the lower animals, possesses through reason, may be compared to a
geometrical, colourless, abstract, reduced plan of his actual life. He,
therefore, stands to the lower animals as the navigator who, by means of
chart, compass, and quadrant, knows accurately his course and his position
at any time upon the sea, stands to the uneducated sailors who see only
the waves and the heavens. Thus it is worth noticing, and indeed
wonderful, how, besides his life in the concrete, man always lives another
life in the abstract. In the former he is given as a prey to all the
storms of actual life, and to the influence of the present; he must
struggle, suffer, and die like the brute. But his life in the abstract, as
it lies before his rational consciousness, is the still reflection of the
former, and of the world in which he lives; it is just that reduced chart
or plan to which we have referred. Here in the sphere of quiet
deliberation, what completely possessed him and moved him intensely
before, appears to him cold, colourless, and for the moment external to
him; he is merely the spectator, the observer. In respect of this
withdrawal into reflection he may be compared to an actor who has played
his part in one scene, and who takes his place among the audience till it
is time for him to go upon the stage again, and quietly looks on at
whatever may happen, even though it be the preparation for his own death
(in the piece), but afterwards he again goes on the stage and acts and
suffers as he must. From this double life proceeds that quietness peculiar
to human beings, so very different from the thoughtlessness of the brutes,
and with which, in accordance with previous reflection, or a formed
determination, or a recognised necessity, a man suffers or accomplishes in
cold blood, what is of the utmost and often terrible importance to him;
suicide, execution, the duel, enterprises of every kind fraught with
danger to life, and, in general, things against which his whole animal
nature rebels. Under such circumstances we see to what an extent reason
has mastered the animal nature, and we say to the strong: σιδηρειον νυ τοι
ἡτορ! (_ferreum certe tibi cor_), Il. 24, 521. Here we can say truly that
reason manifests itself practically, and thus wherever action is guided by
reason, where the motives are abstract concepts, wherever we are not
determined by particular ideas of perception, nor by the impression of the
moment which guides the brutes, there _practical reason_ shows itself. But
I have fully explained in the Appendix, and illustrated by examples, that
this is entirely different from and unrelated to the ethical worth of
actions; that rational action and virtuous action are two entirely
different things; that reason may just as well find itself in connection
with great evil as with great good, and by its assistance may give great
power to the one as well as to the other; that it is equally ready and
valuable for the methodical and consistent carrying out of the noble and
of the bad intention, of the wise as of the foolish maxim; which all
results from the constitution of its nature, which is feminine, receptive,
retentive, and not spontaneous; all this I have shown in detail in the
Appendix, and illustrated by examples. What is said there would have been
placed here, but on account of my polemic against Kant’s pretended
practical reason I have been obliged to relegate it to the Appendix, to
which I therefore refer.
The ideal explained in the _Stoical philosophy_ is the most complete
development of _practical reason_ in the true and genuine sense of the
word; it is the highest summit to which man can attain by the mere use of
his reason, and in it his difference from the brutes shows itself most
distinctly. For the ethics of Stoicism are originally and essentially, not
a doctrine of virtue, but merely a guide to a rational life, the end and
aim of which is happiness through peace of mind. Virtuous conduct appears
in it as it were merely by accident, as the means, not as the end.
Therefore the ethical theory of Stoicism is in its whole nature and point
of view fundamentally different from the ethical systems which lay stress
directly upon virtue, such as the doctrines of the Vedas, of Plato, of
Christianity, and of Kant. The aim of Stoical ethics is happiness: τελος
το ευδαι μονειν (_virtutes omnes finem habere beatitudinem_) it is called
in the account of the Stoa by Stobæus (Ecl., L. ii. c. 7, p. 114, and also
p. 138). Yet the ethics of Stoicism teach that happiness can only be
attained with certainty through inward peace and quietness of spirit
(αταραξια), and that this again can only be reached through virtue; this
is the whole meaning of the saying that virtue is the highest good. But if
indeed by degrees the end is lost sight of in the means, and virtue is
inculcated in a way which discloses an interest entirely different from
that of one’s own happiness, for it contradicts this too distinctly; this
is just one of those inconsistencies by means of which, in every system,
the immediately known, or, as it is called, felt truth leads us back to
the right way in defiance of syllogistic reasoning; as, for example, we
see clearly in the ethical teaching of Spinoza, which deduces a pure
doctrine of virtue from the egoistical _suum utile quærere_ by means of
palpable sophisms. According to this, as I conceive the spirit of the
Stoical ethics, their source lies in the question whether the great
prerogative of man, reason, which, by means of planned action and its
results, relieves life and its burdens so much, might not also be capable
of freeing him at once, directly, _i.e._, through mere knowledge,
completely, or nearly so, of the sorrows and miseries of every kind of
which his life is full. They held that it was not in keeping with the
prerogative of reason that the nature given with it, which by means of it
comprehends and contemplates an infinity of things and circumstances,
should yet, through the present, and the accidents that can be contained
in the few years of a life that is short, fleeting, and uncertain, be
exposed to such intense pain, to such great anxiety and suffering, as
arise from the tempestuous strain of the desires and the antipathies; and
they believed that the due application of reason must raise men above
them, and can make them invulnerable. Therefore Antisthenes says: Δει
κτασθαι νουν, η βροχον (_aut mentem parandam, aut laqueum._ Plut. de
stoic. repugn., c. 14), _i.e._, life is so full of troubles and vexations,
that one must either rise above it by means of corrected thoughts, or
leave it. It was seen that want and suffering did not directly and of
necessity spring from not having, but from desiring to have and not
having; that therefore this desire to have is the necessary condition
under which alone it becomes a privation not to have and begets pain. Ου
πενια λυπην εργαζεται, αλλα επιθυμια (_non paupertas dolorem efficit, sed
cupiditas_), Epict., fragm. 25. Men learned also from experience that it
is only the hope of what is claimed that begets and nourishes the wish;
therefore neither the many unavoidable evils which are common to all, nor
unattainable blessings, disquiet or trouble us, but only the trifling more
or less of those things which we can avoid or attain; indeed, not only
what is absolutely unavoidable or unattainable, but also what is merely
relatively so, leaves us quite undisturbed; therefore the ills that have
once become joined to our individuality, or the good things that must of
necessity always be denied us, are treated with indifference, in
accordance with the peculiarity of human nature that every wish soon dies
and can no more beget pain if it is not nourished by hope. It followed
from all this that happiness always depends upon the proportion between
our claims and what we receive. It is all one whether the quantities thus
related be great or small, and the proportion can be established just as
well by diminishing the amount of the first as by increasing the amount of
the second; and in the same way it also follows that all suffering
proceeds from the want of proportion between what we demand and expect and
what we get. Now this want of proportion obviously lies only in knowledge,
and it could be entirely abolished through fuller insight.(24) Therefore
Chrysippus says: δει ζῃν κατ᾽ εμπειριαν των φυσει συμβαινοντων (Stob.
Ecl., L. ii. c. 7, p. 134), that is, one ought to live with a due
knowledge of the transitory nature of the things of the world. For as
often as a man loses self-command, or is struck down by a misfortune, or
grows angry, or becomes faint-hearted, he shows that he finds things
different from what he expected, consequently that he was caught in error,
and did not know the world and life, did not know that the will of the
individual is crossed at every step by the chance of inanimate nature and
the antagonism of aims and the wickedness of other individuals: he has
therefore either not made use of his reason in order to arrive at a
general knowledge of this characteristic of life, or he lacks judgment, in
that he does not recognise in the particular what he knows in general, and
is therefore surprised by it and loses his self-command.(25) Thus also
every keen pleasure is an error and an illusion, for no attained wish can
give lasting satisfaction; and, moreover, every possession and every
happiness is but lent by chance for an uncertain time, and may therefore
be demanded back the next hour. All pain rests on the passing away of such
an illusion; thus both arise from defective knowledge; the wise man
therefore holds himself equally aloof from joy and sorrow, and no event
disturbs his αταραξια.
In accordance with this spirit and aim of the Stoa, Epictetus began and
ended with the doctrine as the kernel of his philosophy, that we should
consider well and distinguish what depends upon us and what does not, and
therefore entirely avoid counting upon the latter, whereby we shall
certainly remain free from all pain, sorrow, and anxiety. But that which
alone is dependent upon us is the will; and here a transition gradually
takes place to a doctrine of virtue, for it is observed that as the outer
world, which is independent of us, determines good and bad fortune, so
inner contentment with ourselves, or the absence of it, proceeds from the
will. But it was then asked whether we ought to apply the words _bonum_
and _malum_ to the two former or to the two latter? This was indeed
arbitrary and a matter of choice, and did not make any real difference,
but yet the Stoics disputed everlastingly with the Peripatetics and
Epicureans about it, and amused themselves with the inadmissible
comparison of two entirely incommensurable quantities, and the
antithetical, paradoxical judgments which proceeded from them, and which
they flung at each other. The _Paradoxa_ of Cicero afford us an
interesting collection of these from the Stoical side.
Zeno, the founder, seems originally to have followed a somewhat different
path. The starting-point with him was that for the attainment of the
highest good, _i.e._, blessedness and spiritual peace, one must live in
harmony with oneself (ὁμολογουμενους ξῃν; δ᾽ εστι καθ᾽ ἑνα λογον και
συμφωνον ξῃν.—_Consonanter vivere: hoc est secundum unam rationem et
concordem sibi vivere._ Stob. Ecl. eth. L. ii., c. 7, p. 132. Also: Αρετην
διαθεσιν ειναι ψυχης συμφωνον ἑαυτῃ περι ὁλον τον βιον. _Virtutem esse
animi affectiomem secum per totam vitam consentientem_, _ibid._, p. 104.)
Now this was only possible for a man if he determined himself entirely
rationally, according to concepts, not according to changing impressions
and moods; since, however, only the maxims of our conduct, not the
consequences nor the outward circumstances, are in our power, in order to
be always consistent we must set before us as our aim only the maxims and
not the consequences and circumstances, and thus again a doctrine of
virtue is introduced.
But the ethical principle of Zeno—to live in harmony with oneself—appeared
even to his immediate successors to be too formal and empty. They
therefore gave it material content by the addition—“to live in harmony
with nature” (ὁμολογουμενως τῃ φυσει ζῃν), which, as Stobæus mentions in
another place, was first added by Kleanthes, and extended the matter very
much on account of the wide sphere of the concept and the vagueness of the
expression. For Kleanthes meant the whole of nature in general, while
Chrysippus meant human nature in particular (Diog. Laert., 7, 89). It
followed that what alone was adapted to the latter was virtue, just as the
satisfaction of animal desires was adapted to animal natures; and thus
ethics had again to be forcibly united to a doctrine of virtue, and in
some way or other established through physics. For the Stoics always aimed
at unity of principle, as for them God and the world were not dissevered.
The ethical system of Stoicism, regarded as a whole, is in fact a very
valuable and estimable attempt to use the great prerogative of man,
reason, for an important and salutary end; to raise him above the
suffering and pain to which all life is exposed, by means of a maxim—
“_Qua ratione queas traducere leniter œvum:_
_Ne te semper inops agitet vexetque cupido,_
_Ne pavor et rerum mediocriter utilium spes,_”
and thus to make him partake, in the highest degree, of the dignity which
belongs to him as a rational being, as distinguished from the brutes; a
dignity of which, in this sense at any rate, we can speak, though not in
any other. It is a consequence of my view of the ethical system of
Stoicism that it must be explained at the part of my work at which I
consider what reason is and what it can do. But although it may to a
certain extent be possible to attain that end through the application of
reason, and through a purely rational system of ethics, and although
experience shows that the happiest men are those purely rational
characters commonly called practical philosophers,—and rightly so, because
just as the true, that is, the theoretical philosopher carries life into
the concept, they carry the concept into life,—yet it is far from the case
that perfection can be attained in this way, and that the reason, rightly
used, can really free us from the burden and sorrow of life, and lead us
to happiness. Rather, there lies an absolute contradiction in wishing to
live without suffering, and this contradiction is also implied in the
commonly used expression, “blessed life.” This will become perfectly clear
to whoever comprehends the whole of the following exposition. In this
purely rational system of ethics the contradiction reveals itself thus,
the Stoic is obliged in his doctrine of the way to the blessed life (for
that is what his ethical system always remains) to insert a recommendation
of suicide (as among the magnificent ornaments and apparel of Eastern
despots there is always a costly vial of poison) for the case in which the
sufferings of the body, which cannot be philosophised away by any
principles or syllogistic reasonings, are paramount and incurable; thus
its one aim, blessedness, is rendered vain, and nothing remains as a mode
of escape from suffering except death; in such a case then death must be
voluntarily accepted, just as we would take any other medicine. Here then
a marked antagonism is brought out between the ethical system of Stoicism
and all those systems referred to above which make virtue in itself
directly, and accompanied by the most grievous sorrows, their aim, and
will not allow a man to end his life in order to escape from suffering.
Not one of them, however, was able to give the true reason for the
rejection of suicide, but they laboriously collected illusory explanations
from all sides: the true reason will appear in the Fourth Book in the
course of the development of our system. But the antagonism referred to
reveals and establishes the essential difference in fundamental principle
between Stoicism, which is just a special form of endæmonism, and those
doctrines we have mentioned, although both are often at one in their
results, and are apparently related. And the inner contradiction referred
to above, with which the ethical system of Stoicism is affected even in
its fundamental thought, shows itself further in the circumstance that its
ideal, the Stoic philosopher, as the system itself represents him, could
never obtain life or inner poetic truth, but remains a wooden, stiff
lay-figure of which nothing can be made. He cannot himself make use of his
wisdom, and his perfect peace, contentment, and blessedness directly
contradict the nature of man, and preclude us from forming any concrete
idea of him. When compared with him, how entirely different appear the
overcomers of the world, and voluntary hermits that Indian philosophy
presents to us, and has actually produced; or indeed, the holy man of
Christianity, that excellent form full of deep life, of the greatest
poetic truth, and the highest significance, which stands before us in
perfect virtue, holiness, and sublimity, yet in a state of supreme
suffering.(26)
SECOND BOOK. THE WORLD AS WILL.
First Aspect. The Objectification Of The Will.
Nos habitat, non tartara, sed nec sidera coeli:
Spiritus, in nobis qui viget, illa facit.
§ 17. In the first book we considered the idea merely as such, that is,
only according to its general form. It is true that as far as the abstract
idea, the concept, is concerned, we obtained a knowledge of it in respect
of its content also, because it has content and meaning only in relation
to the idea of perception, without which it would be worthless and empty.
Accordingly, directing our attention exclusively to the idea of
perception, we shall now endeavour to arrive at a knowledge of its
content, its more exact definition, and the forms which it presents to us.
And it will specially interest us to find an explanation of its peculiar
significance, that significance which is otherwise merely felt, but on
account of which it is that these pictures do not pass by us entirely
strange and meaningless, as they must otherwise do, but speak to us
directly, are understood, and obtain an interest which concerns our whole
nature.
We direct our attention to mathematics, natural science, and philosophy,
for each of these holds out the hope that it will afford us a part of the
explanation we desire. Now, taking philosophy first, we find that it is
like a monster with many heads, each of which speaks a different language.
They are not, indeed, all at variance on the point we are here
considering, the significance of the idea of perception. For, with the
exception of the Sceptics and the Idealists, the others, for the most
part, speak very much in the same way of an _object_ which constitutes the
_basis_ of the idea, and which is indeed different in its whole being and
nature from the idea, but yet is in all points as like it as one egg is to
another. But this does not help us, for we are quite unable to distinguish
such an object from the idea; we find that they are one and the same; for
every object always and for ever presupposes a subject, and therefore
remains idea, so that we recognised objectivity as belonging to the most
universal form of the idea, which is the division into subject and object.
Further, the principle of sufficient reason, which is referred to in
support of this doctrine, is for us merely the form of the idea, the
orderly combination of one idea with another, but not the combination of
the whole finite or infinite series of ideas with something which is not
idea at all, and which cannot therefore be presented in perception. Of the
Sceptics and Idealists we spoke above, in examining the controversy about
the reality of the outer world.
If we turn to mathematics to look for the fuller knowledge we desire of
the idea of perception, which we have, as yet, only understood generally,
merely in its form, we find that mathematics only treats of these ideas so
far as they fill time and space, that is, so far as they are quantities.
It will tell us with the greatest accuracy the how-many and the how-much;
but as this is always merely relative, that is to say, merely a comparison
of one idea with others, and a comparison only in the one respect of
quantity, this also is not the information we are principally in search
of.
Lastly, if we turn to the wide province of natural science, which is
divided into many fields, we may, in the first place, make a general
division of it into two parts. It is either the description of forms,
which I call _Morphology_, or the explanation of changes, which I call
_Etiology_. The first treats of the permanent forms, the second of the
changing matter, according to the laws of its transition from one form to
another. The first is the whole extent of what is generally called natural
history. It teaches us, especially in the sciences of botany and zoology,
the various permanent, organised, and therefore definitely determined
forms in the constant change of individuals; and these forms constitute a
great part of the content of the idea of perception. In natural history
they are classified, separated, united, arranged according to natural and
artificial systems, and brought under concepts which make a general view
and knowledge of the whole of them possible. Further, an infinitely fine
analogy both in the whole and in the parts of these forms, and running
through them all (_unité de plan_), is established, and thus they may be
compared to innumerable variations on a theme which is not given. The
passage of matter into these forms, that is to say, the origin of
individuals, is not a special part of natural science, for every
individual springs from its like by generation, which is everywhere
equally mysterious, and has as yet evaded definite knowledge. The little
that is known on the subject finds its place in physiology, which belongs
to that part of natural science I have called etiology. Mineralogy also,
especially where it becomes geology, inclines towards etiology, though it
principally belongs to morphology. Etiology proper comprehends all those
branches of natural science in which the chief concern is the knowledge of
cause and effect. The sciences teach how, according to an invariable rule,
one condition of matter is necessarily followed by a certain other
condition; how one change necessarily conditions and brings about a
certain other change; this sort of teaching is called _explanation_. The
principal sciences in this department are mechanics, physics, chemistry,
and physiology.
If, however, we surrender ourselves to its teaching, we soon become
convinced that etiology cannot afford us the information we chiefly
desire, any more than morphology. The latter presents to us innumerable
and infinitely varied forms, which are yet related by an unmistakable
family likeness. These are for us ideas, and when only treated in this
way, they remain always strange to us, and stand before us like
hieroglyphics which we do not understand. Etiology, on the other hand,
teaches us that, according to the law of cause and effect, this particular
condition of matter brings about that other particular condition, and thus
it has explained it and performed its part. However, it really does
nothing more than indicate the orderly arrangement according to which the
states of matter appear in space and time, and teach in all cases what
phenomenon must necessarily appear at a particular time in a particular
place. It thus determines the position of phenomena in time and space,
according to a law whose special content is derived from experience, but
whose universal form and necessity is yet known to us independently of
experience. But it affords us absolutely no information about the inner
nature of any one of these phenomena: this is called a _force of nature_,
and it lies outside the province of causal explanation, which calls the
constant uniformity with which manifestations of such a force appear
whenever their known conditions are present, a _law of nature_. But this
law of nature, these conditions, and this appearance in a particular place
at a particular time, are all that it knows or ever can know. The force
itself which manifests itself, the inner nature of the phenomena which
appear in accordance with these laws, remains always a secret to it,
something entirely strange and unknown in the case of the simplest as well
as of the most complex phenomena. For although as yet etiology has most
completely achieved its aim in mechanics, and least completely in
physiology, still the force on account of which a stone falls to the
ground or one body repels another is, in its inner nature, not less
strange and mysterious than that which produces the movements and the
growth of an animal. The science of mechanics presupposes matter, weight,
impenetrability, the possibility of communicating motion by impact,
inertia and so forth as ultimate facts, calls them forces of nature, and
their necessary and orderly appearance under certain conditions a law of
nature. Only after this does its explanation begin, and it consists in
indicating truly and with mathematical exactness, how, where and when each
force manifests itself, and in referring every phenomenon which presents
itself to the operation of one of these forces. Physics, chemistry, and
physiology proceed in the same way in their province, only they presuppose
more and accomplish less. Consequently the most complete etiological
explanation of the whole of nature can never be more than an enumeration
of forces which cannot be explained, and a reliable statement of the rule
according to which phenomena appear in time and space, succeed, and make
way for each other. But the inner nature of the forces which thus appear
remains unexplained by such an explanation, which must confine itself to
phenomena and their arrangement, because the law which it follows does not
extend further. In this respect it may be compared to a section of a piece
of marble which shows many veins beside each other, but does not allow us
to trace the course of the veins from the interior of the marble to its
surface. Or, if I may use an absurd but more striking comparison, the
philosophical investigator must always have the same feeling towards the
complete etiology of the whole of nature, as a man who, without knowing
how, has been brought into a company quite unknown to him, each member of
which in turn presents another to him as his friend and cousin, and
therefore as quite well known, and yet the man himself, while at each
introduction he expresses himself gratified, has always the question on
his lips: “But how the deuce do I stand to the whole company?”