. Luca at Rome, though it has lately been proved not to be

genuine; in Stockholm in 1820 the skull of Descartes was sold by

auction.(33)

A true feeling of the real relation between will, intellect, and life is

also expressed in the Latin language. The intellect is _mens_, νους; the

will again is _animus_, which comes from _anima_, and this from ανεμων.

_Anima_ is the life itself, the breath, ψυχη; but _animus_ is the living

principle, and also the will, the subject of inclinations, intentions,

passions, emotions; hence also _est mihi animus_,—_fert animus_,—for “I

have a desire to,” also _animi causa_, &c.; it is the Greek θυμος, the

German “Gemüth,” thus the heart but not the head. _Animi perturbatio_ is

an emotion; _mentis perturbatio_ would signify insanity. The predicate

_immortalis_ is attributed to _animus_, not to _mens_. All this is the

rule gathered from the great majority of passages; though in the case of

conceptions so nearly related it cannot but be that the words are

sometimes interchanged. Under ψυχη the Greeks appear primarily and

originally to have understood the vital force, the living principle,

whereby at once arose the dim sense that it must be something

metaphysical, which consequently would not be reached by death. Among

other proofs of this are the investigations of the relation between νους

and ψυχη preserved by Stobæus (_Ecl._, Lib. i. c. 51, § 7, 8).

10. Upon what depends the _identity of the person_? Not upon the matter of

the body; it is different after a few years. Not upon its form, which

changes as a whole and in all its parts; all but the expression of the

glance, by which, therefore, we still know a man even after many years;

which proves that in spite of all changes time produces in him something

in him remains quite untouched by it. It is just this by which we

recognise him even after the longest intervals of time, and find the

former man entire. It is the same with ourselves, for, however old we

become, we yet feel within that we are entirely the same as we were when

we were young, nay, when we were still children. This, which unaltered

always remains quite the same, and does not grow old along with us, is

really the kernel of our nature, which does not lie in time. It is assumed

that the identity of the person rests upon that of consciousness. But by

this is understood merely the connected recollection of the course of

life; hence it is not sufficient. We certainly know something more of our

life than of a novel we have formerly read, yet only very little. The

principal events, the interesting scenes, have impressed themselves upon

us; in the remainder a thousand events are forgotten for one that has been

retained. The older we become the more do things pass by us without

leaving any trace. Great age, illness, injury of the brain, madness, may

deprive us of memory altogether, but the identity of the person is not

thereby lost. It rests upon the identical _will_ and the unalterable

character of the person. It is it also which makes the expression of the

glance unchangeable. In the _heart_ is the man, not in the head. It is

true that, in consequence of our relation to the external world, we are

accustomed to regard as our real self the subject of knowledge, the

knowing I, which wearies in the evening, vanishes in sleep, and in the

morning shines brighter with renewed strength. This is, however, the mere

function of the brain, and not our own self. Our true self, the kernel of

our nature, is what is behind that, and really knows nothing but willing

and not willing, being content and not content, with all the modifications

of this, which are called feelings, emotions, and passions. This is that

which produces the other, does not sleep with it when it sleeps, and in

the same way when it sinks in death remains uninjured. Everything, on the

contrary, that belongs to _knowledge_ is exposed to oblivion; even actions

of moral significance can sometimes, after years, be only imperfectly

recalled, and we no longer know accurately and in detail how we acted on a

critical occasion. But the _character itself_, to which the actions only

testify, cannot be forgotten by us; it is now still quite the same as

then. The will itself, alone and for itself, is permanent, for it alone is

unchangeable, indestructible, not growing old, not physical, but

metaphysical, not belonging to the phenomenal appearance, but to that

itself which so appears. How the identity of consciousness also, so far as

it goes, depends upon it I have shown above in chapter 15, so I need not

dwell upon it further here.

11. Aristotle says in passing, in his book on the comparison of the

desirable, “To live well is better than to live” (βελτιον του ζῃν το ευ

ζῃν, Top. iii. 2). From this we might infer, by double contraposition, not

to live is better than to live badly. This is also evident to the

intellect; yet the great majority live very badly rather than not at all.

This clinging to life cannot therefore have its ground in the _object_ of

life, since life, as was shown in the fourth book, is really a constant

suffering, or at the least, as will be shown further on in the 28th

chapter, a business which does not cover its expenses; thus that clinging

to life can only be founded in the _subject_ of it. But it is not founded

in the _intellect_, it is no result of reflection, and in general is not a

matter of choice; but this willing of life is something that is taken for

granted: it is a _prius_ of the intellect itself. We ourselves are the

will to live, and therefore we must live, well or ill. Only from the fact

that this clinging to a life which is so little worth to them is entirely

_a priori_ and not a _posteriori_ can we explain the excessive fear of

death that dwells in every living thing, which Rochefoucauld has expressed

in his last reflection, with rare frankness and naïveté, and upon which

the effect of all tragedies and heroic actions ultimately rest, for it

would be lost if we prized life only according to its objective worth.

Upon this inexpressible _horror mortis_ is also founded the favourite

principle of all ordinary minds, that whosoever takes his own life must be

mad; yet not less the astonishment, mingled with a certain admiration,

which this action always excites even in thinking minds, because it is so

opposed to the nature of all living beings that in a certain sense we are

forced to admire him who is able to perform it. For suicide proceeds from

a purpose of the intellect, but our will to live is a _prius_ of the

intellect. Thus this consideration also, which will be fully discussed in

chapter 28, confirms the primacy of the will in self-consciousness.

12. On the other hand, nothing proves more clearly the secondary,

dependent, conditioned nature of the _intellect_ than its periodical

intermittance. In deep sleep all knowing and forming of ideas ceases. But

the kernel of our nature, the metaphysical part of it which the organic

functions necessarily presuppose as their _primum mobile_, must never

pause if life is not to cease, and, moreover, as something metaphysical

and therefore incorporeal, it requires no rest. Therefore the philosophers

who set up a _soul_ as this metaphysical kernel, _i.e._, an originally and

essentially _knowing_ being, see themselves forced to the assertion that

this soul is quite untiring in its perceiving and knowing, therefore

continues these even in deep sleep; only that we have no recollection of

this when we awake. The falseness of this assertion, however, was easy to

see whenever one had rejected that _soul_ in consequence of Kant’s

teaching. For sleep and waking prove to the unprejudiced mind in the

clearest manner that knowing is a secondary function and conditioned by

the organism, just like any other. Only the _heart_ is untiring, because

its beating and the circulation of the blood are not directly conditioned

by nerves, but are just the original manifestation of the will. Also all

other physiological functions governed merely by ganglionic nerves, which

have only a very indirect and distant connection with the brain, are

carried on during sleep, although the secretions take place more slowly;

the beating of the heart itself, on account of its dependence upon

respiration, which is conditioned by the cerebral system (_medulla

oblongata_), becomes with it a little slower. The stomach is perhaps most

active in sleep, which is to be attributed to its special consensus with

the now resting brain, which occasions mutual disturbances. The _brain_

alone, and with it knowing, pauses entirely in deep sleep. For it is

merely the minister of foreign affairs, as the ganglion system is the

minister of the interior. The brain, with its function of knowing, is only

a _vedette_ established by the will for its external ends, which, up in

the watch-tower of the head, looks round through the windows of the senses

and marks where mischief threatens and where advantages are to be looked

for, and in accordance with whose report the will decides. This _vedette_,

like every one engaged on active service, is then in a condition of strain

and effort, and therefore it is glad when, after its watch is completed,

it is again withdrawn, as every watch gladly retires from its post. This

withdrawal is going to sleep, which is therefore so sweet and agreeable,

and to which we are so glad to yield; on the other hand, being roused from

sleep is unwelcome, because it recalls the _vedette_ suddenly to its post.

One generally feels also after the beneficent systole the reappearance of

the difficult diastole, the reseparation of the intellect from the will. A

so-called _soul_, which was originally and radically a _knowing_ being,

would, on the contrary, necessarily feel on awaking like a fish put back

into water. In sleep, when merely the vegetative life is carried on, the

will works only according to its original and essential nature,

undisturbed from without, with no diminution of its power through the

activity of the brain and the exertion of knowing, which is the heaviest

organic function, yet for the organism merely a means, not an end;

therefore, in sleep the whole power of the will is directed to the

maintenance and, where it is necessary, the improvement of the organism.

Hence all healing, all favourable crises, take place in sleep; for the

_vis naturæ medicatrix_ has free play only when it is delivered from the

burden of the function of knowledge. The embryo which has still to form

the body therefore sleeps continuously, and the new-born child the greater

part of its time. In this sense Burdach (_Physiologie_, vol. iii. p. 484)

quite rightly declares sleep to be the _original state_.

With reference to the brain itself, I account to myself for the necessity

of sleep more fully through an hypothesis which appears to have been first

set up in Neumann’s book, “_Von den Krankheiten des Menschen_,” 1834, vol.

4, § 216. It is this, that the nutrition of the brain, thus the renewal of

its substance from the blood, cannot go on while we are awake, because the

very eminent organic function of knowing and thinking would be disturbed

or put an end to by the low and material function of nutrition. This

explains the fact that sleep is not a purely negative condition, a mere

pausing of the activity of the brain, but also shows a positive character.

This makes itself known through the circumstance that between sleep and

waking there is no mere difference of degree, but a fixed boundary, which,

as soon as sleep intervenes, declares itself in dreams which are

completely different from our immediately preceding thoughts. A further

proof of this is that when we have dreams which frighten us we try in vain

to cry out, or to ward off attacks, or to shake off sleep; so that it is

as if the connecting-link between the brain and the motor nerves, or

between the cerebrum and the cerebellum (as the regulator of movements)

were abolished; for the brain remains in its isolation and sleep holds us

fast as with brazen claws. Finally, the positive character of sleep can be

seen in the fact that a certain degree of strength is required for

sleeping. Therefore too great fatigue or natural weakness prevent us from

seizing it, _capere somnum_. This may be explained from the fact that the

_process of nutrition_ must be introduced if sleep is to ensue: the brain

must, as it were, begin to feed. Moreover, the increased flow of blood

into the brain during sleep is explicable from the nutritive process; and

also the position of the arms laid together above the head, which is

instinctively assumed because it furthers this process: also why children,

so long as their brain is still growing, require a great deal of sleep,

while in old age, on the other hand, when a certain atrophy of the brain,

as of all the parts, takes place, sleep is short; and finally why

excessive sleep produces a certain dulness of consciousness, the

consequence of a certain hypertrophy of the brain, which in the case of

habitual excess of sleep may become permanent and produce imbecility: ανιη

και πολυς ὑπνος (_noxæ est etiam multus somnus_), Od. 15, 394. The need of

sleep is therefore directly proportionate to the intensity of the

brain-life, thus to the clearness of the consciousness. Those animals

whose brain-life is weak and dull sleep little and lightly; for example,

reptiles and fishes: and here I must remind the reader that the winter

sleep is sleep almost only in name, for it is not an inaction of the brain

alone, but of the whole organism, thus a kind of apparent death. Animals

of considerable intelligence sleep deeply and long. Men also require more

sleep the more developed, both as regards quantity and quality, and the

more active their brain is. Montaigne relates of himself that he had

always been a long sleeper, that he had passed a large part of his life in

sleeping, and at an advanced age still slept from eight to nine hours at a

time (Liv. iii., chap. 13). Descartes also is reported to have slept a

great deal (Baillet, _Vie de Descartes_, 1693, p. 288). Kant allowed

himself seven hours for sleep, but it was so hard for him to do with this

that he ordered his servant to force him against his will, and without

listening to his remonstrances, to get up at the set time (Jachmann,

_Immanuel Kant_, p. 162). For the more completely awake a man is, _i.e._,

the clearer and more lively his consciousness, the greater for him is the

necessity of sleep, thus the deeper and longer he sleeps. Accordingly much

thinking or hard brain-work increases the need of sleep. That sustained

muscular exertion also makes us sleepy is to be explained from the fact

that in this the brain continuously, by means of the _medulla oblongata_,

the spinal marrow, and the motor nerves, imparts the stimulus to the

muscles which affects their irritability, and in this way it exhausts its

strength. The fatigue which we observe in the arms and legs has

accordingly its real seat in the brain; just as the pain which these parts

feel is really experienced in the brain; for it is connected with the

motor nerves, as with the nerves of sense. The muscles which are not

actuated from the brain—for example, those of the heart—accordingly never

tire. The same grounds explain the fact that both during and after great

muscular exertion we cannot think acutely. That one has far less energy of

mind in summer than in winter is partly explicable from the fact that in

summer one sleeps less; for the deeper one has slept, the more completely

awake, the more lively, is one afterwards. This, however, must not mislead

us into extending sleep unduly, for then it loses in intension, _i.e._, in

deepness and soundness, what it gains in extension; whereby it becomes

mere loss of time. This is what Goethe means when he says (in the second

part of “Faust”) of morning slumber: “Sleep is husk: throw it off.” Thus

in general the phenomenon of sleep most specially confirms the assertion

that consciousness, apprehension, knowing, thinking, is nothing original

in us, but a conditioned and secondary state. It is a luxury of nature,

and indeed its highest, which it can therefore the less afford to pursue

without interruption the higher the pitch to which it has been brought. It

is the product, the efflorescence of the cerebral nerve-system, which is

itself nourished like a parasite by the rest of the organism. This also

agrees with what is shown in our third book, that knowing is so much the

purer and more perfect the more it has freed and severed itself from the

will, whereby the purely objective, the æsthetic comprehension appears.

Just as an extract is so much the purer the more it has been separated

from that out of which it is extracted and been cleared of all sediment.

The opposite is shown by the _will_, whose most immediate manifestation is

the whole organic life, and primarily the untiring heart.

This last consideration is related to the theme of the following chapter,

to which it therefore makes the transition: yet the following observation

belongs to it. In magnetic somnambulism the consciousness is doubled: two

trains of knowledge, each connected in itself, but quite different from

each other, arise; the waking consciousness knows nothing of the

somnambulent. But the will retains in both the same character, and remains

throughout identical; it expresses in both the same inclinations and

aversions. For the function may be doubled, but not the true nature.