The Essays of Arthur Schopenhauer: the Wisdom of Life
[Greek: Pollo to phronein eudaimonias
proton uparchei.][1]
he says in one place--wisdom is the greatest part of happiness;
and again, in another passage, he declares that the life of the
thoughtless is the most pleasant of all--
[Greek: En ta phronein gar maeden aedistos bios.][2]
The philosophers of the _Old Testament_ find themselves in a like
contradiction.
_The life of a fool is worse than death_[3]
and--
_In much wisdom is much grief; and he that increaseth knowledge
increaseth sorrow_.[4]
[Footnote 1: Antigone, 1347-8.]
[Footnote 2: Ajax, 554.]
[Footnote 3: Ecclesiasticus, xxii. 11.]
[Footnote 4: Ecclesiastes, i. 18.]
I may remark, however, that a man who has no mental needs, because his
intellect is of the narrow and normal amount, is, in the strict sense
of the word, what is called a _philistine_--an expression at first
peculiar to the German language, a kind of slang term at the
Universities, afterwards used, by analogy, in a higher sense, though
still in its original meaning, as denoting one who is not _a Son of
the Muses_. A philistine is and remains [Greek: amousos anaer]. I
should prefer to take a higher point of view, and apply the term
_philistine_ to people who are always seriously occupied with
realities which are no realities; but as such a definition would be a
transcendental one, and therefore not generally intelligible, it
would hardly be in place in the present treatise, which aims at
being popular. The other definition can be more easily elucidated,
indicating, as it does, satisfactorily enough, the essential nature of
all those qualities which distinguish the philistine. He is defined to
be _a man without mental needs_. From this is follows, firstly, _in
relation to himself_, that he has _no intellectual pleasures_; for, as
was remarked before, there are no real pleasures without real needs.
The philistine's life is animated by no desire to gain knowledge and
insight for their own sake, or to experience that true aeesthetic
pleasure which is so nearly akin to them. If pleasures of this kind
are fashionable, and the philistine finds himself compelled to pay
attention to them, he will force himself to do so, but he will take as
little interest in them as possible. His only real pleasures are of a
sensual kind, and he thinks that these indemnify him for the loss of
the others. To him oysters and champagne are the height of existence;
the aim of his life is to procure what will contribute to his bodily
welfare, and he is indeed in a happy way if this causes him some
trouble. If the luxuries of life are heaped upon him, he will
inevitably be bored, and against boredom he has a great many fancied
remedies, balls, theatres, parties, cards, gambling, horses, women,
drinking, traveling and so on; all of which can not protect a man
from being bored, for where there are no intellectual needs, no
intellectual pleasures are possible. The peculiar characteristic
of the philistine is a dull, dry kind of gravity, akin to that of
animals. Nothing really pleases, or excites, or interests him, for
sensual pleasure is quickly exhausted, and the society of philistines
soon becomes burdensome, and one may even get tired of playing cards.
True, the pleasures of vanity are left, pleasures which he enjoys in
his own way, either by feeling himself superior in point of wealth, or
rank, or influence and power to other people, who thereupon pay
him honor; or, at any rate, by going about with those who have a
superfluity of these blessings, sunning himself in the reflection of
their splendor--what the English call a _snob_.
From the essential nature of the philistine it follows, secondly, _in
regard to others_, that, as he possesses no intellectual, but only
physical need, he will seek the society of those who can satisfy the
latter, but not the former. The last thing he will expect from his
friends is the possession of any sort of intellectual capacity; nay,
if he chances to meet with it, it will rouse his antipathy and
even hatred; simply because in addition to an unpleasant sense of
inferiority, he experiences, in his heart, a dull kind of envy, which
has to be carefully concealed even from himself. Nevertheless, it
sometimes grows into a secret feeling of rancor. But for all that,
it will never occur to him to make his own ideas of worth or value
conform to the standard of such qualities; he will continue to give
the preference to rank and riches, power and influence, which in his
eyes seem to be the only genuine advantages in the world; and his wish
will be to excel in them himself. All this is the consequence of his
being a man _without intellectual needs_. The great affliction of all
philistines is that they have no interest in _ideas_, and that, to
escape being bored, they are in constant need of _realities_. But
realities are either unsatisfactory or dangerous; when they lose their
interest, they become fatiguing. But the ideal world is illimitable
and calm,
_something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow_.
NOTE.--In these remarks on the personal qualities which go to make
happiness, I have been mainly concerned with the physical and
intellectual nature of man. For an account of the direct and immediate
influence of _morality_ upon happiness, let me refer to my prize essay
on _The Foundation of Morals_ (Sec. 22.)
CHAPTER III.
PROPERTY, OR WHAT A MAN HAS.
Epicurus divides the needs of mankind into three classes, and the
division made by this great professor of happiness is a true and a
fine one. First come natural and necessary needs, such as, when not
satisfied, produce pain,--food and clothing, _victus et amictus_,
needs which can easily be satisfied. Secondly, there are those needs
which, though natural, are not necessary, such as the gratification of
certain of the senses. I may add, however, that in the report given by
Diogenes Laertius, Epicurus does not mention which of the senses he
means; so that on this point my account of his doctrine is somewhat
more definite and exact than the original. These are needs rather more
difficult to satisfy. The third class consists of needs which are
neither natural nor necessary, the need of luxury and prodigality,
show and splendor, which never come to an end, and are very hard to
satisfy.[1]
[Footnote 1: Cf. Diogenes Laertius, Bk. x., ch. xxvii., pp. 127 and
149; also Cicero _de finibus_, i., 13.]
It is difficult, if not impossible, to define the limits which reason
should impose on the desire for wealth; for there is no absolute or
definite amount of wealth which will satisfy a man. The amount is
always relative, that is to say, just so much as will maintain the
proportion between what he wants and what he gets; for to measure a
man's happiness only by what he gets, and not also by what he expects
to get, is as futile as to try and express a fraction which shall have
a numerator but no denominator. A man never feels the loss of things
which it never occurs to him to ask for; he is just as happy without
them; whilst another, who may have a hundred times as much, feels
miserable because he has not got the one thing he wants. In fact, here
too, every man has an horizon of his own, and he will expect as much
as he thinks it is possible for him to get. If an object within his
horizon looks as though he could confidently reckon on getting it, he
is happy; but if difficulties come in the way, he is miserable. What
lies beyond his horizon has no effect at all upon him. So it is
that the vast possessions of the rich do not agitate the poor, and
conversely, that a wealthy man is not consoled by all his wealth for
the failure of his hopes. Riches, one may say, are like sea-water; the
more you drink the thirstier you become; and the same is true of fame.
The loss of wealth and prosperity leaves a man, as soon as the first
pangs of grief are over, in very much the same habitual temper as
before; and the reason of this is, that as soon as fate diminishes the
amount of his possessions, he himself immediately reduces the amount
of his claims. But when misfortune comes upon us, to reduce the amount
of our claims is just what is most painful; once that we have done so,
the pain becomes less and less, and is felt no more; like an old wound
which has healed. Conversely, when a piece of good fortune befalls us,
our claims mount higher and higher, as there is nothing to regulate
them; it is in this feeling of expansion that the delight of it lies.
But it lasts no longer than the process itself, and when the expansion
is complete, the delight ceases; we have become accustomed to the
increase in our claims, and consequently indifferent to the amount of
wealth which satisfies them. There is a passage in the _Odyssey_[1]
illustrating this truth, of which I may quote the last two lines:
[Greek: Toios gar noos estin epichthonion anthropon
Oion eth aemar agei pataer andron te theou te]
--the thoughts of man that dwells on the earth are as the day granted
him by the father of gods and men. Discontent springs from a constant
endeavor to increase the amount of our claims, when we are powerless
to increase the amount which will satisfy them.
[Footnote 1: xviii., 130-7.]
When we consider how full of needs the human race is, how its whole
existence is based upon them, it is not a matter for surprise that
_wealth_ is held in more sincere esteem, nay, in greater honor, than
anything else in the world; nor ought we to wonder that gain is made
the only good of life, and everything that does not lead to it pushed
aside or thrown overboard--philosophy, for instance, by those who
profess it. People are often reproached for wishing for money above
all things, and for loving it more than anything else; but it is
natural and even inevitable for people to love that which, like an
unwearied Proteus, is always ready to turn itself into whatever object
their wandering wishes or manifold desires may for the moment fix
upon. Everything else can satisfy only _one_ wish, _one_ need: food is
good only if you are hungry; wine, if you are able to enjoy it; drugs,
if you are sick; fur for the winter; love for youth, and so on. These
are all only relatively good, [Greek: agatha pros ti]. Money alone is
absolutely good, because it is not only a concrete satisfaction of one
need in particular; it is an abstract satisfaction of all.
If a man has an independent fortune, he should regard it as a bulwark
against the many evils and misfortunes which he may encounter; he
should not look upon it as giving him leave to get what pleasure he
can out of the world, or as rendering it incumbent upon him to spend
it in this way. People who are not born with a fortune, but end by
making a large one through the exercise of whatever talents they
possess, almost always come to think that their talents are their
capital, and that the money they have gained is merely the interest
upon it; they do not lay by a part of their earnings to form a
permanent capital, but spend their money much as they have earned it.
Accordingly, they often fall into poverty; their earnings decreased,
or come to an end altogether, either because their talent is exhausted
by becoming antiquated,--as, for instance, very often happens in
the case of fine art; or else it was valid only under a special
conjunction of circumstances which has now passed away. There is
nothing to prevent those who live on the common labor of their hands
from treating their earnings in that way if they like; because their
kind of skill is not likely to disappear, or, if it does, it can be
replaced by that of their fellow-workmen; morever, the kind of work
they do is always in demand; so that what the proverb says is quite
true, _a useful trade is a mine of gold_. But with artists and