deduces them in accordance with the law of motivation, a law that
determines the self-manifesting will wherever it is enlightened by
knowledge. At the lowest grades of its objectivity, where it still acts
without knowledge, natural science, in the form of etiology, treats of the
laws of the changes of its phenomena, and, in the form of morphology, of
what is permanent in them. This almost endless task is lightened by the
aid of concepts, which comprehend what is general in order that we may
deduce what is particular from it. Lastly, mathematics treats of the mere
forms, time and space, in which the Ideas, broken up into multiplicity,
appear for the knowledge of the subject as individual. All these, of which
the common name is science, proceed according to the principle of
sufficient reason in its different forms, and their theme is always the
phenomenon, its laws, connections, and the relations which result from
them. But what kind of knowledge is concerned with that which is outside
and independent of all relations, that which alone is really essential to
the world, the true content of its phenomena, that which is subject to no
change, and therefore is known with equal truth for all time, in a word,
the _Ideas_, which are the direct and adequate objectivity of the thing
in-itself, the will? We answer, _Art_, the work of genius. It repeats or
reproduces the eternal Ideas grasped through pure contemplation, the
essential and abiding in all the phenomena of the world; and according to
what the material is in which it reproduces, it is sculpture or painting,
poetry or music. Its one source is the knowledge of Ideas; its one aim the
communication of this knowledge. While science, following the unresting
and inconstant stream of the fourfold forms of reason and consequent, with
each end attained sees further, and can never reach a final goal nor
attain full satisfaction, any more than by running we can reach the place
where the clouds touch the horizon; art, on the contrary, is everywhere at
its goal. For it plucks the object of its contemplation out of the stream
of the world’s course, and has it isolated before it. And this particular
thing, which in that stream was a small perishing part, becomes to art the
representative of the whole, an equivalent of the endless multitude in
space and time. It therefore pauses at this particular thing; the course
of time stops; the relations vanish for it; only the essential, the Idea,
is its object. We may, therefore, accurately define it as the _way of
viewing things independent of the principle of sufficient reason_, in
opposition to the way of viewing them which proceeds in accordance with
that principle, and which is the method of experience and of science. This
last method of considering things may be compared to a line infinitely
extended in a horizontal direction, and the former to a vertical line
which cuts it at any point. The method of viewing things which proceeds in
accordance with the principle of sufficient reason is the rational method,
and it alone is valid and of use in practical life and in science. The
method which looks away from the content of this principle is the method
of genius, which is only valid and of use in art. The first is the method
of Aristotle; the second is, on the whole, that of Plato. The first is
like the mighty storm, that rushes along without beginning and without
aim, bending, agitating, and carrying away everything before it; the
second is like the silent sunbeam, that pierces through the storm quite
unaffected by it. The first is like the innumerable showering drops of the
waterfall, which, constantly changing, never rest for an instant; the
second is like the rainbow, quietly resting on this raging torrent. Only
through the pure contemplation described above, which ends entirely in the
object, can Ideas be comprehended; and the nature of _genius_ consists in
pre-eminent capacity for such contemplation. Now, as this requires that a
man should entirely forget himself and the relations in which he stands,
_genius_ is simply the completest _objectivity_, _i.e._, the objective
tendency of the mind, as opposed to the subjective, which is directed to
one’s own self—in other words, to the will. Thus genius is the faculty of
continuing in the state of pure perception, of losing oneself in
perception, and of enlisting in this service the knowledge which
originally existed only for the service of the will; that is to say,
genius is the power of leaving one’s own interests, wishes, and aims
entirely out of sight, thus of entirely renouncing one’s own personality
for a time, so as to remain _pure knowing subject_, clear vision of the
world; and this not merely at moments, but for a sufficient length of
time, and with sufficient consciousness, to enable one to reproduce by
deliberate art what has thus been apprehended, and “to fix in lasting
thoughts the wavering images that float before the mind.” It is as if,
when genius appears in an individual, a far larger measure of the power of
knowledge falls to his lot than is necessary for the service of an
individual will; and this superfluity of knowledge, being free, now
becomes subject purified from will, a clear mirror of the inner nature of
the world. This explains the activity, amounting even to disquietude, of
men of genius, for the present can seldom satisfy them, because it does
not fill their consciousness. This gives them that restless aspiration,
that unceasing desire for new things, and for the contemplation of lofty
things, and also that longing that is hardly ever satisfied, for men of
similar nature and of like stature, to whom they might communicate
themselves; whilst the common mortal, entirely filled and satisfied by the
common present, ends in it, and finding everywhere his like, enjoys that
peculiar satisfaction in daily life that is denied to genius.
Imagination has rightly been recognised as an essential element of genius;
it has sometimes even been regarded as identical with it; but this is a
mistake. As the objects of genius are the eternal Ideas, the permanent,
essential forms of the world and all its phenomena, and as the knowledge
of the Idea is necessarily knowledge through perception, is not abstract,
the knowledge of the genius would be limited to the Ideas of the objects
actually present to his person, and dependent upon the chain of
circumstances that brought these objects to him, if his imagination did
not extend his horizon far beyond the limits of his actual personal
existence, and thus enable him to construct the whole out of the little
that comes into his own actual apperception, and so to let almost all
possible scenes of life pass before him in his own consciousness. Further,
the actual objects are almost always very imperfect copies of the Ideas
expressed in them; therefore the man of genius requires imagination in
order to see in things, not that which Nature has actually made, but that
which she endeavoured to make, yet could not because of that conflict of
her forms among themselves which we referred to in the last book. We shall
return to this farther on in treating of sculpture. The imagination then
extends the intellectual horizon of the man of genius beyond the objects
which actually present themselves to him, both as regards quality and
quantity. Therefore extraordinary strength of imagination accompanies, and
is indeed a necessary condition of genius. But the converse does not hold,
for strength of imagination does not indicate genius; on the contrary, men
who have no touch of genius may have much imagination. For as it is
possible to consider a real object in two opposite ways, purely
objectively, the way of genius grasping its Idea, or in the common way,
merely in the relations in which it stands to other objects and to one’s
own will, in accordance with the principle of sufficient reason, it is
also possible to perceive an imaginary object in both of these ways.
Regarded in the first way, it is a means to the knowledge of the Idea, the
communication of which is the work of art; in the second case, the
imaginary object is used to build castles in the air congenial to egotism
and the individual humour, and which for the moment delude and gratify;
thus only the relations of the phantasies so linked together are known.
The man who indulges in such an amusement is a dreamer; he will easily
mingle those fancies that delight his solitude with reality, and so unfit
himself for real life: perhaps he will write them down, and then we shall
have the ordinary novel of every description, which entertains those who
are like him and the public at large, for the readers imagine themselves
in the place of the hero, and then find the story very agreeable.
The common mortal, that manufacture of Nature which she produces by the
thousand every day, is, as we have said, not capable, at least not
continuously so, of observation that in every sense is wholly
disinterested, as sensuous contemplation, strictly so called, is. He can
turn his attention to things only so far as they have some relation to his
will, however indirect it may be. Since in this respect, which never
demands anything but the knowledge of relations, the abstract conception
of the thing is sufficient, and for the most part even better adapted for
use; the ordinary man does not linger long over the mere perception, does
not fix his attention long on one object, but in all that is presented to
him hastily seeks merely the concept under which it is to be brought, as
the lazy man seeks a chair, and then it interests him no further. This is
why he is so soon done with everything, with works of art, objects of
natural beauty, and indeed everywhere with the truly significant
contemplation of all the scenes of life. He does not linger; only seeks to
know his own way in life, together with all that might at any time become
his way. Thus he makes topographical notes in the widest sense; over the
consideration of life itself as such he wastes no time. The man of genius,
on the other hand, whose excessive power of knowledge frees it at times
from the service of will, dwells on the consideration of life itself,
strives to comprehend the Idea of each thing, not its relations to other
things; and in doing this he often forgets to consider his own path in
life, and therefore for the most part pursues it awkwardly enough. While
to the ordinary man his faculty of knowledge is a lamp to lighten his
path, to the man of genius it is the sun which reveals the world. This
great diversity in their way of looking at life soon becomes visible in
the outward appearance both of the man of genius and of the ordinary
mortal. The man in whom genius lives and works is easily distinguished by
his glance, which is both keen and steady, and bears the stamp of
perception, of contemplation. This is easily seen from the likenesses of
the few men of genius whom Nature has produced here and there among
countless millions. On the other hand, in the case of an ordinary man, the
true object of his contemplation, what he is prying into, can be easily
seen from his glance, if indeed it is not quite stupid and vacant, as is
generally the case. Therefore the expression of genius in a face consists
in this, that in it a decided predominance of knowledge over will is
visible, and consequently there also shows itself in it a knowledge that
is entirely devoid of relation to will, _i.e._, _pure knowing_. On the
contrary, in ordinary countenances there is a predominant expression of
will; and we see that knowledge only comes into activity under the impulse
of will, and thus is directed merely by motives.
Since the knowledge that pertains to genius, or the knowledge of Ideas, is
that knowledge which does not follow the principle of sufficient reason,
so, on the other hand, the knowledge which does follow that principle is
that which gives us prudence and rationality in life, and which creates
the sciences. Thus men of genius are affected with the deficiencies
entailed in the neglect of this latter kind of knowledge. Yet what I say
in this regard is subject to the limitation that it only concerns them in
so far as and while they are actually engaged in that kind of knowledge
which is peculiar to genius; and this is by no means at every moment of
their lives, for the great though spontaneous exertion which is demanded
for the comprehension of Ideas free from will must necessarily relax, and
there are long intervals during which men of genius are placed in very
much the same position as ordinary mortals, both as regards advantages and
deficiencies. On this account the action of genius has always been
regarded as an inspiration, as indeed the name indicates, as the action of
a superhuman being distinct from the individual himself, and which takes
possession of him only periodically. The disinclination of men of genius
to direct their attention to the content of the principle of sufficient
reason will first show itself, with regard to the ground of being, as
dislike of mathematics; for its procedure is based upon the most universal
forms of the phenomenon space and time, which are themselves merely modes
of the principle of sufficient reason, and is consequently precisely the
opposite of that method of thought which seeks merely the content of the
phenomenon, the Idea which expresses itself in it apart from all
relations. The logical method of mathematics is also antagonistic to
genius, for it does not satisfy but obstructs true insight, and presents
merely a chain of conclusions in accordance with the principle of the
ground of knowing. The mental faculty upon which it makes the greatest
claim is memory, for it is necessary to recollect all the earlier
propositions which are referred to. Experience has also proved that men of
great artistic genius have no faculty for mathematics; no man was ever
very distinguished for both. Alfieri relates that he was never able to
understand the fourth proposition of Euclid. Goethe was constantly
reproached with his want of mathematical knowledge by the ignorant
opponents of his theory of colours. Here certainly, where it was not a
question of calculation and measurement upon hypothetical data, but of
direct knowledge by the understanding of causes and effects, this reproach
was so utterly absurd and inappropriate, that by making it they have
exposed their entire want of judgment, just as much as by the rest of
their ridiculous arguments. The fact that up to the present day, nearly
half a century after the appearance of Goethe’s theory of colours, even in
Germany the Newtonian fallacies still have undisturbed possession of the
professorial chair, and men continue to speak quite seriously of the seven
homogeneous rays of light and their different refrangibility, will some
day be numbered among the great intellectual peculiarities of men
generally, and especially of Germans. From the same cause as we have
referred to above, may be explained the equally well-known fact that,
conversely, admirable mathematicians have very little susceptibility for
works of fine art. This is very naïvely expressed in the well-known
anecdote of the French mathematician, who, after having read Racine’s
“Iphigenia,” shrugged his shoulders and asked, “_Qu’est ce que cela
prouve?_” Further, as quick comprehension of relations in accordance with
the laws of causality and motivation is what specially constitutes
prudence or sagacity, a prudent man, so far as and while he is so, will
not be a genius, and a man of genius, so far as and while he is so, will
not be a prudent man. Lastly, perceptive knowledge generally, in the
province of which the Idea always lies, is directly opposed to rational or
abstract knowledge, which is guided by the principle of the ground of
knowing. It is also well known that we seldom find great genius united
with pre-eminent reasonableness; on the contrary, persons of genius are
often subject to violent emotions and irrational passions. But the ground
of this is not weakness of reason, but partly unwonted energy of that
whole phenomenon of will—the man of genius—which expresses itself through
the violence of all his acts of will, and partly preponderance of the
knowledge of perception through the senses and understanding over abstract
knowledge, producing a decided tendency to the perceptible, the
exceedingly lively impressions of which so far outshine colourless
concepts, that they take their place in the guidance of action, which
consequently becomes irrational. Accordingly the impression of the present
moment is very strong with such persons, and carries them away into
unconsidered action, violent emotions and passions. Moreover, since, in
general, the knowledge of persons of genius has to some extent freed
itself from the service of will, they will not in conversation think so
much of the person they are addressing as of the thing they are speaking
about, which is vividly present to them; and therefore they are likely to
judge or narrate things too objectively for their own interests; they will
not pass over in silence what would more prudently be concealed, and so
forth. Finally, they are given to soliloquising, and in general may
exhibit certain weaknesses which are actually akin to madness. It has
often been remarked that there is a side at which genius and madness
touch, and even pass over into each other, and indeed poetical inspiration
has been called a kind of madness: _amabilis insania_, Horace calls it
(Od. iii. 4), and Wieland in the introduction to “Oberon” speaks of it as
“amiable madness.” Even Aristotle, as quoted by Seneca (De Tranq. Animi,
15, 16), is reported to have said: _Nullum magnum ingenium sine mixtura
dementiæ fuit_. Plato expresses it in the figure of the dark cave,
referred to above (De Rep. 7), when he says: “Those who, outside the cave,
have seen the true sunlight and the things that have true being (Ideas),
cannot afterwards see properly down in the cave, because their eyes are
not accustomed to the darkness; they cannot distinguish the shadows, and
are jeered at for their mistakes by those who have never left the cave and
its shadows.” In the “Phædrus” also (p. 317), he distinctly says that
there can be no true poet without a certain madness; in fact, (p. 327),
that every one appears mad who recognises the eternal Ideas in fleeting
things. Cicero also quotes: _Negat enim sine furore, Democritus, quemquam
poetam magnum esse posse; quod idem dicit Plato_ (De Divin., i. 37). And,
lastly, Pope says—
“Great wits to madness sure are near allied,
And thin partitions do their bounds divide.”
Especially instructive in this respect is Goethe’s “Torquato Tasso,” in
which he shows us not only the suffering, the martyrdom of genius as such,
but also how it constantly passes into madness. Finally, the fact of the
direct connection of genius and madness is established by the biographies
of great men of genius, such as Rousseau, Byron, and Alfieri, and by
anecdotes from the lives of others. On the other hand, I must mention
that, by a diligent search in lunatic asylums, I have found individual
cases of patients who were unquestionably endowed with great talents, and
whose genius distinctly appeared through their madness, which, however,
had completely gained the upper hand. Now this cannot be ascribed to
chance, for on the one hand the number of mad persons is relatively very
small, and on the other hand a person of genius is a phenomenon which is
rare beyond all ordinary estimation, and only appears in nature as the
greatest exception. It will be sufficient to convince us of this if we
compare the number of really great men of genius that the whole of
civilised Europe has produced, both in ancient and modern times, with the
two hundred and fifty millions who are always living in Europe, and who
change entirely every thirty years. In estimating the number of men of
outstanding genius, we must of course only count those who have produced
works which have retained through all time an enduring value for mankind.
I shall not refrain from mentioning, that I have known some persons of
decided, though not remarkable, mental superiority, who also showed a
slight trace of insanity. It might seem from this that every advance of
intellect beyond the ordinary measure, as an abnormal development,
disposes to madness. In the meantime, however, I will explain as briefly
as possible my view of the purely intellectual ground of the relation
between genius and madness, for this will certainly assist the explanation
of the real nature of genius, that is to say, of that mental endowment
which alone can produce genuine works of art. But this necessitates a
brief explanation of madness itself.(50)
A clear and complete insight into the nature of madness, a correct and
distinct conception of what constitutes the difference between the sane
and the insane, has, as far as I know, not as yet been found. Neither
reason nor understanding can be denied to madmen, for they talk and
understand, and often draw very accurate conclusions; they also, as a
rule, perceive what is present quite correctly, and apprehend the
connection between cause and effect. Visions, like the phantasies of
delirium, are no ordinary symptom of madness: delirium falsifies
perception, madness the thoughts. For the most part, madmen do not err in
the knowledge of what is immediately _present_; their raving always
relates to what is _absent_ and _past_, and only through these to their
connection with what is present. Therefore it seems to me that their
malady specially concerns the memory; not indeed that memory fails them
entirely, for many of them know a great deal by heart, and sometimes
recognise persons whom they have not seen for a long time; but rather that
the thread of memory is broken, the continuity of its connection
destroyed, and no uniformly connected recollection of the past is
possible. Particular scenes of the past are known correctly, just like the
particular present; but there are gaps in their recollection which they
fill up with fictions, and these are either always the same, in which case
they become fixed ideas, and the madness that results is called monomania
or melancholy; or they are always different, momentary fancies, and then
it is called folly, _fatuitas_. This is why it is so difficult to find out
their former life from lunatics when they enter an asylum. The true and
the false are always mixed up in their memory. Although the immediate
present is correctly known, it becomes falsified through its fictitious
connection with an imaginary past; they therefore regard themselves and
others as identical with persons who exist only in their imaginary past;
they do not recognise some of their acquaintances at all, and thus while
they perceive correctly what is actually present, they have only false
conceptions of its relations to what is absent. If the madness reaches a
high degree, there is complete absence of memory, so that the madman is
quite incapable of any reference to what is absent or past, and is only
determined by the caprice of the moment in connection with the fictions
which, in his mind, fill the past. In such a case, we are never for a
moment safe from violence or murder, unless we constantly make the madman
aware of the presence of superior force. The knowledge of the madman has
this in common with that of the brute, both are confined to the present.
What distinguishes them is that the brute has really no idea of the past
as such, though the past acts upon it through the medium of custom, so
that, for example, the dog recognises its former master even after years,
that is to say, it receives the wonted impression at the sight of him; but
of the time that has passed since it saw him it has no recollection. The
madman, on the other hand, always carries about in his reason an abstract
past, but it is a false past, which exists only for him, and that either
constantly, or only for the moment. The influence of this false past
prevents the use of the true knowledge of the present which the brute is
able to make. The fact that violent mental suffering or unexpected and
terrible calamities should often produce madness, I explain in the
following manner. All such suffering is as an actual event confined to the
present. It is thus merely transitory, and is consequently never
excessively heavy; it only becomes unendurably great when it is lasting
pain; but as such it exists only in thought, and therefore lies in the
_memory_. If now such a sorrow, such painful knowledge or reflection, is
so bitter that it becomes altogether unbearable, and the individual is
prostrated under it, then, terrified Nature seizes upon _madness_ as the
last resource of life; the mind so fearfully tortured at once destroys the
thread of its memory, fills up the gaps with fictions, and thus seeks
refuge in madness from the mental suffering that exceeds its strength,
just as we cut off a mortified limb and replace it with a wooden one. The
distracted Ajax, King Lear, and Ophelia may be taken as examples; for the
creations of true genius, to which alone we can refer here, as universally
known, are equal in truth to real persons; besides, in this case, frequent
actual experience shows the same thing. A faint analogy of this kind of
transition from pain to madness is to be found in the way in which all of
us often seek, as it were mechanically, to drive away a painful thought
that suddenly occurs to us by some loud exclamation or quick movement—to
turn ourselves from it, to distract our minds by force.