Essays of Schopenhauer
_Phil_. That might be so if I could only digest a Spanish proverb.
_Demop_. And that is?
_Phil._ _Detras de la cruz está el Diablo_.
_Demop_. Which means?
_Phil_ Wait--"Behind the cross stands the devil."
_Demop_. Come, don't let us separate from each other with sarcasms, but
rather let us allow that religion, like Janus, or, better still, like
the Brahman god of death, Yama, has two faces, and like him, one very
friendly and one very sullen. Each of us, however, has only fixed his
eyes on one.
_Phil_. You are right, old fellow.
FOOTNOTES:
[13] _De Anim. Mundi_, p. 104, d. Steph.
PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.
Every animal, and especially man, requires, in order to exist and get on
in the world, a certain fitness and proportion between his will and his
intellect. The more exact and true this fitness and proportion are by
nature, the easier, safer, and pleasanter it will be for him to get
through the world. At the same time, a mere approximation to this exact
point will protect him from destruction. There is, in consequence, a
certain scope within the limits of exactness and fitness of this
so-called proportion. The normal proportion is as follows. As the object
of the intellect is to be the light and guide of the will on its path,
the more violent, impetuous, and passionate the inner force of the will,
the more perfect and clear must be the intellect which belongs to it; so
that the ardent efforts of the will, the glow of passion, the vehemence
of affection, may not lead a man astray or drive him to do things that
he has not given his consideration or are wrong or will ruin him; which
will infallibly be the case when a very strong will is combined with a
very weak intellect. On the other hand, a phlegmatic character, that is
to say, a weak and feeble will, can agree and get on with little
intellect; a moderate will only requires a moderate intellect. In
general, any disproportion between the will and intellect--that is to
say, any deviation from the normal proportion referred to--tends to make
a man unhappy; and the same thing happens when the disproportion is
reversed. The development of the intellect to an abnormal degree of
strength and superiority, thereby making it out of all proportion to the
will, a condition which constitutes the essence of true genius, is not
only superfluous but actually an impediment to the needs and purposes of
life. This means that, in youth, excessive energy in grasping the
objective world, accompanied by a lively imagination and little
experience, makes the mind susceptible to exaggerated ideas and a prey
even to chimeras; and this results in an eccentric and even fantastic
character. And when, later, this condition of mind no longer exists and
succumbs to the teaching of experience, the genius will never feel so
much at home or take up his position in the everyday world or in civic
life, and move with the ease of a man of normal intellect; indeed, he is
often more apt to make curious mistakes. For the ordinary mind is so
perfectly at home in the narrow circle of its own ideas and way of
grasping things that no one can control it in that circle; its
capacities always remain true to their original purpose, namely, to look
after the service of the will; therefore it applies itself unceasingly
to this end without ever going beyond it. While the genius, as I have
stated, is at bottom a _monstrum per excessum_; just as conversely the
passionate, violent, and unintelligent man, the brainless savage, is a
_monstrum per dejectum_.
* * * * *
The _will_ to _live_, which forms the innermost kernel of every living
being, is most distinctly apparent in the highest, that is to say in the
cleverest, order of animals, and therefore in them we may see and
consider the nature of the will most clearly. For _below_ this order of
animals the will is not so prominent, and has a less degree of
objectivation; but _above_ the higher order of animals, I mean in men,
we get reason, and with reason reflection, and with this the faculty for
dissimulation, which immediately throws a veil over the actions of the
will. But in outbursts of affection and passion the will exhibits itself
unveiled. This is precisely why passion, when it speaks, always carries
conviction, whatever the passion may be; and rightly so. For the same
reason, the passions are the principal theme of poets and the
stalking-horse of actors. And it is because the will is most striking in
the lower class of animals that we may account for our delight in dogs,
apes, cats, etc.; it is the absolute _naïveté_ of all their expressions
which charms us so much.
What a peculiar pleasure it affords us to see any free animal looking
after its own welfare unhindered, finding its food, or taking care of
its young, or associating with others of its kind, and so on! This is
exactly what ought to be and can be. Be it only a bird, I can look at it
for some time with a feeling of pleasure; nay, a water-rat or a frog,
and with still greater pleasure a hedgehog, a weazel, a roe, or a deer.
The contemplation of animals delights us so much, principally because we
see in them our own existence very _much simplified_.
There is only one mendacious creature in the world--man. Every other is
true and genuine, for it shows itself as it is, and expresses itself
just as it feels. An emblematical or allegorical expression of this
fundamental difference is to be found in the fact that all animals go
about in their natural state; this largely accounts for the happy
impression they make on us when we look at them; and as far as I myself
am concerned, my heart always goes out to them, particularly if they are
free animals. Man, on the other hand, by his silly dress becomes a
monster; his very appearance is objectionable, enhanced by the unnatural
paleness of his complexion,--the nauseating effect of his eating meat,
of his drinking alcohol, his smoking, dissoluteness, and ailments. He
stands out as a blot on Nature. And it was because the Greeks were
conscious of this that they restricted themselves as far as possible in
the matter of dress.
* * * * *
Much that is attributed to _force of habit_ ought rather to be put down
to the constancy and immutability of original, innate character, whereby
we always do the _same_ thing under the same circumstances; which
happens the first as for the hundredth time in consequence of the same
necessity. While _force of habit_, in reality, is solely due to
_indolence_ seeking to save the intellect and will the work, difficulty,
and danger of making a fresh choice; so that we are made to do to-day
what we did yesterday and have done a hundred times before, and of which
we know that it will gain its end.
But the truth of the matter lies deeper; for it can be explained more
clearly than appears at first sight. The _power of inertia_ applied to
bodies which may be moved by mechanical means only, becomes _force of
habit_ when applied to bodies which are moved by motives. The actions
which we do out of sheer force of habit occur, as a matter of fact,
without any individual separate motive exercised for the particular
case; hence we do not really think of them. It was only when each action
at first took place that it had a motive; after that it became a habit;
the secondary after-effect of this motive is the present habit, which is
sufficient to carry on the action; just as a body, set in motion by a
push, does not need another push in order to enable it to continue its
motion; it will continue in motion for ever if it is not obstructed in
any way. The same thing applies to animals; training is a habit which is
forced upon them. The horse draws a cart along contentedly without being
urged to do so; this motion is still the effect of those lashes with the
whip which incited him at first, but which by the law of inertia have
become perpetuated as habit. There is really something more in all this
than a mere parable; it is the identity of the thing in question, that
is to say of the will, at very different degrees of its objectivation,
by which the same law of motion takes such different forms.
* * * * *
_Viva muchos a�os!_ is the ordinary greeting in Spain, and it is usual
throughout the whole world to wish people a long life. It is not a
knowledge of what life is that explains the origin of such a wish, but
rather knowledge of what man is in his real nature: namely, _the will to
live_.
The wish which every one has, that he may be _remembered_ after his
death, and which those people with aspirations have for _posthumous_
fame, seems to me to arise from this tenacity to life. When they see
themselves cut off from every possibility of real existence they
struggle after a life which is still within their reach, even if it is
only an ideal--that is to say, an unreal one.
* * * * *
We wish, more or less, to get to the end of everything we are interested
in or occupied with; we are impatient to get to the end of it, and glad
when it is finished. It is only the general end, the end of all ends,
that we wish, as a rule, as far off as possible.
* * * * *
Every separation gives a foretaste of death, and every meeting a
foretaste of the resurrection. This explains why even people who were
indifferent to each other, rejoice so much when they meet again after
the lapse of twenty or thirty years.
* * * * *
The deep sorrow we feel on the death of a friend springs from the
feeling that in every individual there is a something which we cannot
define, which is his alone and therefore _irreparable. Omne individuum
ineffabile_. The same applies to individual animals. A man who has by
accident fatally wounded a favourite animal feels the most acute sorrow,
and the animal's dying look causes him infinite pain.
* * * * *
It is possible for us to grieve over the death of our enemies and
adversaries, even after the lapse of a long time, almost as much as over
the death of our friends--that is to say, if we miss them as witnesses
of our brilliant success.
* * * * *
That the sudden announcement of some good fortune may easily have a
fatal effect on us is due to the fact that our happiness and unhappiness
depend upon the relation of our demands to what we get; accordingly, the
good things we possess, or are quite sure of possessing, are not felt to
be such, because the nature of all enjoyment is really only _negative_,
and has only the effect of annulling pain; whilst, on the other hand,
the nature of pain or evil is really positive and felt immediately. With
the possession, or the certain prospect of it, our demands instantly
rise and increase our desire for further possession and greater
prospects. But if the mind is depressed by continual misfortune, and the
claims reduced to a _minimum_, good fortune that comes suddenly finds no
capacity for its acceptance. Neutralised by no previous claims, it now
has apparently a positive effect, and accordingly its whole power is
exercised; hence it may disorganise the mind--that is to say, be fatal
to it. This is why, as is well known, one is so careful to get a man
first to hope for happiness before announcing it, then to suggest the
prospect of it, then little by little make it known, until gradually all
is known to him; every portion of the revelation loses the strength of
its effect because it is anticipated by a demand, and room is still left
for more. In virtue of all this, it might be said that our stomach for
good fortune is bottomless, but the entrance to it is narrow. What has