THE ESSAYS OF ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER: THE ART OF CONTROVERSY

TRANSLATED BY

T. BAILEY SAUNDERS, M. A. 

CONTENTS. 

 THE ART OF CONTROVERSY-- 1. PRELIMINARY: LOGIC AND DIALECTIC 2. THE BASIS OF ALL DIALECTIC 3. STRATAGEMS ON THE COMPARATIVE PLACE OF INTEREST AND BEAUTY IN WORKS OF ART PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS ON THE WISDOM OF LIFE: APHORISMS GENIUS AND VIRTUE

TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. 

The volume now before the reader is a tardy addition to a series inwhich I have endeavoured to present Schopenhauer's minor writings inan adequate form. 

Its contents are drawn entirely from his posthumous papers. Aselection of them was given to the world some three of four yearsafter his death by his friend and literary executor, JuliusFrauenstädt, who for this and other offices of piety, has receivedless recognition than he deserves. The papers then published haverecently been issued afresh, with considerable additions andcorrections, by Dr. Eduard Grisebach, who is also entitled togratitude for the care with which he has followed the text of themanuscripts, now in the Royal Library at Berlin, and for having drawnattention--although in terms that are unnecessarily severe--to anumber of faults and failings on the part of the previous editor. 

The fact that all Schopenhauer's works, together with a volume of hiscorrespondence, may now be obtained in a certain cheap collection ofthe best national and foreign literature displayed in almost everybookshop in Germany, is sufficient evidence that in his own countrythe writer's popularity is still very great; nor does the demand fortranslations indicate that his fame has at all diminished abroad. Thefavour with which the new edition of his posthumous papers has beenreceived induces me, therefore, to resume a task which I thought, fiveyears ago, that I had finally completed; and it is my intention tobring out one more volume, selected partly from these papers andpartly from his _Parerga_. 

A small part of the essay on _The Art of Controversy_ was published inSchopenhauer's lifetime, in the chapter of the _Parerga_ headed _ZurLogik und Dialektik_. The intelligent reader will discover that a gooddeal of its contents is of an ironical character. As regards the lastthree essays I must observe that I have omitted such passagesas appear to be no longer of any general interest or otherwiseunsuitable. I must also confess to having taken one or two libertieswith the titles, in order that they may the more effectively fulfilthe purpose for which titles exist. In other respects I have adheredto the original with the kind of fidelity which aims at producingan impression as nearly as possible similar to that produced by theoriginal. 

T. B. S. 

February, 1896

THE ART OF CONTROVERSY. 

PRELIMINARY: LOGIC AND DIALECTIC. 

By the ancients, Logic and Dialectic were used as synonymous terms;although [Greek: logizesthai], "to think over, to consider, tocalculate, " and [Greek: dialegesthai], "to converse, " are two verydifferent things. 

The name Dialectic was, as we are informed by Diogenes Laertius, firstused by Plato; and in the _Phaedrus, Sophist, Republic_, bk. Vii. , andelsewhere, we find that by Dialectic he means the regular employmentof the reason, and skill in the practice of it. Aristotle also usesthe word in this sense; but, according to Laurentius Valla, he wasthe first to use Logic too in a similar way. [1] Dialectic, therefore, seems to be an older word than Logic. Cicero and Quintilian use thewords in the same general signification. [2]

[Footnote 1: He speaks of [Greek: dyscherelai logicai], that is, "difficult points, " [Greek: protasis logicae aporia logicae]]

[Footnote 2: Cic. _in Lucullo: Dialecticam inventam esse, veri etfalsi quasi disceptatricem. Topica_, c. 2: _Stoici enim judicandi viasdiligenter persecuti sunt, ea scientia, quam_ Dialecticen _appellant_. Quint. , lib. Ii. , 12: _Itaque haec pars dialecticae, sive illamdisputatricem dicere malimus_; and with him this latter word appearsto be the Latin equivalent for Dialectic. (So far according to "PetriRami dialectica, Audomari Talaei praelectionibus illustrata. " 1569. )]

This use of the words and synonymous terms lasted through the MiddleAges into modern times; in fact, until the present day. But morerecently, and in particular by Kant, Dialectic has often been employedin a bad sense, as meaning "the art of sophistical controversy";and hence Logic has been preferred, as of the two the more innocentdesignation. Nevertheless, both originally meant the same thing; andin the last few years they have again been recognised as synonymous. 

It is a pity that the words have thus been used from of old, and thatI am not quite at liberty to distinguish their meanings. Otherwise, Ishould have preferred to define _Logic_ (from [Greek: logos], "word"and "reason, " which are inseparable) as "the science of the laws ofthought, that is, of the method of reason"; and _Dialectic_ (from[Greek: dialegesthai], "to converse"--and every conversationcommunicates either facts or opinions, that is to say, it ishistorical or deliberative) as "the art of disputation, " in the modernsense of the word. It it clear, then, that Logic deals with a subjectof a purely _à priori_ character, separable in definition fromexperience, namely, the laws of thought, the process of reason or the[Greek: logos], the laws, that is, which reason follows when it isleft to itself and not hindered, as in the case of solitary thought onthe part of a rational being who is in no way misled. Dialectic, onthe other hand, would treat of the intercourse between two rationalbeings who, because they are rational, ought to think in common, butwho, as soon as they cease to agree like two clocks keeping exactlythe same time, create a disputation, or intellectual contest. Regardedas purely rational beings, the individuals would, I say, necessarilybe in agreement, and their variation springs from the differenceessential to individuality; in other words, it is drawn fromexperience. 

Logic, therefore, as the science of thought, or the science of theprocess of pure reason, should be capable of being constructed _àpriori_. Dialectic, for the most part, can be constructed only _àposteriori_; that is to say, we may learn its rules by an experientialknowledge of the disturbance which pure thought suffers through thedifference of individuality manifested in the intercourse betweentwo rational beings, and also by acquaintance with the means whichdisputants adopt in order to make good against one another their ownindividual thought, and to show that it is pure and objective. Forhuman nature is such that if A. And B. Are engaged in thinking incommon, and are communicating their opinions to one another on anysubject, so long as it is not a mere fact of history, and A. Perceivesthat B. 's thoughts on one and the same subject are not the same as hisown, he does not begin by revising his own process of thinking, so asto discover any mistake which he may have made, but he assumes thatthe mistake has occurred in B. 's. In other words, man is naturallyobstinate; and this quality in him is attended with certain results, treated of in the branch of knowledge which I should like to callDialectic, but which, in order to avoid misunderstanding, I shall callControversial or Eristical Dialectic. Accordingly, it is the branchof knowledge which treats of the obstinacy natural to man. Eristic isonly a harsher name for the same thing. 

Controversial Dialectic is the art of disputing, and of disputing insuch a way as to hold one's own, whether one is in the right or thewrong--_per fas et nefas_. [1] A man may be objectively in the right, and nevertheless in the eyes of bystanders, and sometimes in his own, he may come off worst. For example, I may advance a proof of someassertion, and my adversary may refute the proof, and thus appear tohave refuted the assertion, for which there may, nevertheless, beother proofs. In this case, of course, my adversary and I changeplaces: he comes off best, although, as a matter of fact, he is in thewrong. 

[Footnote 1: According to Diogenes Laertius, v. , 28, Aristotle putRhetoric and Dialectic together, as aiming at persuasion, [Greek: topithanon]; and Analytic and Philosophy as aiming at truth. Aristotledoes, indeed, distinguish between (1) _Logic_, or Analytic, as thetheory or method of arriving at true or apodeictic conclusions; and(2) _Dialectic_ as the method of arriving at conclusions that areaccepted or pass current as true, [Greek: endoxa] _probabilia_;conclusions in regard to which it is not taken for granted that theyare false, and also not taken for granted that they are true inthemselves, since that is not the point. What is this but the art ofbeing in the right, whether one has any reason for being so or not, inother words, the art of attaining the appearance of truth, regardlessof its substance? That is, then, as I put it above. 

Aristotle divides all conclusions into logical and dialectical, in themanner described, and then into eristical. (3) _Eristic_ is the methodby which the form of the conclusion is correct, but the premisses, thematerials from which it is drawn, are not true, but only appear to betrue. Finally (4) _Sophistic_ is the method in which the form of theconclusion is false, although it seems correct. These three lastproperly belong to the art of Controversial Dialectic, as they haveno objective truth in view, but only the appearance of it, and payno regard to truth itself; that is to say, they aim at victory. Aristotle's book on _Sophistic Conclusions_ was edited apart from theothers, and at a later date. It was the last book of his _Dialectic_. ]

If the reader asks how this is, I reply that it is simply thenatural baseness of human nature. If human nature were not base, butthoroughly honourable, we should in every debate have no other aimthan the discovery of truth; we should not in the least care whetherthe truth proved to be in favour of the opinion which we had begun byexpressing, or of the opinion of our adversary. That we shouldregard as a matter of no moment, or, at any rate, of very secondaryconsequence; but, as things are, it is the main concern. Ourinnate vanity, which is particularly sensitive in reference to ourintellectual powers, will not suffer us to allow that our firstposition was wrong and our adversary's right. The way out of thisdifficulty would be simply to take the trouble always to form acorrect judgment. For this a man would have to think before he spoke. But, with most men, innate vanity is accompanied by loquacity andinnate dishonesty. They speak before they think; and even though theymay afterwards perceive that they are wrong, and that what they assertis false, they want it to seem the contrary. The interest in truth, which may be presumed to have been their only motive when they statedthe proposition alleged to be true, now gives way to the interests ofvanity: and so, for the sake of vanity, what is true must seem false, and what is false must seem true. 

However, this very dishonesty, this persistence in a proposition whichseems false even to ourselves, has something to be said for it. Itoften happens that we begin with the firm conviction of the truthof our statement; but our opponent's argument appears to refute it. Should we abandon our position at once, we may discover later onthat we were right after all; the proof we offered was false, butnevertheless there was a proof for our statement which was true. Theargument which would have been our salvation did not occur to us atthe moment. Hence we make it a rule to attack a counter-argument, eventhough to all appearances it is true and forcible, in the belief thatits truth is only superficial, and that in the course of the disputeanother argument will occur to us by which we may upset it, or succeedin confirming the truth of our statement. In this way we are almostcompelled to become dishonest; or, at any rate, the temptation to doso is very great. Thus it is that the weakness of our intellect andthe perversity of our will lend each other mutual support; and that, generally, a disputant fights not for truth, but for his proposition, as though it were a battle _pro aris et focis_. He sets to work _perfas et nefas_; nay, as we have seen, he cannot easily do otherwise. As a rule, then, every man will insist on maintaining whatever hehas said, even though for the moment he may consider it false ordoubtful. [1]

[Footnote 1: Machiavelli recommends his Prince to make use of everymoment that his neighbour is weak, in order to attack him; asotherwise his neighbour may do the same. If honour and fidelityprevailed in the world, it would be a different matter; but as theseare qualities not to be expected, a man must not practise themhimself, because he will meet with a bad return. It is just the samein a dispute: if I allow that my opponent is right as soon as he seemsto be so, it is scarcely probable that he will do the same when theposition is reversed; and as he acts wrongly, I am compelled to actwrongly too. It is easy to say that we must yield to truth, withoutany prepossession in favour of our own statements; but we cannotassume that our opponent will do it, and therefore we cannot doit either. Nay, if I were to abandon the position on which I hadpreviously bestowed much thought, as soon as it appeared that he wasright, it might easily happen that I might be misled by a momentaryimpression, and give up the truth in order to accept an error. ]

To some extent every man is armed against such a procedure by his owncunning and villainy. He learns by daily experience, and thus comesto have his own _natural Dialectic_, just as he has his own _naturalLogic_. But his Dialectic is by no means as safe a guide as his Logic. It is not so easy for any one to think or draw an inference contraryto the laws of Logic; false judgments are frequent, false conclusionsvery rare. A man cannot easily be deficient in natural Logic, but hemay very easily be deficient in natural Dialectic, which is a giftapportioned in unequal measure. In so far natural Dialectic resemblesthe faculty of judgment, which differs in degree with every man; whilereason, strictly speaking, is the same. For it often happens that ina matter in which a man is really in the right, he is confounded orrefuted by merely superficial arguments; and if he emerges victoriousfrom a contest, he owes it very often not so much to the correctnessof his judgment in stating his proposition, as to the cunning andaddress with which he defended it. 

Here, as in all other cases, the best gifts are born with a man;nevertheless, much may be done to make him a master of this art bypractice, and also by a consideration of the tactics which may be usedto defeat an opponent, or which he uses himself for a similar purpose. Therefore, even though Logic may be of no very real, practical use, Dialectic may certainly be so; and Aristotle, too, seems to me tohave drawn up his Logic proper, or Analytic, as a foundation andpreparation for his Dialectic, and to have made this his chiefbusiness. Logic is concerned with the mere form of propositions;Dialectic, with their contents or matter--in a word, with theirsubstance. It was proper, therefore, to consider the general form ofall propositions before proceeding to particulars. 

Aristotle does not define the object of Dialectic as exactly as Ihave done it here; for while he allows that its principal objectis disputation, he declares at the same time that it is also thediscovery of truth. [1] Again, he says, later on, that if, from thephilosophical point of view, propositions are dealt with according totheir truth, Dialectic regards them according to their plausibility, or the measure in which they will win the approval and assent ofothers. [2] He is aware that the objective truth of a proposition mustbe distinguished and separated from the way in which it is pressedhome, and approbation won for it; but he fails to draw a sufficientlysharp distinction between these two aspects of the matter, so as toreserve Dialectic for the latter alone. [3] The rules which he oftengives for Dialectic contain some of those which properly belong toLogic; and hence it appears to me that he has not provided a clearsolution of the problem. 

[Footnote 1: _Topica_, bk. I. , 2. ]

[Footnote 2: _Ib_. , 12. ]

[Footnote 3: On the other hand, in his book _De Sophisticis Elenchis_, he takes too much trouble to separate _Dialectic_ from _Sophistic_and _Eristic_, where the distinction is said to consist in this, thatdialectical conclusions are true in their form and their contents, while sophistical and eristical conclusions are false. 

Eristic so far differs from Sophistic that, while the master ofEristic aims at mere victory, the Sophist looks to the reputation, and with it, the monetary rewards which he will gain. But whether aproposition is true in respect of its contents is far too uncertain amatter to form the foundation of the distinction in question; andit is a matter on which the disputant least of all can arrive atcertainty; nor is it disclosed in any very sure form even by theresult of the disputation. Therefore, when Aristotle speaks of_Dialectic_, we must include in it Sophistic, Eristic, and Peirastic, and define it as "the art of getting the best of it in a dispute, " inwhich, unquestionably, the safest plan is to be in the right to beginwith; but this in itself is not enough in the existing dispositionof mankind, and, on the other hand, with the weakness of the humanintellect, it is not altogether necessary. Other expedients arerequired, which, just because they are unnecessary to the attainmentof objective truth, may also be used when a man is objectively in thewrong; and whether or not this is the case, is hardly ever a matter ofcomplete certainty. 

I am of opinion, therefore, that a sharper distinction should be drawnbetween Dialectic and Logic than Aristotle has given us; that to Logicwe should assign objective truth as far as it is merely formal, andthat Dialectic should be confined to the art of gaining one's point, and contrarily, that Sophistic and Eristic should not be distinguishedfrom Dialectic in Aristotle's fashion, since the difference which hedraws rests on objective and material truth; and in regard to whatthis is, we cannot attain any clear certainty before discussion; butwe are compelled, with Pilate, to ask, _What is truth_? For truthis in the depths, [Greek: en butho hae halaetheia] (a saying ofDemocritus, _Diog. Laert_. , ix. , 72). Two men often engage in a warmdispute, and then return to their homes each of the other's opinion, which he has exchanged for his own. It is easy to say that in everydispute we should have no other aim than the advancement of truth; butbefore dispute no one knows where it is, and through his opponent'sarguments and his own a man is misled. ]

We must always keep the subject of one branch of knowledge quitedistinct from that of any other. To form a clear idea of the provinceof Dialectic, we must pay no attention to objective truth, which is anaffair of Logic; we must regard it simply as _the art of getting thebest of it in a dispute_, which, as we have seen, is all the easier ifwe are actually in the right. In itself Dialectic has nothing to dobut to show how a man may defend himself against attacks of everykind, and especially against dishonest attacks; and, in thesame fashion, how he may attack another man's statement withoutcontradicting himself, or generally without being defeated. Thediscovery of objective truth must be separated from the art of winningacceptance for propositions; for objective truth is an entirelydifferent matter: it is the business of sound judgment, reflection andexperience, for which there is no special art. 

Such, then, is the aim of Dialectic. It has been defined as the Logicof appearance; but the definition is a wrong one, as in that case itcould only be used to repel false propositions. But even when a manhas the right on his side, he needs Dialectic in order to defend andmaintain it; he must know what the dishonest tricks are, in order tomeet them; nay, he must often make use of them himself, so as to beatthe enemy with his own weapons. 

Accordingly, in a dialectical contest we must put objective truthaside, or, rather, we must regard it as an accidental circumstance, and look only to the defence of our own position and the refutation ofour opponent's. 

In following out the rules to this end, no respect should be paid toobjective truth, because we usually do not know where the truth lies. As I have said, a man often does not himself know whether he is in theright or not; he often believes it, and is mistaken: both sides oftenbelieve it. Truth is in the depths. At the beginning of a contest eachman believes, as a rule, that right is on his side; in the course ofit, both become doubtful, and the truth is not determined or confirmeduntil the close. 

Dialectic, then, need have nothing to do with truth, as little as thefencing master considers who is in the right when a dispute leads to aduel. Thrust and parry is the whole business. Dialectic is the art ofintellectual fencing; and it is only when we so regard it that we canerect it into a branch of knowledge. For if we take purely objectivetruth as our aim, we are reduced to mere Logic; if we take themaintenance of false propositions, it is mere Sophistic; and in eithercase it would have to be assumed that we were aware of what was trueand what was false; and it is seldom that we have any clear idea ofthe truth beforehand. The true conception of Dialectic is, then, thatwhich we have formed: it is the art of intellectual fencing used forthe purpose of getting the best of it in a dispute; and, although thename _Eristic_ would be more suitable, it is more correct to call itcontroversial Dialectic, _Dialectica eristica_. 

Dialectic in this sense of the word has no other aim but to reduceto a regular system and collect and exhibit the arts which most menemploy when they observe, in a dispute, that truth is not on theirside, and still attempt to gain the day. Hence, it would be veryinexpedient to pay any regard to objective truth or its advancement ina science of Dialectic; since this is not done in that original andnatural Dialectic innate in men, where they strive for nothing butvictory. The science of Dialectic, in one sense of the word, is mainlyconcerned to tabulate and analyse dishonest stratagems, in order thatin a real debate they may be at once recognised and defeated. It isfor this very reason that Dialectic must admittedly take victory, andnot objective truth, for its aim and purpose. 

I am not aware that anything has been done in this direction, although I have made inquiries far and wide. [1] It is, therefore, anuncultivated soil. To accomplish our purpose, we must draw from ourexperience; we must observe how in the debates which often arise inour intercourse with our fellow-men this or that stratagem is employedby one side or the other. By finding out the common elements in tricksrepeated in different forms, we shall be enabled to exhibit certaingeneral stratagems which may be advantageous, as well for our own use, as for frustrating others if they use them. 

[Footnote 1: Diogenes Laertes tells us that among the numerouswritings on Rhetoric by Theophrastus, all of which have been lost, there was one entitled [Greek: Agonistikon taes peri tous eristikousgogous theorias. ] That would have been just what we want. ]

What follows is to be regarded as a first attempt. 

THE BASIS OF ALL DIALECTIC. 

First of all, we must consider the essential nature of every dispute:what it is that really takes place in it. 

Our opponent has stated a thesis, or we ourselves, --it is all one. There are two modes of refuting it, and two courses that we maypursue. 

I. The modes are (1) _ad rem_, (2) _ad hominem_ or _ex concessis_. That is to say: We may show either that the proposition is not inaccordance with the nature of things, i. E. , with absolute, objectivetruth; or that it is inconsistent with other statements or admissionsof our opponent, i. E. , with truth as it appears to him. The lattermode of arguing a question produces only a relative conviction, andmakes no difference whatever to the objective truth of the matter. 

II. The two courses that we may pursue are (1) the direct, and (2) theindirect refutation. The direct attacks the reason for the thesis; theindirect, its results. The direct refutation shows that the thesis isnot true; the indirect, that it cannot be true. 

The direct course admits of a twofold procedure. Either we mayshow that the reasons for the statement are false (_nego majorem, minorem_); or we may admit the reasons or premisses, but show that thestatement does not follow from them (_nego consequentiam)_; that is, we attack the conclusion or form of the syllogism. 

The direct refutation makes use either of the _diversion_ or of the_instance_. 

_(a)_ The _diversion_. --We accept our opponent's proposition as true, and then show what follows from it when we bring it into connectionwith some other proposition acknowledged to be true. We use the twopropositions as the premisses of a syllogism giving a conclusion whichis manifestly false, as contradicting either the nature of things, [1]or other statements of our opponent himself; that is to say, theconclusion is false either _ad rem_ or _ad hominem_. [2] Consequently, our opponent's proposition must have been false; for, while truepremisses can give only a true conclusion, false premisses need notalways give a false one. 

[Footnote 1: If it is in direct contradiction with a perfectlyundoubted, truth, we have reduced our opponent's position _adabsurdum_. ]

[Footnote 2: Socrates, in _Hippia Maj. Et alias_. ]

_(b) The instance_, or the example to the contrary. --This consists inrefuting the general proposition by direct reference to particularcases which are included in it in the way in which it is stated, butto which it does not apply, and by which it is therefore shown to benecessarily false. 

Such is the framework or skeleton of all forms of disputation; for tothis every kind of controversy may be ultimately reduced. The whole ofa controversy may, however, actually proceed in the manner described, or only appear to do so; and it may be supported by genuine orspurious arguments. It is just because it is not easy to make outthe truth in regard to this matter, that debates are so long and soobstinate. 

Nor can we, in ordering the argument, separate actual from apparenttruth, since even the disputants are not certain about it beforehand. Therefore I shall describe the various tricks or stratagems withoutregard to questions of objective truth or falsity; for that is amatter on which we have no assurance, and which cannot be determinedpreviously. Moreover, in every disputation or argument on any subjectwe must agree about something; and by this, as a principle, we must bewilling to judge the matter in question. We cannot argue with thosewho deny principles: _Contra negantem principia non est disputandum_. 

STRATAGEMS. 

I. 

The _Extension_. --This consists in carrying your opponent'sproposition beyond its natural limits; in giving it as general asignification and as wide a sense as possible, so as to exaggerate it;and, on the other hand, in giving your own proposition as restricteda sense and as narrow limits as you can, because the more general astatement becomes, the more numerous are the objections to which it isopen. The defence consists in an accurate statement of the point oressential question at issue. 

Example 1. --I asserted that the English were supreme in drama. Myopponent attempted _to_ give an instance to the contrary, and repliedthat it was a well-known fact that in music, and consequently inopera, they could do nothing at all. I repelled the attack byreminding him that music was not included in dramatic art, whichcovered tragedy and comedy alone. This he knew very well. What he haddone was to try to generalise my proposition, so that it would applyto all theatrical representations, and, consequently, to opera andthen to music, in order to make certain of defeating me. Contrarily, we may save our proposition by reducing it within narrower limitsthan we had first intended, if our way of expressing it favours thisexpedient. 

Example 2. --A. Declares that the Peace of 1814 gave back theirindependence to all the German towns of the Hanseatic League. B. Givesan instance to the contrary by reciting the fact that Dantzig, whichreceived its independence from Buonaparte, lost it by that Peace. A. Saves himself thus: "I said 'all German towns, ' and Dantzig was inPoland. "

This trick was mentioned by Aristotle in the _Topica_ (bk. Viii. , cc. 11, 12). 

Example 3. --Lamarck, in his _Philosophic Zoologique_ (vol. I. , p. 208), states that the polype has no feeling, because it has no nerves. It is certain, however, that it has some sort of perception; for itadvances towards light by moving in an ingenious fashion from branchto branch, and it seizes its prey. Hence it has been assumed that itsnervous system is spread over the whole of its body in equal measure, as though it were blended with it; for it is obvious that the polypepossesses some faculty of perception without having any separateorgans of sense. Since this assumption refutes Lamarck's position, heargues thus: "In that case all parts of its body must be capable ofevery kind of feeling, and also of motion, of will, of thought. Thepolype would have all the organs of the most perfect animal in everypoint of its body; every point could see, smell, taste, hear, and soon; nay, it could think, judge, and draw conclusions; every particleof its body would be a perfect animal and it would stand higher thanman, as every part of it would possess all the faculties which manpossesses only in the whole of him. Further, there would be no reasonfor not extending what is true of the polype to all monads, the mostimperfect of all creatures, and ultimately to the plants, which arealso alive, etc. , etc. " By using dialectical tricks of this kind awriter betrays that he is secretly conscious of being in the wrong. Because it was said that the creature's whole body is sensitive tolight, and is therefore possessed of nerves, he makes out that itswhole body is capable of thought. 

II. 

The _Homonymy_. --This trick is to extend a proposition to somethingwhich has little or nothing in common with the matter in question butthe similarity of the word; then to refute it triumphantly, and soclaim credit for having refuted the original statement. 

It may be noted here that synonyms are two words for the sameconception; homonyms, two conceptions which are covered by the sameword. (See Aristotle, _Topica_, bk. I. , c. 13. ) "Deep, " "cutting, ""high, " used at one moment of bodies at another of tones, arehomonyms; "honourable" and "honest" are synonyms. 

This is a trick which may be regarded as identical with the sophism_ex homonymia_; although, if the sophism is obvious, it will deceiveno one. 

 _Every light can be extinguished. The intellect is a light. Therefore it can be extinguished_. 

Here it is at once clear that there are four terms in the syllogism, "light" being used both in a real and in a metaphorical sense. But ifthe sophism takes a subtle form, it is, of course, apt to mislead, especially where the conceptions which are covered by the same wordare related, and inclined to be interchangeable. It is never subtleenough to deceive, if it is used intentionally; and therefore cases ofit must be collected from actual and individual experience. 

It would be a very good thing if every trick could receive some shortand obviously appropriate name, so that when a man used this or thatparticular trick, he could be at once reproached for it. 

I will give two examples of the homonymy. 

Example 1. --A. : "You are not yet initiated into the mysteries of theKantian philosophy. "

B. : "Oh, if it's mysteries you're talking of, I'll have nothing to dowith them. "

Example 2. --I condemned the principle involved in the word _honour_as a foolish one; for, according to it, a man loses his honour byreceiving an insult, which he cannot wipe out unless he replies with astill greater insult, or by shedding his adversary's blood or his own. I contended that a man's true honour cannot be outraged by what hesuffers, but only and alone by what he does; for there is no sayingwhat may befall any one of us. My opponent immediately attackedthe reason I had given, and triumphantly proved to me that when atradesman was falsely accused of misrepresentation, dishonesty, orneglect in his business, it was an attack upon his honour, which inthis case was outraged solely by what he suffered, and that he couldonly retrieve it by punishing his aggressor and making him retract. 

Here, by a homonymy, he was foisting _civic honour_, which isotherwise called _good name_, and which may be outraged by libel andslander, on to the conception of _knightly honour_, also called _pointd'honneur_, which may be outraged by insult. And since an attack onthe former cannot be disregarded, but must be repelled by publicdisproof, so, with the same justification, an attack on the lattermust not be disregarded either, but it must be defeated by stillgreater insult and a duel. Here we have a confusion of two essentiallydifferent things through the homonymy in the word _honour_, and aconsequent alteration of the point in dispute. 

III. 

Another trick is to take a proposition which is laid down relatively, and in reference to some particular matter, as though it were utteredwith a general or absolute application; or, at least, to take it insome quite different sense, and then refute it. Aristotle's example isas follows:

A Moor is black; but in regard to his teeth he is white; therefore, heis black and not black at the same moment. This is an obvious sophism, which will deceive no one. Let us contrast it with one drawn fromactual experience. 

In talking of philosophy, I admitted that my system upheld theQuietists, and commended them. Shortly afterwards the conversationturned upon Hegel, and I maintained that his writings were mostlynonsense; or, at any rate, that there were many passages in them wherethe author wrote the words, and it was left to the reader to find ameaning for them. My opponent did not attempt to refute this assertion_ad rem_, but contented himself by advancing the _argumentum adhominem_, and telling me that I had just been praising the Quietists, and that they had written a good deal of nonsense too. 

This I admitted; but, by way of correcting him, I said that I hadpraised the Quietists, not as philosophers and writers, that is tosay, for their achievements in the sphere of _theory_, but only asmen, and for their conduct in mere matters of _practice_; and that inHegel's case we were talking of theories. In this way I parried theattack. 

The first three tricks are of a kindred character. They have thisin common, that something different is attacked from that which wasasserted. It would therefore be an _ignoratio elenchi_ to allowoneself to be disposed of in such a manner. 

For in all the examples that I have given, what the opponent says istrue, but it stands in apparent and not in real contradiction with thethesis. All that the man whom he is attacking has to do is to deny thevalidity of his syllogism; to deny, namely, the conclusion which hedraws, that because his proposition is true, ours is false. In thisway his refutation is itself directly refuted by a denial of hisconclusion, _per negationem consequentiae_. Another trick is to refuseto admit true premisses because of a foreseen conclusion. There aretwo ways of defeating it, incorporated in the next two sections. 

IV. 

If you want to draw a conclusion, you must not let it be foreseen, butyou must get the premisses admitted one by one, unobserved, minglingthem here and there in your talk; otherwise, your opponent willattempt all sorts of chicanery. Or, if it is doubtful whether youropponent will admit them, you must advance the premisses of thesepremisses; that is to say, you must draw up pro-syllogisms, and getthe premisses of several of them admitted in no definite order. In this way you conceal your game until you have obtained all theadmissions that are necessary, and so reach your goal by making acircuit. These rules are given by Aristotle in his _Topica_, bk. Viii. , c. 1. It is a trick which needs no illustration. 

V. 

To prove the truth of a proposition, you may also employ previouspropositions that are not true, should your opponent refuse to admitthe true ones, either because he fails to perceive their truth, orbecause he sees that the thesis immediately follows from them. In thatcase the plan is to take propositions which are false in themselvesbut true for your opponent, and argue from the way in which he thinks, that is to say, _ex concessis_. For a true conclusion may followfrom false premisses, but not _vice versâ_. In the same fashionyour opponent's false propositions may be refuted by other falsepropositions, which he, however, takes to be true; for it is with himthat you have to do, and you must use the thoughts that he uses. Forinstance, if he is a member of some sect to which you do not belong, you may employ the declared, opinions of this sect against him, asprinciples. [1]

[Footnote 1: Aristotle, _Topica_ bk. Viii. , chap. 2. ]

VI. 

Another plan is to beg the question in disguise by postulating whathas to be proved, either (1) under another name; for instance, "goodrepute" instead of "honour"; "virtue" instead of "virginity, " etc. ;or by using such convertible terms as "red-blooded animals" and"vertebrates"; or (2) by making a general assumption covering theparticular point in dispute; for instance, maintaining the uncertaintyof medicine by postulating the uncertainty of all human knowledge. (3)If, _vice versâ_, two things follow one from the other, and one is tobe proved, you may postulate the other. (4) If a general propositionis to be proved, you may get your opponent to admit every one of theparticulars. This is the converse of the second. [1]

[Footnote 1: _Idem_, chap. 11. The last chapter of this work containssome good rules for the practice of Dialectics. ]

VII. 

Should the disputation be conducted on somewhat strict and formallines, and there be a desire to arrive at a very clear understanding, he who states the proposition and wants to prove it may proceedagainst his opponent by question, in order to show the truth of thestatement from his admissions. The erotematic, or Socratic, method wasespecially in use among the ancients; and this and some of the tricksfollowing later on are akin to it. [1]

[Footnote 1: They are all a free version of chap. 15 of Aristotle's_De Sophistici Elenchis_. ]

The plan is to ask a great many wide-reaching questions at once, so asto hide what you want to get admitted, and, on the other hand, quicklypropound the argument resulting from the admissions; for those who areslow of understanding cannot follow accurately, and do not notice anymistakes or gaps there may be in the demonstration. 

VIII. 

This trick consists in making your opponent angry; for when he isangry he is incapable of judging aright, and perceiving wherehis advantage lies. You can make him angry by doing him repeatedinjustice, or practising some kind of chicanery, and being generallyinsolent. 

IX. 

Or you may put questions in an order different from that which theconclusion to be drawn from them requires, and transpose them, soas not to let him know at what you are aiming. He can then take noprecautions. You may also use his answers for different or evenopposite conclusions, according to their character. This is akin tothe trick of masking your procedure. 

X. 

If you observe that your opponent designedly returns a negative answerto the questions which, for the sake of your proposition, you wanthim to answer in the affirmative, you must ask the converse of theproposition, as though it were that which you were anxious to seeaffirmed; or, at any rate, you may give him his choice of both, sothat he may not perceive which of them you are asking him to affirm. 

XL. 

If you make an induction, and your opponent grants you the particularcases by which it is to be supported, you must refrain from asking himif he also admits the general truth which issues from the particulars, but introduce it afterwards as a settled and admitted fact; for, inthe meanwhile, he will himself come to believe that he has admittedit, and the same impression will be received by the audience, becausethey will remember the many questions as to the particulars, andsuppose that they must, of course, have attained their end. 

XII. 

If the conversation turns upon some general conception which hasno particular name, but requires some figurative or metaphoricaldesignation, you must begin by choosing a metaphor that is favourableto your proposition. For instance, the names used to denote the twopolitical parties in Spain, _Serviles_ and _Liberates_, are obviouslychosen by the latter. The name _Protestants_ is chosen by themselves, and also the name _Evangelicals_; but the Catholics call them_heretics_. Similarly, in regard to the names of things which admitof a more exact and definite meaning: for example, if your opponentproposes an _alteration_, you can call it an _innovation_, as this isan invidious word. If you yourself make the proposal, it will be theconverse. In the first case, you can call the antagonistic principle"the existing order, " in the second, "antiquated prejudice. " What animpartial man with no further purpose to serve would call "publicworship" or a "system of religion, " is described by an adherent as"piety, " "godliness": and by an opponent as "bigotry, " "superstition. "This is, at bottom, a subtle _petitio principii_. What is sought to beproved is, first of all, inserted in the definition, whence it is thentaken by mere analysis. What one man calls "placing in safe custody, "another calls "throwing into prison. " A speaker often betrays hispurpose beforehand by the names which he gives to things. One mantalks of "the clergy"; another, of "the priests. "

Of all the tricks of controversy, this is the most frequent, and it isused instinctively. You hear of "religious zeal, " or "fanaticism"; a"_faux pas_" a "piece of gallantry, " or "adultery"; an "equivocal, " ora "bawdy" story; "embarrassment, " or "bankruptcy"; "through influenceand connection, " or by "bribery and nepotism"; "sincere gratitude, " or"good pay. "

XIII. 

To make your opponent accept a proposition, you must give him thecounter-proposition as well, leaving him his choice of the two; andyou must render the contrast as glaring as you can, so that to avoidbeing paradoxical he will accept the proposition, which is thus madeto look quite probable. For instance, if you want to make him admitthat a boy must do everything that his father tells him to do, ask him"whether in all things we must obey or disobey our parents. " Or, ifa thing is said to occur "often, " ask whether by "often" you are tounderstand few or many cases; and he will say "many. " It is as thoughyou were to put grey next black, and call it white; or next white, andcall it black. 

XIV. 

This, which is an impudent trick, is played as follows: When youropponent has answered several of your questions without the answersturning out favourable to the conclusion at which you are aiming, advance the desired conclusion, --although it does not in the leastfollow, --as though it had been proved, and proclaim it in a tone oftriumph. If your opponent is shy or stupid, and you yourself possessa great deal of impudence and a good voice, the trick may easilysucceed. It is akin to the fallacy _non causae ut causae_. 

XV. 

If you have advanced a paradoxical proposition and find a difficultyin proving it, you may submit for your opponent's acceptance orrejection some true proposition, the truth of which, however, is notquite palpable, as though you wished to draw your proof from it. Should he reject it because he suspects a trick, you can obtain yourtriumph by showing how absurd he is; should he accept it> you have gotreason on your side for the moment, and must now look about you; orelse you can employ the previous trick as well, and maintain that yourparadox is proved by the proposition which he has accepted. For thisan extreme degree of impudence is required; but experience shows casesof it, and there are people who practise it by instinct. 

XVI. 

Another trick is to use arguments _ad hominem_, or _ex concessis_[1]When your opponent makes a proposition, you must try to see whether itis not in some way--if needs be, only apparently--inconsistent withsome other proposition which he has made or admitted, or with theprinciples of a school or sect which he has commended and approved, orwith the actions of those who support the sect, or else of those whogive it only an apparent and spurious support, or with his own actionsor want of action. For example, should he defend suicide, you may atonce exclaim, "Why don't you hang yourself?" Should he maintain thatBerlin is an unpleasant place to live in, you may say, "Why don't youleave by the first train?" Some such claptrap is always possible. 

[Footnote 1: The truth from which I draw my proof may he either (1) ofan objective and universally valid character; in that case my proof isveracious, _secundum veritatem_; and it is such proof alone that hasany genuine validity. Or (2) it may be valid only for the person towhom I wish to prove my proposition, and with whom I am disputing. Hehas, that is to say, either taken up some position once for all as aprejudice, or hastily admitted it in the course of the dispute; andon this I ground my proof. In that case, it is a proof valid only forthis particular man, _ad kominem. I_ compel my opponent to grantmy proposition, but I fail to establish it as a truth of universalvalidity. My proof avails for my opponent alone, but for no one else. For example, if my opponent is a devotee of Kant's, and I ground myproof on some utterance of that philosopher, it is a proof which initself is only _ad hominem_. If he is a Mohammedan, I may prove mypoint by reference to a passage in the Koran, and that is sufficientfor him; but here it is only a proof _ad hominem_, ]

XVII. 

If your opponent presses you with a counter-proof, you will often beable to save yourself by advancing some subtle distinction, which, itis true, had not previously occurred to you; that is, if the matteradmits of a double application, or of being taken in any ambiguoussense. 

XVIII. 

If you observe that your opponent has taken up a line of argumentwhich will end in your defeat, you must not allow him to carry it toits conclusion, but interrupt the course of the dispute in time, orbreak it off altogether, or lead him away from the subject, and bringhim to others. In short, you must effect the trick which will benoticed later on, the _mutatio controversiae_. (See § xxix. )

XIX. 

Should your opponent expressly challenge you to produce any objectionto some definite point in his argument, and you have nothing much tosay, you must try to give the matter a general turn, and then talkagainst that. If you are called upon to say why a particular physicalhypothesis cannot be accepted, you may speak of the fallibility ofhuman knowledge, and give various illustrations of it. 

XX. 

When you have elicited all your premisses, and your opponent hasadmitted them, you must refrain from asking him for the conclusion, but draw it at once for yourself; nay, even though one or other of thepremisses should be lacking, you may take it as though it too had beenadmitted, and draw the conclusion. This trick is an application of thefallacy _non causae ut causae_. 

XXI. 

When your opponent uses a merely superficial or sophistical argumentand you see through it, you can, it is true, refute it by settingforth its captious and superficial character; but it is better tomeet him with a counter-argument which is just as superficial andsophistical, and so dispose of him; for it is with victory that youare concerned, and not with truth. If, for example, he adopts an_argumentum ad hominem_, it is sufficient to take the force out of itby a counter _argumentum ad hominem_ or _argumentum ex concessis_;and, in general, instead of setting forth the true state of the caseat equal length, it is shorter to take this course if it lies open toyou. 

XXII. 

If your opponent requires you to admit something from which thepoint in dispute will immediately follow, you must refuse to do so, declaring that it is a _petitio principii_ For he and the audiencewill regard a proposition which is near akin to the point in disputeas identical with it, and in this way you deprive him of his bestargument. 

XXIII. 

Contradiction and contention irritate a man into exaggerating hisstatement. By contradicting your opponent you may drive him intoextending beyond its proper limits a statement which, at all eventswithin those limits and in itself, is true; and when you refute thisexaggerated form of it, you look as though you had also refuted hisoriginal statement. Contrarily, you must take care not to allowyourself to be misled by contradictions into exaggerating or extendinga statement of your own. It will often happen that your opponent willhimself directly try to extend your statement further than you meantit; here you must at once stop him, and bring him back to the limitswhich you set up; "That's what I said, and no more. "

XXIV. 

This trick consists in stating a false syllogism. Your opponent makesa proposition, and by false inference and distortion of his ideas youforce from it other propositions which it does not contain and he doesnot in the least mean; nay, which are absurd or dangerous. It thenlooks as if his proposition gave rise to others which are inconsistenteither with themselves or with some acknowledged truth, and so itappears to be indirectly refuted. This is the _diversion_, and it isanother application of the fallacy _non causae ut causae_. 

XXV. 

This is a case of the _diversion_ by means of an _instance to thecontrary_. With an induction ([Greek: epagogae]), a great numberof particular instances are required in order to establish it as auniversal proposition; but with the _diversion_ ([Greek: apagogae]) asingle instance, to which the proposition does not apply, is all thatis necessary to overthrow it. This is a controversial method knownas the _instance_--_instantia_, [Greek: enstasis]. For example, "allruminants are horned" is a proposition which may be upset by thesingle instance of the camel. The _instance_ is a case in which auniversal truth is sought to be applied, and something is inserted inthe fundamental definition of it which is not universally true, and bywhich it is upset. But there is room for mistake; and when this trickis employed by your opponent, you must observe (1) whether the examplewhich he gives is really true; for there are problems of which theonly true solution is that the case in point is not true--for example, many miracles, ghost stories, and so on; and (2) whether it reallycomes under the conception of the truth thus stated; for it may onlyappear to do so, and the matter is one to be settled by precisedistinctions; and (3) whether it is really inconsistent with thisconception; for this again may be only an apparent inconsistency. 

XXVI. 

A brilliant move is the _retorsio argumenti_, or turning of thetables, by which your opponent's argument is turned against himself. He declares, for instance, "So-and-so is a child, you must makeallowance for him. " You retort, "Just because he is a child, I mustcorrect him; otherwise he will persist in his bad habits. "

XXVII. 

Should your opponent surprise you by becoming particularly angry at anargument, you must urge it with all the more zeal; not only because itis a good thing to make him angry, but because it may be presumed thatyou have here put your finger on the weak side of his case, and thatjust here he is more open to attack than even for the moment youperceive. 

XXVIII. 

This is chiefly practicable in a dispute between scholars in thepresence of the unlearned. If you have no argument _ad rem_, and noneeither _ad hominem_, you can make one _ad auditores_; that is to say, you can start some invalid objection, which, however, only an expertsees to be invalid. Now your opponent is an expert, but those who formyour audience are not, and accordingly in their eyes he is defeated;particularly if the objection which you make places him in anyridiculous light. People are ready to laugh, and you have the laugherson your side. To show that your objection is an idle one, wouldrequire a long explanation on the part of your opponent, and areference to the principles of the branch of knowledge in question, orto the elements of the matter which you are discussing; and people arenot disposed to listen to it. 

For example, your opponent states that in the original formation of amountain-range the granite and other elements in its composition were, by reason of their high temperature, in a fluid or molten state; thatthe temperature must have amounted to some 480° Fahrenheit; and thatwhen the mass took shape it was covered by the sea. You reply, by anargument _ad auditores_, that at that temperature--nay, indeed, longbefore it had been reached, namely, at 212° Fahrenheit--the sea wouldhave been boiled away, and spread through the air in the form ofsteam. At this the audience laughs. To refute the objection, youropponent would have to show that the boiling-point depends not only onthe degree of warmth, but also on the atmospheric pressure; and thatas soon as about half the sea-water had gone off in the shape ofsteam, this pressure would be so greatly increased that the rest of itwould fail to boil even at a temperature of 480°. He is debarred fromgiving this explanation, as it would require a treatise to demonstratethe matter to those who had no acquaintance with physics. 

XXIX. [1]

[Footnote 1: See § xviii. ]

If you find that you are being worsted, you can make a_diversion_--that is, you can suddenly begin to talk of somethingelse, as though it had a bearing on the matter in dispute, andafforded an argument against your opponent. This may be done withoutpresumption if the diversion has, in fact, some general bearing on thematter; but it is a piece of impudence if it has nothing to do withthe case, and is only brought in by way of attacking your opponent. 

For example, I praised the system prevailing in China, where there isno such thing as hereditary nobility, and offices are bestowed only onthose who succeed in competitive examinations. My opponent maintainedthat learning, as little as the privilege of birth (of which he had ahigh opinion) fits a man for office. We argued, and he got the worstof it. Then he made a diversion, and declared that in China allranks were punished with the bastinado, which he connected with theimmoderate indulgence in tea, and proceeded to make both of them asubject of reproach to the Chinese. To follow him into all this wouldhave been to allow oneself to be drawn into a surrender of the victorywhich had already been won. 

The diversion is mere impudence if it completely abandons the point indispute, and raises, for instance, some such objection as "Yes, andyou also said just now, " and so on. For then the argument becomes tosome extent personal; of the kind which will be treated of in the lastsection. Strictly speaking, it is half-way between the _argumentumad personam_, which will there be discussed, and the _argumentum adhominem_. 

How very innate this trick is, may be seen in every quarrel betweencommon people. If one of the parties makes some personal reproachagainst the other, the latter, instead of answering it by refuting it, allows it to stand, --as it were, admits it; and replies by reproachinghis antagonist on some other ground. This is a stratagem like thatpursued by Scipio when he attacked the Carthaginians, not in Italy, but in Africa. In war, diversions of this kind may be profitable; butin a quarrel they are poor expedients, because the reproaches remain, and those who look on hear the worst that can be said of both parties. It is a trick that should be used only _faute de mieux_. 

XXX. 

This is the _argumentum ad verecundiam_. It consists in making anappeal to authority rather than reason, and in using such an authorityas may suit the degree of knowledge possessed by your opponent. 

Every man prefers belief to the exercise of judgment, says Seneca; andit is therefore an easy matter if you have an authority on your sidewhich your opponent respects. The more limited his capacity andknowledge, the greater is the number of the authorities who weigh withhim. But if his capacity and knowledge are of a high order, thereare very few; indeed, hardly any at all. He may, perhaps, admit theauthority of professional men versed in a science or an art or ahandicraft of which he knows little or nothing; but even so he willregard it with suspicion. Contrarily, ordinary folk have a deeprespect for professional men of every kind. They are unaware thata man who makes a profession of a thing loves it not for the thingitself, but for the money he makes by it; or that it is rare for a manwho teaches to know his subject thoroughly; for if he studies it as heought, he has in most cases no time left in which to teach it. 

But there are very many authorities who find respect with the mob, andif you have none that is quite suitable, you can take one that appearsto be so; you may quote what some said in another sense or in othercircumstances. Authorities which your opponent fails to understand arethose of which he generally thinks the most. The unlearned entertain apeculiar respect for a Greek or a Latin flourish. You may also, shouldit be necessary, not only twist your authorities, but actually falsifythem, or quote something which you have invented entirely yourself. Asa rule, your opponent has no books at hand, and could not use them ifhe had. The finest illustration of this is furnished by the French_curé_, who, to avoid being compelled, like other citizens, to pavethe street in front of his house, quoted a saying which he describedas biblical: _paveant illi, ego non pavebo_. That was quite enough forthe municipal officers. A universal prejudice may also be used as anauthority; for most people think with Aristotle that that may be saidto exist which many believe. There is no opinion, however absurd, which men will not readily embrace as soon as they can be brought tothe conviction that it is generally adopted. Example affects theirthought just as it affects their action. They are like sheep followingthe bell-wether just as he leads them. They would sooner die thanthink. It is very curious that the universality of an opinion shouldhave so much weight with people, as their own experience might tellthem that its acceptance is an entirely thoughtless and merelyimitative process. But it tells them nothing of the kind, because theypossess no self-knowledge whatever. It is only the elect Who Say withPlato: [Greek: tois pollois polla dokei] which means that the publichas a good many bees in its bonnet, and that it would be a longbusiness to get at them. 

But to speak seriously, the universality of an opinion is no proof, nay, it is not even a probability, that the opinion is right. Thosewho maintain that it is so must assume (1) that length of timedeprives a universal opinion of its demonstrative force, as otherwiseall the old errors which were once universally held to be true wouldhave to be recalled; for instance, the Ptolemaic system would haveto be restored, or Catholicism re-established in all Protestantcountries. They must assume (2) that distance of space has the sameeffect; otherwise the respective universality of opinion among theadherents of Buddhism, Christianity, and Islam will put them in adifficulty. 

When we come to look into the matter, so-called universal opinion isthe opinion of two or three persons; and we should be persuaded ofthis if we could see the way in which it really arises. 

We should find that it is two or three persons who, in the firstinstance, accepted it, or advanced and maintained it; and of whompeople were so good as to believe that they had thoroughly tested it. Then a few other persons, persuaded beforehand that the first were menof the requisite capacity, also accepted the opinion. These, again, were trusted by many others, whose laziness suggested to them that itwas better to believe at once, than to go through the troublesome taskof testing the matter for themselves. Thus the number of these lazyand credulous adherents grew from day to day; for the opinion had nosooner obtained a fair measure of support than its further supportersattributed this to the fact that the opinion could only have obtainedit by the cogency of its arguments. The remainder were then compelledto grant what was universally granted, so as not to pass for unrulypersons who resisted opinions which every one accepted, or pertfellows who thought themselves cleverer than any one else. 

When opinion reaches this stage, adhesion becomes a duty; andhenceforward the few who are capable of forming a judgment hold theirpeace. Those who venture to speak are such as are entirely incapableof forming any opinions or any judgment of their own, being merely theecho of others' opinions; and, nevertheless, they defend them with allthe greater zeal and intolerance. For what they hate in people whothink differently is not so much the different opinions which theyprofess, as the presumption of wanting to form their own judgment; apresumption of which they themselves are never guilty, as they arevery well aware. In short, there are very few who can think, butevery man wants to have an opinion; and what remains but to take itready-made from others, instead of forming opinions for himself?

Since this is what happens, where is the value of the opinion even ofa hundred millions? It is no more established than an historicalfact reported by a hundred chroniclers who can be proved to haveplagiarised it from one another; the opinion in the end beingtraceable to a single individual. [1] It is all what I say, what yousay, and, finally, what he says; and the whole of it is nothing but aseries of assertions:

[Footnote 1: See Bayle's _Pensées sur les Comètes_, i. , p. 10. ]

 _Dico ego, tu dicis, sed denique dixit et ille; Dictaque post toties, nil nisi dicta vides_. 

Nevertheless, in a dispute with ordinary people, we may employuniversal opinion as an authority. For it will generally be found thatwhen two of them are fighting, that is the weapon which both of themchoose as a means of attack. If a man of the better sort has to dealwith them, it is most advisable for him to condescend to the useof this weapon too, and to select such authorities as will make animpression on his opponent's weak side. For, _ex hypoihesi_, he is asinsensible to all rational argument as a horny-hided Siegfried, dippedin the flood of incapacity, and unable to think or judge. Beforea tribunal the dispute is one between authorities alone, --suchauthoritative statements, I mean, as are laid down by legal experts;and here the exercise of judgment consists in discovering what law orauthority applies to the case in question. There is, however, plentyof room for Dialectic; for should the case in question and the law notreally fit each other, they can, if necessary, be twisted until theyappear to do so, or _vice versa_. 

XXXI. 

If you know that you have no reply to the arguments which youropponent advances, you may, by a fine stroke of irony, declareyourself to be an incompetent judge: "What you now say passes mypoor powers of comprehension; it may be all very true, but I can'tunderstand it, and I refrain from any expression of opinion on it. " Inthis way you insinuate to the bystanders, with whom you are in goodrepute, that what your opponent says is nonsense. Thus, when Kant's_Kritik_ appeared, or, rather, when it began to make a noise in theworld, many professors of the old ecclectic school declared that theyfailed to understand it, in the belief that their failure settled thebusiness. But when the adherents of the new school proved to them thatthey were quite right, and had really failed to understand it, theywere in a very bad humour. 

This is a trick which may be used only when you are quite sure thatthe audience thinks much better of you that of your opponent. Aprofessor, for instance may try it on a student. 

Strictly, it is a case of the preceding trick: it is a particularlymalicious assertion of one's own authority, instead of giving reasons. The counter-trick is to say: "I beg your pardon; but, with yourpenetrating intellect, it must be very easy for you to understandanything; and it can only be my poor statement of the matter that isat fault"; and then go on to rub it into him until he understands it_nolens volens_, and sees for himself that it was really his own faultalone. In this way you parry his attack. With the greatest politenesshe wanted to insinuate that you were talking nonsense; and you, withequal courtesy, prove to him that he is a fool. 

XXXII. 

If you are confronted with an assertion, there is a short way ofgetting rid of it, or, at any rate, of throwing suspicion on it, byputting it into some odious category; even though the connectionis only apparent, or else of a loose character. You can say, for instance, "That is Manichasism, " or "It is Arianism, " or"Pelagianism, " or "Idealism, " or "Spinozism, " or "Pantheism, " or"Brownianism, " or "Naturalism, " or "Atheism, " or "Rationalism, ""Spiritualism, " "Mysticism, " and so on. In making an objection of thiskind, you take it for granted (1) that the assertion in question isidentical with, or is at least contained in, the category cited--thatis to say, you cry out, "Oh, I have heard that before"; and (2) thatthe system referred to has been entirely refuted, and does not containa word of truth. 

XXXIII. 

"That's all very well in theory, but it won't do in practice. " Inthis sophism you admit the premisses but deny the conclusion, incontradiction with a well-known rule of logic. The assertion isbased upon an impossibility: what is right in theory _must_ workin practice; and if it does not, there is a mistake in the theory;something has been overlooked and not allowed for; and, consequently, what is wrong in practice is wrong in theory too. 

XXXIV. 

When you state a question or an argument, and your opponent gives youno direct answer or reply, but evades it by a counter-question or anindirect answer, or some assertion which has no bearing on the matter, and, generally, tries to turn the subject, it is a sure sign that youhave touched a weak spot, sometimes without knowing it. You have, asit were, reduced him to silence. You must, therefore, urge the pointall the more, and not let your opponent evade it, even when you do notknow where the weakness which you have hit upon really lies. 

XXXV. 

There is another trick which, as soon as it is practicable, makes allothers unnecessary. Instead of working on your opponent's intellect byargument, work on his will by motive; and he, and also the audience ifthey have similar interests, will at once be won over to your opinion, even though you got it out of a lunatic asylum; for, as a generalrule, half an ounce of will is more effective than a hundredweight ofinsight and intelligence. This, it is true, can be done only underpeculiar circumstances. If you succeed in making your opponent feelthat his opinion, should it prove true, will be distinctly prejudicialto his interest, he will let it drop like a hot potato, and feel thatit was very imprudent to take it up. 

A clergyman, for instance, is defending some philosophical dogma; youmake him sensible of the fact that it is in immediate contradictionwith one of the fundamental doctrines of his Church, and he abandonsit. 

A landed proprietor maintains that the use of machinery inagricultural operations, as practised in England, is an excellentinstitution, since an engine does the work of many men. You give himto understand that it will not be very long before carriages are alsoworked by steam, and that the value of his large stud will be greatlydepreciated; and you will see what he will say. 

In such cases every man feels how thoughtless it is to sanction a lawunjust to himself--_quam temere in nosmet legem sancimus iniquam_! Noris it otherwise if the bystanders, but not your opponent, belong tothe same sect, guild, industry, club, etc. , as yourself. Let histhesis be never so true, as soon as you hint that it is prejudicial tothe common interests of the said society, all the bystanders will findthat your opponent's arguments, however excellent they be, are weakand contemptible; and that yours, on the other hand, though they wererandom conjecture, are correct and to the point; you will have achorus of loud approval on your side, and your opponent will be drivenout of the field with ignominy. Nay, the bystanders will believe, as arule, that they have agreed with you out of pure conviction. For whatis not to our interest mostly seems absurd to us; our intellect beingno _siccum lumen_. This trick might be called "taking the tree by itsroot"; its usual name is the _argumentum ab utili_. 

XXXVI. 

You may also puzzle and bewilder your opponent by mere bombast; andthe trick is possible, because a man generally supposes that theremust be some meaning in words:

 _Gewöhnlich glaubt der Mensch, wenn er nur Worte hört, Es müsse sich dabei doch auch was denken lassen_. 

If he is secretly conscious of his own weakness, and accustomed tohear much that he does not understand, and to make as though he did, you can easily impose upon him by some serious fooling that soundsvery deep or learned, and deprives him of hearing, sight, and thought;and by giving out that it is the most indisputable proof of what youassert. It is a well-known fact that in recent times some philosophershave practised this trick on the whole of the public with the mostbrilliant success. But since present examples are odious, we may referto _The Vicar of Wakefield_ for an old one. 

XXXVII. 

Should your opponent be in the right, but, luckily for yourcontention, choose a faulty proof, you can easily manage to refute it, and then claim that you have thus refuted his whole position. Thisis a trick which ought to be one of the first; it is, at bottom, anexpedient by which an _argumentum ad hominem_ is put forward as an_argumentum ad rem_. If no accurate proof occurs to him or to thebystanders, you have won the day. For example, if a man advances theontological argument by way of proving God's existence, you can getthe best of him, for the ontological argument may easily be refuted. This is the way in which bad advocates lose a good case, by trying tojustify it by an authority which does not fit it, when no fitting oneoccurs to them. 

XXXVIII. 

A last trick is to become personal, insulting, rude, as soon as youperceive that your opponent has the upper hand, and that you are goingto come off worst. It consists in passing from the subject of dispute, as from a lost game, to the disputant himself, and in some wayattacking his person. It may be called the _argumentum ad personam_, to distinguish it from the _argumentum ad hominem_, which passesfrom the objective discussion of the subject pure and simple to thestatements or admissions which your opponent has made in regard to it. But in becoming personal you leave the subject altogether, and turnyour attack to his person, by remarks of an offensive and spitefulcharacter. It is an appeal from the virtues of the intellect to thevirtues of the body, or to mere animalism. This is a very populartrick, because every one is able to carry it into effect; and so itis of frequent application. Now the question is, What counter-trickavails for the other party? for if he has recourse to the same rule, there will be blows, or a duel, or an action for slander. 

It would be a great mistake to suppose that it is sufficient not tobecome personal yourself. For by showing a man quite quietly that heis wrong, and that what he says and thinks is incorrect--a processwhich occurs in every dialectical victory--you embitter him more thanif you used some rude or insulting expression. Why is this? Because, as Hobbes observes, [1] all mental pleasure consists in being able tocompare oneself with others to one's own advantage. Nothing is ofgreater moment to a man than the gratification of his vanity, and nowound is more painful than that which is inflicted on it. Hence suchphrases as "Death before dishonour, " and so on. The gratification ofvanity arises mainly by comparison of oneself with others, in everyrespect, but chiefly in respect of one's intellectual powers; and sothe most effective and the strongest gratification of it is to befound in controversy. Hence the embitterment of defeat, apart from anyquestion of injustice; and hence recourse to that last weapon, that last trick, which you cannot evade by mere politeness. A cooldemeanour may, however, help you here, if, as soon as your opponentbecomes personal, you quietly reply, "That has no bearing on the pointin dispute, " and immediately bring the conversation back to it, andcontinue to show him that he is wrong, without taking any notice ofhis insults. Say, as Themistocles said to Eurybiades--_Strike, buthear me_. But such demeanour is not given to every one. 

[Footnote 1: _Elementa philosophica de Cive_. ]

As a sharpening of wits, controversy is often, indeed, of mutualadvantage, in order to correct one's thoughts and awaken new views. But in learning and in mental power both disputants must be tolerablyequal. If one of them lacks learning, he will fail to understand theother, as he is not on the same level with his antagonist. If he lacksmental power, he will be embittered, and led into dishonest tricks, and end by being rude. 

The only safe rule, therefore, is that which Aristotle mentions in thelast chapter of his _Topica_: not to dispute with the first person youmeet, but only with those of your acquaintance of whom you know thatthey possess sufficient intelligence and self-respect not to advanceabsurdities; to appeal to reason and not to authority, and to listento reason and yield to it; and, finally, to cherish truth, to bewilling to accept reason even from an opponent, and to be just enoughto bear being proved to be in the wrong, should truth lie with him. From this it follows that scarcely one man in a hundred is worth yourdisputing with him. You may let the remainder say what they please, for every one is at liberty to be a fool--_desipere est jus gentium_. Remember what Voltaire says: _La paix vaut encore mieux que lavérité_. Remember also an Arabian proverb which tells us that _on thetree of silence there hangs its fruit, which is peace_. 

ON THE COMPARATIVE PLACE OF INTEREST AND BEAUTY IN WORKS OF ART. 

In the productions of poetic genius, especially of the epic anddramatic kind, there is, apart from Beauty, another quality which isattractive: I mean Interest. 

The beauty of a work of art consists in the fact that it holds up aclear mirror to certain _ideas_ inherent in the world in general; thebeauty of a work of poetic art in particular is that it renders theideas inherent in mankind, and thereby leads it to a knowledgeof these ideas. The means which poetry uses for this end arethe exhibition of significant characters and the invention ofcircumstances which will bring about significant situations, givingoccasion to the characters to unfold their peculiarities and show whatis in them; so that by some such representation a clearer and fullerknowledge of the many-sided idea of humanity may be attained. Beauty, however, in its general aspect, is the inseparable characteristicof the idea when it has become known. In other words, everything isbeautiful in which an idea is revealed; for to be beautiful means nomore than clearly to express an idea. 

Thus we perceive that beauty is always an affair of _knowledge_, andthat it appeals to _the knowing subject_, and not to _the will_;nay, it is a fact that the apprehension of beauty on the part of thesubject involves a complete suppression of the will. 

On the other hand, we call drama or descriptive poetry interestingwhen it represents events and actions of a kind which necessarilyarouse concern or sympathy, like that which we feel in real eventsinvolving our own person. The fate of the person represented in themis felt in just the same fashion as our own: we await the developmentof events with anxiety; we eagerly follow their course; our heartsquicken when the hero is threatened; our pulse falters as the dangerreaches its acme, and throbs again when he is suddenly rescued. Untilwe reach the end of the story we cannot put the book aside; we lieaway far into the night sympathising with our hero's troubles asthough they were our own. Nay, instead of finding pleasure andrecreation in such representations, we should feel all the pain whichreal life often inflicts upon us, or at least the kind which pursuesus in our uneasy dreams, if in the act of reading or looking at thestage we had not the firm ground of reality always beneath our feet. As it is, in the stress of a too violent feeling, we can find relieffrom the illusion of the moment, and then give way to it again atwill. Moreover, we can gain this relief without any such violenttransition as occurs in a dream, when we rid ourselves of its terrorsonly by the act of awaking. 

It is obvious that what is affected by poetry of this character is our_will_, and not merely our intellectual powers pure and simple. Theword _interest_ means, therefore, that which arouses the concern ofthe individual will, _quod nostrâ interest_; and here it is thatbeauty is clearly distinguished from interest. The one is an affairof the intellect, and that, too, of the purest and simplest kind. Theother works upon the will. Beauty, then, consists in an apprehensionof ideas; and knowledge of this character is beyond the range of theprinciple that nothing happens without a cause. Interest, on the otherhand, has its origin nowhere but in the course of events; that is tosay, in the complexities which are possible only through the action ofthis principle in its different forms. 

We have now obtained a clear conception of the essential differencebetween the beauty and the interest of a work of art. We haverecognised that beauty is the true end of every art, and therefore, also, of the poetic art. It now remains to raise the question whetherthe interest of a work of art is a second end, or a means to theexhibition of its beauty; or whether the interest of it is produced byits beauty as an essential concomitant, and comes of itself as soon asit is beautiful; or whether interest is at any rate compatible withthe main end of art; or, finally, whether it is a hindrance to it. 

In the first place, it is to be observed that the interest of a workof art is confined to works of poetic art. It does not exist in thecase of fine art, or of music or architecture. Nay, with these formsof art it is not even conceivable, unless, indeed, the interest be ofan entirely personal character, and confined to one or two spectators;as, for example, where a picture is a portrait of some one whom welove or hate; the building, my house or my prison; the music, mywedding dance, or the tune to which I marched to the war. Interest ofthis kind is clearly quite foreign to the essence and purpose of art;it disturbs our judgment in so far as it makes the purely artisticattitude impossible. It may be, indeed, that to a smaller extent thisis true of all interest. 

Now, since the interest of a work of art lies in the fact that wehave the same kind of sympathy with a poetic representation as withreality, it is obvious that the representation must deceive us for themoment; and this it can do only by its truth. But truth is an elementin perfect art. A picture, a poem, should be as true as nature itself;but at the same time it should lay stress on whatever forms theunique character of its subject by drawing out all its essentialmanifestations, and by rejecting everything that is unessential andaccidental. The picture or the poem will thus emphasize its _idea_, and give us that _ideal truth_ which is superior to nature. 

_Truth_, then, forms the point that is common both to interest andbeauty in a work of art, as it is its truth which produces theillusion. The fact that the truth of which I speak is _ideal truth_might, indeed, be detrimental to the illusion, since it is just herethat we have the general difference between poetry and reality, artand nature. But since it is possible for reality to coincide withthe ideal, it is not actually necessary that this difference shoulddestroy the illusion. In the case of fine arts there is, in the rangeof the means which art adopts, a certain limit, and beyond it illusionis impossible. Sculpture, that is to say, gives us mere colourlessform; its figures are without eyes and without movement; and paintingprovides us with no more than a single view, enclosed within strictlimits, which separate the picture from the adjacent reality. Here, then, there is no room for illusion, and consequently none for thatinterest or sympathy which resembles the interest we have in reality;the will is at once excluded, and the object alone is presented to usin a manner that frees it from any personal concern. 

It is a highly remarkable fact that a spurious kind of fine artoversteps these limits, produces an illusion of reality, and arousesour interest; but at the same time it destroys the effect which fineart produces, and serves as nothing but a mere means of exhibiting thebeautiful, that is, of communicating a knowledge of the ideas which itembodies. I refer to _waxwork_. Here, we might say, is the dividingline which separates it from the province of fine art. When waxwork isproperly executed, it produces a perfect illusion; but for that veryreason we approach a wax figure as we approach a real man, who, assuch, is for the moment an object presented to our will. That isto say, he is an object of interest; he arouses the will, andconsequently stills the intellect. We come up to a wax figure with thesame reserve and caution as a real man would inspire in us: our willis excited; it waits to see whether he is going to be friendly to us, or the reverse, fly from us, or attack us; in a word, it expects someaction of him. But as the figure, nevertheless, shows no sign of life, it produces the impression which is so very disagreeable, namely, ofa corpse. This is a case where the interest is of the most completekind, and yet where there is no work of art at all. In other words, interest is not in itself a real end of art. 

The same truth is illustrated by the fact that even in poetry it isonly the dramatic and descriptive kind to which interest attaches; forif interest were, with beauty, the aim of art, poetry of the lyricalkind would, for that very reason, not take half so great a position asthe other two. 

In the second place, if interest were a means in the production ofbeauty, every interesting work would also be beautiful. That, however, is by no means the case. A drama or a novel may often attract us byits interest, and yet be so utterly deficient in any kind of beautythat we are afterwards ashamed of having wasted our time on it. Thisapplies to many a drama which gives no true picture of the real lifeof man; which contains characters very superficially drawn, or sodistorted as to be actual monstrosities, such as are not to be foundin nature; but the course of events and the play of the action are sointricate, and we feel so much for the hero in the situation in whichhe is placed, that we are not content until we see the knot untangledand the hero rescued. The action is so cleverly governed and guided inits course that we remain in a state of constant curiosity as to whatis going to happen, and we are utterly unable to form a guess; so thatbetween eagerness and surprise our interest is kept active; and as weare pleasantly entertained, we do not notice the lapse of time. Mostof Kotzebue's plays are of this character. For the mob this is theright thing: it looks for amusement, something to pass the time, notfor intellectual perception. Beauty is an affair of such perception;hence sensibility to beauty varies as much as the intellectualfaculties themselves. For the inner truth of a representation, and itscorrespondence with the real nature of humanity, the mob has no senseat all. What is flat and superficial it can grasp, but the depths ofhuman nature are opened to it in vain. 

It is also to be observed that dramatic representations which dependfor their value on their interest lose by repetition, because they areno longer able to arouse curiosity as to their course, since it isalready known. To see them often, makes them stale and tedious. Onthe other hand, works of which the value lies in their beauty gain byrepetition, as they are then more and more understood. 

Most novels are on the same footing as dramatic representations ofthis character. They are creatures of the same sort of imagination aswe see in the story-teller of Venice and Naples, who lays a hat on theground and waits until an audience is assembled. Then he spins a talewhich so captivates his hearers that, when he gets to the catastrophe, he makes a round of the crowd, hat in hand, for contributions, withoutthe least fear that his hearers will slip away. Similar story-tellersply their trade in this country, though in a less direct fashion. Theydo it through the agency of publishers and circulating libraries. Thusthey can avoid going about in rags, like their colleagues elsewhere;they can offer the children of their imagination to the public underthe title of novels, short stories, romantic poems, fairy tales, andso on; and the public, in a dressing-gown by the fireside, sits downmore at its ease, but also with a greater amount of patience, to theenjoyment of the interest which they provide. 

How very little aesthetic value there generally is in productions ofthis sort is well known; and yet it cannot be denied that many of themare interesting; or else how could they be so popular?

We see, then, in reply to our second question, that interest does notnecessarily involve beauty; and, conversely, it is true that beautydoes not necessarily involve interest. Significant characters may berepresented, that open up the depths of human nature, and it may allbe expressed in actions and sufferings of an exceptional kind, sothat the real nature of humanity and the world may stand forth inthe picture in the clearest and most forcible lines; and yet no highdegree of interest may be excited in the course of events by thecontinued progress of the action, or by the complexity and unexpectedsolution of the plot. The immortal masterpieces of Shakespeare containlittle that excites interest; the action does not go forward in onestraight line, but falters, as in _Hamlet_, all through the play;or else it spreads out in breadth, as in _The Merchant of Venice_, whereas length is the proper dimension of interest; or the scenes hangloosely together, as in _Henry IV_. Thus it is that Shakespeare'sdramas produce no appreciable effect on the mob. 

The dramatic requirement stated by Aristotle, and more particularlythe unity of action, have in view the interest of the piece ratherthan its artistic beauty. It may be said, generally, that theserequirements are drawn up in accordance with the principle ofsufficient reason to which I have referred above. We know, however, that the _idea_, and, consequently, the beauty of a work of art, existonly for the perceptive intelligence which has freed itself fromthe domination of that principle. It is just here that we find thedistinction between interest and beauty; as it is obvious thatinterest is part and parcel of the mental attitude which is governedby the principle, whereas beauty is always beyond its range. The bestand most striking refutation of the Aristotelian unities is Manzoni's. It may be found in the preface to his dramas. 

What is true of Shakespeare's dramatic works is true also of Goethe's. Even _Egmont_ makes little effect on the public, because it containsscarcely any complication or development; and if _Egmont_ fails, whatare we to say of _Tasso_ or _Iphigenia_? That the Greek tragedians didnot look to interest as a means of working upon the public, is clearfrom the fact that the material of their masterpieces was almostalways known to every one: they selected events which had often beentreated dramatically before. This shows us how sensitive was theGreek public to the beautiful, as it did not require the interest ofunexpected events and new stories to season its enjoyment. 

Neither does the quality of interest often attach to masterpieces ofdescriptive poetry. Father Homer lays the world and humanity before usin its true nature, but he takes no trouble to attract our sympathyby a complexity of circumstance, or to surprise us by unexpectedentanglements. His pace is lingering; he stops at every scene; he putsone picture after another tranquilly before us, elaborating itwith care. We experience no passionate emotion in reading him; ourdemeanour is one of pure perceptive intelligence; he does not arouseour will, but sings it to rest; and it costs us no effort to break offin our reading, for we are not in condition of eager curiosity. Thisis all still more true of Dante, whose work is not, in the propersense of the word, an epic, but a descriptive poem. The same thing maybe said of the four immortal romances: _Don Quixote, Tristram Shandy, La Nouvelle Heloïse_, and _Wilhelm Meister_. To arouse our interestis by no means the chief aim of these works; in _Tristram Shandy_ thehero, even at the end of the book, is only eight years of age. 

On the other hand, we must not venture to assert that the quality ofinterest is not to be found in masterpieces of literature. We have itin Schiller's dramas in an appreciable degree, and consequentlythey are popular; also in the _Oedipus Rex_ of Sophocles. Amongstmasterpieces of description, we find it in Ariosto's _OrlandoFurioso_; nay, an example of a high degree of interest, bound up withthe beautiful, is afforded in an excellent novel by Walter Scott--_TheHeart of Midlothian_. This is the most interesting work of fictionthat I know, where all the effects due to interest, as I have giventhem generally in the preceding remarks, may be most clearly observed. At the same time it is a very beautiful romance throughout; it showsthe most varied pictures of life, drawn with striking truth; and itexhibits highly different characters with great justice and fidelity. 

Interest, then, is certainly compatible with beauty. That was ourthird question. Nevertheless, a comparatively small admixture of theelement of interest may well be found to be most advantageous as faras beauty is concerned; for beauty is and remains the end of art. Beauty is in twofold opposition with interest; firstly, because itlies in the perception of the idea, and such perception takes itsobject entirely out of the range of the forms enunciated by theprinciple of sufficient reason; whereas interest has its sphere mainlyin circumstance, and it is out of this principle that the complexityof circumstance arises. Secondly, interest works by exciting the will;whereas beauty exists only for the pure perceptive intelligence, whichhas no will. However, with dramatic and descriptive literature anadmixture of interest is necessary, just as a volatile and gaseoussubstance requires a material basis if it is to be preserved andtransferred. The admixture is necessary, partly, indeed, becauseinterest is itself created by the events which have to be devised inorder to set the characters in motion; partly because our minds wouldbe weary of watching scene after scene if they had no concern for us, or of passing from one significant picture to another if we were notdrawn on by some secret thread. It is this that we call interest;it is the sympathy which the event in itself forces us to feel, andwhich, by riveting our attention, makes the mind obedient to the poet, and able to follow him into all the parts of his story. 

If the interest of a work of art is sufficient to achieve this result, it does all that can be required of it; for its only service is toconnect the pictures by which the poet desires to communicate aknowledge of the idea, as if they were pearls, and interest were thethread that holds them together, and makes an ornament out of thewhole. But interest is prejudicial to beauty as soon as it overstepsthis limit; and this is the case if we are so led away by the interestof a work that whenever we come to any detailed description in anovel, or any lengthy reflection on the part of a character in adrama, we grow impatient and want to put spurs to our author, so thatwe may follow the development of events with greater speed. Epic anddramatic writings, where beauty and interest are both present in ahigh degree, may be compared to the working of a watch, where interestis the spring which keeps all the wheels in motion. If it workedunhindered, the watch would run down in a few minutes. Beauty, holdingus in the spell of description and reflection, is like the barrelwhich checks its movement. 

Or we may say that interest is the body of a poetic work, and beautythe soul. In the epic and the drama, interest, as a necessary qualityof the action, is the matter; and beauty, the form that requires thematter in order to be visible. 

PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS. 

In the moment when a great affliction overtakes us, we are hurt tofind that the world about us is unconcerned and goes its own way. AsGoethe says in _Tasso_, how easily it leaves us helpless and alone, and continues its course like the sun and the moon and the other gods:

 _... Die Welt, wie sie so leicht, Uns hülflos, einsam lässt, und ihren Weg, Wie Sonn' und Mond und andre Götter geht_. 

Nay more! it is something intolerable that even we ourselves haveto go on with the mechanical round of our daily business, and thatthousands of our own actions are and must be unaffected by the painthat throbs within us. And so, to restore the harmony between ouroutward doings and our inward feelings, we storm and shout, and tearour hair, and stamp with pain or rage. 

Our temperament is so _despotic_ that we are not satisfied unlesswe draw everything into our own life, and force all the world tosympathise with us. The only way of achieving this would be to win thelove of others, so that the afflictions which oppress our own heartsmight oppress theirs as well. Since that is attended with somedifficulty, we often choose the shorter way, and blab out our burdenof woe to people who do not care, and listen with curiosity, butwithout sympathy, and much oftener with satisfaction. 

Speech and the communication of thought, which, in their mutualrelations, are always attended by a slight impulse on the part of thewill, are almost a physical necessity. Sometimes, however, the loweranimals entertain me much more than the average man. For, in the firstplace, what can such a man say? It is only conceptions, that is, thedriest of ideas, that can be communicated by means of words; and whatsort of conceptions has the average man to communicate, if he doesnot merely tell a story or give a report, neither of which makesconversation? The greatest charm of conversation is the mimetic partof it, --the character that is manifested, be it never so little. Takethe best of men; how little he can _say_ of what goes on withinhim, since it is only conceptions that are communicable; and yet aconversation with a clever man is one of the greatest of pleasures. 

It is not only that ordinary men have little to say, but whatintellect they have puts them in the way of concealing and distortingit; and it is the necessity of practising this concealment that givesthem such a pitiable character; so that what they exhibit is not eventhe little that they have, but a mask and disguise. The lower animals, which have no reason, can conceal nothing; they are altogether_naïve_, and therefore very entertaining, if we have only an eye forthe kind of communications which they make. They speak not with words, but with shape and structure, and manner of life, and the things theyset about; they express themselves, to an intelligent observer, in avery pleasing and entertaining fashion. It is a varied life that ispresented to him, and one that in its manifestation is very differentfrom his own; and yet essentially it is the same. He sees it in itssimple form, when reflection is excluded; for with the lower animalslife is lived wholly in and for the present moment: it is the presentthat the animal grasps; it has no care, or at least no conscious care, for the morrow, and no fear of death; and so it is wholly taken upwith life and living. 

 * * * * *

The conversation among ordinary people, when it does not relate to anyspecial matter of fact, but takes a more general character, mostlyconsists in hackneyed commonplaces, which they alternately repeat toeach other with the utmost complacency. [1]

[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_. --This observation is inSchopenhauer's own English. ]

 * * * * *

Some men can despise any blessing as soon as they cease to possessit; others only when they have obtained it. The latter are the moreunhappy, and the nobler, of the two. 

 * * * * *

When the aching heart grieves no more over any particular object, but is oppressed by life as a whole, it withdraws, as it were, intoitself. There is here a retreat and gradual extinction of the will, whereby the body, which is the manifestation of the will, is slowlybut surely undermined; and the individual experiences a steadydissolution of his bonds, --a quiet presentiment of death. Hence theheart which aches has a secret joy of its own; and it is this, Ifancy, which the English call "the joy of grief. "

The pain that extends to life as a whole, and loosens our hold onit, is the only pain that is really _tragic_. That which attaches toparticular objects is a will that is broken, but not resigned; itexhibits the struggle and inner contradiction of the will and of lifeitself; and it is comic, be it never so violent. It is like the painof the miser at the loss of his hoard. Even though pain of the tragickind proceeds from a single definite object, it does not remain there;it takes the separate affliction only as a _symbol_ of life as awhole, and transfers it thither. 

 * * * * *

_Vexation_ is the attitude of the individual as intelligence towardsthe check imposed upon a strong manifestation of the individual aswill. There are two ways of avoiding it: either by repressing theviolence of the will--in other words, by virtue; or by keepingthe intelligence from dwelling upon the check--in other words, byStoicism. 

 * * * * *

To win the favour of a very beautiful woman by one's personality aloneis perhaps a greater satisfaction to one's vanity than to anythingelse; for it is an assurance that one's personality is an equivalentfor the person that is treasured and desired and defied above allothers. Hence it is that despised love is so great a pang, especiallywhen it is associated with well-founded jealousy. 

With this joy and this pain, it is probable that vanity is morelargely concerned than the senses, because it is only the thingsof the mind, and not mere sensuality, that produce such violentconvulsions. The lower animals are familiar with lust, but not withthe passionate pleasures and pains of love. 

 * * * * *

To be suddenly placed in a strange town or country where the manner oflife, possibly even the language, is very different from our own, is, at the first moment, like stepping into cold water. We are broughtinto sudden contact with a new temperature, and we feel a powerful andsuperior influence from without which affects us uncomfortably. Wefind ourselves in a strange element, where we cannot move with ease;and, over and above that, we have the feeling that while everythingstrikes us as strange, we ourselves strike others in the same way. But as soon as we are a little composed and reconciled to oursurroundings, as soon as we have appropriated some of its temperature, we feel an extraordinary sense of satisfaction, as in bathing in coolwater; we assimilate ourselves to the new element, and cease to haveany necessary pre-occupation with our person. We devote our attentionundisturbed to our environment, to which we now feel ourselvessuperior by being able to view it in an objective and disinterestedfashion, instead of being oppressed by it, as before. 

 * * * * *

When we are on a journey, and all kinds of remarkable objects pressthemselves on our attention, the intellectual food which we receive isoften so large in amount that we have no time for digestion; and weregret that the impressions which succeed one another so quickly leaveno permanent trace. But at bottom it is the same with travelling aswith reading. How often do we complain that we cannot remember onethousandth part of what we read! In both cases, however, we mayconsole ourselves with the reflection that the things we see and readmake an impression on the mind before they are forgotten, and socontribute to its formation and nurture; while that which we onlyremember does no more than stuff it and puff it out, filling up itshollows with matter that will always be strange to it, and leaving itin itself a blank. 

 * * * * *

It is the very many and varied forms in which human life is presentedto us on our travels that make them entertaining. But we never seemore than its outside, such as is everywhere open to public view andaccessible to strangers. On the other hand, human life on itsinside, the heart and centre, where it lives and moves and shows itscharacter, and in particular that part of the inner side which couldbe seen at home amongst our relatives, is not seen; we have exchangedit for the outer side. This is why on our travels we see the worldlike a painted landscape, with a very wide horizon, but no foreground;and why, in time, we get tired of it. 

 * * * * *

One man is more concerned with the impression which he makes uponthe rest of mankind; another, with the impression which the rest ofmankind makes upon him. The disposition of the one is subjective; ofthe other, objective; the one is, in the whole of his existence, morein the nature of an idea which is merely presented; the other, more ofthe being who presents it. 

 * * * * *

A woman (with certain exceptions which need not be mentioned) will nottake the first step with a man; for in spite of all the beauty she mayhave, she risks a refusal. A man may be ill in mind or body, or busy, or gloomy, and so not care for advances; and a refusal would be a blowto her vanity. But as soon as he takes the first step, and helps herover this danger, he stands on a footing of equality with her, andwill generally find her quite tractable. 

 * * * * *

The praise with which many men speak of their wives is really givento their own judgment in selecting them. This arises, perhaps, from afeeling of the truth of the saying, that a man shows what he is by theway in which he dies, and by the choice of his wife. 

 * * * * *

If education or warning were of any avail, how could Seneca's pupil bea Nero?

 * * * * *

The Pythagorean[1] principle that _like is known only by like_ isin many respects a true one. It explains how it is that every manunderstands his fellow only in so far as he resembles him, or, atleast, is of a similar character. What one man is quite sure ofperceiving in another is that which is common to all, namely, thevulgar, petty or mean elements of our nature; here every man has aperfect understanding of his fellows; but the advantage which one manhas over another does not exist for the other, who, be the talents inquestion as extraordinary as they may, will never see anything beyondwhat he possesses himself, for the very good reason that this is allhe wants to see. If there is anything on which he is in doubt, it willgive him a vague sense of fear, mixed with pique; because it passeshis comprehension, and therefore is uncongenial to him. 

[Footnote 1: See Porphyry, _de Vita Pythagorae_. ]

This is why it is mind alone that understands mind; why works ofgenius are wholly understood and valued only by a man of genius, andwhy it must necessarily be a long time before they indirectly attractattention at the hands of the crowd, for whom they will never, in anytrue sense, exist. This, too, is why one man will look another in theface, with the impudent assurance that he will never see anything buta miserable resemblance of himself; and this is just what he will see, as he cannot grasp anything beyond it. Hence the bold way in which oneman will contradict another. Finally, it is for the same reason thatgreat superiority of mind isolates a man, and that those of high giftskeep themselves aloof from the vulgar (and that means every one); forif they mingle with the crowd, they can communicate only such parts ofthem as they share with the crowd, and so make themselves _common_. Nay, even though they possess some well-founded and authoritativereputation amongst the crowd, they are not long in losing it, togetherwith any personal weight it may give them, since all are blind to thequalities on which it is based, but have their eyes open to anythingthat is vulgar and common to themselves. They soon discover the truthof the Arabian proverb: _Joke with a slave, and he'll show you hisheels_. 

It also follows that a man of high gifts, in his intercourse withothers, must always reflect that the best part of him is out of sightin the clouds; so that if he desires to know accurately how much hecan be to any one else, he has only to consider how much the man inquestion is to him. This, as a rule, is precious little; and thereforehe is as uncongenial to the other, as the other to him. 

 * * * * *

Goethe says somewhere that man is not without a vein of veneration. Tosatisfy this impulse to venerate, even in those who have no sensefor what is really worthy, substitutes are provided in the shape ofprinces and princely families, nobles, titles, orders, and money-bags. 

 * * * * *

Vague longing and boredom are close akin. 

 * * * * *

When a man is dead, we envy him no more; and we only half envy himwhen he is old. 

 * * * * *

Misanthropy and love of solitude are convertible ideas. 

 * * * * *

In chess, the object of the game, namely, to checkmate one's opponent, is of arbitrary adoption; of the possible means of attaining it, thereis a great number; and according as we make a prudent use of them, wearrive at our goal. We enter on the game of our own choice. 

Nor is it otherwise with human life, only that here the entrance isnot of our choosing, but is forced on us; and the object, which is tolive and exist, seems, indeed, at times as though it were of arbitraryadoption, and that we could, if necessary, relinquish it. Neverthelessit is, in the strict sense of the word, a natural object; that is tosay, we cannot relinquish it without giving up existence itself. If weregard our existence as the work of some arbitrary power outside us, we must, indeed, admire the cunning by which that creative mind hassucceeded in making us place so much value on an object which is onlymomentary and must of necessity be laid aside very soon, and which wesee, moreover, on reflection, to be altogether vanity--in making, Isay, this object so dear to us that we eagerly exert all our strengthin working at it; although we knew that as soon as the game is over, the object will exist for us no longer, and that, on the whole, wecannot say what it is that makes it so attractive. Nay, it seems to bean object as arbitrarily adopted as that of checkmating our opponent'sking; and, nevertheless, we are always intent on the means ofattaining it, and think and brood over nothing else. It is clear thatthe reason of it is that our intellect is only capable of lookingoutside, and has no power at all of looking within; and, since this isso, we have come to the conclusion that we must make the best of it. 

ON THE WISDOM OF LIFE: APHORISMS. 

The simple Philistine believes that life is something infinite andunconditioned, and tries to look upon it and live it as though it leftnothing to be desired. By method and principle the learned Philistinedoes the same: he believes that his methods and his principles areunconditionally perfect and objectively valid; so that as soon as hehas found them, he has nothing to do but apply them to circumstances, and then approve or condemn. But happiness and truth are not to beseized in this fashion. It is phantoms of them alone that are sent tous here, to stir us to action; the average man pursues the shadow ofhappiness with unwearied labour; and the thinker, the shadow of truth;and both, though phantoms are all they have, possess in them as muchas they can grasp. Life is a language in which certain truths areconveyed to us; could we learn them in some other way, we should notlive. Thus it is that wise sayings and prudential maxims will nevermake up for the lack of experience, or be a substitute for lifeitself. Still they are not to be despised; for they, too, are a partof life; nay, they should be highly esteemed and regarded as theloose pages which others have copied from the book of truth as it isimparted by the spirit of the world. But they are pages which mustneeds be imperfect, and can never replace the real living voice. Stillless can this be so when we reflect that life, or the book of truth, speaks differently to us all; like the apostles who preached atPentecost, and instructed the multitude, appearing to each man tospeak in his own tongue. 

 * * * * *

Recognise the truth in yourself, recognise yourself in the truth; andin the same moment you will find, to your astonishment, that the homewhich you have long been looking for in vain, which has filled yourmost ardent dreams, is there in its entirety, with every detail of ittrue, in the very place where you stand. It is there that your heaventouches your earth. 

 * * * * *

What makes us almost inevitably ridiculous is our serious way oftreating the passing moment, as though it necessarily had all theimportance which it seems to have. It is only a few great minds thatare above this weakness, and, instead of being laughed at, have cometo laugh themselves. 

 * * * * *

The bright and good moments of our life ought to teach us how to actaright when we are melancholy and dull and stupid, by preserving thememory of their results; and the melancholy, dull, and stupid momentsshould teach us to be modest when we are bright. For we generallyvalue ourselves according to our best and brightest moments; and thosein which we are weak and dull and miserable, we regard as no properpart of us. To remember them will teach us to be modest, humble, andtolerant. 

Mark my words once for all, my dear friend, and be clever. Men areentirely self-centred, and incapable of looking at things objectively. If you had a dog and wanted to make him fond of you, and fancied thatof your hundred rare and excellent characteristics the mongrel wouldbe sure to perceive one, and that that would be sufficient to make himdevoted to you body and soul--if, I say, you fancied that, you wouldbe a fool. Pat him, give him something to eat; and for the rest, bewhat you please: he will not in the least care, but will be yourfaithful and devoted dog. Now, believe me, it is just the same withmen--exactly the same. As Goethe says, man or dog, it is a miserablewretch:

 _Denn ein erbärmlicher Schuft, so wie der Mensch, ist der hund_. 

If you ask why these contemptible fellows are so lucky, it is justbecause, in themselves and for themselves and to themselves, they arenothing at all. The value which they possess is merely comparative;they exist only for others; they are never more than means; they arenever an end and object in themselves; they are mere bait, set tocatch others. [1] I do not admit that this rule is susceptible of anyexception, that is to say, complete exceptions. There are, it is true, men--though they are sufficiently rare--who enjoy some subjectivemoments; nay, there are perhaps some who for every hundred subjectivemoments enjoy a few that are objective; but a higher state ofperfection scarcely ever occurs. But do not take yourself for anexception: examine your love, your friendship, and consider if yourobjective judgments are not mostly subjective judgments in disguise;consider if you duly recognise the good qualities of a man who is notfond of you. Then be tolerant: confound it! it's your duty. As you areall so self-centred, recognise your own weakness. You know that youcannot like a man who does not show himself friendly to you; you knowthat he cannot do so for any length of time unless he likes you, andthat he cannot like you unless you show that you are friendly to him;then do it: your false friendliness will gradually become a true one. Your own weakness and subjectivity must have some illusion. 

[Footnote 1: All this is very euphemistically expressed in theSophoclean verse:

(Greek: _charis charin gar estin ha tiktous aei_)]

This is really an _à priori_ justification of politeness; but I couldgive a still deeper reason for it. 

 * * * * *

Consider that chance, which, with error, its brother, and folly, itsaunt, and malice, its grandmother, rules in this world; which everyyear and every day, by blows great and small, embitters the life ofevery son of earth, and yours too; consider, I say, that it is to thiswicked power that you owe your prosperity and independence; for itgave you what it refused to many thousands, just to be able to give itto individuals like you. Remembering all this, you will not behave asthough you had a right to the possession of its gifts; but you willperceive what a capricious mistress it is that gives you her favours;and therefore when she takes it into her head to deprive you of someor all of them, you will not make a great fuss about her injustice;but you will recognise that what chance gave, chance has takenaway; if needs be, you will observe that this power is not quite sofavourable to you as she seemed to be hitherto. Why, she might havedisposed not only of what she gave you, but also of your honest andhard-earned gains. 

But if chance still remains so favourable to you as to give you morethan almost all others whose path in life you may care to examine, oh!be happy; do not struggle for the possession of her presents; employthem properly; look upon them as property held from a capricious lord;use them wisely and well. 

 * * * * *

The Aristotelian principle of keeping the mean in all things is illsuited to the moral law for which it was intended; but it may easilybe the best general rule of worldly wisdom, the best precept for ahappy life. For life is so full of uncertainty; there are on all sidesso many discomforts, burdens, sufferings, dangers, that a safe andhappy voyage can be accomplished only by steering carefully throughthe rocks. As a rule, the fear of the ills we know drive us into thecontrary ills; the pain of solitude, for example, drives us intosociety, and the first society that comes; the discomforts of societydrive us into solitude; we exchange a forbidding demeanour forincautious confidence and so on. It is ever the mark of folly to avoidone vice by rushing into its contrary:

 _Stulti dum vitant vitia in contraria currunt_. 

Or else we think that we shall find satisfaction in something, andspend all our efforts on it; and thereby we omit to provide for thesatisfaction of a hundred other wishes which make themselves felt attheir own time. One loss and omission follows another, and there is noend to the misery. 

[Greek: Maeden agan] and _nil admirari_ are, therefore, excellentrules of worldly wisdom. 

 * * * * *

We often find that people of great experience are the most frank andcordial in their intercourse with complete strangers, in whomthey have no interest whatever. The reason of this is that men ofexperience know that it is almost impossible for people who stand inany sort of mutual relation to be sincere and open with one another;but that there is always more or less of a strain between them, dueto the fact that they are looking after their own interests, whetherimmediate or remote. They regret the fact, but they know that itis so; hence they leave their own people, rush into the arms of acomplete stranger, and in happy confidence open their hearts to him. Thus it is that monks and the like, who have given up the world andare strangers to it, are such good people to turn to for advice. 

 * * * * *

It is only by practising mutual restraint and self-denial that we canact and talk with other people; and, therefore, if we have to converseat all, it can only be with a feeling of resignation. For if we seeksociety, it is because we want fresh impressions: these come fromwithout, and are therefore foreign to ourselves. If a man fails toperceive this, and, when he seeks the society of others, is unwillingto practise resignation, and absolutely refuses to deny himself, nay, demands that others, who are altogether different from himself, shall nevertheless be just what he wants them to be for the moment, according to the degree of education which he has reached, oraccording to his intellectual powers or his mood--the man, I say, whodoes this, is in contradiction with himself. For while he wants someone who shall be different from himself, and wants him just becausehe is different, for the sake of society and fresh influence, henevertheless demands that this other individual shall preciselyresemble the imaginary creature who accords with his mood, and have nothoughts but those which he has himself. 

Women are very liable to subjectivity of this kind; but men are notfree from it either. 

I observed once to Goethe, in complaining of the illusion and vanityof life, that when a friend is with us we do not think the same of himas when he is away. He replied: "Yes! because the absent friend isyourself, and he exists only in your head; whereas the friend who ispresent has an individuality of his own, and moves according to lawsof his own, which cannot always be in accordance with those which youform for yourself. "

 * * * * *

A good supply of resignation is of the first importance in providingfor the journey of life. It is a supply which we shall have to extractfrom disappointed hopes; and the sooner we do it, the better for therest of the journey. 

 * * * * *

How should a man be content so long as he fails to obtain completeunity in his inmost being? For as long as two voices alternately speakin him, what is right for one must be wrong for the other. Thus he isalways complaining. But has any man ever been completely at one withhimself? Nay, is not the very thought a contradiction?

That a man shall attain this inner unity is the impossible andinconsistent pretension put forward by almost all philosophers. [1] Foras a man it is natural to him to be at war with himself as long ashe lives. While he can be only one thing thoroughly, he has thedisposition to be everything else, and the inalienable possibilityof being it. If he has made his choice of one thing, all the otherpossibilities are always open to him, and are constantly claiming tobe realised; and he has therefore to be continuously keeping themback, and to be overpowering and killing them as long as he wants tobe that one thing. For example, if he wants to think only, and notact and do business, the disposition to the latter is not therebydestroyed all at once; but as long as the thinker lives, he has everyhour to keep on killing the acting and pushing man that is within him;always battling with himself, as though he were a monster whose headis no sooner struck off than it grows again. In the same way, if he isresolved to be a saint, he must kill himself so far as he is a beingthat enjoys and is given over to pleasure; for such he remains as longas he lives. It is not once for all that he must kill himself: hemust keep on doing it all his life. If he has resolved upon pleasure, whatever be the way in which it is to be obtained, his lifelongstruggle is with a being that desires to be pure and free and holy;for the disposition remains, and he has to kill it every hour. And soon in everything, with infinite modifications; it is now one side ofhim, and now the other, that conquers; he himself is the battlefield. If one side of him is continually conquering, the other is continuallystruggling; for its life is bound up with his own, and, as a man, heis the possibility of many contradictions. 

[Footnote 1: _Audacter licet profitearis, summum bonum esse anímíconcordian_. --Seneca. ]

How is inner unity even possible under such circumstances? It existsneither in the saint nor in the sinner; or rather, the truth is thatno man is wholly one or the other. For it is _men_ they have to be;that is, luckless beings, fighters and gladiators in the arena oflife. 

To be sure, the best thing he can do is to recognise which part of himsmarts the most under defeat, and let it always gain the victory. Thishe will always be able to do by the use of his reason, which is anever-present fund of ideas. Let him resolve of his own free will toundergo the pain which the defeat of the other part involves. Thisis _character_. For the battle of life cannot be waged free from allpain; it cannot come to an end without bloodshed; and in any casea man must suffer pain, for he is the conquered as well as theconqueror. _Haec est vivendi conditio_. 

 * * * * *

The clever man, when he converses, will think less of what he issaying that of the person with whom he is speaking; for then he issure to say nothing which he will afterwards regret; he is sure not tolay himself open, nor to commit an indiscretion. But his conversationwill never be particularly interesting. 

An intellectual man readily does the opposite, and with him the personwith whom he converses is often no more than the mere occasion of amonologue; and it often happens that the other then makes up for hissubordinate _rôle_ by lying in wait for the man of intellect, anddrawing his secrets out of him. 

 * * * * *

Nothing betrays less knowledge of humanity than to suppose that, ifa man has a great many friends, it is a proof of merit and intrinsicvalue: as though men gave their friendship according to value andmerit! as though they were not, rather, just like dogs, which love theperson that pats them and gives them bits of meat, and never troublethemselves about anything else! The man who understands how to pat hisfellows best, though they be the nastiest brutes, --that's the man whohas many friends. 

It is the converse that is true. Men of great intellectual worth, or, still more, men of genius, can have only very few friends; for theirclear eye soon discovers all defects, and their sense of rectitude isalways being outraged afresh by the extent and the horror of them. Itis only extreme necessity that can compel such men not to betray theirfeelings, or even to stroke the defects as if they were beautifuladditions. Personal love (for we are not speaking of the reverencewhich is gained by authority) cannot be won by a man of genius, unlessthe gods have endowed him with an indestructible cheerfulness oftemper, a glance that makes the world look beautiful, or unless he hassucceeded by degrees in taking men exactly as they are; that is tosay, in making a fool of the fools, as is right and proper. On theheights we must expect to be solitary. 

 * * * * *

Our constant discontent is for the most part rooted in the impulse ofself-preservation. This passes into a kind of selfishness, and makes aduty out of the maxim that we should always fix our minds upon what welack, so that we may endeavour to procure it. Thus it is that we arealways intent on finding out what we want, and on thinking of it;but that maxim allows us to overlook undisturbed the things which wealready possess; and so, as soon as we have obtained anything, we giveit much less attention than before. We seldom think of what we have, but always of what we lack. 

This maxim of egoism, which has, indeed, its advantages in procuringthe means to the end in view, itself concurrently destroys theultimate end, namely, contentment; like the bear in the fable thatthrows a stone at the hermit to kill the fly on his nose. We ought towait until need and privation announce themselves, instead oflooking for them. Minds that are naturally content do this, whilehypochondrists do the reverse. 

 * * * * *

A man's nature is in harmony with itself when he desires to be nothingbut what he is; that is to say, when he has attained by experience aknowledge of his strength and of his weakness, and makes use of theone and conceals the other, instead of playing with false coin, andtrying to show a strength which he does not possess. It is a harmonywhich produces an agreeable and rational character; and for the simplereason that everything which makes the man and gives him his mentaland physical qualities is nothing but the manifestation of his will;is, in fact, what he _wills_. Therefore it is the greatest of allinconsistencies to wish to be other than we are. 

 * * * * *

People of a strange and curious temperament can be happy only understrange circumstances, such as suit their nature, in the same way asordinary circumstances suit the ordinary man; and such circumstancescan arise only if, in some extraordinary way, they happen to meet withstrange people of a character different indeed, but still exactlysuited to their own. That is why men of rare or strange qualities areseldom happy. 

 * * * * *

All this pleasure is derived from the use and consciousness of power;and the greatest of pains that a man can feel is to perceive thathis powers fail just when he wants to use them. Therefore it will beadvantageous for every man to discover what powers he possesses, andwhat powers he lacks. Let him, then, develop the powers in which he ispre-eminent, and make a strong use of them; let him pursue the pathwhere they will avail him; and even though he has to conquer hisinclinations, let him avoid the path where such powers are requisiteas he possesses only in a low degree. In this way he will often have apleasant consciousness of strength, and seldom a painful consciousnessof weakness; and it will go well with him. But if he lets himself bedrawn into efforts demanding a kind of strength quite different fromthat in which he is pre-eminent, he will experience humiliation; andthis is perhaps the most painful feeling with which a man can beafflicted. 

Yet there are two sides to everything. The man who has insufficientself-confidence in a sphere where he has little power, and is neverready to make a venture, will on the one hand not even learn how touse the little power that he has; and on the other, in a sphere inwhich he would at least be able to achieve something, there will bea complete absence of effort, and consequently of pleasure. This isalways hard to bear; for a man can never draw a complete blank in anydepartment of human welfare without feeling some pain. 

 * * * * *

As a child, one has no conception of the inexorable character of thelaws of nature, and of the stubborn way in which everything persistsin remaining what it is. The child believes that even lifeless thingsare disposed to yield to it; perhaps because it feels itself one withnature, or, from mere unacquaintance with the world, believes thatnature is disposed to be friendly. Thus it was that when I was achild, and had thrown my shoe into a large vessel full of milk, I wasdiscovered entreating the shoe to jump out. Nor is a child on itsguard against animals until it learns that they are ill-natured andspiteful. But not before we have gained mature experience do werecognise that human character is unalterable; that no entreaty, orrepresentation, or example, or benefit, will bring a man to give uphis ways; but that, on the contrary, every man is compelled to followhis own mode of acting and thinking, with the necessity of a law ofnature; and that, however we take him, he always remains the same. Itis only after we have obtained a clear and profound knowledge of thisfact that we give up trying to persuade people, or to alter themand bring them round to our way of thinking. We try to accommodateourselves to theirs instead, so far as they are indispensable to us, and to keep away from them so far as we cannot possibly agree. 

Ultimately we come to perceive that even in matters of mereintellect--although its laws are the same for all, and the subjectas opposed to the object of thought does not really enter intoindividuality--there is, nevertheless, no certainty that the wholetruth of any matter can be communicated to any one, or that any onecan be persuaded or compelled to assent to it; because, as Bacon says, _intellectus humanus luminis sicci non est_: the light of the humanintellect is coloured by interest and passion. 

 * * * * *

It is just because _all happiness is of a negative character_ that, when we succeed in being perfectly at our ease, we are not properlyconscious of it. Everything seems to pass us softly and gently, andhardly to touch us until the moment is over; and then it is thepositive feeling of something lacking that tells us of the happinesswhich has vanished; it is then that we observe that we have failed tohold it fast, and we suffer the pangs of self-reproach as well as ofprivation. 

 * * * * *

Every happiness that a man enjoys, and almost every friendship thathe cherishes, rest upon illusion; for, as a rule, with increase ofknowledge they are bound to vanish. Nevertheless, here as elsewhere, aman should courageously pursue truth, and never weary of striving tosettle accounts with himself and the world. No matter what happens tothe right or to the left of him, --be it a chimaera or fancy that makeshim happy, let him take heart and go on, with no fear of the desertwhich widens to his view. Of one thing only must he be quite certain:that under no circumstances will he discover any lack of worth inhimself when the veil is raised; the sight of it would be the Gorgonthat would kill him. Therefore, if he wants to remain undeceived, lethim in his inmost being feel his own worth. For to feel the lack ofit is not merely the greatest, but also the only true affliction;all other sufferings of the mind may not only be healed, but may beimmediately relieved, by the secure consciousness of worth. The manwho is assured of it can sit down quietly under sufferings that wouldotherwise bring him to despair; and though he has no pleasures, nojoys and no friends, he can rest in and on himself; so powerful is thecomfort to be derived from a vivid consciousness of this advantage; acomfort to be preferred to every other earthly blessing. Contrarily, nothing in the world can relieve a man who knows his ownworthlessness; all that he can do is to conceal it by deceiving peopleor deafening them with his noise; but neither expedient will serve himvery long. 

 * * * * *

We must always try to preserve large views. If we are arrested bydetails we shall get confused, and see things awry. The success or thefailure of the moment, and the impression that they make, should countfor nothing. [1]

[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_. --Schopenhauer, for some reason thatis not apparent, wrote this remark in French. ]

 * * * * *

How difficult it is to learn to understand oneself, and clearly torecognise what it is that one wants before anything else; what it is, therefore, that is most immediately necessary to our happiness; thenwhat comes next; and what takes the third and the fourth place, and soon. 

Yet, without this knowledge, our life is planless, like a captainwithout a compass. 

 * * * * *

The sublime melancholy which leads us to cherish a lively convictionof the worthlessness of everything of all pleasures and of allmankind, and therefore to long for nothing, but to feel that life ismerely a burden which must be borne to an end that cannot be verydistant, is a much happier state of mind than any condition of desire, which, be it never so cheerful, would have us place a value on theillusions of the world, and strive to attain them. 

This is a fact which we learn from experience; and it is clear, _àpriori_, that one of these is a condition of illusion, and the otherof knowledge. 

Whether it is better to marry or not to marry is a question which invery many cases amounts to this: Are the cares of love more endurablethan the anxieties of a livelihood?

 * * * * *

Marriage is a trap which nature sets for us. [1]

[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_. --Also in French. ]

 * * * * *

Poets and philosophers who are married men incur by that very fact thesuspicion that they are looking to their own welfare, and not to theinterests of science and art. 

 * * * * *

Habit is everything. Hence to be calm and unruffled is merely toanticipate a habit; and it is a great advantage not to need to formit. 

 * * * * *

"Personality is the element of the greatest happiness. " Since _pain_and _boredom_ are the two chief enemies of human happiness, nature hasprovided our personality with a protection against both. We canward off pain, which is more often of the mind than of the body, by_cheerfulness_; and boredom by _intelligence_. But neither of theseis akin to the other; nay, in any high degree they are perhapsincompatible. As Aristotle remarks, genius is allied to melancholy;and people of very cheerful disposition are only intelligent on thesurface. The better, therefore, anyone is by nature armed against oneof these evils, the worse, as a rule, is he armed against the other. 

There is no human life that is free from pain and boredom; and it is aspecial favour on the part of fate if a man is chiefly exposed to theevil against which nature has armed him the better; if fate, that is, sends a great deal of pain where there is a very cheerful temper inwhich to bear it, and much leisure where there is much intelligence, but not _vice versâ_. For if a man is intelligent, he feels paindoubly or trebly; and a cheerful but unintellectual temper findssolitude and unoccupied leisure altogether unendurable. 

 * * * * *

In the sphere of thought, absurdity and perversity remain the mastersof this world, and their dominion is suspended only for brief periods. Nor is it otherwise in art; for there genuine work, seldom foundand still more seldom appreciated, is again and again driven out bydullness, insipidity, and affectation. 

It is just the same in the sphere of action. Most men, says Bias, arebad. Virtue is a stranger in this world; and boundless egoism, cunningand malice, are always the order of the day. It is wrong to deceivethe young on this point, for it will only make them feel later on thattheir teachers were the first to deceive them. If the object isto render the pupil a better man by telling him that others areexcellent, it fails; and it would be more to the purpose to say: Mostmen are bad, it is for you to be better. In this way he would, atleast, be sent out into the world armed with a shrewd foresight, instead of having to be convinced by bitter experience that histeachers were wrong. 

All ignorance is dangerous, and most errors must be dearly paid. Andgood luck must he have that carries unchastised an error in his headunto his death. [1]

[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_. --This, again, is Schopenhauer's ownEnglish. ]

 * * * * *

Every piece of success has a doubly beneficial effect upon us when, apart from the special and material advantage which it brings it isaccompanied by the enlivening assurance that the world, fate, or thedaemon within, does not mean so badly with us, nor is so opposed toour prosperity as we had fancied; when, in fine, it restores ourcourage to live. 

Similarly, every misfortune or defeat has, in the contrary sense, aneffect that is doubly depressing. 

 * * * * *

If we were not all of us exaggeratedly interested in ourselves, lifewould be so uninteresting that no one could endure it. 

 * * * * *

Everywhere in the world, and under all circumstances, it is only byforce that anything can be done; but power is mostly in bad hands, because baseness is everywhere in a fearful majority. 

 * * * * *

Why should it be folly to be always intent on getting the greatestpossible enjoyment out of the moment, which is our only surepossession? Our whole life is no more than a magnified present, and initself as fleeting. 

 * * * * *

As a consequence of his individuality and the position in which heis placed, everyone without exception lives in a certain state oflimitation, both as regards his ideas and the opinions which he forms. Another man is also limited, though not in the same way; but shouldhe succeed in comprehending the other's limitation he can confuseand abash him, and put him to shame, by making him feel what hislimitation is, even though the other be far and away his superior. Shrewd people often employ this circumstance to obtain a false andmomentary advantage. 

 * * * * *

The only genuine superiority is that of the mind and character; allother kinds are fictitious, affected, false; and it is good tomake them feel that it is so when they try to show off before thesuperiority that is true. [1]

[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_. --In the original this also is inFrench. ]

 * * * * *

 _All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players_. 

Exactly! Independently of what a man really is in himself, he hasa part to play, which fate has imposed upon him from without, bydetermining his rank, education, and circumstances. The most immediateapplication of this truth appears to me to be that in life, as onthe stage, we must distinguish between the actor and his part;distinguish, that is, the man in himself from his position andreputation--- from the part which rank and circumstances have imposedupon him. How often it is that the worst actor plays the king, and thebest the beggar! This may happen in life, too; and a man must be very_crude_ to confuse the actor with his part. 

 * * * * *

Our life is so poor that none of the treasures of the world can makeit rich; for the sources of enjoyment are soon found to be all veryscanty, and it is in vain that we look for one that will always flow. Therefore, as regards our own welfare, there are only two ways inwhich we can use wealth. We can either spend it in ostentatious pomp, and feed on the cheap respect which our imaginary glory will bring usfrom the infatuated crowd; or, by avoiding all expenditure that willdo us no good, we can let our wealth grow, so that we may have abulwark against misfortune and want that shall be stronger and betterevery day; in view of the fact that life, though it has few delights, is rich in evils. 

 * * * * *

It is just because our real and inmost being is _will_ that it is onlyby its exercise that we can attain a vivid consciousness of existence, although this is almost always attended by pain. Hence it is thatexistence is essentially painful, and that many persons for whosewants full provision is made arrange their day in accordance withextremely regular, monotonous, and definite habits. By this means theyavoid all the pain which the movement of the will produces; but, onthe other hand, their whole existence becomes a series of scenes andpictures that mean nothing. They are hardly aware that they exist. Nevertheless, it is the best way of settling accounts with life, solong as there is sufficient change to prevent an excessive feeling ofboredom. It is much better still if the Muses give a man some worthyoccupation, so that the pictures which fill his consciousness havesome meaning, and yet not a meaning that can be brought into anyrelation with his will. 

 * * * * *

A man is _wise_ only on condition of living in a world full of fools. 

GENIUS AND VIRTUE. 

When I think, it is the spirit of the world which is striving toexpress its thought; it is nature which is trying to know and fathomitself. It is not the thoughts of some other mind, which I amendeavouring to trace; but it is I who transform that which existsinto something which is known and thought, and would otherwise neithercome into being nor continue in it. 

In the realm of physics it was held for thousands of years to be afact beyond question that water was a simple and consequently anoriginal element. In the same way in the realm of metaphysics itwas held for a still longer period that the _ego_ was a simple andconsequently an indestructible entity. I have shown, however, that itis composed of two heterogeneous parts, namely, the _Will_, which ismetaphysical in its character, a thing in itself, and the _knowingsubject_, which is physical and a mere phenomenon. 

Let me illustrate what I mean. Take any large, massive, heavybuilding: this hard, ponderous body that fills so much space exists, I tell you, only in the soft pulp of the brain. There alone, in thehuman brain, has it any being. Unless you understand this, you can gono further. 

Truly it is the world itself that is a miracle; the world of materialbodies. I looked at two of them. Both were heavy, symmetrical, andbeautiful. One was a jasper vase with golden rim and golden handles;the other was an organism, an animal, a man. When I had sufficientlyadmired their exterior, I asked my attendant genius to allow me toexamine the inside of them; and I did so. In the vase I found nothingbut the force of gravity and a certain obscure desire, which took theform of chemical affinity. But when I entered into the other--howshall I express my astonishment at what I saw? It is more incrediblethan all the fairy tales and fables that were ever conceived. Nevertheless, I shall try to describe it, even at the risk of findingno credence for my tale. 

In this second thing, or rather in the upper end of it, called thehead, which on its exterior side looks like anything else--a body inspace, heavy, and so on--I found no less an object than the wholeworld itself, together with the whole of the space in which all ofit exists, and the whole of the time in which all of it moves, and finally everything that fills both time and space in all itsvariegated and infinite character; nay, strangest sight of all, Ifound myself walking about in it! It was no picture that I saw; it wasno peep-show, but reality itself. This it is that is really and trulyto be found in a thing which is no bigger than a cabbage, and which, on occasion, an executioner might strike off at a blow, and suddenlysmother that world in darkness and night. The world, I say, wouldvanish, did not heads grow like mushrooms, and were there not alwaysplenty of them ready to snatch it up as it is sinking down intonothing, and keep it going like a ball. This world is an idea whichthey all have in common, and they express the community of theirthought by the word "objectivity. "

In the face of this vision I felt as if I were Ardschuna when Krishnaappeared to him in his true majesty, with his hundred thousand armsand eyes and mouths. 

When I see a wide landscape, and realise that it arises by theoperation of the functions of my brain, that is to say, of time, space, and casuality, on certain spots which have gathered on myretina, I feel that I carry it within me. I have an extraordinarilyclear consciousness of the identity of my own being with that of theexternal world. 

Nothing provides so vivid an illustration of this identity as a_dream_. For in a dream other people appear to be totally distinctfrom us, and to possess the most perfect objectivity, and a naturewhich is quite different from ours, and which often puzzles, surprises, astonishes, or terrifies us; and yet it is all our ownself. It is even so with the will, which sustains the whole of theexternal world and gives it life; it is the same will that is inourselves, and it is there alone that we are immediately conscious ofit. But it is the intellect, in ourselves and in others, which makesall these miracles possible; for it is the intellect which everywheredivides actual being into subject and object; it is a hall ofphantasmagorical mystery, inexpressibly marvellous, incomparablymagical. 

The difference in degree of mental power which sets so wide a gulfbetween the genius and the ordinary mortal rests, it is true, uponnothing else than a more or less perfect development of the cerebralsystem. But it is this very difference which is so important, becausethe whole of the real world in which we live and move possesses anexistence only in relation to this cerebral system. Accordingly, thedifference between a genius and an ordinary man is a total diversityof world and existence. The difference between man and the loweranimals may be similarly explained. 

When Momus was said to ask for a window in the breast, it was anallegorical joke, and we cannot even imagine such a contrivance tobe a possibility; but it would be quite possible to imagine that theskull and its integuments were transparent, and then, good heavens!what differences should we see in the size, the form, the quality, the movement of the brain! what degrees of value! A great mind wouldinspire as much respect at first sight as three stars on a man'sbreast, and what a miserable figure would be cut by many a one whowore them!

Men of genius and intellect, and all those whose mental andtheoretical qualities are far more developed than their moraland practical qualities--men, in a word, who have more mind thancharacter--are often not only awkward and ridiculous in matters ofdaily life, as has been observed by Plato in the seventh book of the_Republic_, and portrayed by Goethe in his _Tasso_; but they areoften, from a moral point of view, weak and contemptible creatures aswell; nay, they might almost be called bad men. Of this Rousseau hasgiven us genuine examples. Nevertheless, that better consciousnesswhich is the source of all virtue is often stronger in them than inmany of those whose actions are nobler than their thoughts; nay, itmay be said that those who think nobly have a better acquaintance withvirtue, while the others make a better practice of it. Full of zealfor the good and for the beautiful, they would fain fly up to heavenin a straight line; but the grosser elements of this earth opposetheir flight, and they sink back again. They are like born artists, who have no knowledge of technique, or find that the marble is toohard for their fingers. Many a man who has much less enthusiasm forthe good, and a far shallower acquaintance with its depths, makes abetter thing of it in practice; he looks down upon the noble thinkerswith contempt, and he has a right to do it; nevertheless, he does notunderstand them, and they despise him in their turn, and not unjustly. They are to blame; for every living man has, by the fact of hisliving, signed the conditions of life; but they are still more to bepitied. They achieve their redemption, not on the way of virtue, buton a path of their own; and they are saved, not by works, but byfaith. 

Men of no genius whatever cannot bear solitude: they take no pleasurein the contemplation of nature and the world. This arises from thefact that they never lose sight of their own will, and thereforethey see nothing of the objects of the world but the bearing of suchobjects upon their will and person. With objects which have no suchbearing there sounds within them a constant note: _It is nothing tome_, which is the fundamental base in all their music. Thus all thingsseem to them to wear a bleak, gloomy, strange, hostile aspect. It isonly for their will that they seem to have any perceptive faculties atall; and it is, in fact, only a moral and not a theoretical tendency, only a moral and not an intellectual value, that their life possesses. The lower animals bend their heads to the ground, because all thatthey want to see is what touches their welfare, and they can nevercome to contemplate things from a really objective point of view. Itis very seldom that unintellectual men make a true use of their erectposition, and then it is only when they are moved by some intellectualinfluence outside them. 

The man of intellect or genius, on the other hand, has more of thecharacter of the eternal subject that knows, than of the finitesubject that wills; his knowledge is not quite engrossed andcaptivated by his will, but passes beyond it; he is the son, _not ofthe bondwoman, but of the free_. It is not only a moral but alsoa theoretical tendency that is evinced in his life; nay, it mightperhaps be said that to a certain extent he is beyond morality. Ofgreat villainy he is totally incapable; and his conscience is lessoppressed by ordinary sin than the conscience of the ordinary man, because life, as it were, is a game, and he sees through it. 

The relation between _genius_ and _virtue_ is determined by thefollowing considerations. Vice is an impulse of the will so violentin its demands that it affirms its own life by denying the life ofothers. The only kind of knowledge that is useful to the will is theknowledge that a given effect is produced by a certain cause. Geniusitself is a kind of knowledge, namely, of ideas; and it is a knowledgewhich is unconcerned with any principle of causation. The man who isdevoted to knowledge of this character is not employed in the businessof the will. Nay, every man who is devoted to the purely objectivecontemplation of the world (and it is this that is meant by theknowledge of ideas) completely loses sight of his will and itsobjects, and pays no further regard to the interests of his ownperson, but becomes a pure intelligence free of any admixture of will. 

Where, then, devotion to the intellect predominates over concern forthe will and its objects, it shows that the man's will is not theprincipal element in his being, but that in proportion to hisintelligence it is weak. Violent desire, which is the root of allvice, never allows a man to arrive at the pure and disinterestedcontemplation of the world, free from any relation to the will, suchas constitutes the quality of genius; but here the intelligenceremains the constant slave of the will. 

Since genius consists in the perception of ideas, and men of genius_contemplate_ their object, it may be said that it is only the eyewhich is any real evidence of genius. For the contemplative gaze hassomething steady and vivid about it; and with the eye of genius it isoften the case, as with Goethe, that the white membrane over the pupilis visible. With violent, passionate men the same thing may alsohappen, but it arises from a different cause, and may be easilydistinguished by the fact that the eyes roll. Men of no genius at allhave no interest in the idea expressed by an object, but only in therelations in which that object stands to others, and finally to theirown person. Thus it is that they never indulge in contemplation, orare soon done with it, and rarely fix their eyes long upon anyobject; and so their eyes do not wear the mark of genius which I havedescribed. Nay, the regular Philistine does the direct opposite ofcontemplating--he spies. If he looks at anything it is to pry intoit; as may be specially observed when he screws up his eyes, which hefrequently does, in order to see the clearer. Certainly, no real manof genius ever does this, at least habitually, even though he isshort-sighted. 

What I have said will sufficiently illustrate the conflict betweengenius and vice. It may be, however, nay, it is often the case, thatgenius is attended by a strong will; and as little as men of geniuswere ever consummate rascals, were they ever perhaps perfect saintseither. 

Let me explain. Virtue is not exactly a positive weakness of the will;it is, rather, an intentional restraint imposed upon its violencethrough a knowledge of it in its inmost being as manifested in theworld. This knowledge of the world, the inmost being of which iscommunicable only in _ideas_, is common both to the genius and to thesaint. The distinction between the two is that the genius reveals hisknowledge by rendering it in some form of his own choice, and theproduct is Art. For this the saint, as such, possesses no directfaculty; he makes an immediate application of his knowledge to his ownwill, which is thus led into a denial of the world. With the saintknowledge is only a means to an end, whereas the genius remains atthe stage of knowledge, and has his pleasure in it, and reveals it byrendering what he knows in his art. 

In the hierarchy of physical organisation, strength of will isattended by a corresponding growth in the intelligent faculties. Ahigh degree of knowledge, such as exists in the genius, presupposes apowerful will, though, at the same time, a will that is subordinateto the intellect. In other words, both the intellect and the willare strong, but the intellect is the stronger of the two. Unless, ashappens in the case of the saint, the intellect is at once applied tothe will, or, as in the case of the artist, it finds its pleasures ina reproduction of itself, the will remains untamed. Any strength thatit may lose is due to the predominance of pure objective intelligencewhich is concerned with the contemplation of ideas, and is not, asin the case of the common or the bad man, wholly occupied with theobjects of the will. In the interval, when the genius is no longerengaged in the contemplation of ideas, and his intelligence is againapplied to the will and its objects, the will is re-awakened in allits strength. Thus it is that men of genius often have very violentdesires, and are addicted to sensual pleasure and to anger. Greatcrimes, however, they do not commit; because, when the opportunity ofthem offers, they recognise their idea, and see it very vividly andclearly. Their intelligence is thus directed to the idea, and so gainsthe predominance over the will, and turns its course, as with thesaint; and the crime is uncommitted. 

The genius, then, always participates to some degree in thecharacteristics of the saint, as he is a man of the samequalification; and, contrarily, the saint always participates to somedegree in the characteristics of the genius. 

The good-natured character, which is common, is to be distinguishedfrom the saintly by the fact that it consists in a weakness of will, with a somewhat less marked weakness of intellect. A lower degree ofthe knowledge of the world as revealed in ideas here suffices to checkand control a will that is weak in itself. Genius and sanctity arefar removed from good-nature, which is essentially weak in all itsmanifestations. 

Apart from all that I have said, so much at least is clear. Whatappears under the forms of time, space, and casuality, and vanishesagain, and in reality is nothing, and reveals its nothingness bydeath--this vicious and fatal appearance is the will. But what doesnot appear, and is no phenomenon, but rather the noumenon; whatmakes appearance possible; what is not subject to the principle ofcausation, and therefore has no vain or vanishing existence, butabides for ever unchanged in the midst of a world full of suffering, like a ray of light in a storm, --free, therefore, from all pain andfatality, --this, I say, is the intelligence. The man who is moreintelligence than will, is thereby delivered, in respect of thegreatest part of him, from nothingness and death; and such a man is inhis nature a genius. 

By the very fact that he lives and works, the man who is endowedwith genius makes an entire sacrifice of himself in the interestsof everyone. Accordingly, he is free from the obligation to make aparticular sacrifice for individuals; and thus he can refuse manydemands which others are rightly required to meet. He suffers andachieves more than all the others. 

The spring which moves the genius to elaborate his works is not fame, for that is too uncertain a quality, and when it is seen at closequarters, of little worth. No amount of fame will make up for thelabour of attaining it:

 _Nulla est fama tuum par oequiparare laborem_. 

Nor is it the delight that a man has in his work; for that too isoutweighed by the effort which he has to make. It is, rather, aninstinct _sui generis_; in virtue of which the genius is driven toexpress what he sees and feels in some permanent shape, without beingconscious of any further motive. 

It is manifest that in so far as it leads an individual to sacrificehimself for his species, and to live more in the species than inhimself, this impulse is possessed of a certain resemblance withsuch modifications of the sexual impulse as are peculiar to man. Themodifications to which I refer are those that confine this impulse tocertain individuals of the other sex, whereby the interests of thespecies are attained. The individuals who are actively affected bythis impulse may be said to sacrifice themselves for the species, by their passion for each other, and the disadvantageous conditionsthereby imposed upon them, --in a word, by the institution of marriage. They may be said to be serving the interests of the species ratherthan the interests of the individual. 

The instinct of the genius does, in a higher fashion, for the idea, what passionate love does for the will. In both cases there arepeculiar pleasures and peculiar pains reserved for the individuals whoin this way serve the interests of the species; and they live in astate of enhanced power. 

The genius who decides once for all to live for the interests of thespecies in the way which he chooses is neither fitted nor called uponto do it in the other. It is a curious fact that the perpetuation of aman's name is effected in both ways. 

In music the finest compositions are the most difficult to understand. They are only for the trained intelligence. They consist of longmovements, where it is only after a labyrinthine maze that thefundamental note is recovered. It is just so with genius; it is onlyafter a course of struggle, and doubt, and error, and much reflectionand vacillation, that great minds attain their equilibrium. It is thelongest pendulum that makes the greatest swing. Little minds soon cometo terms with themselves and the world, and then fossilise; but theothers flourish, and are always alive and in motion. 

The essence of genius is a measure of intellectual power far beyondthat which is required to serve the individual's will. But it is ameasure of a merely relative character, and it may be reached bylowering the degree of the will, as well as by raising that of theintellect. There are men whose intellect predominates over theirwill, and are yet not possessed of genius in any proper sense. Theirintellectual powers do, indeed, exceed the ordinary, though not to anygreat extent, but their will is weak. They have no violent desires;and therefore they are more concerned with mere knowledge than withthe satisfaction of any aims. Such men possess talent; they areintelligent, and at the same time very contented and cheerful. 

A clear, cheerful and reasonable mind, such as brings a man happiness, is dependent on the relation established between his intellect and hiswill--a relation in which the intellect is predominant. But genius anda great mind depend on the relation between a man's intellect and thatof other people--a relation in which his intellect must exceed theirs, and at the same time his will may also be proportionately stronger. That is the reason why genius and happiness need not necessarily existtogether. 

When the individual is distraught by cares or pleasantry, or torturedby the violence of his wishes and desires, the genius in him isenchained and cannot move. It is only when care and desire are silentthat the air is free enough for genius to live in it. It is then thatthe bonds of matter are cast aside, and the pure spirit--the pure, knowing subject--remains. Hence, if a man has any genius, let himguard himself from pain, keep care at a distance, and limit hisdesires; but those of them which he cannot suppress let him satisfy tothe full. This is the only way in which he will make the best use ofhis rare existence, to his own pleasure and the world's profit. 

To fight with need and care or desires, the satisfaction of which isrefused and forbidden, is good enough work for those who, werethey free of would have to fight with boredom, and so take to badpractices; but not for the man whose time, if well used, will bearfruit for centuries to come. As Diderot says, he is not merely a moralbeing. 

Mechanical laws do not apply in the sphere of chemistry, nor dochemical laws in the sphere in which organic life is kindled. In thesame way, the rules which avail for ordinary men will not do for theexceptions, nor will their pleasures either. 

It is a persistent, uninterrupted activity that constitutes thesuperior mind. The object to which this activity is directed is amatter of subordinate importance; it has no essential bearing on thesuperiority in question, but only on the individual who possesses it. All that education can do is to determine the direction which thisactivity shall take; and that is the reason why a man's nature is somuch more important than his education. For education is to naturalfaculty what a wax nose is to a real one; or what the moon and theplanets are to the sun. In virtue of his education a man says, notwhat he thinks himself, but what others have thought and he haslearned as a matter of training; and what he does is not what hewants, but what he has been accustomed to do. 

The lower animals perform many intelligent functions much better thanman; for instance, the finding of their way back to the place fromwhich they came, the recognition of individuals, and so on. In thesame way, there are many occasions in real life to which the genius isincomparably less equal and fitted than the ordinary man. Nay more:just as animals never commit a folly in the strict sense of the word, so the average man is not exposed to folly in the same degree as thegenius. 

The average man is wholly relegated to the sphere of _being_; thegenius, on the other hand, lives and moves chiefly in the sphere of_knowledge_. This gives rise to a twofold distinction. In the firstplace, a man can be one thing only, but he may _know_ countlessthings, and thereby, to some extent, identify himself with them, byparticipating in what Spinoza calls their _esse objectivum_. In thesecond place, the world, as I have elsewhere observed, is fine enoughin appearance, but in reality dreadful; for torment is the conditionof all life. 

It follows from the first of these distinctions that the life of theaverage man is essentially one of the greatest boredom; and thus wesee the rich warring against boredom with as much effort and as littlerespite as fall to the poor in their struggle with need and adversity. And from the second of them it follows that the life of the averageman is overspread with a dull, turbid, uniform gravity; whilst thebrow of genius glows with mirth of a unique character, which, althoughhe has sorrows of his own more poignant than those of the average man, nevertheless breaks out afresh, like the sun through clouds. It iswhen the genius is overtaken by an affliction which affects others aswell as himself, that this quality in him is most in evidence; forthen he is seen to be like man, who alone can laugh, in comparisonwith the beast of the field, which lives out its life grave and dull. 

It is the curse of the genius that in the same measure in which othersthink him great and worthy of admiration, he thinks them small andmiserable creatures. His whole life long he has to suppress thisopinion; and, as a rule, they suppress theirs as well. Meanwhile, heis condemned to live in a bleak world, where he meets no equal, as itwere an island where there are no inhabitants but monkeys and parrots. Moreover, he is always troubled by the illusion that from a distance amonkey looks like a man. 

Vulgar people take a huge delight in the faults and follies of greatmen; and great men are equally annoyed at being thus reminded of theirkinship with them. 

The real dignity of a man of genius or great intellect, the traitwhich raises him over others and makes him worthy of respect, is atbottom the fact, that the only unsullied and innocent part of humannature, namely, the intellect, has the upper hand in him? andprevails; whereas, in the other there is nothing but sinful will, and just as much intellect as is requisite for guiding his steps, ---rarely any more, very often somewhat less, --and of what use is it?

It seems to me that genius might have its root in a certain perfectionand vividness of the memory as it stretches back over the events ofpast life. For it is only by dint of memory, which makes our life inthe strict sense a complete whole, that we attain a more profound andcomprehensive understanding of it.