and man are respectively moved by motives exerts a very wide influence
upon the nature of both, and has most to do with the complete and obvious
differences of their existence. While an idea of perception is in every
case the motive which determines the brute, the man strives to exclude
this kind of motivation altogether, and to determine himself entirely by
abstract ideas. Thus he uses his prerogative of reason to the greatest
possible advantage. Independent of the present, he neither chooses nor
avoids the passing pleasure or pain, but reflects on the consequences of
both. In most cases, setting aside quite insignificant actions, we are
determined by abstract, thought motives, not present impressions.
Therefore all particular privation for the moment is for us comparatively
light, but all renunciation is terribly hard; for the former only concerns
the fleeting present, but the latter concerns the future, and includes in
itself innumerable privations, of which it is the equivalent. The causes
of our pain, as of our pleasure, lie for the most part, not in the real
present, but merely in abstract thoughts. It is these which are often
unbearable to us—inflict torments in comparison with which all the
sufferings of the animal world are very small; for even our own physical
pain is not felt at all when they are present. Indeed, in the case of keen
mental suffering, we even inflict physical suffering on ourselves merely
to distract our attention from the former to the latter. This is why, in
great mental anguish, men tear their hair, beat their breasts, lacerate
their faces, or roll on the floor, for all these are in reality only
violent means of diverting the mind from an unbearable thought. Just
because mental pain, being much greater, makes us insensible to physical
pain, suicide is very easy to the person who is in despair, or who is
consumed by morbid depression, even though formerly, in comfortable
circumstances, he recoiled at the thought of it. In the same way care and
passion (thus the play of thought) wear out the body oftener and more than
physical hardships. And in accordance with this Epictetus rightly says:
Ταρασσει τους ανθρωπους ου τα πραγματα, αλλα τα περι των πραγματων δογματα
(_Perturbant homines non res ipsæ, sed de rebus decreta_) (V.); and
Seneca: _Plura sunt quæ nos terrent, quam quæ premunt, et sæpius opinione
quam re laboramus_ (Ep. 5). Eulenspiegel also admirably bantered human
nature, for going uphill he laughed, and going downhill he wept. Indeed,
children who have hurt themselves often cry, not at the pain, but at the
thought of the pain which is awakened when some one condoles with them.
Such great differences in conduct and in life arise from the diversity
between the methods of knowledge of the brutes and man. Further, the
appearance of the distinct and decided individual character, the principal
distinction between man and the brute, which has scarcely more than the
character of the species, is conditioned by the choice between several
motives, which is only possible through abstract conceptions. For only
after a choice has been made are the resolutions, which vary in different
individuals, an indication of the individual character which is different
in each; while the action of the brute depends only upon the presence or
absence of the impression, supposing this impression to be in general a
motive for its species. And, finally, in the case of man, only the
resolve, and not the mere wish, is a valid indication of his character
both for himself and for others; but the resolve becomes for himself, as
for others, a certain fact only through the deed. The wish is merely the
necessary consequence of the present impression, whether of the outward
stimulus, or the inward passing mood; and is therefore as immediately
necessary and devoid of consideration as the action of the brutes.
Therefore, like the action of the brutes, it merely expresses the
character of the species, not that of the individual, _i.e._, it indicates
merely what _man in general_, not what the individual who experiences the
wish, is capable of doing. The deed alone,—because as human action it
always requires a certain deliberation, and because as a rule a man has
command of his reason, is considerate, _i.e._, decides in accordance with
considered and abstract motives,—is the expression of the intelligible
maxims of his conduct, the result of his inmost willing, and is related as
a letter to the word that stands for his empirical character, itself
merely the temporal expression of his intelligible character. In a healthy
mind, therefore, only deeds oppress the conscience, not wishes and
thoughts; for it is only our deeds that hold up to us the mirror of our
will. The deed referred to above, that is entirely unconsidered and is
really committed in blind passion, is to a certain extent an intermediate
thing between the mere wish and the resolve.
Therefore, by true repentance, which, however, shows itself as action
also, it can be obliterated, as a falsely drawn line, from that picture of
our will which our course of life is. I may insert the remark here, as a
very good comparison, that the relation between wish and deed has a purely
accidental but accurate analogy with that between the accumulation and
discharge of electricity.
As the result of the whole of this discussion of the freedom of the will
and what relates to it, we find that although the will may, in itself and
apart from the phenomenon, be called free and even omnipotent, yet in its
particular phenomena enlightened by knowledge, as in men and brutes, it is
determined by motives to which the special character regularly and
necessarily responds, and always in the same way. We see that because of
the possession on his part of abstract or rational knowledge, man, as
distinguished from the brutes, has a _choice_, which only makes him the
scene of the conflict of his motives, without withdrawing him from their
control. This choice is therefore certainly the condition of the
possibility of the complete expression of the individual character, but is
by no means to be regarded as freedom of the particular volition, _i.e._,
independence of the law of causality, the necessity of which extends to
man as to every other phenomenon. Thus the difference between human
volition and that of the brutes, which is introduced by reason or
knowledge through concepts, extends to the point we have indicated, and no
farther. But, what is quite a different thing, there may arise a
phenomenon of the human will which is quite impossible in the brute
creation, if man altogether lays aside the knowledge of particular things
as such which is subordinate to the principle of sufficient reason, and by
means of his knowledge of the Ideas sees through the _principium
individuationis_. Then an actual appearance of the real freedom of the
will as a thing-in-itself is possible, by which the phenomenon comes into
a sort of contradiction with itself, as is indicated by the word
self-renunciation; and, finally, the “in-itself” of its nature suppresses
itself. But this, the one, real, and direct expression of the freedom of
the will in itself in the phenomenon, cannot be distinctly explained here,
but will form the subject of the concluding part of our work.
Now that we have shown clearly in these pages the unalterable nature of
the empirical character, which is just the unfolding of the intelligible
character that lies outside time, together with the necessity with which
actions follow upon its contact with motives, we hasten to anticipate an
argument which may very easily be drawn from this in the interest of bad
dispositions. Our character is to be regarded as the temporal unfolding of
an extra-temporal, and therefore indivisible and unalterable, act of will,
or an intelligible character. This necessarily determines all that is
essential in our conduct in life, _i.e._, its ethical content, which must
express itself in accordance with it in its phenomenal appearance, the
empirical character; while only what is unessential in this, the outward
form of our course of life, depends upon the forms in which the motives
present themselves. It might, therefore, be inferred that it is a waste of
trouble to endeavour to improve one’s character, and that it is wiser to
submit to the inevitable, and gratify every inclination at once, even if
it is bad. But this is precisely the same thing as the theory of an
inevitable fate which is called αργος λογος, and in more recent times
Turkish faith. Its true refutation, as it is supposed to have been given
by Chrysippus, is explained by Cicero in his book _De Fato_, ch. 12, 13.
Though everything may be regarded as irrevocably predetermined by fate,
yet it is so only through the medium of the chain of causes; therefore in
no case can it be determined that an effect shall appear without its
cause. Thus it is not simply the event that is predetermined, but the
event as the consequence of preceding causes; so that fate does not decide
the consequence alone, but also the means as the consequence of which it
is destined to appear. Accordingly, if some means is not present, it is
certain that the consequence also will not be present: each is always
present in accordance with the determination of fate, but this is never
known to us till afterwards.
As events always take place according to fate, _i.e._, according to the
infinite concatenation of causes, so our actions always take place
according to our intelligible character. But just as we do not know the
former beforehand, so no _a priori_ insight is given us into the latter,
but we only come to know ourselves as we come to know other persons _a
posteriori_ through experience. If the intelligible character involved
that we could only form a good resolution after a long conflict with a bad
disposition, this conflict would have to come first and be waited for.
Reflection on the unalterable nature of the character, on the unity of the
source from which all our actions flow, must not mislead us into claiming
the decision of the character in favour of one side or the other; it is in
the resolve that follows that we shall see what manner of men we are, and
mirror ourselves in our actions. This is the explanation of the
satisfaction or the anguish of soul with which we look back on the course
of our past life. Both are experienced, not because these past deeds have
still an existence; they are past, they have been, and now are no more;
but their great importance for us lies in their significance, lies in the
fact that these deeds are the expression of the character, the mirror of
the will, in which we look and recognise our inmost self, the kernel of
our will. Because we experience this not before, but only after, it
behoves us to strive and fight in time, in order that the picture we
produce by our deeds may be such that the contemplation of it may calm us
as much as possible, instead of harassing us. The significance of this
consolation or anguish of soul will, as we have said, be inquired into
farther on; but to this place there belongs the inquiry which follows, and
which stands by itself.
Besides the intelligible and the empirical character, we must mention a
third which is different from them both, the _acquired character_, which
one only receives in life through contact with the world, and which is
referred to when one is praised as a man of character or censured as being
without character. Certainly one might suppose that, since the empirical
character, as the phenomenon of the intelligible, is unalterable, and,
like every natural phenomenon, is consistent with itself, man would always
have to appear like himself and consistent, and would therefore have no
need to acquire a character artificially by experience and reflection. But
the case is otherwise, and although a man is always the same, yet he does
not always understand himself, but often mistakes himself, till he has in
some degree acquired real self-knowledge. The empirical character, as a
mere natural tendency, is in itself irrational; nay, more, its expressions
are disturbed by reason, all the more so the more intellect and power of
thought the man has; for these always keep before him what becomes _man in
general_ as the character of the species, and what is possible for him
both in will and in deed. This makes it the more difficult for him to see
how much his individuality enables him to will and to accomplish. He finds
in himself the germs of all the various human pursuits and powers, but the
difference of degree in which they exist in his individuality is not clear
to him in the absence of experience; and if he now applies himself to the
pursuits which alone correspond to his character, he yet feels, especially
at particular moments and in particular moods, the inclination to directly
opposite pursuits which cannot be combined with them, but must be entirely
suppressed if he desires to follow the former undisturbed. For as our
physical path upon earth is always merely a line, not an extended surface,
so in life, if we desire to grasp and possess one thing, we must renounce
and leave innumerable others on the right hand and on the left. If we
cannot make up our minds to this, but, like children at the fair, snatch
at everything that attracts us in passing, we are making the perverse
endeavour to change the line of our path into an extended surface; we run
in a zigzag, skip about like a will o’ the wisp, and attain to nothing.
Or, to use another comparison, as, according to Hobbes’ philosophy of law,
every one has an original right to everything but an exclusive right to
nothing, yet can obtain an exclusive right to particular things by
renouncing his right to all the rest, while others, on their part, do
likewise with regard to what he has chosen; so is it in life, in which
some definite pursuit, whether it be pleasure, honour, wealth, science,
art, or virtue, can only be followed with seriousness and success when all
claims that are foreign to it are given up, when everything else is
renounced. Accordingly, the mere will and the mere ability are not
sufficient, but a man must also _know_ what he wills, and _know_ what he
can do; only then will he show character, and only then can he accomplish
something right. Until he attains to that, notwithstanding the natural
consistency of the empirical character, he is without character. And
although, on the whole, he must remain true to himself, and fulfil his
course, led by his dæmon, yet his path will not be a straight line, but
wavering and uneven. He will hesitate, deviate, turn back, lay up for
himself repentance and pain. And all this is because, in great and small,
he sees before him all that is possible and attainable for man in general,
but does not know what part of all this is alone suitable for him, can be
accomplished by him, and is alone enjoyable by him. He will, therefore,
envy many men on account of a position and circumstances which are yet
only suitable to their characters and not to his, and in which he would
feel unhappy, if indeed he found them endurable at all. For as a fish is
only at home in water, a bird in the air, a mole in the earth, so every
man is only at home in the atmosphere suitable to him. For example, not
all men can breathe the air of court life. From deficiency of proper
insight into all this, many a man will make all kinds of abortive
attempts, will do violence to his character in particulars, and yet, on
the whole, will have to yield to it again; and what he thus painfully
attains will give him no pleasure; what he thus learns will remain dead;
even in an ethical regard, a deed that is too noble for his character,
that has not sprung from pure, direct impulse, but from a concept, a
dogma, will lose all merit, even in his own eyes, through subsequent
egoistical repentance. _Velle non discitur._ We only become conscious of
the inflexibility of another person’s character through experience, and
till then we childishly believe that it is possible, by means of rational
ideas, by prayers and entreaties, by example and noble-mindedness, ever to
persuade any one to leave his own way, to change his course of conduct, to
depart from his mode of thinking, or even to extend his capacities: so is
it also with ourselves. We must first learn from experience what we desire
and what we can do. Till then we know it not, we are without character,
and must often be driven back to our own way by hard blows from without.
But if we have finally learnt it, then we have attained to what in the
world is called character, the _acquired character_. This is accordingly
nothing but the most perfect knowledge possible of our own individuality.
It is the abstract, and consequently distinct, knowledge of the
unalterable qualities of our own empirical character, and of the measure
and direction of our mental and physical powers, and thus of the whole
strength and weakness of our own individuality. This places us in a
position to carry out deliberately and methodically the rôle which belongs
to our own person, and to fill up the gaps which caprices or weaknesses
produce in it, under the guidance of fixed conceptions. This rôle is in
itself unchangeably determined once for all, but hitherto we have allowed
it to follow its natural course without any rule. We have now brought to
distinct conscious maxims which are always present to us the form of
conduct which is necessarily determined by our own individual nature, and
now we conduct it in accordance with them as deliberately as if we had
learned it; without ever falling into error through the passing influence
of the mood or the impression of the present, without being checked by the
bitterness or sweetness of some particular thing we meet with on our path,
without delay, without hesitation, without inconsistency. We shall now no
longer, as novices, wait, attempt, and grope about in order to see what we
really desire and are able to do, but we know this once for all, and in
every choice we have only to apply general principles to particular cases,
and arrive at once at a decision. We know our will in general, and do not
allow ourselves to be led by the passing mood or by solicitations from
without to resolve in particular cases what is contrary to it as a whole.
We know in the same way the nature and the measure of our strength and our
weakness, and thereby are spared much suffering. For we experience no real
pleasure except in the use and feeling of our own powers, and the greatest
pain is the conscious deficiency of our powers where we need them. If,
now, we have discovered where our strength and our weakness lie, we will
endeavour to cultivate, employ, and in every way make use of those talents
which are naturally prominent in us. We will always turn to those
occupations in which they are valuable and to the purpose, and entirely
avoid, even with self-renunciation, those pursuits for which we have
naturally little aptitude; we will beware of attempting that in which we
have no chance of succeeding. Only he who has attained to this will
constantly and with full consciousness be completely himself, and will
never fail himself at the critical moment, because he will always have
known what he could expect from himself. He will often enjoy the
satisfaction of feeling his strength, and seldom experience the pain of
being reminded of his weakness. The latter is mortification, which causes
perhaps the greatest of mental sufferings; therefore it is far more
endurable to have our misfortune brought clearly before us than our
incapacity. And, further, if we are thus fully acquainted with our
strength and our weakness, we will not attempt to make a show of powers
which we do not possess; we will not play with base coin, for all such
dissimulation misses the mark in the end. For since the whole man is only
the phenomenon of his will, nothing can be more perverse than to try, by
means of reflection, to become something else than one is, for this is a
direct contradiction of the will with itself. The imitation of the
qualities and idiosyncrasies of others is much more shameful than to dress
in other people’s clothes; for it is the judgment of our own worthlessness
pronounced by ourselves. Knowledge of our own mind and its capacities of
every kind, and their unalterable limits, is in this respect the surest
way to the attainment of the greatest possible contentment with ourselves.
For it holds good of inward as of outward circumstances that there is for
us no consolation so effective as the complete certainty of unalterable
necessity. No evil that befalls us pains us so much as the thought of the
circumstances by which it might have been warded off. Therefore nothing
comforts us so effectually as the consideration of what has happened from
the standpoint of necessity, from which all accidents appear as tools in
the hand of an overruling fate, and we therefore recognise the evil that
has come to us as inevitably produced by the conflict of inner and outer
circumstances; in other words, fatalism. We really only complain and storm
so long as we hope either to affect others or to excite ourselves to
unheard-of efforts. But children and grown-up people know very well to
yield contentedly as soon as they clearly see that it absolutely cannot be
otherwise:—Θυμὸν ἐνὶ στήθεσσι φίλον δαμάσσαντες ἀνάγκη (_Animo in
pectoribus nostro domito necessitate_). We are like the entrapped
elephants, that rage and struggle for many days, till they see that it is
useless, and then suddenly offer their necks quietly to the yoke, tamed
for ever. We are like King David, who, as long as his son still lived,
unceasingly importuned Jehovah with prayers, and behaved himself as if in
despair; but as soon as his son was dead, thought no longer about it.
Hence it arises that innumerable permanent ills, such as lameness,
poverty, low estate, ugliness, a disagreeable dwelling-place, are borne
with indifference by innumerable persons, and are no longer felt, like
healed wounds, just because these persons know that inward or outward
necessity renders it impossible that any change can take place in these
things; while those who are more fortunate cannot understand how such
misfortunes can be borne. Now as with outward necessity, so also with
inward; nothing reconciles so thoroughly as a distinct knowledge of it. If
we have once for all distinctly recognised not only our good qualities and
our strength, but also our defects and weakness, established our aim
accordingly, and rest satisfied concerning what cannot be attained, we
thus escape in the surest way, as far as our individuality permits, the
bitterest of all sorrows, discontentment with ourselves, which is the
inevitable result of ignorance of our own individuality, of false conceit
and the audacity that proceeds from it. To the bitter chapter of the
self-knowledge here recommended the lines of Ovid admit of excellent
application—
“_Optimus ille animi vindex lædentia pectus,_
_Vincula qui rupit, dedoluitque semel._”
So much with regard to the _acquired character_, which, indeed, is not of
so much importance for ethics proper as for life in the world. But its
investigation was related as that of a third species to the investigation
of the intelligible and the empirical character, in regard to which we
were obliged to enter upon a somewhat detailed inquiry in order to bring
out clearly how in all its phenomena the will is subject to necessity,
while yet in itself it may be called free and even omnipotent.
§ 56. This freedom, this omnipotence, as the expression of which the whole
visible world exists and progressively develops in accordance with the
laws which belong to the form of knowledge, can now, at the point at which
in its most perfect manifestation it has attained to the completely
adequate knowledge of its own nature, express itself anew in two ways.
Either it wills here, at the summit of mental endowment and
self-consciousness, simply what it willed before blindly and
unconsciously, and if so, knowledge always remains its _motive_ in the
whole as in the particular case. Or, conversely, this knowledge becomes
for it a _quieter_, which appeases and suppresses all willing. This is
that assertion and denial of the will to live which was stated above in
general terms. As, in the reference of individual conduct, a general, not
a particular manifestation of will, it does not disturb and modify the
development of the character, nor does it find its expression in
particular actions; but, either by an ever more marked appearance of the
whole method of action it has followed hitherto, or conversely by the
entire suppression of it, it expresses in a living form the maxims which
the will has freely adopted in accordance with the knowledge it has now
attained to. By the explanations we have just given of freedom, necessity,
and character, we have somewhat facilitated and prepared the way for the
clearer development of all this, which is the principal subject of this
last book. But we shall have done so still more when we have turned our
attention to life itself, the willing or not willing of which is the great
question, and have endeavoured to find out generally what the will itself,
which is everywhere the inmost nature of this life, will really attain by
its assertion—in what way and to what extent this assertion satisfies or
can satisfy the will; in short, what is generally and mainly to be
regarded as its position in this its own world, which in every relation
belongs to it.