Chapter 5

6 of 7 chapters in Aphorisms on the Wisdom of Life by Arthur Schopenhauer

Original German

Paränesen und Maximen.

Weniger noch, als irgendwo, bezwecke ich hier Vollständigkeit; da ich sonst die vielen, von Denkern aller Zeiten aufgestellten, zum Teil vortrefflichen Lebensregeln zu wiederholen haben würde, vom Theognis und Pseudo-Salomo an, bis auf den Rochefoucauld herab; wobei ich dann auch viele, schon breit getretene Gemeinplätze nicht würde vermeiden können. Mit der Vollständigkeit fällt aber auch die systematische Anordnung größtenteils weg. Über beide tröste man sich damit, daß sie, in Dingen dieser Art, fast unausbleiblich die Langeweile in ihrem Gefolge haben. Ich habe bloß gegeben, was mir eben eingefallen ist, der Mitteilung wert schien und, so viel mir erinnerlich, noch nicht, wenigstens nicht ganz und eben so, gesagt worden ist, also eben nur eine Nachlese zu dem auf diesem unabsehbaren Felde bereits von andern Geleisteten.

Um jedoch in die große Mannigfaltigkeit der hierher gehörigen Ansichten und Ratschläge einige Ordnung zu bringen, will ich sie einteilen in allgemeine, in solche, welche unser Verhalten gegen uns selbst, dann gegen andere, und endlich gegen den Weltlauf und das Schicksal betreffen.

A. Allgemeine.

1 Als die oberste Regel aller Lebensweisheit sehe ich einen Satz an, den Aristoteles beiläufig ausgesprochen hat, in der Nikomachäischen Ethik (VII, 12): ὁ φρονιμος το αλυπον διωκει, ου το ἡδυ (quod dolore vacat, non quod suave est, persequitur vir prudens). Besser noch deutsch ließe sich dieser Satz etwan so wiedergeben: »Nicht dem Vergnügen, der Schmerzlosigkeit geht der Vernünftige nach«; oder: »Der Vernünftige geht auf Schmerzlosigkeit, nicht auf Genuß aus.« Die Wahrheit desselben beruht darauf, daß aller Genuß und alles Glück negativer, hingegen der Schmerz positiver Natur ist. Die Ausführung und Begründung dieses letzteren Satzes findet man in meinem Hauptwerke Bd. I, § 58. Doch will ich denselben hier noch an einer täglich zu beobachtenden Tatsache erläutern. Wenn der ganze Leib gesund und heil ist, bis auf irgend eine kleine wunde, oder sonst schmerzende Stelle; so tritt jene Gesundheit des Ganzen weiter nicht ins Bewußtsein, sondern die Aufmerksamkeit ist beständig auf den Schmerz der verletzten Stelle gerichtet und das Behagen der gesamten Lebensempfindung ist aufgehoben. – Ebenso, wenn alle unsere Angelegenheiten nach unserem Sinne gehen, bis auf eine, die unserer Absicht zuwider läuft, so kommt diese, auch wenn sie von geringer Bedeutung ist, uns immer wieder in den Kopf: wir denken häufig an sie und wenig an alle jene andern wichtigeren Dinge, die nach unserem Sinne gehn. – In beiden Fällen nun ist das Beeinträchtigte der Wille, einmal, wie er sich im Organismus, das andere, wie er sich im Streben des Menschen objektivirt, und in beiden sehen wir, daß seine Befriedigung immer nur negativ wirkt und daher gar nicht direkt empfunden wird, sondern höchstens auf dem Wege der Reflexion ins Bewußtsein kommt. Hingegen ist seine Hemmung das Positive und daher sich selbst Ankündigende. Jeder Genuß besteht bloß in der Aufhebung dieser Hemmung, in der Befreiung davon, ist mithin von kurzer Dauer.

Hierauf nun also beruht die oben belobte Aristotelische Regel, welche uns anweist, unser Augenmerk nicht auf die Genüsse und Annehmlichkeiten des Lebens zu richten, sondern darauf, daß wir den zahllosen Übeln desselben, so weit es möglich ist, entgehn. Wäre dieser Weg nicht der richtige: so müßte auch Voltaires Ausspruch, le bonheur n'est qu'un rève, et la douleur est réelle, so falsch sein, wie er in der Tat wahr ist. Demnach soll auch der, welcher das Resultat seines Lebens, in eudämonologischer Rücksicht, ziehn will, die Rechnung nicht nach den Freuden, die er genossen, sondern nach den Übeln, denen er entgangen ist, aufstellen. Ja, die Eudämonologie hat mit der Belehrung anzuheben, daß ihr Name selbst ein Euphemismus ist und daß unter »glücklich leben« nur zu verstehn ist »weniger unglücklich«, also erträglich leben. Allerdings ist das Leben nicht eigentlich da, um genossen, sondern um überstanden, abgetan zu werden; dies bezeichnen auch manche Ausdrücke, wie degere vitam, vita defungi, das Italienische si scampa così, das Deutsche »man muß suchen durchzukommen«, »er wird schon durch die Welt kommen«, u. dgl. m. Ja, es ist ein Trost im Alter, daß man die Arbeit des Lebens hinter sich hat. Demnach nun hat das glücklichste Los der, welcher sein Leben ohne übergroße Schmerzen, sowohl geistige, als körperliche, hinbringt; nicht aber der, dem die lebhaftesten Freuden oder die größten Genüsse zuteil geworden. Wer nach diesen letzteren das Glück eines Lebenslaufes bemessen will, hat einen falschen Maßstab ergriffen. Denn die Genüsse sind und bleiben negativ: daß sie beglücken, ist ein Wahn, den der Neid, zu seiner eigenen Strafe, hegt. Die Schmerzen hingegen werden positiv empfunden: daher ist ihre Abwesenheit der Maßstab des Lebensglückes. Kommt zu einem schmerzlosen Zustand noch die Abwesenheit der Langenweile; so ist das irdische Glück im Wesentlichen erreicht: denn das Übrige ist Chimäre. Hieraus nun folgt, daß man nie Genüsse durch Schmerzen, ja, auch nur durch die Gefahr derselben, erkaufen soll; weil man sonst ein Negatives und daher Chimärisches mit einem Positiven und Realen bezahlt. Hingegen bleibt man im Gewinn, wenn man Genüsse opfert, um Schmerzen zu entgehn. In beiden Fällen ist es gleichgültig, ob die Schmerzen den Genüssen nachfolgen, oder vorhergehn. Es ist wirklich die größte Verkehrtheit, diesen Schauplatz des Jammers in einen Lustort verwandeln zu wollen und, statt der möglichsten Schmerzlosigkeit, Genüsse und Freuden sich zum Ziele zu stecken, wie doch so viele tun. Viel weniger irrt, wer, mit zu finsterem Blicke, diese Welt als eine Art Hölle ansieht und demnach nur darauf bedacht ist, sich in derselben eine feuerfeste Stube zu verschaffen. Der Tor läuft den Genüssen des Lebens nach und sieht sich betrogen: der Weise vermeidet die Übel. Sollte ihm jedoch auch dieses mißglücken; so ist es dann die Schuld des Geschicks, nicht die seiner Torheit. So weit es ihm aber glückt, ist er nicht betrogen: denn die Übel, denen er aus dem Wege ging, sind höchst real. Selbst wenn er etwan ihnen zu weit aus dem Wege gegangen sein sollte und Genüsse unnötigerweise geopfert hätte; so ist eigentlich doch nichts verloren: denn alle Genüsse sind chimärisch, und über die Versäumnis derselben zu trauern wäre kleinlich, ja lächerlich.

Das Verkennen dieser Wahrheit, durch den Optimismus begünstigt, ist die Quelle vielen Unglücks. Während wir nämlich von Leiden frei sind, spiegeln unruhige Wünsche uns die Chimären eines Glückes vor, das gar nicht existirt, und verleiten uns sie zu verfolgen: dadurch bringen wir den Schmerz, der unleugbar real ist, auf uns herab. Dann jammern wir über den verlorenen schmerzlosen Zustand, der, wie ein verscherztes Paradies, hinter uns liegt, und wünschen vergeblich, das Geschehene ungeschehen machen zu können. So scheint es, als ob ein böser Dämon uns aus dem schmerzlosen Zustande, der das höchste wirkliche Glück ist, stets herauslockte, durch die Gaukelbilder der Wünsche. – Unbesehens glaubt der Jüngling, die Welt sei da, um genossen zu werden, sie sei der Wohnsitz eines positiven Glückes, welches nur die verfehlen, denen es an Geschick gebricht, sich seiner zu bemeistern. Hierin bestärken ihn Romane und Gedichte, wie auch die Gleißnerei, welche die Welt, durchgängig und überall, mit dem äußern Scheine treibt und auf die ich bald zurückkommen werde. Von nun an ist sein Leben eine, mit mehr oder weniger Überlegung angestellte Jagd nach dem positiven Glück, welches, als solches, aus positiven Genüssen bestehn soll. Die Gefahren, denen man sich dabei aussetzt, müssen in die Schanze geschlagen werden. Da führt denn diese Jagd nach einem Wilde, welches gar nicht existiert, in der Regel, zu sehr realem, positivem Unglück. Dies stellt sich ein als Schmerz, Leiden, Krankheit, Verlust, Sorge, Armut, Schande und tausend Nöte. Die Enttäuschung kommt zu spät. – Ist hingegen, durch Befolgung der hier in Betracht genommenen Regel, der Plan des Lebens auf Vermeidung der Leiden, also auf Entfernung des Mangels, der Krankheit und jeder Not, gerichtet; so ist das Ziel ein reales: da läßt sich etwas ausrichten, und um so mehr, je weniger dieser Plan gestört wird durch das Streben nach der Chimäre des positiven Glücks. Hiezu stimmt auch, was Goethe, in den Wahlverwandtschaften, den für das Glück der andern stets tätigen Mittler sagen läßt: »Wer ein Übel los sein will, der weiß immer was er will: wer was besseres will, als er hat, der ist ganz staarblind.« Und dieses erinnert an den schönen französischen Ausspruch: le mieux est l'ennemi du bien. Ja, hieraus ist sogar der Grundgedanke des Zynismus abzuleiten, wie ich ihn dargelegt habe, in meinem Hauptwerke, Bd. 2, Kap. 16. Denn, was bewog die Zyniker zur Verwerfung aller Genüsse, wenn es nicht eben der Gedanke an die mit ihnen, näher oder ferner, verknüpften Schmerzen war, welchen aus dem Wege zu gehn ihnen viel wichtiger schien, als die Erlangung jener. Sie waren tief ergriffen von der Erkenntnis der Negativität des Genusses und der Positivität des Schmerzes; daher sie, konsequent, alles taten für die Vermeidung der Übel, hierzu aber die völlige und absichtliche Verwerfung der Genüsse nötig erachteten; weil sie in diesen nur Fallstricke sahen, die uns dem Schmerze überliefern.

In Arkadien geboren, wie Schiller sagt, sind wir freilich alle: d. h. wir treten in die Welt, voll Ansprüche auf Glück und Genuß, und hegen die törichte Hoffnung, solche durchzusetzen. In der Regel jedoch kommt bald das Schicksal, packt uns unsanft an und belehrt uns, daß nichts unser ist, sondern alles sein, indem es ein unbestrittenes Recht hat, nicht nur auf allen unsern Besitz und Erwerb und auf Weib und Kind, sondern sogar auf Arm und Bein, Auge und Ohr, ja, auf die Nase mitten im Gesicht. Jedenfalls aber kommt, nach einiger Zeit die Erfahrung und bringt die Einsicht, daß Glück und Genuß eine Fata Morgana sind, welche, nur aus der Ferne sichtbar, verschwindet, wenn man herangekommen ist; daß hingegen Leiden und Schmerz Realität haben, sich selbst unmittelbar vertreten und keiner Illusion noch Erwartung bedürfen. Fruchtet nun die Lehre; so hören wir auf, nach Glück und Genuß zu jagen, und sind vielmehr darauf bedacht, dem Schmerz und Leiden möglichst den Zugang zu versperren. Wir erkennen alsdann, daß das Beste, was die Welt zu bieten hat, eine schmerzlose, ruhige, erträgliche Existenz ist, und beschränken unsere Ansprüche auf diese, um sie desto sicherer durchzusetzen. Denn, um nicht sehr unglücklich zu werden, ist das sicherste Mittel, daß man nicht verlange, sehr glücklich zu sein. Dies hatte auch Goethes Jugendfreund Merck erkannt, da er schrieb: »die garstige Prätension an Glückseligkeit, und zwar an das Maß, das wir uns träumen, verdirbt alles auf dieser Welt. Wer sich davon losmachen kann und nichts begehrt, als was er vor sich hat, kann sich durchschlagen« (Briefe an und von Merck, S. 100). Demnach ist es geraten, seine Ansprüche auf Genuß, Besitz, Rang, Ehre usw. auf ein ganz Mäßiges herabzusetzen; weil gerade das Streben und Ringen nach Glück, Glanz und Genuß es ist, was die großen Unglücksfälle herbeizieht. Aber schon darum ist jenes weise und ratsam, weil sehr unglücklich zu sein gar leicht ist; sehr glücklich hingegen nicht etwan schwer, sondern ganz unmöglich. Mit großem Rechte also singt der Dichter der Lebensweisheit:

Auream quisquis mediocritatemDiligit, tutus caret obsoletiSordibus tecti, caret invidendaSobrius aula.

Saevius ventis agitatur ingensPinus: et scelsae graviore casuDecidunt turres: feriuntque summosFulgura montes.

Wer aber vollends die Lehre meiner Philosophie in sich aufgenommen hat und daher weiß, daß unser ganzes Dasein etwas ist, das besser nicht wäre und welches zu verneinen und abzuweisen die größte Weisheit ist, der wird auch von keinem Dinge oder Zustand große Erwartungen hegen, nach nichts auf der Welt mit Leidenschaft streben, noch große Klagen erheben über sein Verfehlen irgend einer Sache; sondern er wird von Platos »οὐτε τι των ἀνθρωπινων ἀξιον μεγαλης σπουδης« (rep. X, 604) durchdrungen sein, sowie auch hievon:

Ist einer Welt Besitz für dich zerronnen,Sei nicht in Leid darüber, es ist nichts;Und hast du einer Welt Besitz genommen,Sei nicht erfreut darüber, es ist nichts.Vorüber gehn die Schmerzen und die Wonnen,Geh' an der Welt vorüber, es ist nichts.

Anwari Soheili.

(Siehe das Motto zu Sadis Gulistan, übers. von Graf.)

Was jedoch die Erlangung dieser heilsamen Einsichten besonders erschwert, ist die schon oben erwähnte Gleißnerei der Welt, welche man daher der Jugend früh aufdecken sollte. Die allermeisten Herrlichkeiten sind bloßer Schein, wie die Theaterdekoration, und das Wesen der Sache fehlt. Z. B. bewimpelte und bekränzte Schiffe, Kanonenschüsse, Illumination, Pauken und Trompeten, Jauchzen und Schreien usw., dies alles ist das Aushängeschild, die Andeutung, die Hieroglyphe der Freude: aber die Freude ist daselbst meistens nicht zu finden: sie allein hat beim Feste abgesagt. Wo sie sich wirklich einfindet, da kommt sie, in der Regel, ungeladen und ungemeldet, von selbst und sans façon, ja, still herangeschlichen, oft bei den unbedeutendesten, futilsten Anlässen, unter den alltäglichsten Umständen, ja, bei nichts weniger als glänzenden oder ruhmvollen Gelegenheiten: sie ist, wie das Gold in Australien, hierhin und dorthin gestreuet, nach der Laune des Zufalls, ohne alle Regel und Gesetz, meist nur in ganz kleinen Körnchen, höchst selten in großen Massen. Bei allen jenen oben erwähnten Dingen hingegen ist auch der Zweck bloß, andere glauben zu machen, hier wäre die Freude eingekehrt: dieser Schein, im Kopfe anderer, ist die Absicht. Nicht anders als mit der Freude verhält es sich mit der Trauer. Wie schwermütig kommt jener lange und langsame Leichenzug daher! der Reihe der Kutschen ist kein Ende. Aber seht nur hinein: sie sind alle leer, und der Verblichene wird eigentlich bloß von sämtlichen Kutschern der ganzen Stadt zu Grabe geleitet. Sprechendes Bild der Freundschaft und Hochachtung dieser Welt! Dies also ist die Falschheit, Hohlheit und Gleißnerei des menschlichen Treibens. – Ein anderes Beispiel wieder geben viele geladene Gäste in Feierkleidern, unter festlichem Empfange; sie sind das Aushängeschild der edelen, erhöhten Geselligkeit: aber statt ihrer ist in der Regel nur Zwang, Pein und Langeweile gekommen: denn schon wo viel Gäste sind, ist viel Pack, – und hätten sie auch sämtlich Sterne auf der Brust. Die wirklich gute Gesellschaft nämlich ist, überall und notwendig, sehr klein. Überhaupt aber tragen glänzende, rauschende Feste und Lustbarkeiten stets eine Leere, wohl gar einen Mißton im Innern; schon weil sie dem Elend und der Dürftigkeit unsers Daseins laut widersprechen, und der Kontrast erhöht die Wahrheit. Jedoch von außen gesehn wirkt jenes alles: und das war der Zweck. Ganz allerliebst sagt daher Chamfort: la société, les cercles, les salons, ce qu'on appelle le monde, est une pièce misérable, un mauvais opéra, sans intérêt, qui se soutient un peu par les machines, les costumes, et les décorations. – Desgleichen sind nun auch Akademien und philosophische Katheder das Aushängeschild, der äußere Schein der Weisheit: aber auch sie hat meistens abgesagt und ist ganz wo anders zu finden. – Glockengebimmel, Priesterkostüme, fromme Gebärden und fratzenhaftes Tun ist das Aushängeschild, der falsche Schein der Andacht, usw. – So ist denn fast alles in der Welt hohle Nüsse zu nennen: der Kern ist an sich selten, und noch seltener steckt er in der Schale. Er ist ganz wo anders zu suchen und wird meistens nur zufällig gefunden.

2 Wenn man den Zustand eines Menschen, seiner Glücklichkeit nach, abschätzen will, soll man nicht fragen nach dem, was ihn vergnügt, sondern nach dem, was ihn betrübt: denn, je geringfügiger dieses, an sich selbst genommen, ist, desto glücklicher ist der Mensch; weil ein Zustand des Wohlbefindens dazu gehört, um gegen Kleinigkeiten empfindlich zu sein: im Unglück spüren wir sie gar nicht.

3 Man hüte sich, das Glück seines Lebens mittelst vieler Erfordernisse zu demselben, auf ein breites Fundament zu bauen: denn auf einem solchen stehend stürzt es am leichtesten ein, weil es viel mehr Unfällen Gelegenheit darbietet und diese nicht ausbleiben. Das Gebäude unsers Glückes verhält sich also, in dieser Hinsicht, umgekehrt wie alle anderen, als welche auf breitem Fundament am festesten stehn. Seine Ansprüche, im Verhältniß zu seinen Mitteln jeder Art, möglichst niedrig zu stellen, ist demnach der sicherste Weg großem Unglück zu entgehn.

Überhaupt ist es eine der größten und häufigsten Torheiten, daß man weitläuftige Anstalten zum Leben macht, in welcher Art auch immer das geschehe. Bei solchen nämlich ist zuvörderst auf ein ganzes und volles Menschenleben gerechnet; welches jedoch sehr Wenige erreichen. Sodann fällt es, selbst wenn sie so lange leben, doch für die gemachten Pläne zu kurz aus; da deren Ausführung immer sehr viel mehr Zeit erfordert, als angenommen war: ferner sind solche, wie alle menschlichen Dinge, dem Mißlingen, den Hindernissen so vielfach ausgesetzt, daß sie sehr selten zum Ziele gebracht werden. Endlich, wenn zuletzt auch alles erreicht wird, so waren die Umwandlungen, welche die Zeit an uns selbst hervorbringt, außer Acht und Rechnung gelassen; also nicht bedacht worden, daß weder zum Leisten noch zum Genießen unsere Fähigkeiten das ganze Leben hindurch vorhalten. Daher kommt es, daß wir oft auf Dinge hinarbeiten, welche, wenn endlich erlangt, uns nicht mehr angemessen sind; wie auch, daß wir mit den Vorarbeiten zu einem Werke die Jahre hinbringen, welche derweilen unvermerkt uns die Kräfte zur Ausführung desselben rauben. So geschieht es denn oft, daß der mit so langer Mühe und vieler Gefahr erworbene Reichtum uns nicht mehr genießbar ist und wir für andere gearbeitet haben; oder auch, daß wir den durch vieljähriges Treiben und Trachten endlich erreichten Posten auszufüllen nicht mehr im Stande sind: die Dinge sind zu spät für uns gekommen. Oder auch umgekehrt, wir kommen zu spät mit den Dingen; da nämlich, wo es sich um Leistungen, oder Produktionen handelt: der Geschmack der Zeit hat sich geändert; ein neues Geschlecht ist herangewachsen, welches an den Sachen keinen Anteil nimmt; andere sind, auf kürzeren Wegen, uns zuvorgekommen usw. Alles unter dieser Nummer Angeführte hat Horaz im Sinne, wenn er sagt:

quid aeternis minoremConsiliis animum fatigas?

Der Anlaß zu diesem häufigen Mißgriff ist die unvermeidliche optische Täuschung des geistigen Auges, vermöge welcher das Leben, vom Eingange aus gesehn, endlos, aber wenn man vom Ende der Bahn zurückblickt, sehr kurz erscheint. Freilich hat sie ihr Gutes: denn ohne sie käme schwerlich etwas Großes zustande.

Überhaupt aber ergeht es uns im Leben wie dem Wanderer, vor welchem, indem er vorwärts schreitet, die Gegenstände andere Gestalten annehmen, als die sie von ferne zeigten, und sich gleichsam verwandeln, indem er sich nähert. Besonders geht es mit unseren Wünschen so. Oft finden wir etwas ganz anderes, ja, Besseres, als wir suchten; oft auch das Gesuchte selbst auf einem ganz anderen Wege, als den wir zuerst vergeblich danach eingeschlagen hatten. Zumal wird uns oft da, wo wir Genuß, Glück, Freude suchten, statt ihrer Belehrung, Einsicht, Erkenntnis, – ein bleibendes, wahrhaftes Gut, statt eines vergänglichen und scheinbaren. Dies ist auch der Gedanke, welcher im Wilhelm Meister als Grundbaß durchgeht, indem dieser ein intellektueller Roman und eben dadurch höherer Art ist, als alle übrigen, sogar die von Walter Scott, als welche sämtlich nur ethisch sind, d. h. die menschliche Natur bloß von der Willens-Seite auffassen. Ebenfalls in der Zauberflöte, dieser grotesken, aber bedeutsamen und vieldeutigen Hieroglyphe, ist jener selbe Grundgedanke, in großen und groben Zügen, wie die der Theaterdekorationen sind, symbolisirt; sogar würde er es vollkommen sein, wenn, am Schlusse, der Tamino, vom Wunsche, die Tamina zu besitzen, zurückgebracht, statt ihrer, allein die Weihe im Tempel der Weisheit verlangte und erhielte; hingegen seinem notwendigen Gegensatze, dem Papageno, richtig seine Papagena würde. – Vorzügliche und edle Menschen werden jener Erziehung des Schicksals bald inne und fügen sich bildsam und dankbar in dieselbe: sie sehn ein, daß in der Welt wohl Belehrung, aber nicht Glück zu finden sei, werden es sonach gewohnt und zufrieden, Hoffnungen gegen Einsichten zu vertauschen, und sagen endlich mit Petrarka:

Altro diletto, che 'mparar, non provo.

Es kann damit sogar dahin kommen, daß sie ihren Wünschen und Bestrebungen gewissermaßen nur noch zum Schein und tändelnd nachgehn, eigentlich aber und im Ernst ihres Innern, bloß Belehrung erwarten; welches ihnen alsdann einen beschaulichen, genialen, erhabenen Anstrich gibt. – Man kann in diesem Sinne auch sagen, es gehe uns wie den Alchemisten, welche, indem sie nur Gold suchten, Schießpulver, Porzellan, Arzeneien, ja Naturgesetze entdeckten.

B. Unser Verhalten gegen uns selbst betreffend.

4 Wie der Arbeiter, welcher ein Gebäude aufführen hilft, den Plan des ganzen entweder nicht kennt, oder doch nicht immer gegenwärtig hat; so verhält der Mensch, indem er die einzelnen Tage und Stunden seines Lebens abspinnt, sich zum Ganzen seines Lebenslaufes und des Charakters desselben. Je würdiger, bedeutender, planvoller und individueller dieser ist; desto mehr ist es nötig und wohltätig, daß der verkleinerte Grundriß desselben, der Plan, ihm bisweilen vor die Augen komme. Freilich gehört auch dazu, daß er einen kleinen Anfang in dem γνωθι σαυτον gemacht habe, also wisse, was er eigentlich, hauptsächlich und vor allem andern will, was also für sein Glück das Wesentlichste ist, sodann was die zweite und dritte Stelle nach diesem einnimmt; wie auch, daß er erkenne, welches, im ganzen, sein Beruf, seine Rolle und sein Verhältnis zur Welt sei. Ist nun dieses bedeutender und grandioser Art; so wird der Anblick des Planes seines Lebens, im verjüngten Maßstabe, ihn, mehr als irgend etwas, stärken, aufrichten, erheben, zur Tätigkeit ermuntern und von Abwegen zurückhalten.

Wie der Wanderer erst, wenn er auf einer Höhe angekommen ist, den zurückgelegten Weg, mit allen seinen Wendungen und Krümmungen, im Zusammenhange überblickt und erkennt; so erkennen wir erst am Ende einer Periode unsers Lebens, oder gar des ganzen, den wahren Zusammenhang unserer Taten, Leistungen und Werke, die genaue Konsequenz und Verkettung, ja, auch den Wert derselben. Denn, solange wir darin begriffen sind, handeln wir nur immer nach den feststehenden Eigenschaften unsers Charakters, unter dem Einfluß der Motive, und nach dem Maße unserer Fähigkeiten, also durchweg mit Notwendigkeit, indem wir in jedem Augenblicke bloß tun, was uns jetzt eben das Rechte und Angemessene dünkt. Erst der Erfolg zeigt, was dabei herausgekommen, und der Rückblick auf den ganzen Zusammenhang das Wie und Wodurch. Daher eben auch sind wir, während wir die größten Taten vollbringen, oder unsterbliche Werke schaffen, uns derselben nicht als solcher bewußt, sondern bloß als des unsern gegenwärtigen Zwecken Angemessenen, unsern dermaligen Absichten Entsprechenden, also jetzt gerade Rechten: aber erst aus dem Ganzen in seinem Zusammenhang leuchtet nachher unser Charakter und unsere Fähigkeiten hervor: und im einzelnen sehn wir dann, wie wir, als wäre es durch Inspiration geschehn, den einzig richtigen Weg, unter tausend Abwegen, eingeschlagen haben, – von unserm Genius geleitet. Dies alles gilt vom Theoretischen wie vom Praktischen, und im umgekehrten Sinne vom Schlechten und Verfehlten.

5 Ein wichtiger Punkt der Lebensweisheit besteht in dem richtigen Verhältnis, in welchem wir unsere Aufmerksamkeit teils der Gegenwart, teils der Zukunft widmen, damit nicht die eine uns die andere verderbe. Viele leben zu sehr in der Gegenwart: die Leichtsinnigen; – andere zu sehr in der Zukunft: die Ängstlichen und Besorglichen. Selten wird einer genau das rechte Maß halten. Die, welche, mittelst Streben und Hoffen, nur in der Zukunft leben, immer vorwärts sehn und mit Ungeduld den kommenden Dingen entgegeneilen, als welche allererst das wahre Glück bringen sollen, inzwischen aber die Gegenwart unbeachtet und ungenossen vorbeiziehn lassen, sind, trotz ihren altklugen Mienen, jenen Eseln in Italien zu vergleichen, deren Schritt dadurch beschleunigt wird, daß an einem, ihrem Kopf angehefteten Stock ein Bündel Heu hängt, welches sie daher stets dicht vor sich sehen und zu erreichen hoffen. Denn sie betrügen sich selbst um ihr ganzes Dasein, indem sie stets nur ad interim leben, – bis sie tot sind. – Statt also mit den Plänen und Sorgen für die Zukunft ausschließlich und immerdar beschäftigt zu sein, oder aber uns der Sehnsucht nach der Vergangenheit hinzugeben, sollten wir nie vergessen, daß die Gegenwart allein real und allein gewiß ist; hingegen die Zukunft fast immer anders ausfällt, als wir sie denken; ja, auch die Vergangenheit anders war; und zwar so, daß es mit beiden, im ganzen, weniger auf sich hat, als es uns scheint. Denn die Ferne, welche dem Auge die Gegenstände verkleinert, vergrößert sie dem Gedanken. Die Gegenwart allein ist wahr und wirklich: sie ist die real erfüllte Zeit, und ausschließlich in ihr liegt unser Dasein. Daher sollten wir sie stets einer heitern Aufnahme würdigen, folglich jede erträgliche und von unmittelbaren Widerwärtigkeiten oder Schmerzen freie Stunde mit Bewußtsein als solche genießen, d. h. sie nicht trüben durch verdrießliche Gesichter über verfehlte Hoffnungen in der Vergangenheit, oder Besorgnisse für die Zukunft. Denn es ist durchaus töricht, eine gute gegenwärtige Stunde von sich zu stoßen oder sie sich mutwillig zu verderben, aus Verdruß über das Vergangene, oder Besorgnis wegen des Kommenden. Der Sorge, ja, selbst der Reue sei ihre bestimmte Zeit gewidmet: danach aber soll man über das Geschehene denken:

Αλλα τα μεν προτετυχθαι εασομεν αχνυμενοι περ,Θυμον ενι στηθεσσι φιλον δαμασαντες αναγκῃ,

und über das Künftige:

Ητοι ταυτα θεων εν γουνασι κειται,

hingegen über die Gegenwart: singulas dies singulas vitas puta (Sen.) und diese allein reale Zeit sich so angenehm wie möglich machen.

Uns zu beunruhigen sind bloß solche künftige Übel berechtigt, welche gewiß sind und deren Eintrittszeit ebenfalls gewiß ist. Dies werden aber sehr wenige sein: denn die Übel sind entweder bloß möglich, allenfalls wahrscheinlich; oder sie sind zwar gewiß; allein ihre Eintrittszeit ist völlig ungewiß. Läßt man nun auf die beiden Arten sich ein, so hat man keinen ruhigen Augenblick mehr. Um also nicht der Ruhe unsers Lebens durch ungewisse oder unbestimmte Übel verlustig zu werden, müssen wir uns gewöhnen, jene anzusehn, als kämen sie nie; diese, als kämen sie gewiß nicht sobald.

Je mehr nun aber einem die Furcht Ruhe läßt, desto mehr beunruhigen ihn die Wünsche, die Begierden und Ansprüche. Goethes so beliebtes Lied, »ich hab' mein' Sach' auf nichts gestellt,« besagt eigentlich, daß erst nachdem der Mensch aus allen möglichen Ansprüchen herausgetrieben und auf das nackte, kahle Dasein zurückgewiesen ist, er derjenigen Geistesruhe teilhaft wird, welche die Grundlage des menschlichen Glückes ausmacht, indem sie nötig ist, um die Gegenwart und somit das ganze Leben genießbar zu finden. Zu eben diesem Zwecke sollten wir stets eingedenk sein, daß der heutige Tag nur einmal kommt und nimmer wieder. Aber wir wähnen, er komme morgen wieder: morgen ist jedoch ein anderer Tag, der auch nur einmal kommt. Wir aber vergessen, daß jeder Tag ein integrirender und daher unersetzlicher Teil des Lebens ist, und betrachten ihn vielmehr als unter demselben so enthalten, wie die Individuen unter dem Gemeinbegriff. – Ebenfalls würden wir die Gegenwart besser würdigen und genießen, wenn wir, in guten und gesunden Tagen, uns stets bewußt wären, wie, in Krankheiten oder Betrübnissen, die Erinnerung uns jede schmerz- und entbehrungslose Stunde als unendlich beneidenswert, als ein verlorenes Paradies, als einen verkannten Freund vorhält. Aber wir verleben unsre schönen Tage, ohne sie zu bemerken: erst wann die schlimmen kommen, wünschen wir jene zurück. Tausend heitere, angenehme Stunden lassen wir, mit verdrießlichem Gesicht, ungenossen an uns vorüberziehn, um nachher, zur trüben Zeit, mit vergeblicher Sehnsucht ihnen nachzuseufzen. Statt dessen sollten wir jede erträgliche Gegenwart, auch die alltägliche, welche wir jetzt so gleichgültig vorüberziehn lassen, und wohl gar noch ungeduldig nachschieben, – in Ehren halten, stets eingedenk, daß sie eben jetzt hinüberwallt in jene Apotheose der Vergangenheit, woselbst sie fortan, vom Lichte der Unvergänglichkeit umstrahlt, vom Gedächtnisse aufbewahrt wird, um, wann dieses einst, besonders zur schlimmen Stunde, den Vorhang lüftet, als ein Gegenstand unsrer innigen Sehnsucht sich darzustellen.

6 Alle Beschränkung beglückt. Je enger unser Gesichts-, Wirkungs- und Berührungskreis, desto glücklicher sind wir: je weiter, desto öfter fühlen wir uns gequält, oder geängstigt. Denn mit ihm vermehren und vergrößern sich die Sorgen, Wünsche und Schrecknisse. Darum sind sogar Blinde nicht so unglücklich, wie es uns a priori scheinen muß; dies bezeugt die sanfte, fast heitere Ruhe in ihren Gesichtszügen. Auch beruht es zum Teil auf dieser Regel, daß die zweite Hälfte des Lebens trauriger ausfällt als die erste. Denn im Laufe des Lebens wird der Horizont unserer Zwecke und Beziehungen immer weiter. In der Kindheit ist er auf die nächste Umgebung und die engsten Verhältnisse beschränkt; im Jünglingsalter reicht er schon bedeutend weiter; im Mannesalter umfaßt er unsern ganzen Lebenslauf, ja, erstreckt sich oft auf die entferntesten Verhältnisse, auf Staaten und Völker; im Greisenalter umfaßt er die Nachkommen. – Jede Beschränkung hingegen, sogar die geistige, ist unserm Glücke förderlich. Denn je weniger Erregung des Willens, desto weniger Leiden: und wir wissen, daß das Leiden das Positive, das Glück bloß negativ ist. Beschränktheit des Wirkungskreises benimmt dem Willen die äußeren Veranlassungen zur Erregung; Beschränktheit des Geistes die innern. Nur hat letztere den Nachteil, daß sie der Langenweile die Tür öffnet, welche mittelbar die Quelle unzähliger Leiden wird, indem man, um nur sie zu bannen, nach allem greift, also Zerstreuung, Gesellschaft, Luxus, Spiel, Trunk usw. versucht, welche jedoch Schaden, Ruin und Unglück jeder Art herbeiziehen. Difficilis in otio quies. Wie sehr hingegen die äußere Beschränkung dem menschlichen Glücke, so weit es gehen kann, förderlich, ja, notwendig sei, ist daran ersichtlich, daß die einzige Dichtungsart, welche glückliche Menschen zu schildern unternimmt, das Idyll, sie stets und wesentlich in höchst beschränkter Lage und Umgebung darstellt. Das Gefühl der Sache liegt auch unserem Wohlgefallen an den sogenannten Genre-Bildern zum Grunde. – Demgemäß wird die möglichste Einfachheit unserer Verhältnisse und sogar die Einförmigkeit der Lebensweise, so lange sie nicht Langeweile erzeugt, beglücken; weil sie das Leben selbst, folglich auch die ihm wesentliche Last, am wenigsten spüren läßt: es fließt dahin, wie ein Bach, ohne Wellen und Strudel.

7 In Hinsicht auf unser Wohl und Wehe kommt es in letzter Instanz darauf an, womit das Bewußtsein erfüllt und beschäftigt sei. Hier wird nun im ganzen jede rein intellektuelle Beschäftigung dem ihrer fähigen Geiste viel mehr leisten als das wirkliche Leben mit seinem beständigen Wechsel des Gelingens und Mißlingens, nebst seinen Erschütterungen und Plagen. Nur sind dazu freilich schon überwiegende geistige Anlagen erfordert. Sodann ist hiebei zu bemerken, daß, wie das nach außen tätige Leben uns von den Studien zerstreut und ablenkt, auch dem Geiste die dazu erforderliche Ruhe und Sammlung benimmt; ebenso andrerseits die anhaltende Geistesbeschäftigung zum Treiben und Tummeln des wirklichen Lebens, mehr oder weniger, untüchtig macht: daher ist es ratsam, dieselbe auf eine Weile ganz einzustellen, wann Umstände eintreten, die irgendwie eine energische praktische Tätigkeit erfordern.

8 Um mit vollkommener Besonnenheit zu leben und aus der eigenen Erfahrung alle Belehrung, die sie enthält, herauszuziehn, ist erfordert, daß man oft zurückdenke und was man erlebt, getan, erfahren und dabei empfunden hat, rekapitulire, auch sein ehemaliges Urteil mit seinem gegenwärtigen, seinen Vorsatz und Streben mit dem Erfolg und der Befriedigung durch denselben vergleiche. Dies ist die Repetition des Privatissimums, welches jedem die Erfahrung ließ. Auch läßt die eigene Erfahrung sich ansehn als der Text; Nachdenken und Kenntnisse als der Kommentar dazu. Viel Nachdenken und Kenntnisse, bei wenig Erfahrung, gleicht den Ausgaben, deren Seiten zwei Zeilen Text und vierzig Zeilen Kommentar darbieten. Viel Erfahrung, bei wenig Nachdenken und geringen Kenntnissen, gleicht den bipontinischen Ausgaben, ohne Noten, welche Vieles unverstanden lassen.

Auf die hier gegebene Anempfehlung zielt auch die Regel des Pythagoras, daß man abends, vor dem Einschlafen, durchmustern solle, was man den Tag über getan hat. Wer im Getümmel der Geschäfte oder Vergnügungen dahinlebt, ohne je seine Vergangenheit zu ruminiren, vielmehr nur immerfort sein Leben abhaspelt, dem geht die klare Besonnenheit verloren: sein Gemüt wird ein Chaos, und eine gewisse Verworrenheit kommt in seine Gedanken, von welcher alsbald das Abrupte, Fragmentarische, gleichsam Kleingehackte seiner Konversation zeugt. Dies ist um so mehr der Fall, je größer die äußere Unruhe, die Menge der Eindrücke, und je geringer die innere Tätigkeit seines Geistes ist.

Hieher gehört die Bemerkung, daß, nach längerer Zeit und nachdem die Verhältnisse und Umgebungen, welche auf uns einwirkten, vorübergegangen sind, wir nicht vermögen, unsere damals durch sie erregte Stimmung und Empfindung uns zurückzurufen und zu erneuern: wohl aber können wir unserer eigenen, damals von ihnen hervorgerufenen Äußerungen uns erinnern. Diese nun sind das Resultat, der Ausdruck und der Maßstab jener. Daher sollte das Gedächtnis, oder das Papier, dergleichen, aus denkwürdigen Zeitpunkten, sorgfältig aufbewahren. Hiezu sind Tagebücher sehr nützlich.

9 Sich selber genügen, sich selber alles in allem sein, und sagen können omnia mea mecum porto, ist gewiß für unser Glück die förderlichste Eigenschaft: daher der Ausspruch des Aristoteles ἡ ευδαιμονια των αυταρκων εστι (felicitas sibi sufficientium est. Eth. Eud. 7, 2) nicht zu oft wiederholt werden kann. (Auch ist es im wesentlichen derselbe Gedanke, den, in einer überaus artigen Wendung, die Sentenz Chamforts ausdrückt, welche ich dieser Abhandlung als Motto vorgesetzt habe.) Denn teils darf man, mit einiger Sicherheit, auf niemand zählen, als auf sich selbst, und teils sind die Beschwerden und Nachteile, die Gefahr und der Verdruß, welche die Gesellschaft mit sich führt, unzählig und unausweichbar.

Kein verkehrterer Weg zum Glück, als das Leben in der großen Welt, in Saus und Braus (high life): denn es bezweckt, unser elendes Dasein in eine Sukzession von Freude, Genuß, Vergnügen zu verwandeln, wobei die Enttäuschung nicht ausbleiben kann; so wenig, wie bei der obligaten Begleitung dazu, dem gegenseitigen einander Belügen[K].

[K] Wie unser Leib in die Gewänder, so ist unser Geist in Lügen verhüllt. Unser Reden, Tun, unser ganzes Wesen ist lügenhaft: und erst durch diese Hülle hindurch kann man bisweilen unsere wahre Gesinnung erraten, wie durch die Gewänder hindurch die Gestalt des Leibes.

Zunächst erfordert jede Gesellschaft notwendig eine gegenseitige Akkommodation und Temperatur: daher wird sie, je größer, desto fader. Ganz er selbst sein darf jeder nur so lange er allein ist: wer also nicht die Einsamkeit liebt, der liebt auch nicht die Freiheit: denn nur wann man allein ist, ist man frei. Zwang ist der unzertrennliche Gefährte jeder Gesellschaft, und jede fordert Opfer, die um so schwerer fallen, je bedeutender die eigene Individualität ist. Demgemäß wird jeder in genauer Proportion zum Werte seines eigenen Selbst die Einsamkeit fliehen, ertragen oder lieben. Denn in ihr fühlt der Jämmerliche seine ganze Jämmerlichkeit, der große Geist seine ganze Größe, kurz, jeder sich als was er ist. Ferner, je höher einer auf der Rangliste der Natur steht, desto einsamer steht er, und zwar wesentlich und unvermeidlich. Dann aber ist es eine Wohltat für ihn, wenn die physische Einsamkeit der geistigen entspricht: widrigenfalls dringt die häufige Umgebung heterogener Wesen störend, ja, feindlich auf ihn ein, raubt ihm sein Selbst und hat nichts als Ersatz dafür zu geben. Sodann, während die Natur zwischen Menschen die weiteste Verschiedenheit, im Moralischen und Intellektuellen, gesetzt hat, stellt die Gesellschaft, diese für nichts achtend, sie alle gleich, oder vielmehr sie setzt an ihre Stelle die künstlichen Unterschiede und Stufen des Standes und Ranges, welche der Rangliste der Natur sehr oft diametral entgegen laufen. Bei dieser Anordnung stehen sich die, welche die Natur niedrig gestellt hat, sehr gut; die wenigen aber, welche sie hoch stellte, kommen dabei zu kurz; daher diese sich der Gesellschaft zu entziehn pflegen und in jeder, sobald sie zahlreich ist, das Gemeine vorherrscht. Was den großen Geistern die Gesellschaft verleidet, ist die Gleichheit der Rechte, folglich der Ansprüche, bei der Ungleichheit der Fähigkeiten, folglich der (gesellschaftlichen) Leistungen, der andern. Die sogenannte gute Sozietät läßt Vorzüge aller Art gelten, nur nicht die geistigen, diese sind sogar Kontrebande. Sie verpflichtet uns, gegen jede Torheit, Narrheit, Verkehrtheit, Stumpfheit, grenzenlose Geduld zu beweisen; persönliche Vorzüge hingegen sollen sich Verzeihung erbetteln oder sich verbergen; denn die geistige Überlegenheit verletzt durch ihre bloße Existenz, ohne alles Zutun des Willens. Demnach hat die Gesellschaft, welche man die gute nennt, nicht nur den Nachteil, daß sie uns Menschen darbietet, die wir nicht loben und lieben können, sondern sie läßt auch nicht zu, daß wir selbst seien, wie es unsrer Natur angemessen ist; vielmehr nötigt sie uns, des Einklanges mit den anderen wegen, einzuschrumpfen, oder gar uns selbst zu verunstalten. Geistreiche Reden oder Einfälle gehören nur vor geistreiche Gesellschaft: in der gewöhnlichen sind sie geradezu verhaßt; denn um in dieser zu gefallen, ist durchaus notwendig, daß man platt und bornirt sei. In solcher Gesellschaft müssen wir daher, mit schwerer Selbstverleugnung, dreiviertel unserer selbst aufgeben, um uns den andern zu verähnlichen. Dafür haben wir dann freilich die andern: aber je mehr eigenen Wert einer hat, desto mehr wird er finden, daß hier der Gewinn den Verlust nicht deckt und das Geschäft zu seinem Nachteil ausschlägt; weil die Leute, in der Regel, insolvent sind, d. h. in ihrem Umgang nichts haben, das für die Langweiligkeit, die Beschwerden und Unannehmlichkeiten desselben und für die Selbstverleugnung, die er auflegt, schadlos hielte: demnach ist die allermeiste Gesellschaft so beschaffen, daß, wer sie gegen die Einsamkeit vertauscht, einen guten Handel macht. Dazu kommt noch, daß die Gesellschaft, um die echte, d. i. die geistige Überlegenheit, welche sie nicht verträgt und die auch schwer zu finden ist, zu ersetzen, eine falsche, konventionelle, auf willkürlichen Satzungen beruhende und traditionell unter den höheren Ständen sich fortpflanzende, auch, wie die Parole, veränderliche Überlegenheit beliebig angenommen hat: diese ist, was der gute Ton, bon ton, fashionableness genannt wird. Wann sie jedoch einmal mit der echten in Kollision gerät, zeigt sich ihre Schwäche. – Zudem, quand le bon ton arrive, le bons sens se retire.

Überhaupt aber kann jeder im vollkommensten Einklange nur mit sich selbst stehn; nicht mit seinem Freunde, nicht mit seiner Geliebten: denn die Unterschiede der Individualität und Stimmung führen allemal eine, wenn auch geringe, Dissonanz herbei. Daher ist der wahre, tiefe Friede des Herzens und die vollkommene Gemütsruhe, dieses, nächst der Gesundheit höchste irdische Gut, allein in der Einsamkeit zu finden und als dauernde Stimmung nur in der tiefsten Zurückgezogenheit. Ist dann das eigene Selbst groß und reich; so genießt man den glücklichsten Zustand, der auf dieser armen Erde gefunden werden mag. Ja, es sei heraus gesagt: so eng auch Freundschaft, Liebe und Ehe Menschen verbinden; ganz ehrlich meint jeder es am Ende doch nur mit sich selbst und höchstens noch mit seinem Kinde. – Je weniger einer, infolge objektiver oder subjektiver Bedingungen, nötig hat, mit den Menschen in Berührung zu kommen, desto besser ist er daran. Die Einsamkeit und Öde läßt alle ihre Übel auf einmal, wenn auch nicht empfinden, doch übersehn: hingegen die Gesellschaft ist insidiös: sie verbirgt hinter dem Scheine der Kurzweil, der Mitteilung, des geselligen Genusses usf. große, oft unheilbare Übel. Ein Hauptstudium der Jugend sollte sein, die Einsamkeit ertragen zu lernen; weil sie eine Quelle des Glückes, der Gemütsruhe ist. – Aus diesem allen nun folgt, daß der am besten daran ist, der nur auf sich selbst gerechnet hat und sich selber alles in allem sein kann; sogar sagt Cicero: Nemo potest non beatissimus esse, qui est totus aptus ex sese, quique in se uno ponit omnia. (Paradox. II.) Zudem, je mehr einer an sich selber hat, desto weniger können andere ihm sein. Ein gewisses Gefühl von Allgenugsamkeit ist es, welches die Leute von innerm Wert und Reichtum abhält, der Gemeinschaft mit andern die bedeutenden Opfer, welche sie verlangt, zu bringen, geschweige dieselbe, mit merklicher Selbstverleugnung, zu suchen. Das Gegenteil hievon macht die gewöhnlichen Leute so gesellig und akkommodant: es wird ihnen nämlich leichter, andere zu ertragen, als sich selbst. Noch kommt hinzu, daß, was wirklichen Wert hat in der Welt, nicht geachtet wird, und, was geachtet wird, keinen Wert hat. Hievon ist die Zurückgezogenheit jedes Würdigen und Ausgezeichneten der Beweis und die Folge. Diesem allen nach wird es in dem, der etwas Rechtes an sich selber hat, echte Lebensweisheit sein, wenn er, erforderlichen Falls seine Bedürfnisse einschränkt, um nur seine Freiheit zu wahren oder zu erweitern, und demnach mit seiner Person, da sie unvermeidliche Verhältnisse zur Menschenwelt hat, so kurz wie möglich sich abfindet.

Was nun andrerseits die Menschen gesellig macht, ist ihre Unfähigkeit, die Einsamkeit, und in dieser sich selbst, zu ertragen. Innere Leere und Überdruß sind es, von denen sie sowohl in die Gesellschaft, wie in die Fremde und auf Reisen getrieben werden. Ihrem Geiste mangelt es an Federkraft, sich eigene Bewegung zu erteilen: daher suchen sie Erhöhung derselben durch Wein und werden viele auf diesem Wege zu Trunkenbolden. Eben daher bedürfen sie der steten Erregung von außen und zwar der stärkesten, d. i. der durch Wesen ihresgleichen. Ohne diese sinkt ihr Geist, unter seiner eigenen Schwere, zusammen und verfällt in eine drückende Lethargie[L]. Imgleichen ließe sich sagen, daß jeder von ihnen nur ein kleiner Bruch der Idee der Menschheit sei, daher er vieler Ergänzung durch andere bedarf, damit einigermaßen ein volles menschliches Bewußtsein herauskomme: hingegen wer ein ganzer Mensch ist, ein Mensch par excellence, der stellt eine Einheit und keinen Bruch dar, hat daher an sich selbst genug. Man kann, in diesem Sinne, die gewöhnliche Gesellschaft jener russischen Hornmusik vergleichen, bei der jedes Horn nur einen Ton hat und bloß durch das pünktliche Zusammentreffen aller eine Musik herauskommt. Denn monoton, wie ein solches eintöniges Horn, ist der Sinn und Geist der allermeisten Menschen: sehn doch viele von ihnen schon aus, als hätten sie immerfort nur einen und denselben Gedanken, unfähig irgend einen andern zu denken. Hieraus also erklärt sich nicht nur, warum sie so langweilig, sondern auch warum sie so gesellig sind und am liebsten herdenweise einhergehn: the gregariousness of mankind. Die Monotonie seines eigenen Wesens ist es, die jedem von ihnen unerträglich wird: – omnis stultitia laborat fastidio sui: – nur zusammen und durch die Vereinigung sind sie irgend etwas; – wie jene Hornbläser. Dagegen ist der geistvolle Mensch einem Virtuosen zu vergleichen, der sein Konzert allein ausführt; oder auch dem Klavier. Wie nämlich dieses, für sich allein, ein kleines Orchester, so ist er eine kleine Welt, und was jene alle erst durch das Zusammenwirken sind, stellt er dar in der Einheit Eines Bewußtseins. Wie das Klavier, ist er kein Teil der Symphonie, sondern für das Solo und die Einheit geeignet: soll er mit ihnen zusammenwirken; so kann er es nur sein als Prinzipalstimme mit Begleitung, wie das Klavier; oder zum Tonangeben, bei Vokalmusik, wie das Klavier. – Wer inzwischen Gesellschaft liebt, kann sich aus diesem Gleichnis die Regel abstrahiren, daß was den Personen seines Umgangs an Qualität abgeht, durch die Quantität einigermaßen ersetzt werden muß. An einem einzigen geistvollen Menschen kann er Umgang genug haben: ist aber nichts als die gewöhnliche Sorte zu finden, so ist es gut, von dieser recht viele zu haben, damit durch die Mannigfaltigkeit und das Zusammenwirken etwas herauskomme, – nach Analogie der besagten Hornmusik: – und der Himmel schenke ihm dazu Geduld.

[L] Bekanntlich werden Übel dadurch erleichtert, daß man sie gemeinschaftlich erträgt: zu diesen scheinen die Leute die Langeweile zu zählen; daher sie sich zusammensetzen, um sich gemeinschaftlich zu langweilen. Wie die Liebe zum Leben im Grunde nur Furcht vor dem Tode ist, so ist auch der Geselligkeitstrieb der Menschen im Grunde kein direkter, beruht nämlich nicht auf Liebe zur Gesellschaft, sondern auf Furcht vor der Einsamkeit, indem es nicht sowohl die holdselige Gegenwart der andern ist, die gesucht, als vielmehr die Öde und Beklommenheit des Alleinseins, nebst der Monotonie des eigenen Bewußtseins, die geflohen wird; welcher zu entgehn man daher auch mit schlechter Gesellschaft vorlieb nimmt, imgleichen das Lästige und den Zwang, den eine jede notwendig mit sich bringt, sich gefallen läßt. – Hat hingegen der Widerwille gegen dieses alles gesiegt und ist, infolge davon, die Gewohnheit der Einsamkeit und die Abhärtung gegen ihren unmittelbaren Eindruck eingetreten, so daß sie die oben bezeichneten Wirkungen nicht mehr hervorbringt; dann kann man mit größter Behaglichkeit immerfort allein sein, ohne sich nach Gesellschaft zu sehnen; eben weil das Bedürfnis derselben kein direktes ist und man andrerseits sich jetzt an die wohltätigen Eigenschaften der Einsamkeit gewöhnt hat.

Jener innern Leere aber und Dürftigkeit der Menschen ist auch dieses zuzuschreiben, daß, wenn einmal, irgendeinen edelen, idealen Zweck beabsichtigend, Menschen besserer Art zu einem Verein zusammentreten, alsdann der Ausgang fast immer dieser ist, daß aus jenem plebs der Menschheit, welcher, in zahlloser Menge, wie Ungeziefer, überall alles erfüllt und bedeckt, und stets bereit ist, jedes, ohne Unterschied, zu ergreifen, um damit seiner Langenweile, wie unter anderen Umständen seinem Mangel, zu Hilfe zu kommen, – auch dort einige sich einschleichen, oder eindrängen und dann bald entweder die ganze Sache zerstören, oder sie so verändern, daß sie ziemlich das Gegenteil der ersten Absicht wird.

Übrigens kann man die Geselligkeit auch betrachten als ein geistiges Erwärmen der Menschen an einander, gleich jenem körperlichen, welches sie, bei großer Kälte, durch Zusammendrängen hervorbringen. Allein wer selbst viel geistige Wärme hat, bedarf solcher Gruppirung nicht. Eine in diesem Sinne von mir erdachte Fabel wird man im 2. Bande dieses Werkes finden, im letzten Kapitel. Diesem allen zufolge steht die Geselligkeit eines jeden ungefähr im umgekehrten Verhältnisse seines intellektuellen Wertes; und »er ist sehr ungesellig« sagt beinahe schon »er ist ein Mann von großen Eigenschaften.«

Dem intellektuell hochstehenden Menschen gewährt nämlich die Einsamkeit einen zwiefachen Vorteil: erstlich den, mit sich selber zu sein, und zweitens den, nicht mit andern zu sein. Diesen letzteren wird man hoch anschlagen, wenn man bedenkt, wie viel Zwang, Beschwerde und selbst Gefahr jeder Umgang mit sich bringt. Tout notre mal vient de ne pouvoir être seul, sagt Labruyère. Geselligkeit gehört zu den gefährlichen, ja, verderblichen Neigungen, da sie uns in Kontakt bringt mit Wesen, deren große Mehrzahl moralisch schlecht und intellektuell stumpf oder verkehrt ist. Der Ungesellige ist einer, der ihrer nicht bedarf. An sich selber so viel zu haben, daß man der Gesellschaft nicht bedarf, ist schon deshalb ein großes Glück, weil fast alle unsere Leiden aus der Gesellschaft entspringen, und die Geistesruhe, welche, nächst der Gesundheit, das wesentlichste Element unseres Glückes ausmacht, durch jede Gesellschaft gefährdet wird und daher ohne ein bedeutendes Maß von Einsamkeit nicht bestehen kann. Um des Glückes der Geistesruhe teilhaft zu werden, entsagen die Kyniker jedem Besitz: wer in gleicher Absicht der Gesellschaft entsagt, hat das weiseste Mittel erwählt. Denn so treffend, wie schön, ist was Bernardin de St. Pierre sagt: la diète des alimens nous rend la santé du corps, et celle des hommes la tranquillité de l'âme. Sonach hat, wer sich zeitig mit der Einsamkeit befreundet, ja, sie lieb gewinnt, eine Goldmine erworben. Aber keineswegs vermag dies jeder. Denn, wie ursprünglich die Not, so treibt, nach Beseitigung dieser, die Langeweile die Menschen zusammen. Ohne beide bliebe wohl jeder allein; schon weil nur in der Einsamkeit die Umgebung der ausschließlichen Wichtigkeit, ja, Einzigkeit entspricht, die jeder in seinen eigenen Augen hat, und welche vom Weltgedränge zu nichts verkleinert wird; als wo sie, bei jedem Schritt, ein schmerzliches démenti erhält. In diesem Sinne ist die Einsamkeit sogar der natürliche Zustand eines jeden: sie setzt ihn wieder ein, als ersten Adam, in das ursprüngliche, seiner Natur angemessene Glück.

Aber hatte doch auch Adam weder Vater, noch Mutter! Daher wieder ist, in einem andern Sinne, die Einsamkeit dem Menschen nicht natürlich; sofern nämlich er, bei seinem Eintritt in die Welt, sich nicht allein, sondern zwischen Eltern und Geschwistern, also in Gemeinschaft, gefunden hat. Demzufolge kann die Liebe zur Einsamkeit nicht als ursprünglicher Hang dasein, sondern erst infolge der Erfahrung und des Nachdenkens entstehn; und dies wird statthaben, nach Maßgabe der Entwickelung eigener geistiger Kraft, zugleich aber auch mit der Zunahme der Lebensjahre; wonach denn, im ganzen genommen, der Geselligkeitstrieb eines jeden im umgekehrten Verhältnisse seines Alters stehn wird. Das kleine Kind erhebt ein Angst- und Jammergeschrei, sobald es nur einige Minuten allein gelassen wird. Dem Knaben ist das Alleinsein eine große Pönitenz. Jünglinge gesellen sich leicht zueinander: nur die edleren und hochgesinnten unter ihnen suchen schon bisweilen die Einsamkeit: jedoch einen ganzen Tag allein zuzubringen wird ihnen noch schwer. Dem Manne hingegen ist dies leicht: er kann schon viel allein sein, und desto mehr, je älter er wird. Der Greis, welcher aus verschwundenen Generationen allein übrig geblieben und dazu den Lebensgenüssen teils entwachsen, teils abgestorben ist, findet an der Einsamkeit sein eigentliches Element. Immer aber wird hiebei, in den einzelnen, die Zunahme der Neigung zur Absonderung und Einsamkeit nach Maßgabe ihres intellektuellen Wertes erfolgen. Denn dieselbe ist, wie gesagt, keine rein natürliche, direkt durch die Bedürfnisse hervorgerufene, vielmehr bloß eine Wirkung gemachter Erfahrung und der Reflexion über solche, namentlich der erlangten Einsicht in die moralisch und intellektuell elende Beschaffenheit der allermeisten Menschen, bei welcher das schlimmste ist, daß, im Individuo, die moralischen und die intellektuellen Unvollkommenheiten desselben konspiriren und sich gegenseitig in die Hände arbeiten, woraus dann allerlei höchst widerwärtige Phänomene hervorgehn, welche den Umgang der meisten Menschen ungenießbar, ja, unerträglich machen. So kommt es denn, daß, obwohl in dieser Welt gar vieles recht schlecht ist, doch das Schlechteste darin die Gesellschaft bleibt; so daß selbst Voltaire, der gesellige Franzose, hat sagen müssen: la terre est couverte de gens qui ne méritent pas qu'on leur parle. Den selben Grund gibt auch der die Einsamkeit so stark und beharrlich liebende, sanftmütige Petrarka für diese Neigung an:

Cercato ho sempre solitaria vita(Le rive il sanno, e le campagne, e i boschi),Per fuggir quest' ingegni storti e loschi,Che la strada del ciel' hanno smarita.

In gleichem Sinne führt er die Sache aus, in seinem schönen Buche de vita solitaria, welches Zimmermanns Vorbild zu seinem berühmten Werke über die Einsamkeit gewesen zu sein scheint. Eben diesen bloß sekundären und mittelbaren Ursprung der Ungeselligkeit drückt, in seiner sarkastischen Weise, Chamfort aus, wenn er sagt: on dit quelquefois d'un homme qui vit seul, il n'aime pas la société. C'est souvent comme si on disait d'un homme, qu'il n'aime pas la promenade, sous le prétexte qu'il ne se promène pas volontiers le soir dans la forêt de Bondy[M]. Aber auch der sanfte und christliche Angelus Silesius sagt, in seiner Weise und mythischen Sprache, ganz das Selbe:

»Herodes ist ein Feind; der Joseph der Verstand,Dem macht Gott die Gefahr im Traum (im Geist) bekannt.Die Welt ist Bethlehem, Ägypten Einsamkeit:Fleuch, meine Seele! Fleuch, sonst stirbest du vor Leid.«

[M] Im selben Sinne sagt Sadi, im Gulistan (S. die Übers. v. Graf p. 65): »Seit dieser Zeit haben wir von der Gesellschaft Abschied genommen und uns den Weg der Absonderung vorgenommen: denn die Sicherheit ist in der Einsamkeit.«

In gleichem Sinne läßt sich Jordanus Brunus vernehmen: tanti uomini, che in terra hanno voluto gustare vita celeste, dissero con una voce: »ecce elongavi fugiens, et mansi in solitudine«. In gleichem Sinne berichtet Sadi, der Perser, im Gulistan, von sich selbst: »meiner Freunde in Damaskus überdrüssig zog ich mich in die Wüste bei Jerusalem zurück, die Gesellschaft der Tiere aufzusuchen.« Kurz, in gleichem Sinne haben alle geredet, die Prometheus aus besserem Thone geformt hatte. Welchen Genuß kann ihnen der Umgang mit Wesen gewähren, zu denen sie nur vermittelst des Niedrigsten und Unedelsten in ihrer eigenen Natur, nämlich des Alltäglichen, Trivialen und Gemeinen darin, irgend Beziehungen haben, die eine Gemeinschaft begründen, und denen, weil sie nicht zu ihrem Niveau sich erheben können, nichts übrig bleibt, als sie zu dem ihrigen herabzuziehn, was demnach ihr Trachten wird? Sonach ist es ein aristokratisches Gefühl, welches den Hang zur Absonderung und Einsamkeit nährt. Alle Lumpe sind gesellig, zum Erbarmen: daß hingegen ein Mensch edlerer Art sei, zeigt sich zunächst daran, daß er kein Wohlgefallen an den übrigen hat, sondern mehr und mehr die Einsamkeit ihrer Gesellschaft vorzieht und dann allmälig, mit den Jahren, zu der Einsicht gelangt, daß es, seltene Ausnahmen abgerechnet, in der Welt nur die Wahl gibt zwischen Einsamkeit und Gemeinheit. Sogar auch dieses, so hart es klingt, hat selbst Angelus Silesius, seiner christlichen Milde und Liebe ungeachtet, nicht ungesagt lassen können:

»Die Einsamkeit ist not: doch sei nur nicht gemein:So kannst du überall in einer Wüste sein.«

Was nun aber gar die großen Geister betrifft, so ist es wohl natürlich, daß diese eigentlichen Erzieher des ganzen Menschengeschlechtes zu häufiger Gemeinschaft mit den übrigen so wenig Neigung fühlen, als den Pädagogen anwandelt, sich in das Spiel der ihn umlärmenden Kinderherde zu mischen. Denn sie, die auf die Welt gekommen sind, um sie auf dem Meer ihrer Irrtümer der Wahrheit zuzulenken und aus dem finstern Abgrund ihrer Roheit und Gemeinheit nach oben, dem Lichte zu, der Bildung und Veredlung entgegen zu ziehn, – sie müssen zwar unter ihnen leben, ohne jedoch eigentlich zu ihnen zu gehören, fühlen sich daher, von Jugend auf, als merklich von den andern verschiedene Wesen, kommen aber erst allmälig, mit den Jahren, zur deutlichen Erkenntnis der Sache, wonach sie dann Sorge tragen, daß zu ihrer geistigen Entfernung von den andern auch die physische komme, und keiner ihnen nahe rücken darf, er sei denn schon selbst ein mehr oder weniger Eximirter von der allgemeinen Gemeinheit.

Aus diesem allen ergibt sich also, daß die Liebe zur Einsamkeit nicht direkt und als ursprünglicher Trieb auftritt, sondern sich indirekt, vorzüglich bei edleren Geistern und erst nach und nach entwickelt, nicht ohne Überwindung des natürlichen Geselligkeitstriebes, ja, unter gelegentlicher Opposition mephistophelischer Einflüsterung:

»Hör' auf, mit deinem Gram zu spielen,Der, wie ein Geier, dir am Leben frißt:Die schlechteste Gesellschaft läßt dich fühlen,Daß du ein Mensch mit Menschen bist.«

Einsamkeit ist das Los aller hervorragenden Geister: sie werden solche bisweilen beseufzen; aber stets sie als das kleinere von zwei Übeln erwählen. Mit zunehmendem Alter wird jedoch das sapere aude in diesem Stücke immer leichter und natürlicher, und in den sechziger Jahren ist der Trieb zur Einsamkeit ein wirklich naturgemäßer, ja instinktartiger. Denn jetzt vereinigt sich alles, ihn zu befördern. Der stärkste Zug zur Geselligkeit, Weiberliebe und Geschlechtstrieb, wirkt nicht mehr; ja, die Geschlechtslosigkeit des Alters legt den Grund zu einer gewissen Selbstgenugsamkeit, die allmählich den Geselligkeitstrieb überhaupt absorbirt. Von tausend Täuschungen und Torheiten ist man zurückgekommen; das aktive Leben ist meistens abgetan, man hat nichts mehr zu erwarten, hat keine Pläne und Absichten mehr; die Generation, der man eigentlich angehört, lebt nicht mehr; von einem fremden Geschlecht umgeben, steht man schon objektiv und wesentlich allein. Dabei hat der Flug der Zeit sich beschleunigt, und geistig möchte man sie noch benutzen. Denn, wenn nur der Kopf seine Kraft behalten hat; so machen jetzt die vielen erlangten Kenntnisse und Erfahrungen, die allmälig vollendete Durcharbeitung aller Gedanken und die große Übungsfertigkeit aller Kräfte das Studium jeder Art interessanter und leichter als jemals. Man sieht klar in tausend Dingen, die früher noch wie im Nebel lagen: man gelangt zu Resultaten und fühlt seine ganze Überlegenheit. Infolge langer Erfahrung hat man aufgehört, von den Menschen viel zu erwarten; da sie, im ganzen genommen, nicht zu den Leuten gehören, welche bei näherer Bekanntschaft gewinnen: vielmehr weiß man, daß, von seltenen Glücksfällen abgesehn, man nichts antreffen wird, als sehr defekte Exemplare der menschlichen Natur, welche es besser ist, unberührt zu lassen. Man ist daher den gewöhnlichen Täuschungen nicht mehr ausgesetzt, merkt jedem bald an, was er ist, und wird selten den Wunsch fühlen, nähere Verbindung mit ihm einzugehn. Endlich ist auch, zumal wenn man an der Einsamkeit eine Jugendfreundin erkennt, die Gewohnheit der Isolation und des Umgangs mit sich selbst hinzugekommen und zur zweiten Natur geworden. Demnach ist jetzt die Liebe zur Einsamkeit, welche früher dem Geselligkeitstriebe erst abgerungen werden mußte, eine ganz natürliche und einfache: man ist in der Einsamkeit, wie der Fisch im Wasser. Daher fühlt jede vorzügliche, folglich den übrigen unähnliche, mithin allein stehende Individualität sich, durch diese ihr wesentliche Isolation, zwar in der Jugend gedrückt, aber im Alter erleichtert.

Denn freilich wird dieses wirklichen Vorzuges des Alters jeder immer nur nach Maßgabe seiner intellektuellen Kräfte teilhaft, also der eminente Kopf vor allen; jedoch in geringerem Grade wohl jeder. Nur höchst dürftige und gemeine Naturen werden im Alter noch so gesellig sein wie ehedem: sie sind der Gesellschaft, zu der sie nicht mehr passen, beschwerlich, und bringen es höchstens dahin, tolerirt zu werden; während sie ehemals gesucht wurden.

An dem dargelegten, entgegengesetzten Verhältnisse zwischen der Zahl unsrer Lebensjahre und dem Grade unsrer Geselligkeit läßt sich auch noch eine teleologische Seite herausfinden. Je jünger der Mensch ist, desto mehr hat er noch, in jeder Beziehung, zu lernen: nun hat ihn die Natur auf den wechselseitigen Unterricht verwiesen, welchen jeder im Umgange mit seinesgleichen empfängt und in Hinsicht auf welchen die menschliche Gesellschaft eine große Bell-Lancastersche Erziehungsanstalt genannt werden kann; da Bücher und Schulen künstliche, weil vom Plane der Natur abliegende Anstalten sind. Sehr zweckmäßig also besucht er die natürliche Unterrichtsanstalt desto fleißiger, je jünger er ist.

Nihil est ab omni parte beatum sagt Horaz, und »Kein Lotus ohne Stengel« lautet ein indisches Sprichwort: so hat denn auch die Einsamkeit, neben so vielen Vorteilen, ihre kleinen Nachteile und Beschwerden, die jedoch, im Vergleich mit denen der Gesellschaft, gering sind; daher wer etwas Rechtes an sich selber hat, es immer leichter finden wird, ohne die Menschen auszukommen, als mit ihnen. – Unter jenen Nachteilen ist übrigens einer, der nicht so leicht, wie die übrigen, zum Bewußtsein gebracht wird, nämlich dieser: wie durch anhaltend fortgesetztes Zuhausebleiben unser Leib so empfindlich gegen äußere Einflüsse wird, daß jedes kühle Lüftchen ihn krankhaft affizirt; so wird, durch anhaltende Zurückgezogenheit und Einsamkeit, unser Gemüt so empfindlich, daß wir durch die unbedeutendesten Vorfälle, Worte, wohl gar durch bloße Mienen, uns beunruhigt, oder gekränkt, oder verletzt fühlen; während der, welcher stets im Getümmel bleibt, dergleichen gar nicht beachtet.

Wer nun aber, zumal in jüngern Jahren, so oft ihn auch schon gerechtes Mißfallen an den Menschen in die Einsamkeit zurückgescheucht hat, doch die Öde derselben, auf die Länge, zu ertragen nicht vermag, dem rate ich, daß er sich gewöhne, einen Teil seiner Einsamkeit in die Gesellschaft mitzunehmen, also daß er lerne, auch in der Gesellschaft, in gewissem Grade, allein zu sein, demnach, was er denkt, nicht sofort den andern mitzuteilen, und andrerseits mit dem, was sie sagen, es nicht genau zu nehmen, vielmehr, moralisch wie intellektuell, nicht viel davon zu erwarten und daher, hinsichtlich ihrer Meinungen, diejenige Gleichgültigkeit in sich zu befestigen, die das sicherste Mittel ist, um stets eine lobenswerte Toleranz zu üben. Er wird alsdann, obwohl mitten unter ihnen, doch nicht so ganz in ihrer Gesellschaft sein, sondern hinsichtlich ihrer sich mehr rein objektiv verhalten: Dies wird ihn vor zu genauer Berührung mit der Gesellschaft, und dadurch vor jeder Besudelung, oder gar Verletzung, schützen. Sogar eine lesenswerte dramatische Schilderung dieser restringirten, oder verschanzten Geselligkeit besitzen wir am Lustspiel »el Café o sea la comedia nueva« von Moratin, und zwar im Charakter des D. Pedro daselbst, zumal in der zweiten und dritten Szene des ersten Akts. In diesem Sinne kann man auch die Gesellschaft einem Feuer vergleichen, an welchem der Kluge sich in gehöriger Entfernung wärmt, nicht aber hineingreift, wie der Tor, der dann, nachdem er sich verbrannt hat, in die Kälte der Einsamkeit flieht und jammert, daß das Feuer brennt.

10 Neid ist dem Menschen natürlich: dennoch ist er ein Laster und Unglück zugleich[N]. Wir sollen daher ihn als den Feind unsers Glückes betrachten und als einen bösen Dämon zu ersticken suchen. Hiezu leitet uns Seneka an, mit den schönen Worten: nostra nos sine comparatione delectent: nunquam erit felix quem torquebit felicior (de ira III, 30), und wiederum: quum adspexeris quot te antecedant, cogita quot sequantur (ep. 15): also wir sollen öfter die betrachten, welche schlimmer daran sind, als wir, denn die, welche besser daran zu sein scheinen. Sogar wird, bei eingetretenen, wirklichen Übeln, uns den wirksamsten, wiewohl aus derselben Quelle mit dem Neide fließenden Trost die Betrachtung größerer Leiden, als die unsrigen sind, gewähren, und nächstdem der Umgang mit solchen, die mit uns im selben Falle sich befinden, mit den sociis malorum.

[N] Der Neid der Menschen zeigt an, wie unglücklich sie sich fühlen; ihre beständige Aufmerksamkeit auf fremdes Tun und Lassen, wie sehr sie sich langweilen.

Soviel von der aktiven Seite des Neides. Von der passiven ist zu erwägen, daß kein Haß so unversöhnlich ist, wie der Neid; daher wir nicht unablässig und eifrig bemüht sein sollten, ihn zu erregen; vielmehr besser täten, diesen Genuß, wie manchen andern, der gefährlichen Folgen wegen, uns zu versagen. – Es gibt drei Aristokratien: 1. die der Geburt und des Ranges, 2. die Geldaristokratie, 3. die geistige Aristokratie. Letztere ist eigentlich die vornehmste, wird auch dafür anerkannt, wenn man ihr nur Zeit läßt: hat doch schon Friedrich der Große gesagt: les âmes privilégiées rangent à l'égal des souverains, und zwar zu seinem Hofmarschall, der Anstoß daran nahm, daß, während Minister und Generäle an der Marschallstafel aßen, Voltaire an einer Tafel Platz nehmen sollte, an welcher bloß regierende Herren und ihre Prinzen saßen. – Jede dieser Aristokratien ist umgeben von einem Heer ihrer Neider, welche gegen jeden ihrer Angehörigen heimlich erbittert und, wenn sie ihn nicht zu fürchten haben, bemüht sind, ihm auf mannigfaltige Weise zu verstehn zu geben, »du bist nichts mehr, als wir!« Aber gerade diese Bemühungen verraten ihre Überzeugung vom Gegenteil. Das vom Beneideten dagegen anzuwendende Verfahren besteht im Fernhalten aller dieser Schar Angehörigen und im möglichsten Vermeiden jeder Berührung mit ihnen, so daß sie durch eine weite Kluft abgetrennt bleiben; wo aber dies nicht angeht, im höchst gelassenen Ertragen ihrer Bemühungen, deren Quelle sie ja neutralisirt: – auch sehn wir dasselbe durchgängig angewandt. Hingegen werden die der einen Aristokratie Angehörigen sich mit denen einer der beiden andern meistens gut und ohne Neid vertragen; weil jeder seinen Vorzug gegen den der andern in die Wage legt.

11 Man überlege ein Vorhaben reiflich und wiederholt, ehe man dasselbe ins Werk setzt, und selbst nachdem man alles auf das gründlichste durchdacht hat, räume man noch der Unzulänglichkeit aller menschlichen Erkenntnis etwas ein, infolge welcher es immer noch Umstände geben kann, die zu erforschen oder vorherzusehn unmöglich ist, und welche die ganze Berechnung unrichtig machen könnten. Dieses Bedenken wird stets ein Gewicht auf die negative Schale legen und uns anraten, in wichtigen Dingen, ohne Not, nichts zu rühren: quieta non movere. Ist man aber einmal zum Entschluß gekommen und hat Hand ans Werk gelegt, so daß jetzt alles seinen Verlauf zu nehmen hat und nur noch der Ausgang abzuwarten steht; dann ängstige man sich nicht durch stets erneuerte Überlegung des bereits Vollzogenen und durch wiederholtes Bedenken der möglichen Gefahr; vielmehr entschlage man der Sache sich jetzt gänzlich, halte das ganze Gedankenfach derselben verschlossen, sich mit der Überzeugung beruhigend, daß man alles zu seiner Zeit reiflich erwogen habe. Diesen Rat erteilt auch das italiänische Sprichwort legala bene, e poi lascia la andare, welches Goethe übersetzt »du, sattle gut und reite getrost«; – wie denn, beiläufig gesagt, ein großer Teil seiner unter der Rubrik »Sprichwörtlich« gegebenen Gnomen übersetzte italiänische Sprichwörter sind. – Kommt dennoch ein schlimmer Ausgang; so ist es, weil alle menschlichen Angelegenheiten dem Zufall und dem Irrtum unterliegen. Daß Sokrates, der Weiseste der Menschen, um nur in seinen eigenen, persönlichen Angelegenheiten das Richtige zu treffen, oder wenigstens Fehltritte zu vermeiden, eines warnenden Dämonions bedurfte, beweist, daß hiezu kein menschlicher Verstand ausreicht. Daher ist jener, angeblich von einem Papste herrührende Ausspruch, daß von jedem Unglück, das uns trifft, wir selbst, wenigstens in irgend etwas, die Schuld tragen, nicht unbedingt und in allen Fällen wahr: wiewohl bei weitem in den meisten. Sogar scheint das Gefühl hievon viel Anteil daran zu haben, daß die Leute ihr Unglück möglichst zu verbergen suchen und, so weit es gelingen will, eine zufriedene Miene aufsetzen. Sie besorgen, daß man von Leiden auf die Schuld schließen werde.

12 Bei einem unglücklichen Ereignis, welches bereits eingetreten, also nicht mehr zu ändern ist, soll man sich nicht einmal den Gedanken, daß dem anders sein könnte, noch weniger den, wodurch es hätte abgewendet werden können, erlauben: denn gerade er steigert den Schmerz ins Unerträgliche; so daß man damit zum ἑαυτοντιμωρουμενος wird. Vielmehr mache man es wie der König David, der, so lange sein Sohn krank daniederlag, den Jehova unablässig mit Bitten und Flehen bestürmte; als er aber gestorben war, ein Schnippchen schlug und nicht weiter daran dachte. Wer aber dazu nicht leichtsinnig genug ist, flüchte sich auf den fatalistischen Standpunkt, indem er sich die große Wahrheit verdeutlicht, daß alles, was geschieht, notwendig eintritt, also unabwendbar ist.

Bei allem dem ist diese Regel einseitig. Sie taugt zwar zu unserer unmittelbaren Erleichterung und Beruhigung bei Unglücksfällen: allein wenn an diesen, wie doch meistens, unsere eigene Nachlässigkeit oder Verwegenheit, wenigstens zum Teil, schuld ist; so ist die wiederholte, schmerzliche Überlegung, wie dem hätte vorgebeugt werden können, zu unserer Witzigung und Besserung, also für die Zukunft, eine heilsame Selbstzüchtigung. Und gar offenbar begangene Fehler sollen wir nicht, wie wir doch pflegen, vor uns selber zu entschuldigen, oder zu beschönigen, oder zu verkleinern suchen, sondern sie uns eingestehn und in ihrer ganzen Größe deutlich uns vor Augen bringen, um den Vorsatz, sie künftig zu vermeiden, fest fassen zu können. Freilich hat man sich dabei den großen Schmerz der Unzufriedenheit mit sich selbst anzutun: aber ὁ μη δαρεις ανθρωπος ου παιδευεται.

13 In allem, was unser Wohl und Wehe betrifft, sollen wir die Phantasie im Zügel halten: also zuvörderst keine Luftschlösser bauen; weil diese zu kostspielig sind, indem wir, gleich darauf, sie, unter Seufzern, wieder einzureißen haben. Aber noch mehr sollen wir uns hüten, durch das Ausmalen bloß möglicher Unglücksfälle unser Herz zu ängstigen. Wenn nämlich diese ganz aus der Luft gegriffen, oder doch sehr weit hergeholt wären; so würden wir, beim Erwachen aus einem solchen Traume, gleich wissen, daß alles nur Gaukelei gewesen, daher uns der bessern Wirklichkeit um so mehr freuen und allenfalls eine Warnung gegen ganz entfernte, wiewohl mögliche Unglücksfälle daraus entnehmen. Allein mit dergleichen spielt unsere Phantasie nicht leicht: ganz müßigerweise baut sie höchstens heitere Luftschlösser. Der Stoff zu ihren finstern Träumen sind Unglücksfälle, die uns, wenn auch aus der Ferne, doch einigermaßen wirklich bedrohen: diese vergrößert sie, bringt ihre Möglichkeit viel näher, als sie in Wahrheit ist, und malt sie auf das Fürchterlichste aus. Einen solchen Traum können wir, beim Erwachen, nicht sogleich abschütteln, wie den heitern: denn diesen widerlegt alsbald die Wirklichkeit und läßt höchstens eine schwache Hoffnung im Schoße der Möglichkeit übrig. Aber haben wir uns den schwarzen Phantasien (blue devils) überlassen; so haben sie uns Bilder nahe gebracht, die nicht so leicht wieder weichen: denn die Möglichkeit der Sache, im allgemeinen, steht fest, und den Maßstab des Grades derselben vermögen wir nicht jederzeit anzulegen: sie wird nun leicht zur Wahrscheinlichkeit, und wir haben uns der Angst in die Hände geliefert. Daher also sollen wir die Dinge, welche unser Wohl und Wehe betreffen, bloß mit dem Auge der Vernunft und der Urteilskraft betrachten, folglich trockener und kalter Überlegung, mit bloßen Begriffen und in abstracto operiren. Die Phantasie soll dabei aus dem Spiele bleiben: denn urteilen kann sie nicht; sondern bringt bloße Bilder vor die Augen, welche das Gemüt unnützer und oft sehr peinlicher Weise bewegen. Am strengsten sollte diese Regel abends beobachtet werden. Denn wie die Dunkelheit uns furchtsam macht und uns überall Schreckensgestalten erblicken läßt, so wirkt, ihr analog, die Undeutlichkeit der Gedanken; weil jede Ungewißheit Unsicherheit gebiert: deshalb nehmen des Abends, wann die Abspannung Verstand und Urteilskraft mit einer subjektiven Dunkelheit überzogen hat, der Intellekt müde und θορυβουμενος ist und den Dingen nicht auf den Grund zu kommen vermag, die Gegenstände unserer Meditation, wenn sie unsere persönlichen Verhältnisse betreffen, leicht ein gefährliches Ansehn an und werden zu Schreckbildern. Am meisten ist dies der Fall nachts, im Bette, als wo der Geist völlig abgespannt und daher die Urteilskraft ihrem Geschäfte gar nicht mehr gewachsen, die Phantasie aber noch rege ist. Da gibt die Nacht allem und jedem ihren schwarzen Anstrich. Daher sind unsere Gedanken vor dem Einschlafen, oder gar beim nächtlichen Erwachen, meistens fast ebenso arge Verzerrungen und Verkehrungen der Dinge, wie die Träume es sind, und dazu, wenn sie persönliche Angelegenheiten betreffen, gewöhnlich pechschwarz, ja, entsetzlich. Am Morgen sind dann alle solche Schreckbilder, so gut wie die Träume, verschwunden: dies bedeutet das spanische Sprichwort: noche tinta, blanco el dia (die Nacht ist gefärbt, weiß ist der Tag). Aber auch schon abends, sobald das Licht brennt, sieht der Verstand, wie das Auge, nicht so klar, wie bei Tage: daher diese Zeit nicht zur Meditation ernster, zumal unangenehmer Angelegenheiten geeignet ist. Hiezu ist der Morgen die rechte Zeit; wie er es denn überhaupt zu allen Leistungen, ohne Ausnahme, sowohl den geistigen wie den körperlichen, ist. Denn der Morgen ist die Jugend des Tages: alles ist heiter, frisch und leicht: wir fühlen uns kräftig und haben alle unsere Fähigkeiten zu völliger Disposition. Man soll ihn nicht durch spätes Aufstehn verkürzen, noch auch an unwürdige Beschäftigungen oder Gespräche verschwenden, sondern ihn als die Quintessenz des Lebens betrachten und gewissermaßen heilig halten. Hingegen ist der Abend das Alter des Tages: wir sind abends matt, geschwätzig und leichtsinnig. – Jeder Tag ist ein kleines Leben, – jedes Erwachen und Aufstehen eine kleine Geburt, jeder frische Morgen eine kleine Jugend, und jedes zu Bette gehn und Einschlafen ein kleiner Tod.

Überhaupt aber hat Gesundheitszustand, Schlaf, Nahrung, Temperatur, Wetter, Umgebung und noch viel anderes Äußerliches auf unsere Stimmung, und diese auf unsere Gedanken, einen mächtigen Einfluß. Daher ist, wie unsere Ansicht einer Angelegenheit, so auch unsere Fähigkeit zu einer Leistung so sehr der Zeit und selbst dem Orte unterworfen. Darum also

»Nehmt die gute Stimmung wahr,Denn sie kommt so selten.«

Nicht etwa bloß objektive Konzeptionen und Originalgedanken muß man abwarten, ob und wann es ihnen zu kommen beliebt; sondern selbst die gründliche Überlegung einer persönlichen Angelegenheit gelingt nicht immer zu der Zeit, die man zum voraus für sie bestimmt und wann man sich dazu zurechtgesetzt hat; sondern auch sie wählt sich ihre Zeit selbst; wo alsdann der ihr angemessene Gedankengang unaufgefordert rege wird und wir mit vollem Anteil ihn verfolgen.

Zur anempfohlenen Zügelung der Phantasie gehört auch noch, daß wir ihr nicht gestatten, ehemals erlittenes Unrecht, Schaden, Verlust, Beleidigungen, Zurücksetzungen, Kränkungen u. dgl. uns wieder zu vergegenwärtigen und auszumalen; weil wir dadurch den längst schlummernden Unwillen, Zorn und alle gehässigen Leidenschaften wieder aufregen, wodurch unser Gemüt verunreinigt wird. Denn, nach einem schönen, vom Neuplatoniker Proklos beigebrachten Gleichnis, ist, wie in jeder Stadt, neben den Edelen und Ausgezeichneten, auch der Pöbel jeder Art (οχλος) wohnt, so in jedem, auch dem edelsten und erhabensten Menschen das ganz Niedrige und Gemeine der menschlichen, ja tierischen Natur, der Anlage nach, vorhanden. Dieser Pöbel darf nicht zum Tumult aufgeregt werden, noch darf er aus den Fenstern schauen; da er sich häßlich ausnimmt: die bezeichneten Phantasiestücke sind aber die Demagogen desselben. Hieher gehört auch, daß die kleinste Widerwärtigkeit, sei sie von Menschen oder Dingen ausgegangen, durch fortgesetztes Brüten darüber und Ausmalen mit grellen Farben und nach vergrößertem Maßstabe, zu einem Ungeheuer anschwellen kann, darüber man außer sich gerät. Alles Unangenehme soll man vielmehr höchst prosaisch und nüchtern auffassen, damit man es möglichst leicht nehmen könne.

Wie kleine Gegenstände, dem Auge nahe gehalten, unser Gesichtsfeld beschränkend, die Welt verdecken, – so werden oft die Menschen und Dinge unserer nächsten Umgebung, so höchst unbedeutend und gleichgültig sie auch seien, unsere Aufmerksamkeit und Gedanken über die Gebühr beschäftigen, dazu noch auf unerfreuliche Weise, und werden wichtige Gedanken und Angelegenheiten verdrängen. Dem soll man entgegenarbeiten.

14 Beim Anblick dessen, was wir nicht besitzen, steigt gar leicht in uns der Gedanke auf: »wie, wenn das mein wäre?« und er macht uns die Entbehrung fühlbar. Statt dessen sollten wir öfter fragen: »wie, wenn das nicht mein wäre?«, ich meine, wir sollten das, was wir besitzen, bisweilen so anzusehn uns bemühen, wie es uns vorschweben würde, nachdem wir es verloren hätten; und zwar jedes, was es auch sei: Eigentum, Gesundheit, Freunde, Geliebte, Weib, Kind, Pferd und Hund: denn meistens belehrt erst der Verlust uns über den Wert der Dinge. Hingegen infolge der anempfohlenen Betrachtungsweise derselben wird erstlich ihr Besitz uns unmittelbar mehr, als zuvor, beglücken, und zweitens werden wir auf alle Weise dem Verlust vorbeugen, also das Eigentum nicht in Gefahr bringen, die Freunde nicht erzürnen, die Treue des Weibes nicht der Versuchung aussetzen, die Gesundheit der Kinder bewachen usw. – Oft suchen wir das Trübe der Gegenwart aufzuhellen durch Spekulation auf günstige Möglichkeiten und ersinnen vielerlei chimärische Hoffnungen, von denen jede mit einer Enttäuschung schwanger ist, die nicht ausbleibt, wann jene an der harten Wirklichkeit zerschellt. Besser wäre es, die vielen schlimmen Möglichkeiten zum Gegenstand unserer Spekulation zu machen, als welches teils Vorkehrungen zu ihrer Abwehr, teils angenehme Überraschungen, wenn sie sich nicht verwirklichen, veranlassen würde. Sind wir doch, nach etwas ausgestandener Angst, stets merklich heiter. Ja, es ist sogar gut, große Unglücksfälle, die uns möglicherweise treffen könnten, uns bisweilen zu vergegenwärtigen; um nämlich die uns nachher wirklich treffenden viel kleineren leichter zu ertragen, indem wir dann durch den Rückblick auf jene großen, nicht eingetroffenen, uns trösten. Über diese Regel ist jedoch die ihr vorhergegangene nicht zu vernachlässigen.

15 Weil die uns betreffenden Angelegenheiten und Begebenheiten ganz vereinzelt, ohne Ordnung und ohne Beziehung auf einander, im grellsten Kontrast und ohne irgend etwas Gemeinsames, als eben daß sie unsere Angelegenheiten sind, auftreten und durcheinanderlaufen; so muß unser Denken und Sorgen um sie ebenso abrupt sein, damit es ihnen entspreche. – Sonach müssen wir, wenn wir eines vornehmen, von allem andern abstrahiren und uns der Sache entschlagen, um jedes zu seiner Zeit zu besorgen, zu genießen, zu erdulden, ganz unbekümmert um das übrige: wir müssen also gleichsam Schiebfächer unserer Gedanken haben, von denen wir eines öffnen, derweilen alle andern geschlossen bleiben. Dadurch erlangen wir, daß nicht eine schwer lastende Sorge jeden kleinen Genuß der Gegenwart verkümmere und uns alle Ruhe raube; daß nicht eine Überlegung die andere verdränge; daß nicht die Sorge für eine wichtige Angelegenheit die Vernachlässigung vieler geringen herbeiführe usw. Zumal aber soll, wer hoher und edeler Betrachtungen fähig ist, seinen Geist durch persönliche Angelegenheiten und niedrige Sorgen nie so ganz einnehmen und erfüllen lassen, daß sie jenen den Zugang versperren: denn das wäre recht eigentlich propter vitam vivendi perdere causas. – Freilich ist zu dieser Lenkung und Ablenkung unsrer selbst, wie zu so viel anderm, Selbstzwang erfordert: zu diesem aber sollte uns die Überlegung stärken, daß jeder Mensch gar vielen und großen Zwang von außen zu erdulden hat, ohne welchen es in keinem Leben abgeht; daß jedoch ein kleiner, an der rechten Stelle angebrachter Selbstzwang nachmals vielem Zwange von außen vorbeugt; wie ein kleiner Abschnitt des Kreises zunächst dem Centro einem oft hundertmal größern an der Peripherie entspricht. Durch nichts entziehn wir uns so sehr dem Zwange von außen, wie durch Selbstzwang: das besagt Senekas Ausspruch: si tibi vis omnia subjicere, te subjice rationi (ep. 37). Auch haben wir den Selbstzwang noch immer in der Gewalt, und können, im äußersten Fall, oder wo er unsere empfindlichste Stelle trifft, etwas nachlassen; hingegen der Zwang von außen ist ohne Rücksicht, ohne Schonung und unbarmherzig. Daher ist es weise, diesem durch jenen zuvorzukommen.

16 Unseren Wünschen ein Ziel stecken, unsere Begierden im Zaume halten, unsern Zorn bändigen, stets eingedenk, daß dem einzelnen nur ein unendlich kleiner Teil alles Wünschenswerten erreichbar ist, hingegen viele Übel jeden treffen müssen, also, mit einem Worte απεχειν και ανεχειν, abstinere et sustinere, – ist eine Regel, ohne deren Beobachtung weder Reichtum noch Macht verhindern können, daß wir uns armselig fühlen. Dahin zielt Horaz:

Inter cuncta leges, et percontabere doctosQua ratione queas traducere leniter aevum;Ne te semper inops agitet vexetque cupido,Ne pavor, et rerum mediocriter utilium spes.

17 Ὁ βιος ἐν τῃ κινησει ἐστι (vita motu constat) sagt Aristoteles, mit offenbarem Recht: und wie demnach unser physisches Leben nur in und durch eine unaufhörliche Bewegung besteht; so verlangt auch unser inneres, geistiges Leben fortwährend Beschäftigung, Beschäftigung mit irgend etwas, durch Tun oder Denken; einen Beweis hievon gibt schon das Trommeln mit den Händen oder irgend einem Gerät, zu welchem unbeschäftigte und gedankenlose Menschen sogleich greifen. Unser Dasein nämlich ist ein wesentlich rastloses: daher wird die gänzliche Untätigkeit uns bald unerträglich, indem sie die entsetzlichste Langeweile herbeiführt. Diesen Trieb nun soll man regeln, um ihn methodisch und dadurch besser zu befriedigen. Daher also ist Tätigkeit, etwas treiben, womöglich etwas machen, wenigstens aber etwas lernen, – zum Glück des Menschen unerläßlich: seine Kräfte verlangen nach ihrem Gebrauch, und er möchte den Erfolg desselben irgendwie wahrnehmen. Die größte Befriedigung jedoch, in dieser Hinsicht, gewährt es, etwas zu machen, zu verfertigen, sei es ein Korb, sei es ein Buch; aber daß man ein Werk unter seinen Händen täglich wachsen und endlich seine Vollendung erreichen sehe, beglückt unmittelbar. Dies leistet ein Kunstwerk, eine Schrift, ja selbst eine bloße Handarbeit; freilich, je edlerer Art das Werk, desto höher der Genuß. Am glücklichsten sind, in diesem Betracht, die Hochbegabten, welche sich der Fähigkeit zur Hervorbringung bedeutsamer, großer und zusammenhängender Werke bewußt sind. Denn dadurch verbreitet ein Interesse höherer Art sich über ihr ganzes Dasein und erteilt ihm eine Würze, welche dem der Übrigen abgeht, welches demnach, mit jenem verglichen, gar schal ist. Für sie nämlich hat das Leben und die Welt, neben dem allen gemeinsamen, materiellen, noch ein zweites und höheres, ein formelles Interesse, indem es den Stoff zu ihren Werken enthält, mit dessen Einsammlung sie, ihr Leben hindurch, emsig beschäftigt sind, sobald nur die persönliche Not sie irgends atmen läßt. Auch ist ihr Intellekt gewissermaßen ein doppelter: teils einer für die gewöhnlichen Beziehungen (Angelegenheiten des Willens), gleich dem aller andern: teils einer für die rein objektive Auffassung der Dinge. So leben sie zwiefach, sind Zuschauer und Schauspieler zugleich, während die Übrigen letzteres allein sind. – Inzwischen treibe jeder etwas, nach Maßgabe seiner Fähigkeiten. Denn wie nachteilig der Mangel an planmäßiger Tätigkeit, an irgend einer Arbeit, auf uns wirke, merkt man auf langen Vergnügungsreisen, als wo man, dann und wann, sich recht unglücklich fühlt; weil man, ohne eigentliche Beschäftigung, gleichsam aus seinem natürlichen Elemente gerissen ist. Sich zu mühen und mit dem Widerstande zu kämpfen ist dem Menschen Bedürfnis, wie dem Maulwurf das Graben. Der Stillstand, den die Allgenugsamkeit eines bleibenden Genusses herbeiführte, wäre ihm unerträglich. Hindernisse überwinden ist der Vollgenuß seines Daseins; sie mögen materieller Art sein, wie beim Handeln und Treiben, oder geistiger Art, wie beim Lernen und Forschen: der Kampf mit ihnen und der Sieg beglückt. Fehlt ihm die Gelegenheit dazu, so macht er sie sich, wie er kann: je nachdem seine Individualität es mit sich bringt, wird er jagen, oder Bilboquet spielen, oder, vom unbewußten Zuge seiner Natur geleitet, Händel suchen, oder Intriguen anspinnen, oder sich auf Betrügereien und allerlei Schlechtigkeiten einlassen, um nur dem ihm unerträglichen Zustande der Ruhe ein Ende zu machen. Difficilis in otio quies.

18 Zum Leitstern seiner Bestrebungen soll man nicht Bilder der Phantasie nehmen, sondern deutlich gedachte Begriffe. Meistens aber geschieht das Umgekehrte. Man wird nämlich, bei genauerer Untersuchung, finden, daß, was bei unsern Entschließungen, in letzter Instanz, den Ausschlag gibt, meistens nicht die Begriffe und Urteile sind, sondern ein Phantasiebild, welches die eine der Alternativen repräsentirt und vertritt. Ich weiß nicht mehr, in welchem Romane von Voltaire, oder Diderot, dem Helden, als er ein Jüngling und Herkules am Scheidewege war, die Tugend sich stets darstellte in Gestalt seines alten Hofmeisters, in der Linken die Tabaksdose, in der Rechten eine Priese haltend und so moralisirend; das Laster hingegen in Gestalt der Kammerjungfer seiner Mutter. – Besonders in der Jugend fixirt sich das Ziel unsers Glückes in Gestalt einiger Bilder, die uns vorschweben und oft das halbe, ja das ganze Leben hindurch verharren. Sie sind eigentlich neckende Gespenster: denn, haben wir sie erreicht, so zerrinnen sie in nichts, indem wir die Erfahrung machen, daß sie gar nichts von dem, was sie verhießen, leisten. Dieser Art sind einzelne Szenen des häuslichen, bürgerlichen, gesellschaftlichen, ländlichen Lebens, Bilder der Wohnung, Umgebung, der Ehrenzeichen, Respektsbezeugungen usw. usw. chaque fou a sa marotte auch das Bild der Geliebten gehört oft dahin. Daß es uns so ergehe ist wohl natürlich: denn das Anschauliche wirkt, weil es das Unmittelbare ist, auch unmittelbarer auf unsern Willen, als der Begriff, der abstrakte Gedanke, der bloß das Allgemeine gibt, ohne das Einzelne, welches doch gerade die Realität enthält: er kann daher nur mittelbar auf unsern Willen wirken. Und doch ist es nur der Begriff, der Wort hält: daher ist es Bildung, nur ihm zu trauen. Freilich wird er wohl mitunter der Erläuterung und Paraphrase durch einige Bilder bedürfen: nur cum grano salis.

19 Die vorhergegangene Regel läßt sich der allgemeineren subsumiren, daß man überall Herr werden soll über den Eindruck des Gegenwärtigen und Anschaulichen überhaupt. Dieser ist gegen das bloß Gedachte und Gewußte unverhältnismäßig stark, nicht vermöge seiner Materie und Gehalt, die oft sehr gering sind; sondern vermöge seiner Form, der Anschaulichkeit und Unmittelbarkeit, als welche auf das Gemüt eindringt und dessen Ruhe stört, oder seine Vorsätze erschüttert. Denn das Vorhandene, das Anschauliche, wirkt, als leicht übersehbar, stets mit seiner ganzen Gewalt auf einmal: hingegen Gedanken und Gründe verlangen Zeit und Ruhe, um stückweise durchdacht zu werden, daher man sie nicht jeden Augenblick ganz gegenwärtig haben kann. Demzufolge reizt das Angenehme, welchem wir, infolge der Überlegung, entsagt haben, uns doch bei seinem Anblick: ebenso kränkt uns ein Urteil, dessen gänzliche Inkompetenz wir kennen; erzürnt uns eine Beleidigung, deren Verächtlichkeit wir einsehen; ebenso werden zehn Gründe gegen das Vorhandensein einer Gefahr überwogen vom falschen Schein ihrer wirklichen Gegenwart usw. In allen diesen macht sich die ursprüngliche Unvernünftigkeit unsers Wesens geltend. Auch werden einem derartigen Eindruck die Weiber oft erliegen, und wenige Männer haben ein solches Übergewicht der Vernunft, daß sie von dessen Wirkungen nicht zu leiden hätten. Wo wir nun denselben nicht ganz überwältigen können, mittelst bloßer Gedanken, da ist das Beste, einen Eindruck durch den entgegengesetzten zu neutralisiren, z. B. den Eindruck einer Beleidigung durch Aufsuchen derer, die uns hochschätzen; den Eindruck einer drohenden Gefahr durch wirkliches Betrachten des ihr Entgegenwirkenden. Konnte doch jener Italiäner, von dem Leibnitz (in den nouveaux essais, Liv. I, c. 2, § 11) erzählt, sogar den Schmerzen der Folter dadurch widerstehn, daß er, während derselben, wie er sich vorgesetzt, das Bild des Galgens, an welchen sein Geständnis ihn gebracht haben würde, nicht einen Augenblick aus der Phantasie entweichen ließ; weshalb er von Zeit zu Zeit io ti vedo rief; welche Worte er später dahin erklärt hat. – Eben aus dem hier betrachteten Grunde ist es ein schweres Ding, wenn alle, die uns umgeben, anderer Meinung sind als wir, und danach sich benehmen, selbst wenn wir von ihrem Irrtum überzeugt sind, nicht durch sie wankend gemacht zu werden. Einem flüchtigen, verfolgten, ernstlich incognito reisenden Könige muß das unter vier Augen beobachtete Unterwürfigkeitszeremoniell seines vertrauten Begleiters eine fast notwendige Herzensstärkung sein, damit er nicht am Ende sich selbst bezweifle.

20 Nachdem ich schon im zweiten Kapitel den hohen Wert der Gesundheit, als welche für unser Glück das erste und wichtigste ist, hervorgehoben habe, will ich hier ein paar ganz allgemeiner Verhaltungsregeln zu ihrer Befestigung und Bewahrung angeben.

Man härte sich dadurch ab, daß man dem Körper, sowohl im ganzen wie in jedem Teile, so lange man gesund ist, recht viel Anstrengung und Beschwerde auflege und sich gewöhne, widrigen Einflüssen jeder Art zu widerstehn. Sobald hingegen ein krankhafter Zustand, sei es des Ganzen, oder eines Teiles, sich kundgibt, ist sogleich das entgegengesetzte Verfahren zu ergreifen und der kranke Leib, oder Teil desselben, auf alle Weise zu schonen und zu pflegen: denn das Leidende und Geschwächte ist keiner Abhärtung fähig.

Der Muskel wird durch starken Gebrauch gestärkt; der Nerv hingegen dadurch geschwächt. Also übe man seine Muskeln durch jede angemessene Anstrengung, hüte hingegen die Nerven vor jeder; also die Augen vor zu hellem, besonders reflektirtem Lichte, vor jeder Anstrengung in der Dämmerung, wie auch vor anhaltendem Betrachten zu kleiner Gegenstände; ebenso die Ohren vor zu starkem Geräusch; vorzüglich aber das Gehirn vor gezwungener, zu anhaltender oder unzeitiger Anstrengung: demnach lasse man es ruhen während der Verdauung; weil dann eben dieselbe Lebenskraft, welche im Gehirn Gedanken bildet, im Magen und den Eingeweiden angestrengt arbeitet, Chymus und Chylus zu bereiten; ebenfalls während, oder auch nach, bedeutender Muskelanstrengung. Denn es verhält sich mit den motorischen wie mit den sensibeln Nerven, und wie der Schmerz, den wir in verletzten Gliedern empfinden, seinen wahren Sitz im Gehirn hat; so sind es auch eigentlich nicht die Beine und Arme, welche gehn und arbeiten; sondern das Gehirn, nämlich der Teil desselben, welcher, mittelst des verlängerten und des Rückenmarks, die Nerven jener Glieder erregt und dadurch diese in Bewegung setzt. Demgemäß hat auch die Ermüdung, welche wir in den Beinen oder Armen fühlen, ihren wahren Sitz im Gehirn; weshalb eben bloß die Muskeln ermüden, deren Bewegung willkürlich ist, d. h. vom Gehirn ausgeht, hingegen nicht die ohne Willkür arbeitenden, wie das Herz. Offenbar also wird das Gehirn beeinträchtigt, wenn man ihm starke Muskeltätigkeit und geistige Anspannung zugleich, oder auch nur dicht hinter einander abzwingt. Hiemit streitet es nicht, daß man im Anfang eines Spaziergangs, oder überhaupt auf kurzen Gängen, oft erhöhte Geistestätigkeit spürt: denn da ist noch kein Ermüden besagter Gehirnteile eingetreten, und andrerseits befördert eine solche leichte Muskeltätigkeit und die durch sie vermehrte Respiration das Aufsteigen des arteriellen, nunmehr auch besser oxydirten Blutes zum Gehirn. – Besonders aber gebe man dem Gehirn das zu seiner Refektion nötige, volle Maß des Schlafes; denn der Schlaf ist für den ganzen Menschen, was das Aufziehn für die Uhr. (Vergl. Welt als Wille und Vorstellung II, 217. – 3. Aufl. II, 240.) Dieses Maß wird um so größer sein, je entwickelter und tätiger das Gehirn ist; es jedoch zu überschreiten wäre bloßer Zeitverlust, weil dann der Schlaf an Intension verliert, was er an Extension gewinnt. (Vergl. Welt als Wille und Vorstellung II, 247. – 3. Aufl. II, 275.)[O] Überhaupt begreife man wohl, daß unser Denken nichts anderes ist als die organische Funktion des Gehirns, und sonach jeder andern organischen Tätigkeit, in Hinsicht auf Anstrengung und Ruhe, sich analog verhält. Wie übermäßige Anstrengung die Augen verdirbt, ebenso das Gehirn. Mit Recht ist gesagt worden: das Gehirn denkt, wie der Magen verdaut. Der Wahn von einer immateriellen, einfachen, wesentlich und immer denkenden, folglich unermüdlichen Seele, die da im Gehirn bloß logirte, und nichts auf der Welt bedürfte, hat gewiß manchen zu unsinnigem Verfahren und Abstumpfung seiner Geisteskräfte verleitet; wie denn z. B. Friedrich der Große einmal versucht hat, sich das Schlafen ganz abzugewöhnen. Die Philosophieprofessoren würden wohl tun, einen solchen, sogar praktisch verderblichen Wahn nicht durch ihre katechismusgerechtseinwollende Rocken-Philosophie zu befördern. – Man soll sich gewöhnen, seine Geisteskräfte durchaus als physiologische Funktionen zu betrachten, um danach sie zu behandeln, zu schonen, anzustrengen usw., und zu bedenken, daß jedes körperliche Leiden, Beschwerde, Unordnung, in welchem Teil es auch sei, den Geist affizirt. Am besten befähigt hiezu Cabanis, des Rapports du physique et du moral de l'homme.

[O] Der Schlaf ist ein Stück Tod, welches wir anticipando borgen und dafür das durch einen Tag erschöpfte Leben wieder erhalten und erneuern. Le sommeil est un emprunt fait à la mort. Der Schlaf borgt vom Tode zur Aufrechthaltung des Lebens. Oder: er ist der einstweilige Zins des Todes, welcher selbst die Kapitalabzahlung ist. Diese wird um so später eingefordert, je reichlichere Zinsen und je regelmäßiger sie gezahlt werden.

Die Vernachlässigung des hier gegebenen Rats ist die Ursache, aus welcher manche große Geister, wie auch große Gelehrte, im Alter schwachsinnig, kindisch und selbst wahnsinnig geworden sind. Daß z. B. die gefeierten englischen Dichter dieses Jahrhunderts, wie Walter Scott, Wordsworth, Southey u. a. m. im Alter, ja schon in den sechziger Jahren geistig stumpf und unfähig geworden, ja, zur Imbezillität herabgesunken sind, ist ohne Zweifel daraus zu erklären, daß sie sämtlich, vom hohen Honorar verlockt, die Schriftstellerei als Gewerbe getrieben, also des Geldes wegen geschrieben haben. Dies verführt zu widernatürlicher Anstrengung, und wer seinen Pegasus ins Joch spannt und seine Muse mit der Peitsche antreibt, wird es auf analoge Weise büßen, wie der, welcher der Venus Zwangsdienste geleistet hat. Ich argwöhne, daß auch Kant, in seinen späten Jahren, nachdem er endlich berühmt geworden war, sich überarbeitet und dadurch die zweite Kindheit seiner vier letzten Jahre veranlaßt hat. –

Jeder Monat des Jahres hat einen eigentümlichen und unmittelbaren, d. h. vom Wetter unabhängigen Einfluß auf unsere Gesundheit, unsere körperlichen Zustände überhaupt, ja, auch auf die geistigen.

C. Unser Verhalten gegen andere betreffend.

21 Um durch die Welt zu kommen, ist es zweckmäßig, einen großen Vorrat von Vorsicht und Nachsicht mitzunehmen: durch erstere wird man vor Schaden und Verlust, durch letztere vor Streit und Händel geschützt.

Wer unter Menschen zu leben hat, darf keine Individualität, sofern sie doch einmal von der Natur gesetzt und gegeben ist, unbedingt verwerfen; auch nicht die schlechteste, erbärmlichste oder lächerlichste. Er hat sie vielmehr zu nehmen als ein Unabänderliches, welches, in Folge eines ewigen und metaphysischen Prinzips, so sein muß, wie es ist, und in den argen Fällen soll er denken: »es muß auch solche Käuze geben«. Hält er es anders; so tut er Unrecht und fordert den andern heraus zum Kriege auf Tod und Leben. Denn seine eigentliche Individualität, d. h. seinen moralischen Charakter, seine Erkenntniskräfte, sein Temperament, seine Physiognomie usw. kann keiner ändern. Verdammen wir nun sein Wesen ganz und gar; so bleibt ihm nichts übrig, als in uns einen Todfeind zu bekämpfen: denn wir wollen ihm das Recht zu existiren nur unter der Bedingung zugestehn, daß er ein anderer werde, als er unabänderlich ist. Darum also müssen wir, um unter Menschen leben zu können, jeden, mit seiner gegebenen Individualität, wie immer sie auch ausgefallen sein mag, bestehn und gelten lassen, und dürfen bloß darauf bedacht sein, sie so, wie ihre Art und Beschaffenheit es zuläßt, zu benutzen; aber weder auf ihre Änderung hoffen, noch sie, so wie sie ist, schlechthin verdammen[P]. Dies ist der wahre Sinn des Spruches: »leben und leben lassen«. Die Aufgabe ist indessen nicht so leicht, wie sie gerecht ist, und glücklich ist zu schätzen, wer gar manche Individualitäten auf immer meiden darf. – Inzwischen übe man, um Menschen ertragen zu lernen, seine Geduld an leblosen Gegenständen, welche, vermöge mechanischer oder sonst physischer Notwendigkeit, unserm Tun sich hartnäckig widersetzen; wozu täglich Gelegenheit ist. Die dadurch erlangte Geduld lernt man nachher auf Menschen übertragen, indem man sich gewöhnt zu denken, daß auch sie, wo immer sie uns hinderlich sind, dies vermöge einer ebenso strengen, aus ihrer Natur hervorgehenden Notwendigkeit sein müssen wie die, mit welcher die leblosen Dinge wirken; daher es ebenso töricht ist, über ihr Tun sich zu entrüsten, wie über einen Stein, der uns in den Weg rollt.

[P] Bei manchem ist am klügsten zu denken: »ändern werde ich ihn nicht; also will ich ihn benutzen.«

22 Es ist zum Erstaunen, wie leicht und schnell Homogeneität oder Heterogeneität des Geistes und Gemüts zwischen Menschen sich im Gespräche kund gibt: an jeder Kleinigkeit wird sie fühlbar. Betreffe das Gespräch auch die fremdartigsten, gleichgültigsten Dinge; so wird, zwischen wesentlich heterogenen, fast jeder Satz des einen dem andern mehr oder minder mißfallen, mancher gar ihm ärgerlich sein. Homogene hingegen fühlen sogleich und in allem eine gewisse Übereinstimmung, die, bei großer Homogeneität, bald zur vollkommenen Harmonie, ja, zum Unisono zusammenfließt. Hieraus erklärt sich zuvörderst, warum die ganz Gewöhnlichen so gesellig sind und überall so leicht recht gute Gesellschaft finden, – so rechte, liebe, wackere Leute. Bei den Ungewöhnlichen fällt es umgekehrt aus, und desto mehr, je ausgezeichneter sie sind; so daß sie, in ihrer Abgesondertheit, zu Zeiten, sich ordentlich freuen können, in einem andern nur irgend eine ihnen selbst homogene Fiber herausgefunden zu haben, und wäre sie noch so klein! Denn jeder kann dem andern nur so viel sein, wie dieser ihm ist. Die eigentlichen großen Geister horsten, wie die Adler in der Höhe, allein. – Zweitens aber wird hieraus verständlich, wie die Gleichgesinnten sich so schnell zusammenfinden, gleich als ob sie magnetisch zu einander gezogen würden: – verwandte Seelen grüßen sich von ferne. Am häufigsten freilich wird man dies an niedrig Gesinnten oder schlecht Begabten zu beobachten Gelegenheit haben; aber nur weil diese legionenweise existiren, die besseren und vorzüglichen Naturen hingegen die seltenen sind und heißen. Demnach nun werden z. B. in einer großen, auf praktische Zwecke gerichteten Gemeinschaft zwei rechte Schurken sich so schnell erkennen, als trügen sie ein Feldzeichen, und werden alsbald zusammentreten, um Mißbrauch oder Verrat zu schmieden. Desgleichen, wenn man sich, per impossibile, eine große Gesellschaft von lauter sehr verständigen und geistreichen Leuten denkt, bis auf zwei Dummköpfe, die auch dabei wären; so werden diese sich sympathetisch zu einander gezogen fühlen und bald wird jeder von beiden sich in seinem Herzen freuen, doch wenigstens einen vernünftigen Mann angetroffen zu haben. Wirklich merkwürdig ist es, Zeuge davon zu sein, wie zwei, besonders von den moralisch und intellektuell Zurückstehenden, beim ersten Anblick einander erkennen, sich eifrig einander zu nähern streben, freundlich und freudig sich begrüßend, einander entgegeneilen, als wären sie alte Bekannte; – so auffallend ist es, daß man versucht wird, der Buddhaistischen Metempsychosenlehre gemäß, anzunehmen, sie wären schon in einem früheren Leben befreundet gewesen.

Was jedoch, selbst bei vieler Übereinstimmung, Menschen auseinanderhält, auch wohl vorübergehende Disharmonie zwischen ihnen erzeugt, ist die Verschiedenheit der gegenwärtigen Stimmung, als welche fast immer für jeden eine andere ist, nach Maßgabe seiner gegenwärtigen Lage, Beschäftigung, Umgebung, körperlichen Zustandes, augenblicklichen Gedankenganges usw. Daraus entstehn zwischen den harmonirendsten Persönlichkeiten Dissonanzen. Die zur Aufhebung dieser Störung erforderliche Korrektion stets vornehmen und eine gleichschwebende Temperatur einführen zu können, wäre eine Leistung der höchsten Bildung. Wie viel die Gleichheit der Stimmung für die gesellige Gemeinschaft leiste, läßt sich daran ermessen, daß sogar eine zahlreiche Gesellschaft zu lebhafter gegenseitiger Mitteilung und aufrichtiger Teilnahme, unter allgemeinem Behagen, erregt wird, sobald irgend etwas Objektives, sei es eine Gefahr oder eine Hoffnung oder eine Nachricht oder ein seltener Anblick, ein Schauspiel, eine Musik oder was sonst, auf alle zugleich und gleichartig einwirkt. Denn dergleichen, indem es alle Privatinteressen überwältigt, erzeugt universelle Einheit der Stimmung. In Ermangelung einer solchen objektiven Einwirkung wird in der Regel eine subjektive ergriffen, und sind demnach die Flaschen das gewöhnliche Mittel, eine gemeinschaftliche Stimmung in die Gesellschaft zu bringen. Sogar Tee und Kaffee dienen dieser Absicht.

Eben aber aus jener Disharmonie, welche die Verschiedenheit der momentanen Stimmung so leicht in alle Gemeinschaft bringt, ist es zum Teil erklärlich, daß in der von dieser und allen ähnlichen, störenden, wenn auch vorübergehenden, Einflüssen befreiten Erinnerung sich jeder idealisirt, ja, bisweilen fast verklärt darstellt. Die Erinnerung wirkt, wie das Sammlungsglas in der Kamera obskura: sie zieht alles zusammen und bringt dadurch ein viel schöneres Bild hervor als sein Original ist. Den Vorteil, so gesehn zu werden, erlangen wir zum Teil schon durch jede Abwesenheit. Denn obgleich die idealisirende Erinnerung, bis zur Vollendung ihres Werkes, geraumer Zeit bedarf: so wird der Anfang desselben doch sogleich gemacht. Dieserwegen ist es sogar klug, sich seinen Bekannten und guten Freunden nur nach bedeutenden Zwischenräumen zu zeigen; indem man alsdann beim Wiedersehen merken wird, daß die Erinnerung schon bei der Arbeit gewesen ist.

23 Keiner kann über sich sehen. Hiemit will ich sagen: jeder sieht am andern so viel, als er selbst auch ist: denn er kann ihn nur nach Maßgabe seiner eigenen Intelligenz fassen und verstehn. Ist nun diese von der niedrigsten Art; so werden alle Geistesgaben, auch die größten, ihre Wirkung auf ihn verfehlen und er an dem Besitzer derselben nichts wahrnehmen, als bloß das Niedrigste in dessen Individualität, also nur dessen sämtliche Schwächen, Temperaments- und Charakterfehler. Daraus wird er für ihn zusammengesetzt sein. Die höheren geistigen Fähigkeiten desselben sind für ihn so wenig vorhanden, wie die Farbe für den Blinden. Denn alle Geister sind dem unsichtbar, der keinen hat: und jede Wertschätzung ist ein Produkt aus dem Werte des Geschätzten mit der Erkenntnissphäre des Schätzers. Hieraus folgt, daß man sich mit jedem, mit dem man spricht, nivellirt, indem alles, was man vor ihm voraus haben kann, verschwindet und sogar die dazu erforderte Selbstverleugnung völlig unerkannt bleibt. Erwägt man nun, wie durchaus niedrig gesinnt und niedrig begabt, also wie durchaus gemein die meisten Menschen sind; so wird man einsehn, daß es nicht möglich ist, mit ihnen zu reden, ohne, auf solche Zeit, (nach Analogie der elektrischen Verteilung) selbst gemein zu werden, und dann wird man den eigentlichen Sinn und das Treffende des Ausdrucks »sich gemein machen« gründlich verstehn, jedoch auch gern jede Gesellschaft meiden, mit welcher man nur mittelst der partie honteuse seiner Natur kommuniziren kann. Auch wird man einsehn, daß, Dummköpfen und Narren gegenüber, es nur einen Weg gibt, seinen Verstand an den Tag zu legen, und der ist, daß man mit ihnen nicht redet. Aber freilich wird alsdann in der Gesellschaft manchem bisweilen zu Mute sein wie einem Tänzer, der auf einen Ball gekommen wäre, wo er lauter Lahme anträfe: mit wem soll er tanzen?

24 Der Mensch gewinnt meine Hochachtung, als ein unter hundert Auserlesener, welcher, wann er auf irgend etwas zu warten hat, also unbeschäftigt dasitzt, nicht sofort mit dem, was ihm gerade in die Hände kommt, etwan seinem Stock, oder Messer und Gabel, oder was sonst, taktmäßig hämmert oder klappert. Wahrscheinlich denkt er an etwas. Vielen Leuten hingegen sieht man an, daß bei ihnen das Sehn die Stelle des Denkens ganz eingenommen hat: sie suchen sich durch Klappern ihrer Existenz bewußt zu werden; wenn nämlich kein Cigarro bei der Hand ist, der eben diesem Zwecke dient. Aus demselben Grunde sind sie auch beständig ganz Auge und Ohr für alles, was um sie vorgeht.

25 Rochefoucauld hat treffend bemerkt, daß es schwer ist, jemanden zugleich hoch zu verehren und sehr zu lieben. Demnach hätten wir die Wahl, ob wir uns um die Liebe oder um die Verehrung der Menschen bewerben wollen. Ihre Liebe ist stets eigennützig, wenn auch auf höchst verschiedene Weise. Zudem ist das, wodurch man sie erwirbt, nicht immer geeignet, uns darauf stolz zu machen. Hauptsächlich wird einer in dem Maße beliebt sein, als er seine Ansprüche an Geist und Herz der andern niedrig stellt, und zwar im Ernst und ohne Verstellung, auch nicht bloß aus derjenigen Nachsicht, die in der Verachtung wurzelt. Ruft man sich nun hiebei den sehr wahren Ausspruch des Helvetius zurück: le degré d'esprit nécessaire pour nous plaire, est une mesure assez exacte du degré d'esprit que nous avons; – so folgt aus diesen Prämissen die Konklusion. – Hingegen mit der Verehrung der Menschen steht es umgekehrt: sie wird ihnen nur wider ihren Willen abgezwungen, auch, ebendeshalb, meistens verhehlt. Daher gibt sie uns, im Innern, eine viel größere Befriedigung: sie hängt mit unserm Werte zusammen; welches von der Liebe der Menschen nicht unmittelbar gilt: denn diese ist subjektiv, die Verehrung objektiv. Nützlich ist uns die Liebe freilich mehr.

26 Die meisten Menschen sind so subjektiv, daß im Grunde nichts Interesse für sie hat, als ganz allein sie selbst. Daher kommt es, daß sie bei allem, was gesagt wird, sogleich an sich denken und jede zufällige, noch so entfernte Beziehung auf irgend etwas ihnen Persönliches ihre ganze Aufmerksamkeit an sich reißt und in Besitz nimmt; so daß sie für den objektiven Gegenstand der Rede keine Fassungskraft übrig behalten; wie auch, daß keine Gründe etwas bei ihnen gelten, sobald ihr Interesse oder ihre Eitelkeit denselben entgegensteht. Daher sind sie so leicht zerstreut, so leicht verletzt, beleidigt oder gekränkt, daß man, von was es auch sei, objektiv mit ihnen redend, nicht genug sich in acht nehmen kann vor irgend welchen möglichen, vielleicht nachteiligen Beziehungen des Gesagten zu dem werten und zarten Selbst, das man da vor sich hat: denn ganz allein an diesem ist ihnen gelegen, sonst an nichts, und während sie für das Wahre und Treffende, oder Schöne, Feine, Witzige der fremden Rede ohne Sinn und Gefühl sind, haben sie die zarteste Empfindlichkeit gegen jedes, was auch nur auf die entfernteste oder indirekteste Weise ihre kleinliche Eitelkeit verletzen oder irgendwie nachteilig auf ihr höchst pretioses Selbst reflektiren könnte; so daß sie in ihrer Verletzbarkeit den kleinen Hunden gleichen, denen man, ohne sich dessen zu versehen, so leicht auf die Pfote tritt und nun das Gequieke anzuhören hat; oder auch einem mit Wunden und Beulen bedeckten Kranken verglichen werden können, bei dem man auf das Behutsamste jede mögliche Berührung zu vermeiden hat. Bei manchen geht nun aber die Sache so weit, daß sie Geist und Verstand, im Gespräch mit ihnen an den Tag gelegt, oder doch nicht genugsam versteckt, geradezu als eine Beleidigung empfinden, wenngleich sie solche vor der Hand noch verhehlen; wonach dann aber nachher der Unerfahrene vergeblich darüber nachsinnt und grübelt, wodurch in aller Welt er sich ihren Groll und Haß zugezogen haben könne. – Ebenso leicht sind sie aber auch geschmeichelt und gewonnen. Daher ist ihr Urteil meistens bestochen und bloß ein Ausspruch zu Gunsten ihrer Partei oder Klasse; nicht aber ein objektives und gerechtes. Dies alles beruht darauf, daß in ihnen der Wille bei Weitem die Erkenntnis überwiegt und ihr geringer Intellekt ganz im Dienste des Willens steht, von welchem er auch nicht auf einen Augenblick sich losmachen kann.

Einen großartigen Beweis von der erbärmlichen Subjektivität der Menschen, infolge welcher sie alles auf sich beziehn und von jedem Gedanken sogleich in gerader Linie auf sich zurückgehn, liefert die Astrologie, welche den Gang der großen Weltkörper auf das armselige Ich bezieht, wie auch die Kometen am Himmel in Verbindung bringt mit den irdischen Händeln und Lumpereien. Dies aber ist zu allen und schon in den ältesten Zeiten geschehen. (S. z. B. Stob. Eclog. L. I, c. 22, 9, pag. 478.)

27 Bei jeder Verkehrtheit, die im Publiko, oder in der Gesellschaft, gesagt, oder in der Literatur geschrieben und wohl aufgenommen, wenigstens nicht widerlegt wird, soll man nicht verzweifeln und meinen, daß es nun dabei sein Bewenden haben werde; sondern wissen und sich getrösten, daß die Sache hinterher und allmälig ruminirt, beleuchtet, bedacht, erwogen, besprochen und meistens zuletzt richtig beurteilt wird; so daß, nach einer, der Schwierigkeit derselben angemessenen Frist, endlich fast alle begreifen, was der klare Kopf sogleich sah. Unterdessen freilich muß man sich gedulden. Denn ein Mann von richtiger Einsicht unter den Betörten gleicht dem, dessen Uhr richtig geht in einer Stadt, deren Turmuhren alle falsch gestellt sind. Er allein weiß die wahre Zeit: aber was hilft es ihm? alle Welt richtet sich nach den falsch zeigenden Stadtuhren; sogar auch die, welche wissen, daß seine Uhr allein die wahre Zeit angibt.

28 Die Menschen gleichen darin den Kindern, daß sie unartig werden, wenn man sie verzieht; daher man gegen keinen zu nachgiebig und liebreich sein darf. Wie man in der Regel keinen Freund dadurch verlieren wird, daß man ihm ein Darlehn abschlägt, aber sehr leicht dadurch, daß man es ihm gibt; ebenso, nicht leicht einen durch stolzes und etwas vernachlässigendes Betragen; aber oft infolge zu vieler Freundlichkeit und Zuvorkommens, als welche ihn arrogant und unerträglich machen, wodurch der Bruch herbeigeführt wird. Besonders aber den Gedanken, daß man ihrer benötigt sei, können die Menschen schlechterdings nicht vertragen; Übermut und Anmaßung sind sein unzertrennliches Gefolge. Bei einigen entsteht er, in gewissem Grade, schon dadurch, daß man sich mit ihnen abgibt, etwan oft, oder auf eine vertrauliche Weise mit ihnen spricht: alsbald werden sie meinen, man müsse sich von ihnen auch etwas gefallen lassen, und werden versuchen, die Schranken der Höflichkeit zu erweitern. Daher taugen so wenige zum irgend vertrauteren Umgang, und soll man sich besonders hüten, sich nicht mit niedrigen Naturen gemein zu machen. Faßt nun aber gar einer den Gedanken, er sei mir viel nötiger als ich ihm; da ist es ihm sogleich, als hätte ich ihm etwas gestohlen: er wird suchen, sich zu rächen und es wiederzuerlangen. Überlegenheit im Umgang erwächst allein daraus, daß man der andern in keiner Art und Weise bedarf, und dies sehn läßt. Dieserwegen ist es ratsam, jedem, es sei Mann oder Weib, von Zeit zu Zeit fühlbar zu machen, daß man seiner sehr wohl entraten könne: das befestigt die Freundschaft; ja, bei den meisten Leuten kann es nicht schaden, wenn man ein Gran Geringschätzung gegen sie, dann und wann, mit einfließen läßt: sie legen desto mehr Wert auf unsere Freundschaft: chi non istima vien stimato (wer nicht achtet wird geachtet) sagt ein feines italienisches Sprichwort. Ist aber einer uns wirklich sehr viel wert; so müssen wir dies vor ihm verhehlen, als wäre es ein Verbrechen. Das ist nun eben nicht erfreulich; dafür aber wahr. Kaum daß Hunde die große Freundlichkeit vertragen, geschweige Menschen.

29 Daß Leute edlerer Art und höherer Begabung so oft, zumal in der Jugend, auffallenden Mangel an Menschenkenntnis und Weltklugheit verraten, daher leicht betrogen oder sonst irre geführt werden, während die niedrigen Naturen sich viel schneller und besser in die Welt zu finden wissen, liegt daran, daß man, beim Mangel der Erfahrung, a priori zu urteilen hat, und daß überhaupt keine Erfahrung es dem a priori gleichtut. Dies a priori nämlich gibt denen vom gewöhnlichen Schlage das eigene Selbst an die Hand, den Edelen und Vorzüglichen aber nicht: denn eben als solche sind sie von den andern weit verschieden. Indem sie daher deren Denken und Tun nach dem ihrigen berechnen, trifft die Rechnung nicht zu.

Wenn nun aber auch ein Solcher a posteriori, also aus fremder Belehrung und eigener Erfahrung, endlich gelernt hat, was von den Menschen, im Ganzen genommen, zu erwarten steht, daß nämlich etwa 5/6 derselben, in moralischer oder intellektueller Hinsicht, so beschaffen sind, daß, wer nicht durch die Umstände in Verbindung mit ihnen gesetzt ist, besser tut, sie vorweg zu meiden und, soweit es angeht, außer allem Kontakt mit ihnen zu bleiben; – so wird er dennoch von ihrer Kleinlichkeit und Erbärmlichkeit kaum jemals einen ausreichenden Begriff erlangen, sondern immerfort, so lange er lebt, denselben noch zu erweitern und zu vervollständigen haben, unterdessen aber sich gar oft zu seinem Schaden verrechnen. Und dann wieder, nachdem er die erhaltene Belehrung wirklich beherzigt hat, wird es ihm dennoch zu Zeiten begegnen, daß er, in eine Gesellschaft ihm noch unbekannter Menschen geratend, sich zu wundern hat, wie sie doch sämtlich, ihren Reden und Mienen nach, ganz vernünftig, redlich, aufrichtig, ehrenfest und tugendsam, dabei auch wohl noch gescheut und geistreich erscheinen. Dies sollte ihn jedoch nicht irren: denn es kommt bloß daher, daß die Natur es nicht macht wie die schlechten Poeten, welche, wann sie Schurken oder Narren darstellen, so plump und absichtsvoll dabei zu Werke gehn, daß man gleichsam hinter jeder solcher Person den Dichter stehn sieht, der ihre Gesinnung und Rede fortwährend desavouirt und mit warnender Stimme ruft: »dies ist ein Schurke, dies ist ein Narr; gebt nichts auf das, was er sagt.« Die Natur hingegen macht es wie Shakespeare und Goethe, in deren Werken jede Person, und wäre sie der Teufel selbst, während sie dasteht und redet, Recht behält; weil sie so objektiv aufgefaßt ist, daß wir in ihr Interesse gezogen und zur Teilnahme an ihr gezwungen werden: denn sie ist, eben wie die Werke der Natur, aus einem innern Prinzip entwickelt, vermöge dessen ihr Sagen und Tun als natürlich, mithin als notwendig auftritt. – Also, wer erwartet, daß in der Welt die Teufel mit Hörnern und die Narren mit Schellen einhergehn, wird stets ihre Beute oder ihr Spiel sein. Hiezu kommt aber noch, daß im Umgange die Leute es machen, wie der Mond und die Bucklichten, nämlich stets nur eine Seite zeigen, und sogar jeder ein angeborenes Talent hat, auf mimischem Wege seine Physiognomie zu einer Maske umzuarbeiten, welche genau darstellt, was er eigentlich sein sollte, und die, weil sie ausschließlich auf seine Individualität berechnet ist, ihm so genau anliegt und anpaßt, daß die Wirkung überaus täuschend ausfällt. Er legt sie an, so oft es darauf ankommt, sich einzuschmeicheln. Man soll auf dieselbe so viel geben, als wäre sie aus Wachstuch, eingedenk des vortrefflichen italiänischen Sprichworts: non è sì tristo cane, che non meni la coda (so böse ist kein Hund, daß er nicht mit dem Schwanze wedelte).

Jedenfalls soll man sich sorgfältig hüten, von irgend einem Menschen neuer Bekanntschaft eine sehr günstige Meinung zu fassen; sonst wird man, in den allermeisten Fällen, zu eigener Beschämung oder gar Schaden, enttäuscht werden. – Hiebei verdient auch dies berücksichtigt zu werden: Gerade in Kleinigkeiten, als bei welchen der Mensch sich nicht zusammennimmt, zeigt er seinen Charakter, und da kann man oft, an geringfügigen Handlungen, an bloßen Manieren, den grenzenlosen, nicht die mindeste Rücksicht auf andere kennenden Egoismus bequem beobachten, der sich nachher im Großen nicht verleugnet, wiewohl verlarvt. Und man versäume solche Gelegenheit nicht. Wenn einer in den kleinen täglichen Vorgängen und Verhältnissen des Lebens, in den Dingen, von welchen das de minimis lex non curat gilt, rücksichtslos verfährt, bloß seinen Vorteil oder seine Bequemlichkeit, zum Nachteil anderer, sucht; wenn er sich aneignet, was für alle da ist usw.; da sei man überzeugt, daß in seinem Herzen keine Gerechtigkeit wohnt, sondern er auch im Großen ein Schuft sein wird, sobald das Gesetz und die Gewalt ihm nicht die Hände binden, und traue ihm nicht über die Schwelle. Ja, wer ohne Scheu die Gesetze seines Klubs bricht, wird auch die des Staates brechen, sobald er es ohne Gefahr kann[Q].

[Q] Wenn in den Menschen, wie sie meistenteils sind, das Gute das Schlechte überwöge, so wäre es geratener, sich auf ihre Gerechtigkeit, Billigkeit, Dankbarkeit, Treue, Liebe oder Mitleid zu verlassen, als auf ihre Furcht: weil es aber mit ihnen umgekehrt steht, so ist das Umgekehrte geratener.

Hat nun einer, mit dem wir in Verbindung oder Umgang stehn, uns etwas Unangenehmes oder Ärgerliches erzeigt; so haben wir uns nur zu fragen, ob er uns so viel wert sei, daß wir das Nämliche, auch noch etwas verstärkt, uns nochmals und öfter von ihm wollen gefallen lassen; – oder nicht. (Vergeben und Vergessen heißt gemachte kostbare Erfahrungen zum Fenster hinauswerfen.) Im bejahenden Fall wird nicht viel darüber zu sagen sein, weil das Reden wenig hilft: wir müssen also die Sache, mit oder ohne Ermahnung, hingehn lassen, sollen jedoch wissen, daß wir hiedurch sie uns nochmals ausgebeten haben. Im verneinenden Falle hingegen haben wir sogleich und auf immer mit dem werten Freunde zu brechen, oder, wenn es ein Diener ist, ihn abzuschaffen. Denn unausbleiblich wird er, vorkommenden Falls, ganz dasselbe, oder das völlig Analoge, wieder tun, auch wenn er uns jetzt das Gegenteil hoch und aufrichtig beteuert. Alles, alles kann einer vergessen, nur nicht sich selbst, sein eigenes Wesen. Denn der Charakter ist schlechthin inkorrigibel; weil alle Handlungen des Menschen aus einem innern Prinzip fließen, vermöge dessen er, unter gleichen Umständen, stets das gleiche tun muß und nicht anders kann. Man lese meine Preisschrift über die sogenannte Freiheit des Willens und befreie sich vom Wahn. Daher auch ist, sich mit einem Freunde, mit dem man gebrochen hatte, wieder auszusöhnen, eine Schwäche, die man abbüßt, wann derselbe, bei erster Gelegenheit, gerade und genau dasselbe wieder tut, was den Bruch herbeigeführt hatte; ja, mit noch mehr Dreistigkeit, im stillen Bewußtsein seiner Unentbehrlichkeit. Das Gleiche gilt von abgeschafften Dienern, die man wiedernimmt. Ebensowenig, und aus demselben Grunde, dürfen wir erwarten, daß einer, unter veränderten Umständen, das Gleiche, wie vorher, tun werde. Vielmehr ändern die Menschen Gesinnung und Betragen ebenso schnell, wie ihr Interesse sich ändert; ja, ihre Absichtlichkeit zieht ihre Wechsel auf so kurze Sicht, daß man selbst noch kurzsichtiger sein müßte, um sie nicht protestiren zu lassen.

Gesetzt demnach, wir wollten etwan wissen, wie einer, in einer Lage, in die wir ihn zu versetzen gedenken, handeln wird; so dürfen wir hierüber nicht auf seine Versprechungen und Beteuerungen bauen. Denn, gesetzt auch, er spräche aufrichtig; so spricht er von einer Sache, die er nicht kennt. Wir müssen also allein aus der Erwägung der Umstände, in die er zu treten hat, und des Konfliktes derselben mit seinem Charakter, sein Handeln berechnen.

Um überhaupt von der wahren und sehr traurigen Beschaffenheit der Menschen, wie sie meistens sind, das so nötige, deutliche und gründliche Verständnis zu erlangen, ist es überaus lehrreich, das Treiben und Benehmen derselben in der Literatur als Kommentar ihres Treibens und Benehmens im praktischen Leben zu gebrauchen, und vice versa. Dies ist sehr dienlich, um weder an sich, noch an ihnen irre zu werden. Dabei aber darf kein Zug von besonderer Niederträchtigkeit oder Dummheit, der uns im Leben oder in der Literatur aufstößt, uns je ein Stoff zum Verdruß und Ärger, sondern bloß zur Erkenntnis werden, indem wir in ihm einen neuen Beitrag zur Charakteristik des Menschengeschlechts sehn und demnach ihn uns merken. Alsdann werden wir ihn ungefähr so betrachten, wie der Mineralog ein ihm aufgestoßenes, sehr charakteristisches Spezimen eines Minerals. – Ausnahmen gibt es, ja, unbegreiflich große, und die Unterschiede der Individualitäten sind enorm: aber, im Ganzen genommen, liegt, wie längst gesagt ist, die Welt im argen: die Wilden fressen einander und die Zahmen betrügen einander, und das nennt man den Lauf der Welt. Was sind denn die Staaten, mit aller ihrer künstlichen, nach außen und nach innen gerichteten Maschinerie und ihren Gewaltmitteln anderes, als Vorkehrungen, der grenzenlosen Ungerechtigkeit der Menschen Schranken zu setzen? Sehn wir nicht, in der ganzen Geschichte, jeden König, sobald er fest steht, und sein Land einiger Prosperität genießt, diese benutzen, um mit seinem Heer, wie mit einer Räuberschar, über die Nachbarstaaten herzufallen? Sind nicht fast alle Kriege im Grunde Raubzüge? Im frühen Altertum, wie auch zum Teil im Mittelalter, wurden die Besiegten Sklaven der Sieger, d. h. im Grunde, sie mußten für diese arbeiten: dasselbe aber müssen die, welche Kriegskontributionen zahlen: sie geben nämlich den Ertrag früherer Arbeit hin. Dans toutes les guerres il ne s'agit que de voler, sagt Voltaire, und die Deutschen sollen es sich gesagt sein lassen.

30 Kein Charakter ist so, daß er sich selbst überlassen bleiben und sich ganz und gar gehn lassen dürfte; sondern jeder bedarf der Lenkung durch Begriffe und Maximen. Will man nun aber es hierin weit bringen, nämlich bis zu einem nicht aus unsrer angeborenen Natur, sondern bloß aus vernünftiger Überlegung hervorgegangenen, ganz eigentlich erworbenen und künstlichen Charakter; so wird man gar bald das

Naturam expelles furca, tamen usque recurret

bestätigt finden. Man kann nämlich eine Regel für das Betragen gegen andere sehr wohl einsehn, ja, sie selbst auffinden und treffend ausdrücken, und wird dennoch, im wirklichen Leben, gleich darauf, gegen sie verstoßen. Jedoch soll man nicht sich dadurch entmutigen lassen und denken, es sei unmöglich, im Weltleben sein Benehmen nach abstrakten Regeln und Maximen zu leiten, und daher am besten, sich eben nur gehn zu lassen. Sondern es ist damit, wie mit allen theoretischen Vorschriften und Anweisungen für das Praktische: die Regel verstehn ist das erste, sie ausüben lernen ist das zweite. Jenes wird durch Vernunft auf einmal, dieses durch Übung allmälig gewonnen. Man zeigt dem Schüler die Griffe auf dem Instrument, die Paraden und Stöße mit dem Rapier: er fehlt sogleich, trotz dem besten Vorsatze, dagegen, und meint nun, sie in der Schnelle des Notenlesens und der Hitze des Kampfes zu beobachten, sei schier unmöglich. Dennoch lernt er es allmälig, durch Übung, unter Straucheln, Fallen und Aufstehn. Ebenso geht es mit den Regeln der Grammatik im lateinisch Schreiben und Sprechen. Nicht anders also wird der Tölpel zum Hofmann, der Hitzkopf zum feinen Weltmann, der Offene verschlossen, der Edle ironisch. Jedoch wird eine solche, durch lange Gewohnheit erlangte Selbstdressur stets als ein von außen gekommener Zwang wirken, welchem zu widerstreben die Natur nie ganz aufhört und bisweilen unerwartet ihn durchbricht. Denn alles Handeln nach abstrakten Maximen verhält sich zum Handeln aus ursprünglicher, angeborener Neigung, wie ein menschliches Kunstwerk, etwan eine Uhr, wo Form und Bewegung dem ihnen fremden Stoffe aufgezwungen sind, zum lebenden Organismus, bei welchem Form und Stoff von einander durchdrungen und eins sind. An diesem Verhältnis des erworbenen zum angeborenen Charakter bestätigt sich demnach ein Ausspruch des Kaisers Napoleon: tout ce qui n'est pas naturel est imparfait; welcher überhaupt eine Regel ist, die von allem und jedem, sei es physisch oder moralisch, gilt, und von der die einzige, mir einfallende Ausnahme das, den Mineralogen bekannte, natürliche Aventurino ist, welches dem künstlichen nicht gleichkommt.

Darum sei hier auch vor aller und jeder Affektation gewarnt. Sie erweckt allemal Geringschätzung: erstlich als Betrug, der als solcher feige ist, weil er auf Furcht beruht; zweitens als Verdammungsurteil seiner selbst durch sich selbst, indem man scheinen will, was man nicht ist, und was man folglich für besser hält, als was man ist. Das Affektiren irgend einer Eigenschaft, das Sich-Brüsten damit, ist ein Selbstgeständnis, daß man sie nicht hat. Sei es Mut oder Gelehrsamkeit oder Geist oder Witz oder Glück bei Weibern oder Reichtum oder vornehmer Stand, oder was sonst, womit einer groß tut; so kann man daraus schließen, daß es ihm gerade daran in etwas gebricht: denn wer wirklich eine Eigenschaft vollkommen besitzt, dem fällt es nicht ein, sie herauszulegen und zu affektiren, sondern er ist darüber ganz beruhigt. Dies ist auch der Sinn des spanischen Sprichworts: herradura que chacolotea clavo le falta (dem klappernden Hufeisen fehlt ein Nagel). Allerdings darf, wie anfangs gesagt, keiner sich unbedingt den Zügel schießen lassen und sich ganz zeigen, wie er ist; weil das viele Schlechte und Bestialische unserer Natur der Verhüllung bedarf: aber dies rechtfertigt bloß das Negative, die Dissimulation, nicht das Positive, die Simulation. – Auch soll man wissen, daß das Affektiren erkannt wird, selbst ehe klar geworden, was eigentlich einer affektirt. Und endlich hält es auf die Länge nicht Stich, sondern die Maske fällt einmal ab. Nemo potest personam diu ferre fictam. Ficta cito in naturam suam recidunt. (Seneca de Clementia, L. I, c. 1.)

31 Wie man das Gewicht seines eigenen Körpers trägt, ohne es, wie doch das jedes fremden, den man bewegen will, zu fühlen; so bemerkt man nicht die eigenen Fehler und Laster, sondern nur die der andern. – Dafür aber hat jeder am andern einen Spiegel, in welchem er seine eigenen Laster, Fehler, Unarten und Widerlichkeiten jeder Art deutlich erblickt. Allein meistens verhält er sich dabei wie der Hund, welcher gegen den Spiegel bellt, weil er nicht weiß, daß er sich selbst sieht, sondern meint, es sei ein anderer Hund. Wer andre bekrittelt, arbeitet an seiner Selbstbesserung. Also die, welche die Neigung und Gewohnheit haben, das äußerliche Benehmen, überhaupt das Tun und Lassen der andern im Stillen, bei sich selbst, einer aufmerksamen und scharfen Kritik zu unterwerfen, arbeiten dadurch an ihrer eigenen Besserung und Vervollkommnung: denn sie werden entweder Gerechtigkeit, oder doch Stolz und Eitelkeit genug besitzen, selbst zu vermeiden, was sie so oft strenge tadeln. Von den Toleranten gilt das Umgekehrte: nämlich hanc veniam damus petimusque vicissim. Das Evangelium moralisirt recht schön über den Splitter im fremden, den Balken im eigenen Auge: aber die Natur des Auges bringt es mit sich, daß es nach außen und nicht sich selbst sieht: daher ist, zum Innewerden der eigenen Fehler, das Bemerken und Tadeln derselben an andern ein sehr geeignetes Mittel. Zu unserer Besserung bedürfen wir eines Spiegels.

Auch hinsichtlich auf Stil und Schreibart gilt diese Regel: wer eine neue Narrheit in diesen bewundert, statt sie zu tadeln, wird sie nachahmen. Daher greift in Deutschland jede so schnell um sich. Die Deutschen sind sehr tolerant: man merkt's. Hanc veniam damus petimusque vicissim ist ihr Wahlspruch.

32 Der Mensch edlerer Art glaubt, in seiner Jugend, die wesentlichen und entscheidenden Verhältnisse und daraus entstehenden Verbindungen zwischen Menschen seien die ideellen, d. h. die auf Ähnlichkeit der Gesinnung, der Denkungsart, des Geschmacks, der Geisteskräfte usw. beruhenden: allein er wird später inne, daß es die reellen sind, d. h. die, welche sich auf irgend ein materielles Interesse stützen. Diese liegen fast allen Verbindungen zum Grunde: sogar hat die Mehrzahl der Menschen keinen Begriff von andern Verhältnissen. Demzufolge wird jeder genommen nach seinem Amt, oder Geschäft, oder Nation, oder Familie, also überhaupt nach der Stellung und Rolle, welche die Konvention ihm erteilt hat: dieser gemäß wird er sortirt und fabrikmäßig behandelt. Hingegen was er an und für sich, also als Mensch, vermöge seiner persönlichen Eigenschaften sei, kommt nur beliebig und daher nur ausnahmsweise zur Sprache, und wird von jedem, sobald es ihm bequem ist, also meistenteils, beiseite gesetzt und ignorirt. Je mehr nun aber es mit diesem auf sich hat, desto weniger wird ihm jene Anordnung gefallen, er also sich ihrem Bereich zu entziehn suchen. Sie beruht jedoch darauf, daß, in dieser Welt der Not und des Bedürfnisses, die Mittel, diesen zu begegnen, überall das Wesentliche, mithin Vorherrschende sind.

33 Wie Papiergeld statt des Silbers, so kursiren in der Welt, statt der wahren Achtung und der wahren Freundschaft, die äußerlichen Demonstrationen und möglichst natürlich mimisirten Gebärden derselben. Indessen läßt sich andrerseits auch fragen, ob es denn Leute gebe, welche jene wirklich verdienten. Jedenfalls gebe ich mehr auf das Schwanzwedeln eines ehrlichen Hundes, als auf hundert solche Demonstrationen und Gebärden.

Wahre, echte Freundschaft setzt eine starke, rein objektive und völlig uninteressirte Teilnahme am Wohl und Wehe des andern voraus, und diese wieder ein wirkliches Sich mit dem Freunde identifiziren. Dem steht der Egoismus der menschlichen Natur so sehr entgegen, daß wahre Freundschaft zu den Dingen gehört, von denen man, wie von den kolossalen Seeschlangen, nicht weiß, ob sie fabelhaft sind, oder irgendwo existiren. Indessen gibt es mancherlei, in der Hauptsache freilich auf versteckten egoistischen Motiven der mannigfaltigsten Art beruhende Verbindungen zwischen Menschen, welche dennoch mit einem Gran jener wahren und echten Freundschaft versetzt sind, wodurch sie so veredelt werden, daß sie, in dieser Welt der Unvollkommenheiten, mit einigem Fug den Namen der Freundschaft führen dürfen. Sie stehn hoch über den alltäglichen Liaisons, welche vielmehr so sind, daß wir mit den meisten unserer guten Bekannten kein Wort mehr reden würden, wenn wir hörten, wie sie in unsrer Abwesenheit von uns reden.

Die Echtheit eines Freundes zu erproben, hat man, nächst den Fällen, wo man ernstlicher Hilfe und bedeutender Opfer bedarf, die beste Gelegenheit in dem Augenblick, da man ihm ein Unglück, davon man soeben getroffen worden, berichtet. Alsdann nämlich malt sich in seinen Zügen entweder wahre, innige, unvermischte Betrübnis; oder aber sie bestätigen, durch ihre gefaßte Ruhe, oder einen flüchtigen Nebenzug, den bekannten Ausspruch des Rochefoucauld: dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose qui ne nous déplait pas. Die gewöhnlichen sogenannten Freunde vermögen, bei solchen Gelegenheiten, oft kaum das Zucken zu einem leisen, wohlgefälligen Lächeln zu unterdrücken. – Es gibt wenig Dinge, welche so sicher die Leute in gute Laune versetzen, wie wenn man ihnen ein beträchtliches Unglück, davon man kürzlich getroffen worden, erzählt, oder auch irgend eine persönliche Schwäche ihnen unverhohlen offenbart. – Charakteristisch! –

Entfernung und lange Abwesenheit tun jeder Freundschaft Eintrag; so ungern man es gesteht. Denn Menschen, die wir nicht sehn, wären sie auch unsere geliebtesten Freunde, trocknen, im Laufe der Jahre, allmählich zu abstrakten Begriffen aus, wodurch unsere Teilnahme an ihnen mehr und mehr eine bloß vernünftige, ja traditionelle wird: die lebhafte und tiefgefühlte bleibt denen vorbehalten, die wir vor Augen haben, und wären es auch nur geliebte Tiere. So sinnlich ist die menschliche Natur. Also bewährt sich auch hier Goethes Ausspruch:

»Die Gegenwart ist eine mächt'ge Göttin.«

(Tasso, Aufzug 4, Auftr. 4.)

Die Hausfreunde heißen meistens mit Recht so, indem sie mehr die Freunde des Hauses, als des Herrn, also den Katzen ähnlicher als den Hunden, sind.

Die Freunde nennen sich aufrichtig; die Feinde sind es: daher man ihren Tadel zur Selbsterkenntnis benutzen sollte, als eine bittre Arznei. –

Freunde in der Not wären selten? – Im Gegenteil! Kaum hat man mit einem Freundschaft gemacht; so ist er auch schon in der Not und will Geld geliehen haben. –

34 Was für ein Neuling ist doch der, welcher wähnt, Geist und Verstand zu zeigen wäre ein Mittel, sich in Gesellschaft beliebt zu machen! Vielmehr erregen sie, bei der unberechenbar überwiegenden Mehrzahl, einen Haß und Groll, der um so bitterer ist, als der ihn Fühlende die Ursache desselben anzuklagen nicht berechtigt ist, ja, sie vor sich selbst verhehlt. Der nähere Hergang ist dieser: merkt und empfindet einer große geistige Überlegenheit an dem, mit welchem er redet, so macht er, im stillen und ohne deutliches Bewußtsein, den Schluß, daß in gleichem Maße der andere seine Inferiorität und Beschränktheit merkt und empfindet. Dieses Enthymem erregt seinen bittersten Haß, Groll und Ingrimm. (Vergl. Welt als Wille und Vorstell., 3. Aufl., Bd. II, 256 die angeführten Worte des Dr. Johnsons und Mercks, des Jugendfreundes Goethes.) Mit Recht sagt daher Gracian: »para ser bien quisto, el unico medio vestirse la piel del mas simple de los brutos.« (S. Oraculo manual, y arte de prudencia, 240. [Obras, Amberes 1702, P. II, p. 287.]) Ist doch Geist und Verstand an den Tag legen, nur eine indirekte Art, allen andern ihre Unfähigkeit und Stumpfsinn vorzuwerfen. Zudem gerät die gemeine Natur in Aufruhr, wenn sie ihr Gegenteil ansichtig wird, und der geheime Anstifter des Aufruhrs ist der Neid. Denn die Befriedigung ihrer Eitelkeit ist, wie man täglich sehn kann, ein Genuß, der den Leuten über alles geht, der jedoch allein mittelst der Vergleichung ihrer selbst mit andern möglich ist. Auf keine Vorzüge aber ist der Mensch so stolz, wie auf die geistigen: beruht doch nur auf ihnen sein Vorrang vor den Tieren[R]. Ihm entschiedene Überlegenheit in dieser Hinsicht vorzuhalten, und noch dazu vor Zeugen, ist daher die größte Verwegenheit. Er fühlt sich dadurch zur Rache aufgefordert und wird meistens Gelegenheit suchen, diese auf dem Wege der Beleidigung auszuführen, als wodurch er vom Gebiete der Intelligenz auf das des Willens tritt, auf welchem wir, in dieser Hinsicht, alle gleich sind. Während daher in der Gesellschaft Stand und Reichtum stets auf Hochachtung rechnen dürfen, haben geistige Vorzüge solche keineswegs zu erwarten: im günstigsten Fall werden sie ignorirt, sonst aber angesehn als eine Art Impertinenz, oder als etwas, wozu ihr Besitzer unerlaubter Weise gekommen ist und nun sich untersteht damit zu stolziren; wofür ihm also irgend eine anderweitige Demütigung angedeihen zu lassen jeder im stillen beabsichtigt und nur auf die Gelegenheit dazu paßt. Kaum wird es dem demütigsten Betragen gelingen, Verzeihung für geistige Überlegenheit zu erbetteln. Sadi sagt im Gulistan (S. 146 der Übersetzung von Graf): »Man wisse, daß sich bei dem Unverständigen hundertmal mehr Widerwillen gegen den Verständigen findet, als der Verständige Abneigung gegen den Unverständigen empfindet.« – Hingegen gereicht geistige Inferiorität zur wahren Empfehlung. Denn was für den Leib die Wärme, das ist für den Geist das wohltuende Gefühl der Überlegenheit; daher jeder, so instinktmäßig wie dem Ofen, oder dem Sonnenschein, sich dem Gegenstande nähert, der es ihm verheißt. Ein solcher nun ist allein der entschieden tiefer Stehende, an Eigenschaften des Geistes, bei Männern, an Schönheit, bei Weibern. Manchen Leuten gegenüber freilich unverstellte Inferiorität zu beweisen – da gehört etwas dazu. Dagegen sehe man, mit welcher herzlichen Freundlichkeit ein erträgliches Mädchen einem grundhäßlichen entgegenkommt. Körperliche Vorzüge kommen bei Männern nicht sehr in Betracht; wiewohl man sich doch behaglicher neben einem kleineren, als neben einem größeren fühlt. Demzufolge also sind, unter Männern, die dummen und unwissenden, unter Weibern die häßlichen allgemein beliebt und gesucht: sie erlangen leicht den Ruf eines überaus guten Herzens; weil jedes für seine Zuneigung, vor sich selbst und vor andern, eines Vorwandes bedarf. Eben deshalb ist Geistesüberlegenheit jeder Art eine sehr isolirende Eigenschaft: sie wird geflohen und gehaßt, und als Vorwand hiezu werden ihrem Besitzer allerhand Fehler angedichtet[S]. Gerade so wirkt unter Weibern die Schönheit: sehr schöne Mädchen finden keine Freundin, ja, keine Begleiterin. Zu Stellen als Gesellschafterinnen tun sie besser sich gar nicht zu melden: denn schon bei ihrem Vortritt verfinstert sich das Gesicht der gehofften neuen Gebieterin, als welche, sei es für sich, oder für ihre Töchter, einer solchen Folie keineswegs bedarf. – Hingegen verhält es sich umgekehrt mit den Vorzügen des Ranges; weil diese nicht, wie die persönlichen, durch den Kontrast und Abstand, sondern, wie die Farben der Umgebung auf das Gesicht, durch den Reflex wirken.

[R] Den Willen, kann man sagen, hat der Mensch sich selbst gegeben, denn der ist er selbst; aber der Intellekt ist eine Ausstattung, die er vom Himmel erhalten hat, – d. h. vom ewigen, geheimnisvollen Schicksal und dessen Notwendigkeit, deren bloßes Werkzeug seine Mutter war.

[S] Zum Vorwärtskommen in der Welt sind Freundschaften und Kamaraderien bei weitem das Hauptmittel. Nun aber große Fähigkeiten machen allemal stolz und dadurch wenig geeignet, denen zu schmeicheln, die nur geringe haben, ja, vor denen man deshalb die großen verhehlen und verleugnen soll. Entgegengesetzt wirkt das Bewußtsein nur geringer Fähigkeiten: es verträgt sich vortrefflich mit der Demut, Leutseligkeit, Gefälligkeit und Respekt vor dem Schlechten, verschafft also Freunde und Gönner.

Das Gesagte gilt nicht bloß vom Staatsdienst, sondern auch von den Ehrenstellen, Würden, ja, dem Ruhm in der gelehrten Welt; so daß z. B. in den Akademien die liebe Mediokrität stets oben auf ist, Leute von Verdienst spät oder nie hineinkommen, und so bei allem.

35 An unserm Zutrauen zu andern haben sehr oft Trägheit, Selbstsucht und Eitelkeit den größten Anteil: Trägheit, wenn wir, um nicht selbst zu untersuchen, zu wachen, zu tun, lieber einem andern trauen; Selbstsucht, wenn das Bedürfnis von unsern Angelegenheiten zu reden uns verleitet, ihm etwas anzuvertrauen; Eitelkeit, wenn es zu dem gehört, worauf wir uns etwas zu Gute tun. Nichtsdestoweniger verlangen wir, daß man unser Zutrauen ehre.

Über Mißtrauen hingegen sollten wir uns nicht erzürnen: denn in demselben liegt ein Kompliment für die Redlichkeit, nämlich das aufrichtige Bekenntnis ihrer großen Seltenheit, infolge welcher sie zu den Dingen gehört, an deren Existenz man zweifelt.

36 Von der Höflichkeit, dieser chinesischen Kardinaltugend, habe ich den einen Grund angegeben in meiner Ethik S. 201 (2. Aufl. 198): der andere liegt in Folgendem. Sie ist eine stillschweigende Übereinkunft, gegenseitig die moralisch und intellektuell elende Beschaffenheit von einander zu ignoriren und sie sich nicht vorzurücken; – wodurch diese, zu beiderseitigem Vorteil, etwas weniger leicht zutage kommt.

Höflichkeit ist Klugheit; folglich ist Unhöflichkeit Dummheit: sich mittelst ihrer unnötiger und mutwilliger Weise Feinde machen ist Raserei, wie wenn man sein Haus in Brand steckt. Denn Höflichkeit ist, wie die Rechenpfennige, eine offenkundig falsche Münze: mit einer solchen sparsam zu sein, beweist Unverstand; hingegen Freigebigkeit mit ihr Verstand. Alle Nationen schließen den Brief mit votre très-humble serviteur, – your most obedient servant, – suo devotissimo servo: bloß die Deutschen halten mit dem »Diener« zurück, – weil es ja doch nicht wahr sei –! Wer hingegen die Höflichkeit bis zum Opfern realer Interessen treibt, gleicht dem, der echte Goldstücke statt Rechenpfennige gäbe. – Wie das Wachs, von Natur hart und spröde, durch ein wenig Wärme so geschmeidig wird, daß es jede beliebige Gestalt annimmt; so kann man selbst störrische und feindselige Menschen, durch etwas Höflichkeit und Freundlichkeit, biegsam und gefällig machen. Sonach ist die Höflichkeit dem Menschen, was die Wärme dem Wachs.

Eine schwere Aufgabe ist freilich die Höflichkeit insofern, als sie verlangt, daß wir allen Leuten die größte Achtung bezeugen, während die allermeisten keine verdienen; sodann, daß wir den lebhaftesten Anteil an ihnen simuliren, während wir froh sein müssen, keinen an ihnen zu haben. – Höflichkeit mit Stolz zu vereinigen ist ein Meisterstück. –

Wir würden bei Beleidigungen, als welche eigentlich immer in Äußerungen der Nichtachtung bestehn, viel weniger aus der Fassung geraten, wenn wir nicht einerseits eine ganz übertriebene Vorstellung von unserm hohen Wert und Würde, also einen ungemessenen Hochmut hegten, und andrerseits uns deutlich gemacht hätten, was in der Regel jeder vom andern, in seinem Herzen, hält und denkt. Welch ein greller Kontrast ist doch zwischen der Empfindlichkeit der meisten Leute über die leiseste Andeutung eines sie treffenden Tadels und dem, was sie hören würden, wenn sie die Gespräche ihrer Bekannten über sie belauschten! – Wir sollten vielmehr uns gegenwärtig erhalten, daß die gewöhnliche Höflichkeit nur eine grinsende Maske ist: dann würden wir nicht Zeter schreien, wenn sie einmal sich etwas verschiebt, oder auf einen Augenblick abgenommen wird. Wann aber gar einer geradezu grob wird, da ist es, als hätte er die Kleider abgeworfen und stände in puris naturalibus da. Freilich nimmt er sich dann, wie die meisten Menschen in diesem Zustande, schlecht aus.

37 Für sein Tun und Lassen darf man keinen andern zum Muster nehmen; weil Lage, Umstände, Verhältnisse nie die gleichen sind, und weil die Verschiedenheit des Charakters auch der Handlung einen verschiedenen Anstrich gibt, daher duo cum faciunt idem, non est idem. Man muß, nach reiflicher Überlegung und scharfem Nachdenken, seinem eigenen Charakter gemäß handeln. Also auch im Praktischen ist Originalität unerläßlich: sonst paßt was man tut, nicht zu dem, was man ist.

38 Man bestreite keines Menschen Meinung; sondern bedenke, daß, wenn man alle Absurditäten, die er glaubt, ihm ausreden wollte, man Methusalems Alter erreichen könnte, ohne damit fertig zu werden.

Auch aller, selbst noch so wohlgemeinter, korrektioneller Bemerkungen soll man, im Gespräche, sich enthalten: denn die Leute zu kränken ist leicht, sie zu bessern schwer, wo nicht unmöglich.

Wenn die Absurditäten eines Gesprächs, welches wir anzuhören im Falle sind, anfangen uns zu ärgern, müssen wir uns denken, es wäre eine Komödienszene zwischen zwei Narren. Probatum est. – Wer auf die Welt gekommen ist, sie ernstlich und in den wichtigsten Dingen zu belehren, der kann von Glück sagen, wenn er mit heiler Haut davonkommt.

39 Wer da will, daß sein Urteil Glauben finde, spreche es kalt und ohne Leidenschaftlichkeit aus. Denn alle Heftigkeit entspringt aus dem Willen: daher wird man diesem und nicht der Erkenntnis, die ihrer Natur nach kalt ist, das Urteil zuschreiben. Weil nämlich das Radikale im Menschen der Wille, die Erkenntnis aber bloß sekundär und hinzugekommen ist; so wird man eher glauben, daß das Urteil aus dem erregten Willen, als daß die Erregung des Willens bloß aus dem Urteil entsprungen sei.

40 Auch beim besten Rechte dazu lasse man sich nicht zum Selbstlobe verführen. Denn die Eitelkeit ist eine so gewöhnliche, das Verdienst aber eine so ungewöhnliche Sache, daß, so oft wir, wenn auch nur indirekt, uns selbst zu loben scheinen, jeder hundert gegen eins wettet, daß, was aus uns redet die Eitelkeit sei, der es am Verstande gebricht, das Lächerliche der Sache einzusehn. – Jedoch mag, bei allem dem, Bako von Verulam nicht ganz Unrecht haben, wenn er sagt, daß das semper aliquid haeret, wie von der Verläumdung, so auch vom Selbstlobe gelte, und daher dieses, in mäßigen Dosen, empfiehlt.

41 Wenn man argwöhnt, daß einer lüge, stelle man sich gläubig: da wird er dreist, lügt stärker und ist entlarvt. Merkt man hingegen, daß eine Wahrheit, die er verhehlen möchte, ihm zum Teil entschlüpft, so stelle man sich darüber ungläubig, damit er, durch den Widerspruch provozirt, die Arriergarde der ganzen Wahrheit nachrücken lasse.

42 Unsere sämtlichen persönlichen Angelegenheiten haben wir als Geheimnisse zu betrachten, und unsern guten Bekannten müssen wir, über das hinaus, was sie mit eigenen Augen sehn, völlig fremd bleiben. Denn ihr Wissen um die unschuldigsten Dinge kann, durch Zeit und Umstände, uns Nachteil bringen. – Überhaupt ist es geratener seinen Verstand durch das, was man verschweigt, an den Tag zu legen, als durch das, was man sagt. Ersteres ist Sache der Klugheit, letzteres der Eitelkeit. Die Gelegenheit zu beiden kommt gleich oft: aber wir ziehn häufig die flüchtige Befriedigung, welche das letztere gewährt, dem dauernden Nutzen vor, welchen das erstere bringt. Sogar die Herzenserleichterung, einmal ein Wort mit sich selbst laut zu reden, was lebhaften Personen wohl begegnet, sollte man sich versagen, damit sie nicht zur Gewohnheit werde; weil dadurch der Gedanke mit dem Worte so befreundet und verbrüdert wird, daß allmälig auch das Sprechen mit andern ins laute Denken übergeht; während die Klugheit gebeut, daß zwischen unserm Denken und unserm Reden eine weite Kluft offen gehalten werde.

Bisweilen meinen wir, daß andere etwas uns betreffendes durchaus nicht glauben können; während ihnen gar nicht einfällt, es zu bezweifeln: machen wir jedoch, daß ihnen dies einfällt, dann können sie es auch nicht mehr glauben. Aber wir verraten uns oft bloß, weil wir wähnen, es sei unmöglich, daß man das nicht merke; – wie wir uns von einer Höhe hinabstürzen, aus Schwindel, d. h. durch den Gedanken, es sei unmöglich, hier fest zu stehen, die Qual aber, hier zu stehn, sei so groß, daß es besser sei, sie abzukürzen: dieser Wahn heißt Schwindel.

Andrerseits wieder soll man wissen, daß die Leute, selbst die, welche sonst keinen besondern Scharfsinn verraten, vortreffliche Algebristen in den persönlichen Angelegenheiten anderer sind, woselbst sie, mittelst einer einzigen gegebenen Größe, die verwickeltesten Aufgaben lösen. Wenn man z. B. ihnen eine ehemalige Begebenheit, unter Weglassung aller Namen und sonstiger Bezeichnung der Personen erzählt; so soll man sich hüten, dabei ja nicht irgend einen ganz positiven und individuellen Umstand, sei er auch noch so gering, mit einzuführen, wie etwan einen Ort, oder Zeitpunkt, oder den Namen einer Nebenperson, oder sonst etwas auch nur unmittelbar damit Zusammenhängendes: denn daran haben sie sogleich eine positiv gegebene Größe, mittelst deren ihr algebraischer Scharfsinn alles Übrige herausbringt. Die Begeisterung der Neugier nämlich ist hier so groß, daß, kraft derselben, der Wille dem Intellekt die Sporen in die Seite setzt, welcher nun dadurch bis zur Erreichung der entlegensten Resultate getrieben wird. Denn so unempfänglich und gleichgültig die Leute gegen allgemeine Wahrheiten sind, so erpicht sind sie auf individuelle.

Dem allen gemäß ist denn auch die Schweigsamkeit von sämtlichen Lehrern der Weltklugheit auf das dringendeste und mit den mannigfaltigsten Argumenten anempfohlen worden; daher ich es bei dem Gesagten bewenden lassen kann. Bloß ein paar arabischer Maximen, welche besonders eindringlich und wenig bekannt sind, will ich noch hersetzen. »Was dein Feind nicht wissen soll, das sage deinem Freunde nicht.« – »Wenn ich mein Geheimnis verschweige, ist es mein Gefangener: lasse ich es entschlüpfen, bin ich sein Gefangener.« – »Am Baume des Schweigens hängt seine Frucht, der Friede.«

43 Kein Geld ist vorteilhafter angewandt, als das, um welches wir uns haben prellen lassen: denn wir haben dafür unmittelbar Klugheit eingehandelt.

44 Man soll, wo möglich, gegen niemanden Animosität hegen, jedoch die procédés eines jeden sich wohl merken und im Gedächtnis behalten, um danach den Wert desselben, wenigstens hinsichtlich unserer, festzustellen und demgemäß unser Verhalten und Betragen gegen ihn zu regeln, – stets überzeugt von der Unveränderlichkeit des Charakters: einen schlechten Zug eines Menschen jemals vergessen, ist, wie wenn man schwer erworbenes Geld wegwürfe. – So aber schützt man sich vor törichter Vertraulichkeit und törichter Freundschaft. –

»Weder lieben noch hassen« enthält die Hälfte aller Weltklugheit: »nichts sagen und nichts glauben« die andere Hälfte. Freilich aber wird man einer Welt, welche Regeln, wie diese und die nächstfolgenden nötig macht, gern den Rücken kehren.

45 Zorn oder Haß in Worten oder Mienen blicken zu lassen ist unnütz, ist gefährlich, ist unklug, ist lächerlich, ist gemein. Man darf also Zorn oder Haß nie anders zeigen als in Taten. Letzteres wird man um so vollkommener können, als man ersteres vollkommener vermieden hat. – Die kaltblütigen Tiere allein sind die giftigen.

46 Parler sans accent: diese alte Regel der Weltleute bezweckt, daß man dem Verstande der andern überlasse herauszufinden, was man gesagt hat: der ist langsam, und ehe er fertig geworden, ist man davon. Hingegen parler avec accent heißt zum Gefühle reden; wo denn alles umgekehrt ausfällt. Manchem kann man, mit höflicher Gebärde und freundlichem Ton, sogar wirkliche Sottisen sagen, ohne unmittelbare Gefahr.

D. Unser Verhalten gegen den Weltlauf und das Schicksal betreffend.

47 Welche Form auch das menschliche Leben annehme; es sind immer dieselben Elemente, und daher ist es im wesentlichen überall dasselbe, es mag in der Hütte oder bei Hofe, im Kloster oder bei der Armee geführt werden. Mögen seine Begebenheiten, Abenteuer, Glücks- und Unglücksfälle noch so mannigfaltig sein; so ist es doch damit wie mit der Zuckerbäckerware. Es sind viele und vielerlei gar krause und bunte Figuren: aber alles ist aus einem Teig geknetet; und was dem einen begegnet, ist dem, was dem andern widerfuhr, viel ähnlicher, als dieser beim Erzählenhören denkt. Auch gleichen die Vorgänge unsers Lebens den Bildern im Kaleidoskop, in welchem wir bei jeder Drehung etwas anderes sehn, eigentlich aber immer das Selbe vor Augen haben.

48 Drei Weltmächte gibt es, sagt, sehr treffend, ein Alter: συνεσις, κρατος, και τυχη, Klugheit, Stärke und Glück. Ich glaube, daß die zuletzt genannte am meisten vermag. Denn unser Lebensweg ist dem Lauf eines Schiffes zu vergleichen. Das Schicksal, die τυχη die secunda aut adversa fortuna, spielt die Rolle des Windes, indem sie uns schnell weit fördert oder weit zurückwirft; wogegen unser eigenes Mühen und Treiben nur wenig vermag. Dieses nämlich spielt dabei die Rolle der Ruder: wenn solche, durch viele Stunden langes Arbeiten, uns eine Strecke vorwärts gebracht haben, wirft ein plötzlicher Windstoß uns ebenso weit zurück. Ist er hingegen günstig, so fördert er uns dermaßen, daß wir der Ruder nicht bedürfen. Diese Macht des Glückes drückt unübertrefflich ein spanisches Sprichwort aus: da ventura a tu hijo, y echa lo en el mar (gib deinem Sohne Glück und wirf ihn ins Meer).

Wohl ist der Zufall eine böse Macht, der man so wenig wie möglich anheimstellen soll. Jedoch wer ist, unter allen Gebern, der einzige, welcher, indem er gibt, uns zugleich aufs deutlichste zeigt, daß wir gar keine Ansprüche auf seine Gaben haben, daß wir solche durchaus nicht unserer Würdigkeit, sondern ganz allein seiner Güte und Gnade zu danken haben, und daß wir eben hieraus die freudige Hoffnung schöpfen dürfen, noch ferner manche unverdiente Gabe demutsvoll zu empfangen? – Es ist der Zufall: er, der die königliche Kunst versteht, einleuchtend zu machen, daß gegen seine Gunst und Gnade alles Verdienst ohnmächtig ist und nichts gilt. –

Wenn man auf seinen Lebensweg zurücksieht, den »labyrintisch irren Lauf« desselben überschaut und nun so manches verfehlte Glück, so manches herbeigezogene Unglück sehen muß; so kann man in Vorwürfen gegen sich selbst leicht zu weit gehn. Denn unser Lebenslauf ist keineswegs schlechthin unser eigenes Werk; sondern das Produkt zweier Faktoren, nämlich der Reihe der Begebenheiten und der Reihe unserer Entschlüsse, welche stets in einander greifen und sich gegenseitig modifiziren. Hiezu kommt noch, daß in beiden unser Horizont immer sehr beschränkt ist, indem wir unsere Entschlüsse nicht schon von weitem vorhersagen und noch weniger die Begebenheiten voraussehen können, sondern von beiden uns eigentlich nur die gegenwärtigen recht bekannt sind. Deshalb können wir, so lange unser Ziel noch fern liegt, nicht einmal gerade darauf hinsteuern; sondern nur approximativ und nach Mutmaßungen unsere Richtung dahin lenken, müssen also oft lawiren. Alles nämlich, was wir vermögen, ist, unsere Entschlüsse allezeit nach Maßgabe der gegenwärtigen Umstände zu fassen, in der Hoffnung, es so zu treffen, daß es uns dem Hauptziel näher bringe. So sind denn meistens die Begebenheiten und unsere Grundabsichten zweien, nach verschiedenen Seiten ziehenden Kräften zu vergleichen und die daraus entstehende Diagonale ist unser Lebenslauf. – Terenz hat gesagt: in vita est hominum quasi cum ludas tesseris: si illud, quod maxime opus est jactu, non cadit, illud quod cecidit forte, id arte ut corrigas; wobei er eine Art Triktrak vor Augen gehabt haben muß. Kürzer können wir sagen: das Schicksal mischt die Karten und wir spielen. Meine gegenwärtige Betrachtung auszudrücken, wäre aber folgendes Gleichnis am geeignetesten. Es ist im Leben wie im Schachspiel: wir entwerfen einen Plan, dieser bleibt jedoch bedingt durch das, was im Schachspiel dem Gegner, im Leben dem Schicksal, zu tun belieben wird. Die Modifikationen, welche hierdurch unser Plan erleidet, sind meistens so groß, daß er in der Ausführung kaum noch an einigen Grundzügen zu erkennen ist.

Übrigens gibt es in unserm Lebenslaufe noch etwas, welches über das alles hinausliegt. Es ist nämlich eine triviale und nur zu häufig bestätigte Wahrheit, daß wir oft törichter sind als wir glauben: hingegen ist, daß wir oft weiser sind, als wir selbst vermeinen, eine Entdeckung, welche nur die, so in dem Fall gewesen, und selbst dann erst spät, machen. Es gibt etwas Weiseres in uns, als der Kopf ist. Wir handeln nämlich, bei den großen Zügen, den Hauptschritten unsers Lebenslaufes, nicht sowohl nach deutlicher Erkenntnis des Rechten, als nach einem innern Impuls, man möchte sagen Instinkt, der aus dem tiefsten Grunde unsers Wesens kommt, und bemäkeln nachher unser Tun nach deutlichen, aber auch dürftigen, erworbenen, ja, erborgten Begriffen, nach allgemeinen Regeln, fremdem Beispiele usw., ohne das »Eines schickt sich nicht für alle« genugsam zu erwägen; da werden wir leicht ungerecht gegen uns selbst. Aber am Ende zeigt es sich, wer Recht gehabt hat; und nur das glücklich erreichte Alter ist, subjektiv und objektiv, befähigt, die Sache zu beurteilen.

Vielleicht steht jener innere Impuls unter uns unbewußter Leitung prophetischer, beim Erwachen vergessener Träume, die eben dadurch unserm Leben die Gleichmäßigkeit des Tones und die dramatische Einheit erteilen, die das so oft schwankende und irrende, so leicht umgestimmte Gehirnbewußtsein ihm zu geben nicht vermöchte, und infolge welcher z. B. der zu großen Leistungen einer bestimmten Art Berufene dies von Jugend auf innerlich und heimlich spürt und darauf hinarbeitet, wie die Bienen am Bau ihres Stocks. Für jeden aber ist es das, was Baltasar Gracian la gran sinderesis nennt: die instinktive große Obhut seiner selbst, ohne welche er zu Grunde geht. – Nach abstrakten Grundsätzen handeln ist schwer und gelingt erst nach vieler Übung, und selbst da nicht jedesmal: auch sind sie oft nicht ausreichend. Hingegen hat jeder gewisse angeborene konkrete Grundsätze, die ihm in Blut und Saft stecken, indem sie das Resultat alles seines Denkens, Fühlens und Wollens sind. Er kennt sie meistens nicht in abstracto, sondern wird erst beim Rückblick auf sein Leben gewahr, daß er sie stets befolgt hat und von ihnen, wie von einem unsichtbaren Faden, ist gezogen worden. Je nachdem sie sind, werden sie ihn zu seinem Glück oder Unglück leiten.

49 Man sollte beständig die Wirkung der Zeit und die Wandelbarkeit der Dinge vor Augen haben und daher bei allem, was jetzt stattfindet, sofort das Gegenteil davon imaginiren; also im Glücke das Unglück, in der Freundschaft die Feindschaft, im schönen Wetter das schlechte, in der Liebe den Haß, im Zutrauen und Eröffnen den Verrat und die Reue, und so auch umgekehrt, sich lebhaft vergegenwärtigen. Dies würde eine bleibende Quelle wahrer Weltklugheit abgeben, indem wir stets besonnen bleiben und nicht so leicht getäuscht werden würden. Meistens würden wir dadurch nur die Wirkung der Zeit antizipirt haben. – Aber vielleicht ist zu keiner Erkenntnis die Erfahrung so unerläßlich, wie zur richtigen Schätzung des Unbestandes und Wechsels der Dinge. Weil eben jeder Zustand, für die Zeit seiner Dauer, notwendig und daher mit vollstem Rechte vorhanden ist; so sieht jedes Jahr, jeder Monat, jeder Tag aus, als ob nun endlich er Recht behalten wollte, für alle Ewigkeit. Aber keiner behält es, und der Wechsel allein ist das Beständige. Der Kluge ist der, welchen die scheinbare Stabilität nicht täuscht und der noch dazu die Richtung, welche der Wechsel zunächst nehmen wird, vorhersieht[T]. Daß hingegen die Menschen den einstweiligen Zustand der Dinge, oder die Richtung ihres Laufes, in der Regel für bleibend halten, kommt daher, daß sie die Wirkungen vor Augen haben, aber die Ursachen nicht verstehn, diese es jedoch sind, welche den Keim der künftigen Veränderungen in sich tragen; während die Wirkung, welche für jene allein da ist, hievon nichts enthält. An diese halten sie sich und setzen voraus, daß die ihnen unbekannten Ursachen, welche solche hervorzubringen vermochten, auch imstande sein werden, sie zu erhalten. Sie haben dabei den Vorteil, daß, wenn sie irren, es immer unisono geschieht; daher denn die Kalamität, welche infolge davon sie trifft, stets eine allgemeine ist, während der denkende Kopf, wenn er geirrt hat, noch dazu allein steht. – Beiläufig haben wir daran eine Bestätigung meines Satzes, daß der Irrtum stets aus dem Schluß von der Folge auf den Grund entsteht. Siehe »Welt als W. u. V.« Bd. 1, S. 90. (3. Aufl. 94.)

[T] Der Zufall hat bei allen menschlichen Dingen so großen Spielraum, daß, wenn wir einer von ferne drohenden Gefahr gleich durch Aufopferungen vorzubeugen suchen, diese Gefahr oft durch einen unvorhergesehenen Stand, den die Dinge annehmen, verschwindet, und jetzt nicht nur die gebrachten Opfer verloren sind, sondern die durch sie herbeigeführte Veränderung nunmehr, beim veränderten Stande der Dinge, gerade ein Nachteil ist. Wir müssen daher in unsern Vorkehrungen nicht zu weit in die Zukunft greifen, sondern auch auf den Zufall rechnen und mancher Gefahr kühn entgegensehn, hoffend, daß sie, wie so manche schwarze Gewitterwolke, vorüberzieht.

Jedoch nur theoretisch und durch Vorhersehn ihrer Wirkung soll man die Zeit antizipiren, nicht praktisch, nämlich nicht so, daß man ihr vorgreife, indem man vor der Zeit verlangt was erst die Zeit bringen kann. Denn wer dies tut, wird erfahren, daß es keinen schlimmeren, unnachlassendern Wucherer gibt als eben die Zeit, und daß sie, wenn zu Vorschüssen gezwungen, schwerere Zinsen nimmt als irgend ein Jude. Z. B. kann man durch ungelöschten Kalk und Hitze einen Baum dermaßen treiben, daß er binnen weniger Tage Blätter, Blüten und Früchte treibt, dann aber stirbt er ab. – Will der Jüngling die Zeugungskraft des Mannes schon jetzt, wenn auch nur auf etliche Wochen, ausüben und im neunzehnten Jahre leisten was er im dreißigsten sehr wohl könnte; so wird allenfalls die Zeit den Vorschuß leisten, aber ein Teil der Kraft seiner künftigen Jahre, ja, ein Teil seines Lebens selbst, ist der Zins. – Es gibt Krankheiten, von denen man gehörig und gründlich nur dadurch genest, daß man ihnen ihren natürlichen Verlauf läßt, nach welchem sie von selbst verschwinden, ohne eine Spur zu hinterlassen. Verlangt man aber sogleich und jetzt, nur gerade jetzt, gesund zu sein; so muß auch hier die Zeit Vorschuß leisten: die Krankheit wird vertrieben, aber der Zins ist Schwäche und chronische Übel, zeitlebens. – Wenn man in Zeiten des Krieges oder der Unruhen Geld gebraucht, und zwar sogleich, gerade jetzt; so ist man genötigt, liegende Gründe oder Staatspapiere für 1/3 und noch weniger ihres Wertes zu verkaufen, den man zum vollen erhalten würde, wenn man der Zeit ihr Recht widerfahren lassen, also einige Jahre warten wollte; aber man zwingt sie, Vorschuß zu leisten. – Oder auch man bedarf einer Summe zu einer weiten Reise: binnen eines oder zweier Jahre könnte man sie von seinem Einkommen zurückgelegt haben. Aber man will nicht warten, sie wird also geborgt oder einstweilen vom Kapital genommen, d. h. die Zeit muß vorschießen. Da ist ihr Zins eingerissene Unordnung in der Kasse, ein bleibendes und wachsendes Defizit, welches man nie mehr los wird. – Dies also ist der Wucher der Zeit: seine Opfer werden alle, die nicht warten können. Den Gang der gemessen ablaufenden Zeit beschleunigen zu wollen, ist das kostspieligste Unternehmen. Also hüte man sich, der Zeit Zinsen schuldig zu werden.

50 Ein charakteristischer und im gemeinen Leben sehr oft sich hervortuender Unterschied zwischen den gewöhnlichen und den gescheuten Köpfen ist, daß jene, bei ihrer Überlegung und Schätzung möglicher Gefahren, immer nur fragen und berücksichtigen, was derart bereits geschehn sei; diese hingegen selbst überlegen, was möglicherweise geschehn könne; wobei sie bedenken, daß, wie ein spanisches Sprichwort sagt, lo que no acaece en un año, acaece en un rato (was binnen eines Jahres nicht geschieht, geschieht binnen weniger Minuten). Der in Rede stehende Unterschied ist freilich natürlich: denn was geschehn kann zu überblicken, erfordert Verstand, was geschehn ist, bloß Sinne.

Unsere Maxime aber sei: opfere den bösen Dämonen! D. h. man soll einen gewissen Aufwand von Mühe, Zeit, Unbequemlichkeit, Weitläuftigkeit, Geld oder Entbehrung nicht scheuen, um der Möglichkeit eines Unglücks die Tür zu verschließen: und je größer dieses wäre, desto kleiner, entfernter, unwahrscheinlicher mag jene sein. Die deutlichste Exemplifikation dieser Regel ist die Assekuranzprämie. Sie ist ein öffentlich und von allen auf den Altar der bösen Dämonen gebrachtes Opfer.

51 Über keinen Vorfall sollte man in großen Jubel oder große Wehklage ausbrechen; teils wegen der Veränderlichkeit aller Dinge, die ihn jeden Augenblick umgestalten kann; teils wegen der Trüglichkeit unsers Urteils über das uns Gedeihliche oder Nachteilige; infolge welcher fast jeder einmal gewehklagt hat über das, was nachher sich als sein wahres Bestes auswies, oder gejubelt über das, was die Quelle seiner größten Leiden geworden ist. Die hier dagegen empfohlene Gesinnung hat Shakespeare schön ausgedrückt:

I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief,That the first face of neither, on the start,Can woman me unto it.[U]

(All's well, A. 3. sc. 2.)

[U] So viele Anfälle von Freude und Gram habe ich schon empfunden, daß ich nie mehr vom ersten Anblicke des Anlasses zu einem von beiden sogleich mich weibisch hinreißen lasse.

Überhaupt aber zeigt der, welcher bei allen Unfällen gelassen bleibt, daß er weiß, wie kolossal und tausendfältig die möglichen Übel des Lebens sind; weshalb er das jetzt eingetretene ansieht als einen sehr kleinen Teil dessen, was kommen könnte: dies ist die stoische Gesinnung, in Gemäßheit welcher man niemals conditionis humanae oblitus, sondern stets eingedenk sein soll, welch ein trauriges und jämmerliches Los das menschliche Dasein überhaupt ist, und wie unzählig die Übel sind, denen es ausgesetzt ist. Diese Einsicht aufzufrischen, braucht man überall nur einen Blick um sich zu werfen: wo man auch sei, wird man es bald vor Augen haben, dieses Ringen und Zappeln und Quälen um die elende, kahle, nichts abwerfende Existenz. Man wird danach seine Ansprüche herabstimmen, in die Unvollkommenheit aller Dinge und Zustände sich finden lernen und Unfällen stets entgegensehn, um ihnen auszuweichen oder sie zu ertragen. Denn Unfälle, große und kleine, sind das eigentliche Element unsers Lebens: dies sollte man also stets gegenwärtig haben; darum jedoch nicht, als ein δυσκολος, mit Beresford, über die stündlichen miseries of human life lamentiren und Gesichter schneiden, noch weniger in pulicis morsu Deum invocare; sondern, als ein ευλαβης, die Behutsamkeit im Zuvorkommen und Verhüten der Unfälle, sie mögen von Menschen oder von Dingen ausgehn, so weit treiben und so sehr darin raffiniren, daß man, wie ein kluger Fuchs, jedem großen oder kleinen Mißgeschick (welches meistens nur ein verkapptes Ungeschick ist) säuberlich aus dem Wege geht.

Daß ein Unglücksfall uns weniger schwer zu tragen fällt, wenn wir zum voraus ihn als möglich betrachtet und, wie man sagt, uns darauf gefaßt gemacht haben, mag hauptsächlich daher kommen, daß, wenn wir den Fall, ehe er eingetreten, als eine bloße Möglichkeit, mit Ruhe überdenken, wir die Ausdehnung des Unglücks deutlich und nach allen Seiten übersehn und so es wenigstens als ein endliches und überschaubares erkennen; infolge wovon es, wenn es nun wirklich trifft, doch mit nicht mehr als seiner wahren Schwere wirken kann. Haben wir hingegen jenes nicht getan, sondern werden unvorbereitet getroffen; so kann der erschrockene Geist im ersten Augenblick die Größe des Unglücks nicht genau ermessen: es ist jetzt für ihn unübersehbar, stellt sich daher leicht als unermeßlich, wenigstens viel größer dar, als es wirklich ist. Auf gleiche Art läßt Dunkelheit und Ungewißheit jede Gefahr größer erscheinen. Freilich kommt noch hinzu, daß wir für das als möglich antizipirte Unglück zugleich auch die Trostgründe und Abhülfen überdacht, oder wenigstens uns an die Vorstellung desselben gewöhnt haben.

Nichts aber wird uns zum gelassenen Ertragen der uns treffenden Unglücksfälle besser befähigen, als die Überzeugung von der Wahrheit, welche ich in meiner Preisschrift über die Freiheit des Willens aus ihren letzten Gründen abgeleitet und festgestellt habe, nämlich, wie es daselbst, S. 62 (2. Aufl. S. 60), heißt: »Alles was geschieht, vom Größten bis zum Kleinsten, geschieht notwendig.« Denn in das unvermeidlich Notwendige weiß der Mensch sich bald zu finden, und jene Erkenntnis läßt ihn alles, selbst das durch die fremdartigsten Zufälle Herbeigeführte, als eben so notwendig ansehn, wie das nach den bekanntesten Regeln und unter vollkommener Voraussicht Erfolgende. Ich verweise hier auf das, was ich (Welt als W. u. V. Bd. 1, S. 345 u. 46 [3. Aufl. 361]) über die beruhigende Wirkung der Erkenntnis des Unvermeidlichen und Notwendigen gesagt habe. Wer davon durchdrungen ist, wird zuvörderst tun was er kann, dann aber willig leiden was er muß.

Die kleinen Unfälle, die uns stündlich vexiren, kann man betrachten als bestimmt, uns in Übung zu erhalten, damit die Kraft, die großen zu ertragen, im Glück nicht ganz erschlaffe. Gegen die täglichen Hudeleien, kleinlichen Reibungen im menschlichen Verkehr, unbedeutende Anstöße, Ungebührlichkeiten anderer, Klatschereien u. dgl. m. muß man ein gehörnter Siegfried sein, d. h. sie gar nicht empfinden, weit weniger sich zu Herzen nehmen und darüber brüten; sondern von dem allen nichts an sich kommen lassen, es von sich stoßen, wie Steinchen, die im Wege liegen, und keineswegs es aufnehmen in das Innere seiner Überlegung und Rumination.

52 Was aber die Leute gemeiniglich das Schicksal nennen, sind meistens nur ihre eigenen dummen Streiche. Man kann daher nicht genugsam die schöne Stelle im Homer (JL. XXIII, 313 sqq.) beherzigen, wo er die μητις, d. i. die kluge Überlegung, empfiehlt. Denn wenn auch die schlechtesten Streiche erst in jener Welt gebüßt werden; so doch die dummen schon in dieser; – wiewohl hin und wieder einmal Gnade für Recht ergehen mag.

Nicht wer grimmig, sondern wer klug dareinschaut, sieht furchtbar und gefährlich aus: – so gewiß des Menschen Gehirn eine furchtbarere Waffe ist als die Klaue des Löwen. –

Der vollkommenste Weltmann wäre der, welcher nie in Unschlüssigkeit stockte und nie in Übereilung geriete.

53 Nächst der Klugheit aber ist Mut eine für unser Glück sehr wesentliche Eigenschaft. Freilich kann man weder die eine noch die andere sich geben, sondern ererbt jene von der Mutter und diesen vom Vater: jedoch läßt sich durch Vorsatz und Übung dem davon Vorhandenen nachhelfen. Zu dieser Welt, wo »die Würfel eisern fallen,« gehört ein eiserner Sinn, gepanzert gegen das Schicksal und gewaffnet gegen die Menschen. Denn das ganze Leben ist ein Kampf, jeder Schritt wird uns streitig gemacht, und Voltaire sagt mit Recht: on ne réussit dans ce monde, qu'à la pointe de l'épée, et on meurt les armes à la main. Daher ist es eine feige Seele, die, sobald Wolken sich zusammenziehn oder wohl gar nur am Horizont sich zeigen, zusammenschrumpft, verzagen will und jammert. Vielmehr sei unser Wahlspruch:

Tu ne cede malis, sed contra audentior ito.

Solange der Ausgang einer gefährlichen Sache nur noch zweifelhaft ist, solange nur noch die Möglichkeit, daß er ein glücklicher werde, vorhanden ist, darf an kein Zagen gedacht werden, sondern bloß an Widerstand; wie man am Wetter nicht verzweifeln darf, solange noch ein blauer Fleck am Himmel ist. Ja, man bringe es dahin zu sagen:

Si fractus illabatur orbis,Impavidum ferient ruinae.

Das ganze Leben selbst, geschweige seine Güter, sind noch nicht so ein feiges Beben und Einschrumpfen des Herzens wert:

Quocirca vivite fortes,Fortiaque adversis apponite pectora rebus.

Und doch ist auch hier ein Exzeß möglich: denn der Mut kann in Verwegenheit ausarten. Sogar ist ein gewisses Maß von Furchtsamkeit zu unserm Bestande in der Welt notwendig: die Feigheit ist bloß das Überschreiten desselben. Dies hat Bako von Verulam gar treffend ausgedrückt, in seiner etymologischen Erklärung des terror Panicus, welche die ältere, vom Plutarch (de Iside et Osir. c. 14) uns erhaltene, weit hinter sich läßt. Er leitet nämlich denselben ab vom Pan, als der personifizirten Natur, und sagt: Natura enim rerum omnibus viventibus indidit metum, ac formidinem, vitae atque essentiae suae conservatricem, ac mala ingruentia vitantem et depellentem. Verumtamen eadem natura modum tenere nescia est: sed timoribus salutaribus semper vanos et inanes admiscet; adeo ut omnia (si intus conspici darentur) Panicis terroribus plenissima sint, praesertim humana. (De sapientia veterum VI.) Übrigens ist das Charakteristische des panischen Schreckens, daß er seiner Gründe sich nicht deutlich bewußt ist, sondern sie mehr voraussetzt als kennt, ja zur Not geradezu die Furcht selbst als Grund der Furcht geltend macht.

Musean translation

Machine-assisted translation from the German, following the 1913 Ernst Ohle edition.

Counsels and Maxims.

Here, even less than anywhere else, I aim at completeness; otherwise I would have to repeat the many rules for life, some excellent, set down by thinkers of every age, from Theognis and Pseudo-Solomon to Rochefoucauld, and could not avoid many worn-out commonplaces. With completeness, systematic arrangement also largely falls away. We may console ourselves for both by remembering that in matters of this kind they almost inevitably bring boredom in their train. I have given only what occurred to me, seemed worth communicating, and, as far as I recall, has not yet been said, at least not quite and precisely in this way: merely gleanings from the immeasurable field on which others have already worked.

To bring some order into the great variety of views and advice belonging here, however, I will divide them into general counsels, those concerning our conduct toward ourselves, then toward others, and finally toward the course of the world and fate.

A. General Counsels.

1 As the supreme rule of all wisdom in life I regard a proposition Aristotle expressed incidentally in the Nicomachean Ethics (VII, 12): the prudent person pursues freedom from pain, not pleasure (the prudent man pursues what is free of pain, not what is pleasant). Better in German, this might be rendered: "The rational person pursues not pleasure, but freedom from pain"; or, "The rational person aims at freedom from pain, not enjoyment." Its truth rests on all pleasure and happiness being negative in nature, pain, by contrast, positive. The elaboration and grounds of this latter proposition can be found in my principal work, Bd. I, § 58. Yet I will illustrate it here through a fact observable daily. If the whole body is healthy and sound except for some small sore or otherwise painful spot, the health of the whole does not enter consciousness; attention is continually directed toward the injured spot's pain, and the comfort of the whole feeling of life is abolished.—Likewise, if all our affairs go as we wish except one contrary to our intention, this one, even if of slight importance, continually returns to mind: we think of it often and little of all the other, more important things going as we wish.—In both cases what is impaired is the will: once as it objectifies itself in the organism, the other time in human striving. In both we see that its satisfaction always acts only negatively and is therefore not directly felt at all, but enters consciousness at most by way of reflection. Its obstruction, by contrast, is the positive element and therefore announces itself. Every pleasure consists merely in removing this obstruction, in liberation from it, and is consequently short-lived.

On this, then, rests the Aristotelian rule praised above, directing our attention not toward life's pleasures and amenities, but toward escaping its countless evils as far as possible. If this were not the right path, Voltaire's saying, happiness is only a dream, and pain is real, would have to be as false as it is in fact true. Anyone wishing to reckon the result of his life from the standpoint of happiness should therefore calculate not by the joys enjoyed, but by the evils escaped. Indeed, eudemonology must begin by teaching that its very name is a euphemism, and that "living happily" means only living "less unhappily," and thus tolerably. Life is not really there to be enjoyed, but to be endured and finished with; various expressions also signify this, such as to pass one's life, to be done with life, the Italian one gets through in this way, the German "one must try to get through," "he will make his way through the world," and so forth. Indeed, it is a consolation in old age to have life's labor behind one. The happiest lot therefore belongs to whoever passes life without excessive mental or physical pain, not to whoever receives the liveliest joys or greatest pleasures. Anyone measuring the happiness of a life's course by these has taken up a false standard. For pleasures are and remain negative: that they make us happy is a delusion envy harbors to its own punishment. Pains, by contrast, are positively felt; their absence is therefore the measure of happiness in life. If freedom from boredom joins a painless condition, earthly happiness is essentially attained, for the rest is chimera. It follows that we should never buy pleasures with pains, or even the danger of them, since otherwise we pay for something negative and thus chimerical with something positive and real. We remain in profit, however, when we sacrifice pleasures to escape pain. In both cases it is immaterial whether the pains follow or precede the pleasures. It is truly the greatest perversity to try to turn this scene of misery into a pleasure resort and set pleasures and joys as one's goal instead of the greatest possible freedom from pain, as so many do. Someone errs far less who, with too gloomy a gaze, regards this world as a kind of hell and therefore thinks only of securing a fireproof room within it. The fool runs after life's pleasures and finds himself deceived; the wise person avoids its evils. If he fails even in this, the fault lies with fate, not with his folly. Insofar as he succeeds, he is not deceived, for the evils he avoided are entirely real. Even if he has perhaps gone too far in avoiding them and sacrificed pleasures unnecessarily, nothing has really been lost: all pleasures are chimerical, and grieving over missing them would be petty, indeed ridiculous.

Failure to recognize this truth, encouraged by optimism, is the source of much unhappiness. For while we are free from suffering, restless desires conjure up before us the phantoms of a happiness that does not exist at all, and tempt us to pursue them: in doing so, we bring down upon ourselves pain, whose reality is undeniable. Then we lament the painless state we have lost, which lies behind us like a paradise thrown away, and wish in vain that we could undo what has been done. It seems, then, as though some evil demon were forever luring us out of the painless condition, which is the highest actual happiness, by the illusions of desire.—Without looking closely, a young man believes that the world exists to be enjoyed; that it is the home of a positive happiness missed only by those who lack the skill to make themselves its masters. Novels and poems confirm him in this, as does the universal hypocrisy of appearances practiced everywhere in the world, to which I shall soon return. From then on, his life is a more or less deliberately conducted hunt for positive happiness, which, as such, is supposed to consist in positive pleasures. The dangers to which he exposes himself in the process must be risked. This hunt for game that does not exist generally leads, then, to very real, positive unhappiness. It arrives as pain, suffering, illness, loss, anxiety, poverty, disgrace, and a thousand afflictions. Disillusionment comes too late.—If, by contrast, we follow the rule considered here and make the plan of our lives aim at avoiding suffering, and thus at keeping away want, illness, and every distress, our goal is a real one: something can be accomplished, and all the more, the less this plan is disturbed by the pursuit of the phantom of positive happiness. This accords, too, with what Goethe, in Elective Affinities, has Mittler, who is always working for other people's happiness, say: “Anyone who wants to be rid of an evil always knows what he wants; anyone who wants something better than he has is completely blind.” And this recalls the fine French saying: the better is the enemy of the good. Indeed, the fundamental idea of Cynicism can be derived from this, as I have set it out in my principal work, Bd. 2, Kap. 16. For what moved the Cynics to reject all pleasures, if not precisely the thought of the pains connected with them, more or less remotely, which it seemed far more important to avoid than to obtain those pleasures? They were deeply impressed by the recognition that pleasure is negative and pain positive; hence, consistently, they did everything to avoid evils, but considered the complete and deliberate rejection of pleasures necessary to this end, because they saw in these only snares that deliver us over to pain.

We are all, of course, born in Arcadia, as Schiller says: that is, we enter the world full of claims to happiness and enjoyment, and cherish the foolish hope of making them good. As a rule, however, fate soon comes, seizes us roughly, and teaches us that nothing is ours, but everything its own, since it has an undisputed right not only to all our possessions and earnings, to wife and child, but even to arm and leg, eye and ear, indeed, to the nose in the middle of our face. In any case, after a while experience comes and brings the insight that happiness and enjoyment are a mirage, visible only from a distance and vanishing as we approach; whereas suffering and pain have reality, make themselves felt immediately, and need neither illusion nor expectation. If the lesson takes hold, we stop hunting for happiness and enjoyment, and instead take care to bar pain and suffering as far as possible. We then recognize that the best the world has to offer is a painless, quiet, tolerable existence, and confine our claims to this, to make them good all the more surely. For the surest means of not becoming very unhappy is not to demand to be very happy. Goethe's youthful friend Merck had recognized this too when he wrote: “The nasty claim to happiness, and to the measure of it that we dream of, spoils everything in this world. Whoever can free himself of that, and desire nothing but what lies before him, can make his way through” (Briefe an und von Merck, S. 100). It is therefore advisable to reduce one's claims to enjoyment, property, rank, honor, and so on to something quite modest, because it is precisely the striving and struggle for happiness, splendor, and enjoyment that bring great misfortunes upon us. But this is wise and advisable for the further reason that being very unhappy is quite easy, while being very happy is not merely difficult, but wholly impossible. With perfect justice, then, the poet of worldly wisdom sings:

Whoever loves the golden meanLives safely, free of the squalorOf a crumbling roof, and soberly avoidsA palace others envy.

The towering pine is lashed more fiercelyBy the winds; the higher towersFall with a heavier crash; and lightningStrikes the mountain summits.

But anyone who has fully absorbed the teaching of my philosophy, and therefore knows that our entire existence is something that would be better not to be, and that the greatest wisdom is to deny and reject it, will harbor no great expectations of any thing or condition, strive passionately for nothing in the world, or raise great lamentations over failing to obtain anything. Rather, he will be imbued with Plato's “Nothing in human affairs is worth great earnestness” (rep. X, 604), and also with this:

If possession of a world has slipped away from you,Do not grieve for it: it is nothing;And if you have gained possession of a world,Do not rejoice in it: it is nothing.Pains and pleasures pass away;Pass the world by: it is nothing.

Anwari Soheili.

(Siehe das Motto zu Sadis Gulistan, übers. von Graf.)

What makes these salutary insights especially difficult to acquire, however, is the world's hypocrisy of appearances, already mentioned above, which should therefore be exposed to the young early on. The vast majority of its splendors are mere show, like stage scenery, with the substance missing. Ships decked with pennants and garlands, for example, cannon fire, illuminations, drums and trumpets, cheering and shouting, and so on—all this is the signboard, the indication, the hieroglyph of joy; but joy itself is usually nowhere to be found there: it alone has declined to attend the celebration. Where it really does appear, it generally comes uninvited and unannounced, of its own accord and without ceremony, indeed, stealing in quietly, often on the most insignificant, trivial occasions, amid the most everyday circumstances, even on occasions that are anything but splendid or glorious. Like the gold in Australia, it is scattered here and there at the whim of chance, without rule or law, usually only in very small grains, exceedingly rarely in great masses. With all those things mentioned above, on the other hand, the purpose is merely to make others believe that joy has arrived: this appearance, in other people's minds, is the aim. Grief is no different from joy in this respect. How mournfully that long, slow funeral procession approaches! There is no end to the line of carriages. But just look inside: they are all empty, and the departed is really being accompanied to the grave only by all the coachmen in the city. An eloquent image of this world's friendship and esteem! Such, then, is the falsity, hollowness, and hypocrisy of human activity.—Another example is provided by the many invited guests in formal dress receiving a festive welcome: they are the signboard of noble, elevated sociability; but in its place, as a rule, only constraint, discomfort, and boredom have arrived. For wherever there are many guests there is much rabble—even if they all wear stars on their breasts. Truly good company is, everywhere and necessarily, very small. In general, splendid, noisy festivities and entertainments always carry an emptiness within them, even a discordant note, if only because they loudly contradict the misery and poverty of our existence, and the contrast heightens the truth. Yet seen from outside, all this has its effect: and that was the aim. Chamfort therefore says with exquisite aptness: Society, circles, salons, what is called the world, is a wretched play, a bad, uninteresting opera, sustained to some extent by its machinery, costumes, and scenery.—Academies and professorial chairs in philosophy are likewise the signboard, the outward appearance, of wisdom; but it too has usually declined the invitation, and is to be found somewhere quite different.—The jingling of bells, priestly costumes, pious gestures, and grotesque antics are the signboard, the false appearance, of devotion, and so on.—Thus almost everything in the world may be called an empty nutshell: the kernel is rare in itself, and rarer still inside the shell. It must be sought somewhere quite different, and is usually found only by chance.

2 To judge how happy a person is, we should ask not what pleases him, but what troubles him: for the more trivial this is in itself, the happier the person must be, since it takes a state of well-being to make us sensitive to trifles; in misfortune we do not feel them at all.

3 We should take care not to build the happiness of our lives on a broad foundation by making many things necessary to it: for standing on such a foundation, it collapses most easily, because it offers far more openings for accidents, and these will not fail to come. In this respect, then, the structure of our happiness behaves in precisely the opposite way from all others, which stand most firmly on broad foundations. To keep our claims as low as possible in relation to our resources of every kind is therefore the surest way to escape great misfortune.

In general, one of the greatest and commonest follies is to make elaborate preparations for life, whatever form these may take. To begin with, they count on an entire, full human lifetime, which very few attain. Then, even if they live so long, life still proves too short for the plans they have made, since carrying them out always requires far more time than was assumed. Moreover, like all human affairs, such plans are exposed to failure and obstacles in so many ways that they are very rarely brought to completion. Finally, even if everything is eventually achieved, the changes that time works in ourselves have been left out of account: we have not considered that our powers, whether of achievement or enjoyment, will not hold out throughout our lives. Hence we often work toward things that, when finally attained, no longer suit us; and spend on the preparations for a work the very years that meanwhile, unnoticed, rob us of the strength to carry it out. Thus it often happens that wealth acquired through such long toil and many dangers can no longer be enjoyed, and we have worked for others; or that we can no longer fill the post finally attained through years of activity and striving: things have come too late for us. Or conversely, we come too late with our things—where achievements or productions are concerned: the taste of the age has changed; a new generation has grown up that takes no interest in them; others have forestalled us by shorter routes, and so on. Everything discussed under this number is what Horace has in mind when he says:

Why weary with plans for eternityA mind too small for them?

The cause of this frequent mistake is the unavoidable optical illusion of the mind's eye, by which life seems endless when seen from its entrance, but very short when we look back from the end of the course. Admittedly, this has its good side: without it, scarcely anything great would be accomplished.

In general, though, we fare in life like a traveler before whom, as he advances, objects assume shapes different from those they showed at a distance, and seem to transform themselves as he approaches. This happens especially with our wishes. Often we find something quite different, indeed better, than what we sought; often, too, we find the very thing we sought by a quite different road from the one we first took in vain. In particular, where we sought enjoyment, happiness, and joy, we often receive instruction, insight, knowledge instead—a lasting, genuine good in place of a fleeting and illusory one. This is also the thought that runs like a ground bass through Wilhelm Meister, making it an intellectual novel and, precisely for that reason, of a higher kind than all the rest, even those of Walter Scott, which are all merely ethical: that is, they grasp human nature only from the side of the will. In The Magic Flute, too, that grotesque yet significant and many-layered hieroglyph, the same fundamental idea is symbolized in broad, rough strokes, like those of stage scenery. Indeed, it would be perfectly expressed if, at the end, Tamino, cured of his wish to possess Tamina, desired and received instead only initiation into the temple of wisdom, while his necessary counterpart, Papageno, duly received his Papagena.—Excellent and noble people soon become aware of this education by fate and submit to it receptively and gratefully: they see that instruction is indeed to be found in the world, but not happiness; accordingly, they grow accustomed and content to exchange hopes for insights, and finally say with Petrarch:

I know no other pleasure than learning.

This may even reach the point where they pursue their wishes and ambitions only for appearance's sake, as it were, and playfully, while in reality, in the earnest depths of their hearts, they expect nothing but instruction; this then gives them a contemplative, inspired, elevated air.—In this sense we may also say that we are like the alchemists who, while seeking only gold, discovered gunpowder, porcelain, medicines, and even laws of nature.

B. Concerning our conduct toward ourselves.

4 As the laborer helping to put up a building either does not know the plan of the whole or at least does not always keep it in mind, so does a person, as he spins out the individual days and hours of his life, stand in relation to the whole course of that life and its character. The more worthy, significant, purposeful, and individual this is, the more necessary and beneficial it becomes for its reduced outline, its plan, to come before his eyes from time to time. Of course, this also requires that he have made a small beginning in “know yourself”: that he know what he really, principally, and above all else wants, and thus what is most essential to his happiness, and then what takes second and third place after it; and that he recognize, in general, his vocation, his role, and his relation to the world. If this is of a significant and grand kind, the sight of his life's plan on a smaller scale will strengthen, hearten, and elevate him more than anything else, encourage him to activity, and keep him from straying.

Just as a traveler only surveys and understands the road he has covered, with all its twists and turns, as a connected whole once he has reached a height, so only at the end of a period of our lives, or even of life itself, do we recognize the true connection among our deeds, achievements, and works, their precise consistency and interlinking, indeed, their value as well. For as long as we are engaged in them, we act only according to the fixed properties of our character, under the influence of motives and in proportion to our abilities, and thus throughout with necessity, since at every moment we do merely what just then seems right and appropriate to us. Only the outcome shows what has come of it, and a backward look over the whole connection shows how and by what means. For this very reason, while performing our greatest deeds or creating immortal works, we are not conscious of them as such, but merely as appropriate to our present purposes, corresponding to our intentions at the time, and therefore just right for the moment. Only afterward do our character and abilities shine out from the whole in its connectedness; and in the details we then see how, as though by inspiration, we took the one right road among a thousand wrong turns—guided by our genius. All this applies to theory as to practice, and, in the reverse sense, to what is bad and misconceived.

5 An important point of worldly wisdom consists in the right proportion in which we devote our attention partly to the present and partly to the future, so that neither spoils the other for us. Many live too much in the present: the frivolous; others too much in the future: the anxious and apprehensive. Seldom will anyone keep precisely the right balance. Those who, through striving and hoping, live only in the future, always looking ahead and rushing impatiently toward things to come as the first things that will bring true happiness, while allowing the present to pass unnoticed and unenjoyed, may, despite their precociously wise expressions, be compared to those donkeys in Italy whose pace is quickened by a bundle of hay hanging from a stick attached to their heads, which they therefore always see close in front of them and hope to reach. For they cheat themselves of their entire existence by always living only in the interim—until they are dead.—Instead, then, of being exclusively and incessantly occupied with plans and worries for the future, or surrendering ourselves to longing for the past, we should never forget that the present alone is real and alone certain, whereas the future almost always turns out differently from what we imagine; indeed, the past too was different, and in such a way that both, on the whole, amount to less than they seem to us. For distance, which diminishes objects to the eye, enlarges them to thought. The present alone is true and actual: it is time really filled, and our existence lies exclusively in it. We should therefore always honor it with a cheerful welcome, and accordingly enjoy every tolerable hour free from immediate vexation or pain, consciously, for what it is; that is, we should not cloud it with sour faces over disappointed hopes in the past or anxieties for the future. For it is utterly foolish to reject a good present hour, or willfully spoil it for ourselves, out of annoyance over the past or apprehension about what is to come. Let care, and even remorse, have their appointed time; afterward, however, we should think of what has happened:

But let us leave what has been done, though grieving,And tame the spirit in our breasts by necessity,

and of the future:

These things, indeed, lie in the lap of the gods,

but of the present: Count each day as a separate life (Sen.), and make this, the only real time, as pleasant for ourselves as possible.

Only those future evils that are certain, and whose time of arrival is also certain, have any right to disturb us. But these will be very few: for evils are either merely possible, at most probable; or they are indeed certain, but the time of their arrival is wholly uncertain. If we dwell on either kind, we shall never have another peaceful moment. To avoid forfeiting the peace of our lives through uncertain or indefinite evils, we must therefore accustom ourselves to regard the former as though they would never come, and the latter as though they would certainly not come soon.

Yet the more peace fear allows a person, the more he is disturbed by wishes, desires, and demands. Goethe's much-loved song, “I have staked my cause on nothing,” really means that only after a person has been driven out of every possible claim and thrown back upon bare, naked existence does he attain the peace of mind that forms the foundation of human happiness, since it is needed if we are to find the present, and thus the whole of life, enjoyable. To this same end, we should always remember that today comes only once, and never again. But we fancy it will come back tomorrow; tomorrow, however, is another day, which also comes only once. We forget that each day is an integral, and therefore irreplaceable, part of life, and regard it instead as contained in life in the way individuals are contained under a general concept.—We would likewise appreciate and enjoy the present better if, in days of health and well-being, we were always conscious of how, in illness or sorrow, memory presents every hour free of pain and deprivation as infinitely enviable, as a lost paradise, as an unrecognized friend. But we live through our fine days without noticing them: only when the bad ones come do we wish them back. We allow a thousand cheerful, pleasant hours to pass us unenjoyed, with a sour face, only to sigh after them later, in gloomy times, with fruitless longing. Instead, we should hold in honor every tolerable present, even the everyday kind that we now let pass so indifferently, and even shove along impatiently—always remembering that it is just now flowing over into that apotheosis of the past, where henceforth, bathed in the light of imperishability, it will be preserved by memory, to appear as an object of our heartfelt longing whenever memory one day lifts the curtain, especially in an evil hour.

6 Every limitation makes us happier. The narrower our sphere of vision, activity, and contact, the happier we are; the wider it is, the more often we feel tormented or afraid. For with it our cares, wishes, and terrors multiply and grow. Hence even the blind are not as unhappy as they must seem to us a priori; the gentle, almost cheerful calm in their features bears witness to this. This rule also partly accounts for the second half of life turning out sadder than the first. For in the course of life the horizon of our aims and relationships grows ever wider. In childhood it is confined to our immediate surroundings and closest relationships; in youth it already extends considerably farther; in manhood it embraces the whole course of our lives, indeed, often reaches to the remotest relationships, to states and peoples; in old age it embraces our descendants.—Every limitation, on the other hand, even a mental one, promotes our happiness. For the less the will is excited, the less suffering there is; and we know that suffering is positive, happiness merely negative. A limited sphere of activity deprives the will of external occasions for excitement; a limited mind deprives it of internal ones. The latter, however, has the disadvantage of opening the door to boredom, which indirectly becomes the source of countless sufferings, since merely to banish it we grasp at anything, trying diversions, company, luxury, gambling, drinking, and so on, which nevertheless bring damage, ruin, and misfortune of every kind. Peace is difficult in idleness. How greatly external limitation, by contrast, promotes human happiness, as far as that can go—indeed, how necessary it is—can be seen from the fact that the only kind of poetry that undertakes to portray happy people, the idyll, always and essentially depicts them in the most restricted circumstances and surroundings. A feeling for this also underlies our pleasure in so-called genre paintings.—Accordingly, the greatest possible simplicity in our circumstances, and even uniformity in our way of life, will make us happy, so long as it does not produce boredom; for it makes us least aware of life itself, and consequently of its essential burden too: it flows along like a stream, without waves or whirlpools.

7 Where our well-being or misery is concerned, what ultimately matters is what fills and occupies our consciousness. Here, on the whole, any purely intellectual occupation will do far more for a mind capable of it than actual life with its constant alternation of success and failure, together with its shocks and torments. Admittedly, this requires a marked predominance of intellectual gifts. It should also be noted here that, just as an outwardly active life distracts and diverts us from study, and also deprives the mind of the quiet and concentration it needs, so, on the other hand, sustained intellectual occupation makes us more or less unfit for the bustle and turmoil of actual life. It is therefore advisable to suspend it entirely for a while whenever circumstances arise that require energetic practical activity of any kind.

8 To live with complete reflectiveness and draw from our own experience all the instruction it contains, we must often look back and review what we have lived through, done, experienced, and felt in the process, and compare our former judgment with our present one, our intentions and strivings with their outcome and the satisfaction it gave us. This is a review of the private lessons experience has given each of us. Our own experience may also be regarded as the text; reflection and knowledge as its commentary. Much reflection and knowledge with little experience resembles those editions whose pages offer two lines of text and forty lines of commentary. Much experience with little reflection and scant knowledge resembles the Bipontine editions, without notes, which leave much unintelligible.

The recommendation given here is also the aim of Pythagoras's rule that in the evening, before falling asleep, we should review what we have done during the day. Anyone who lives amid the bustle of business or pleasure without ever ruminating on his past, but instead keeps unreeling his life, loses clear self-awareness: his inner life becomes a chaos, and a certain confusion enters his thoughts, soon betrayed by the abrupt, fragmentary, almost chopped-up nature of his conversation. This is all the more so, the greater the external unrest and the mass of impressions, and the less the inner activity of his mind.

Here belongs the observation that, after a considerable time, once the circumstances and surroundings that acted upon us have passed away, we cannot recall and renew the mood and feeling they aroused in us then; but we can remember our own utterances that they elicited at the time. These are the result, expression, and measure of those feelings. Memory, or paper, should therefore carefully preserve such utterances from memorable moments. Diaries are very useful for this.

9 To be sufficient to oneself, to be one's own all in all, and to be able to say I carry all that is mine with me, is certainly the quality most conducive to our happiness: hence Aristotle's saying, “Happiness belongs to the self-sufficient” (Happiness belongs to those sufficient to themselves. Eth. Eud. 7, 2), cannot be repeated too often. (Essentially, it is also the same thought expressed, with an exceedingly graceful turn, by the saying of Chamfort that I have placed as the motto to this essay.) For, on the one hand, we can count with any certainty on no one but ourselves, and on the other, the troubles and disadvantages, the danger and vexation that society brings with it are countless and unavoidable.

There is no more mistaken road to happiness than life in the fashionable world, amid revelry and extravagance (high life): for its aim is to turn our wretched existence into a succession of joy, enjoyment, and pleasure, where disappointment cannot fail to come; nor can it fail to come with the obligatory accompaniment, our mutual lying to one another[K].

[K] As our body is wrapped in clothes, so our mind is wrapped in lies. Our speech, our actions, our whole bearing are false: only through this covering can our true disposition sometimes be guessed, as the shape of the body can be guessed through its clothes.

To begin with, all company necessarily requires mutual accommodation and moderation; hence the larger it is, the more insipid it becomes. Everyone can be wholly himself only while he is alone; whoever does not love solitude, then, does not love freedom either, for only when we are alone are we free. Constraint is the inseparable companion of all company, and all company demands sacrifices that become harder in proportion to the significance of one's own individuality. Accordingly, everyone will flee, endure, or love solitude in exact proportion to the worth of his own self. For in solitude the wretch feels all his wretchedness, the great mind all its greatness—in short, everyone feels himself to be what he is. Further, the higher a person stands in nature's hierarchy, the more solitary he stands, essentially and inevitably. In that case, however, it is a blessing if his physical solitude corresponds to his intellectual solitude; otherwise the frequent presence of alien beings presses disturbingly, even hostilely, upon him, robs him of his self, and has nothing to give in return. Moreover, while nature has established the widest differences among people, morally and intellectually, society disregards these and makes them all equal—or rather, substitutes for them the artificial distinctions and gradations of station and rank, which very often run directly counter to nature's hierarchy. Under this arrangement, those whom nature has placed low do very well, but the few she has placed high come off badly; hence they generally withdraw from society, and in every gathering, as soon as it is numerous, vulgarity predominates. What makes society distasteful to great minds is the equality of rights, and consequently of claims, alongside the inequality of abilities, and consequently of the others' contributions to company. So-called good society recognizes advantages of every kind except intellectual ones; these are actually contraband. It obliges us to show boundless patience toward every folly, absurdity, perversity, and dullness, while personal merits must beg forgiveness or conceal themselves; for intellectual superiority offends by its mere existence, without any act of the will. Accordingly, the society called good has not only the disadvantage of offering us people whom we cannot praise and love; it also does not permit us to be as our nature requires, but instead forces us, for the sake of harmony with others, to shrink, or even to deform ourselves. Intelligent remarks or ideas belong only before intelligent company: in ordinary company they are positively hated; for to please there, it is absolutely necessary to be flat and narrow-minded. In such company, therefore, we must, with severe self-denial, surrender three-quarters of ourselves to resemble the others. In return, admittedly, we then have the others; but the more worth a person has in himself, the more he will find that the gain does not cover the loss, and the bargain goes against him, because people are generally insolvent: that is, they have nothing to offer in their company that would compensate for its tediousness, troubles, and unpleasantness, and for the self-denial it imposes. Most company is therefore such that anyone who exchanges it for solitude makes a good bargain. Added to this is the fact that society, to replace genuine—that is, intellectual—superiority, which it cannot tolerate and which is also hard to find, has arbitrarily adopted a false, conventional superiority, resting on arbitrary rules and passed down by tradition among the upper classes, as changeable as a watchword: this is what is called good form, good manners, fashionableness. Yet whenever it collides with genuine superiority, its weakness is revealed.—Besides, when good form arrives, good sense withdraws.

In general, however, everyone can be in perfect harmony only with himself—not with his friend, not with his beloved; for differences of individuality and mood always produce a dissonance, however slight. Hence true, deep peace of heart and perfect tranquility of mind, the highest earthly good after health, can be found only in solitude, and as a lasting disposition only in the deepest seclusion. If one's own self is then great and rich, one enjoys the happiest state that can be found on this poor earth. Indeed, let it be said outright: however closely friendship, love, and marriage unite people, in the end everyone truly cares only for himself, and at most for his child as well.—The less a person needs, owing to objective or subjective conditions, to come into contact with others, the better off he is. Solitude and desolation let us survey all their evils at once, even if we do not feel them; society, by contrast, is insidious: behind the appearance of amusement, communication, social enjoyment, and so forth, it conceals great and often incurable evils. A principal study of youth should be learning to endure solitude, because it is a source of happiness and peace of mind.—From all this it follows that the person best off is the one who has counted only on himself and can be his own all in all; Cicero even says: No one can fail to be supremely happy who depends wholly on himself and places everything in himself alone. (Paradox. II.) Moreover, the more a person has in himself, the less others can be to him. A certain feeling of all-sufficiency keeps people of inner worth and richness from making the considerable sacrifices that association with others demands, much less seeking it with marked self-denial. The opposite makes ordinary people so sociable and accommodating: they find it easier to endure others than themselves. There is also the fact that what has real worth in the world is not esteemed, and what is esteemed has no worth. The seclusion of every worthy and distinguished person is both proof and consequence of this. In view of all this, it will be genuine worldly wisdom in anyone who has something substantial within himself to restrict his needs if necessary, merely to preserve or extend his freedom, and accordingly to keep his personal dealings with the human world as brief as possible, since some such ties are unavoidable.

What makes people sociable, on the other hand, is their inability to endure solitude, and in it themselves. Inner emptiness and weariness drive them into society as well as abroad and into travel. Their minds lack the spring to set themselves in motion: hence they seek to heighten it with wine, and many become drunkards in this way. For the same reason they need constant stimulation from outside, and of the strongest kind—that is, from beings like themselves. Without it their minds collapse under their own weight and fall into an oppressive lethargy[L]. We might likewise say that each of them is only a small fraction of the Idea of humanity, and therefore needs much supplementation by others to produce anything like a complete human consciousness; whereas someone who is a whole human being, a human being in the fullest sense, represents a unit and not a fraction, and is therefore sufficient to himself. In this sense, ordinary company may be compared to that Russian horn music in which each horn has only one note, and music emerges only through the precise coincidence of them all. For the outlook and mind of the vast majority of people are as monotonous as such a one-note horn: many of them actually look as though they forever had only one and the same thought, incapable of thinking any other. This explains not only why they are so tedious, but also why they are so sociable and most like to move in herds: the gregariousness of mankind. It is the monotony of his own nature that becomes intolerable to each of them—all foolishness suffers from weariness of itself—and only together, only through their union, are they anything at all, like those horn players. The intelligent person, by contrast, may be compared to a virtuoso who performs his concert alone, or to a piano. For just as the piano is a small orchestra all by itself, so he is a little world, and embodies in the unity of a single consciousness what all the others become only through cooperation. Like the piano, he is not a part of the symphony, but is suited to the solo and to a self-contained whole; if he is to work with them, he can do so only as the principal voice with accompaniment, like the piano, or to set the pitch in vocal music, like the piano.—Anyone who nevertheless loves company can derive from this comparison the rule that what the people he associates with lack in quality must to some degree be replaced by quantity. He may find enough company in a single intelligent person; but if nothing except the ordinary sort can be found, it is good to have a great many of them, so that through variety and cooperation something may result—on the analogy of the horn music just described—and may heaven grant him patience as well.

[L] As everyone knows, evils are lightened by being borne in common; people seem to count boredom among these, since they gather to be bored together. Just as love of life is fundamentally only fear of death, so people's social impulse is not fundamentally a direct one: it rests not on love of company but on fear of solitude, since it is not so much the charming presence of others that is sought as the desolation and uneasiness of being alone, together with the monotony of one's own consciousness, that are fled. To escape this, people therefore put up even with bad company, and likewise submit to the irksomeness and constraint that any company necessarily brings with it.—If, on the other hand, aversion to all this has won out, and as a result the habit of solitude and a hardening against its immediate impression have set in, so that it no longer produces the effects described above, then one can remain alone continually in the greatest comfort without yearning for company, precisely because the need for it is not direct, and because, on the other hand, one has now grown accustomed to solitude's beneficial qualities.

That inner emptiness and poverty in people also accounts for this: whenever people of a better kind join together in an association with some noble, ideal aim in view, the outcome is almost always that a few individuals from that rabble of humanity—which in countless multitudes fills and covers everything everywhere like vermin, and is always ready to seize upon anything without distinction to relieve its boredom, just as in other circumstances it relieves its want—slip or force their way in there too, and soon either destroy the whole enterprise or change it so that it becomes pretty much the opposite of the original intention.

For that matter, sociability may also be regarded as people warming themselves mentally at one another, like the physical warmth they produce by huddling together in great cold. But anyone who has much mental warmth of his own has no need of such clustering. A fable I devised in this sense will be found in the last chapter of the second volume of this work. In keeping with all this, everyone's sociability stands roughly in inverse proportion to his intellectual worth; and “He is very unsociable” almost amounts to saying “He is a man of great qualities.”

For an intellectually superior person, solitude affords a twofold advantage: first, that of being with himself; and second, that of not being with others. The latter will be rated highly if we consider how much constraint, trouble, and even danger every association brings with it. All our unhappiness comes from being unable to be alone, says La Bruyère. Sociability is among the dangerous, indeed destructive, inclinations, since it brings us into contact with beings whose great majority are morally bad and intellectually dull or wrongheaded. The unsociable person is someone who has no need of them. To have so much in oneself that one does not need company is a great good fortune for this reason alone: almost all our sufferings arise from society, and the peace of mind that, next to health, forms the most essential element of our happiness is endangered by all company, and therefore cannot exist without a considerable measure of solitude. To attain the happiness of mental peace, the Cynics renounce every possession; whoever renounces society with the same intention has chosen the wisest means. For what Bernardin de St. Pierre says is as apt as it is beautiful: Abstinence from food restores bodily health, and abstinence from people restores peace of soul. Thus anyone who early befriends solitude, indeed comes to love it, has acquired a gold mine. But by no means can everyone do this. For just as need originally drives people together, so, once it is removed, boredom does. Without both, everyone would probably remain alone, if only because solitude alone provides surroundings that correspond to the exclusive importance, indeed uniqueness, each person has in his own eyes, and which the press of the world reduces to nothing, painfully contradicting it at every step. In this sense solitude is even everyone's natural condition: it reinstates him, as the first Adam, in the original happiness appropriate to his nature.

But then Adam had neither father nor mother! For this reason, in another sense, solitude is not natural to a human being, insofar as on entering the world he found himself not alone but among parents and siblings, and thus in a community. Consequently, love of solitude cannot exist as an original inclination, but can arise only through experience and reflection; and this will take place in proportion to the development of one's own intellectual power, but also with increasing years. Hence, on the whole, everyone's social impulse will stand in inverse proportion to his age. A small child raises cries of fear and distress as soon as it is left alone for only a few minutes. For a boy, being alone is a severe penance. Young men readily associate with one another; only the nobler and more high-minded among them already seek solitude at times, though spending an entire day alone is still difficult for them. For a grown man, by contrast, this is easy: he can already be alone a great deal, and the older he grows, the more so. The old man, left as the sole survivor of vanished generations, and having partly outgrown life's pleasures and partly become dead to them, finds in solitude his true element. In individuals, however, this increasing inclination to seclusion and solitude will always take place in proportion to their intellectual worth. For, as I have said, it is not a purely natural inclination directly aroused by needs, but merely an effect of experience and reflection upon it, especially the acquired insight into the morally and intellectually wretched constitution of the vast majority of people. The worst of this is that, in the individual, his moral and intellectual imperfections conspire and play into each other's hands, producing all kinds of highly repellent phenomena that make association with most people distasteful, indeed intolerable. Thus, although a great many things in this world are very bad, society remains the worst of them, so that even Voltaire, the sociable Frenchman, had to say: The earth is covered with people who do not deserve to be spoken to. The gentle Petrarch, whose love of solitude was so strong and persistent, gives the same reason for this inclination:

I have always sought a solitary life(The riverbanks, the fields, the woods know it),To flee these crooked, shifty mindsThat have lost the road to heaven.

He develops the matter in the same spirit in his beautiful book On the Solitary Life, which seems to have served Zimmermann as a model for his famous work on solitude. Chamfort, in his sarcastic way, expresses precisely this merely secondary and indirect origin of unsociability when he says: People sometimes say of a man who lives alone, “He does not like society.” Often this is like saying of a man that he does not like walking, on the pretext that he does not willingly walk in the forest of Bondy in the evening[M]. But the gentle Christian Angelus Silesius, too, says exactly the same thing in his own manner and mythical language:

“Herod is an enemy; Joseph is reason,To whom God makes the danger known in dreams (in spirit).The world is Bethlehem, Egypt is solitude:Flee, my soul! Flee, or you will die of grief.”

[M] In the same spirit, Sadi says in the Gulistan (S. die Übers. v. Graf p. 65): “Since that time we have taken leave of society and set out on the path of seclusion, for safety lies in solitude.”

Giordano Bruno speaks in the same spirit: So many men who wished to taste heavenly life on earth said with one voice: “Behold, I fled far away and remained in solitude.” In the same spirit, Sadi the Persian reports of himself in the Gulistan: “Weary of my friends in Damascus, I withdrew into the desert near Jerusalem to seek the company of animals.” In short, all those whom Prometheus fashioned from finer clay have spoken in the same spirit. What enjoyment can they gain from association with beings to whom they can have any relation that establishes a community only through the lowest and least noble part of their own nature—the everyday, trivial, and vulgar in it—and who, being unable to rise to their level, have no recourse but to drag them down to their own, which consequently becomes their endeavor? Thus it is an aristocratic feeling that nourishes the inclination to seclusion and solitude. All scoundrels are pitiably sociable; the first sign, by contrast, that a person is of a nobler kind is that he takes no pleasure in others, but increasingly prefers solitude to their company, and then gradually, with the years, comes to see that, rare exceptions aside, the world offers only a choice between solitude and vulgarity. Even this, harsh as it sounds, Angelus Silesius himself, despite his Christian gentleness and love, could not leave unsaid:

“Solitude is needed; only do not be base:Then you can be in a desert everywhere.”

As for the great minds themselves, it is surely natural that these true educators of the entire human race should feel as little inclination for frequent association with the others as a schoolmaster feels to join in the games of the noisy troop of children around him. For they have come into the world to steer it toward truth across the sea of its errors, and to draw it up from the dark abyss of its crudity and vulgarity toward the light, toward cultivation and refinement; they must indeed live among the others without really belonging to them. From youth onward, therefore, they feel themselves to be beings noticeably different from the rest, but only gradually, with the years, come to a clear understanding of the matter. They then take care that physical distance from others is added to their intellectual distance, and allow no one to come close unless he himself is already more or less exempt from the general vulgarity.

All this shows, then, that love of solitude does not appear directly, as an original impulse, but develops indirectly, especially in nobler minds, and only by degrees—not without overcoming the natural social impulse, indeed, amid occasional opposition from Mephistophelean whisperings:

“Stop toying with your grief,Which feeds upon your life like a vulture:The worst of company makes you feelThat you are human among humans.”

Solitude is the lot of all outstanding minds: they will sometimes sigh over it, but will always choose it as the lesser of two evils. With advancing age, however, dare to be wise becomes ever easier and more natural in this respect, and in one's sixties the impulse toward solitude is truly natural, indeed instinctive. For everything now combines to promote it. The strongest pull toward company, love of women and the sexual drive, no longer operates; indeed, the sexlessness of old age lays the foundation for a certain self-sufficiency that gradually absorbs the social impulse altogether. One has recovered from a thousand delusions and follies; active life is mostly finished; one has nothing more to expect, no more plans or intentions; the generation to which one really belongs no longer lives; surrounded by an alien generation, one is already objectively and essentially alone. Meanwhile time's flight has quickened, and one would still like to put it to intellectual use. For provided the mind has retained its strength, the abundant knowledge and experience now acquired, the gradually completed working-through of all one's thoughts, and the practiced facility of all one's powers make study of every kind more interesting and easier than ever. One sees clearly into a thousand things that formerly lay as though in mist; one reaches conclusions and feels one's full superiority. Long experience has taught one to stop expecting much from people, since, taken as a whole, they do not belong to the sort who improve on closer acquaintance. Rather, one knows that, apart from rare strokes of luck, one will encounter nothing but very defective specimens of human nature, which are better left untouched. One is therefore no longer exposed to the usual delusions, soon recognizes what each person is, and will seldom feel the wish to enter into closer relations with him. Finally, especially if one recognizes in solitude a friend from youth, the habit of isolation and of keeping one's own company has been added and become second nature. Accordingly, the love of solitude, which formerly had to be wrested from the social impulse, is now entirely natural and simple: one is in solitude like a fish in water. Thus every excellent individuality, being consequently unlike the rest and therefore standing alone, feels oppressed in youth by this essential isolation, but relieved by it in old age.

Of course, everyone will enjoy this genuine advantage of age only in proportion to his intellectual powers, and thus the eminent mind above all; yet probably everyone does so to a lesser degree. Only extremely impoverished and vulgar natures will be as sociable in old age as before: they are burdensome to the company into which they no longer fit, and achieve at most being tolerated, whereas formerly they were sought out.

A teleological aspect can also be found in the inverse relation, just described, between the number of our years and the degree of our sociability. The younger a person is, the more he still has to learn in every respect. Now nature has directed him to the mutual instruction everyone receives through association with his fellows, with regard to which human society may be called a great Bell-Lancaster educational establishment, whereas books and schools are artificial institutions, since they lie outside nature's plan. It is therefore entirely fitting that the younger he is, the more diligently he attends the natural place of instruction.

Nothing is blessed in every respect, says Horace, and “No lotus without a stem,” runs an Indian proverb. Thus solitude, too, alongside so many advantages, has its small disadvantages and troubles, which, however, are slight compared with those of society; hence anyone who has something substantial within himself will always find it easier to manage without people than with them.—Among those disadvantages, however, there is one less readily brought to consciousness than the others, namely this: just as continually staying at home makes our body so sensitive to external influences that every cool breath of air affects it unhealthily, so prolonged seclusion and solitude make our feelings so sensitive that we feel disturbed, offended, or hurt by the most insignificant incidents, words, or even mere facial expressions; whereas someone who always remains amid the bustle takes no notice of such things.

But anyone, especially in his younger years, who, however often a justified displeasure with people has already driven him back into solitude, still cannot bear its desolation for long, I advise to accustom himself to taking a portion of his solitude into company. That is, he should learn to be alone to a certain degree even in company, and accordingly not immediately communicate his thoughts to others; on the other hand, he should not be too particular about what they say, but instead expect little of it, morally or intellectually, and thus strengthen in himself, toward their opinions, the indifference that is the surest means of always practicing a praiseworthy tolerance. Then, though in their midst, he will still not be entirely in their company, but will instead maintain a more purely objective attitude toward them. This will protect him from too close a contact with society, and thereby from any contamination or even injury. We even possess a dramatic portrayal worth reading of this restricted or entrenched sociability in Moratín's comedy The Café, or the New Comedy, in the character of Don Pedro, especially in the second and third scenes of the first act. In this sense, company may also be compared to a fire at which the wise person warms himself at a proper distance, without reaching into it like the fool, who then, after burning himself, flees into the cold of solitude and laments that fire burns.

10 Envy is natural to human beings; nevertheless it is both a vice and a misfortune[N]. We should therefore regard it as the enemy of our happiness and seek to stifle it like an evil demon. Seneca directs us toward this with the beautiful words: Let what is ours delight us without comparison: a man will never be happy if someone happier torments him (de ira III, 30), and again: When you have looked at how many are ahead of you, think how many follow behind (ep. 15). Thus we should look more often at those who are worse off than ourselves than at those who seem better off. Indeed, when real evils have befallen us, the most effective consolation, though flowing from the same source as envy, will be afforded by contemplating sufferings greater than our own, and next by associating with those who find themselves in the same situation as we do, with our companions in misfortune.

[N] People's envy shows how unhappy they feel; their constant attention to what others do and leave undone shows how bored they are.

So much for the active side of envy. On its passive side, we should consider that no hatred is as implacable as envy; hence we should not strive incessantly and eagerly to arouse it, but would do better to deny ourselves this pleasure, like many another, because of its dangerous consequences.—There are three aristocracies: 1. that of birth and rank, 2. the aristocracy of wealth, 3. the intellectual aristocracy. The last is really the most distinguished, and will be acknowledged as such if only it is given time. Frederick the Great himself said: Privileged souls rank as the equals of sovereigns—and said it to his court marshal, who objected that, while ministers and generals ate at the marshal's table, Voltaire was to take a place at a table occupied only by reigning sovereigns and their princes.—Each of these aristocracies is surrounded by an army of envious people, secretly embittered against every one of its members and, if they have no reason to fear him, striving in various ways to give him to understand, “You are no more than we are!” But these very efforts betray their conviction of the opposite. The course the envied person should take in response consists in keeping all members of this host at a distance and avoiding every contact with them as far as possible, so that a wide gulf keeps them apart; where this is not possible, it consists in bearing their efforts with the utmost composure, since their source itself neutralizes them. And we do indeed see this course consistently followed. Those belonging to one aristocracy, on the other hand, will generally get along well and without envy with those of either of the other two, because each sets his own advantage in the balance against the other's.

11 Before putting a plan into action, consider it maturely and repeatedly; and even after thinking everything through most thoroughly, still make some allowance for the inadequacy of all human knowledge, owing to which there may always be circumstances impossible to discover or foresee that could invalidate the entire calculation. This consideration will always put a weight in the negative pan of the scales and advise us, in important matters, to disturb nothing without necessity: Do not move what is at rest. But once we have reached a decision and put our hand to the work, so that everything must now take its course and only the outcome remains to be awaited, we should not torment ourselves by constantly reconsidering what has already been done and repeatedly pondering the possible danger. Rather, we should now put the matter entirely out of mind, keep its whole compartment of thought closed, and reassure ourselves with the conviction that we considered everything maturely at the proper time. This advice is also given by the Italian proverb Tie it well, and then let it go, which Goethe translates as “Saddle well, and ride with confidence”—just as, incidentally, a large proportion of the maxims he gives under the heading “Proverbial” are translated Italian proverbs.—If a bad outcome nevertheless comes, it is because all human affairs are subject to chance and error. That Socrates, the wisest of men, needed a warning daimonion merely to make the right choice in his own personal affairs, or at least to avoid missteps, proves that no human understanding suffices for this. Hence the saying, supposedly originating with a pope, that we ourselves bear at least some blame for every misfortune that befalls us, is not unconditionally true in every case, although it is in by far the most. Indeed, a feeling of this seems to play a large part in people's attempts to conceal their unhappiness as far as possible and put on a contented face as far as they can. They fear that others will infer guilt from suffering.

12 When an unfortunate event has already occurred and can therefore no longer be changed, we should not even allow ourselves the thought that things could be otherwise, still less the thought of how it could have been prevented; for this is precisely what heightens the pain to the unbearable, so that we become our own tormentors. Rather, we should act like King David, who, as long as his son lay sick, unceasingly besieged Jehovah with prayers and entreaties, but when the boy was dead snapped his fingers and gave it no further thought. Anyone not lighthearted enough for this should take refuge in the fatalistic standpoint, making clear to himself the great truth that everything that happens occurs necessarily, and is therefore unavoidable.

For all that, this rule is one-sided. It is useful, certainly, for our immediate relief and reassurance in misfortune; but if, as is usually the case, our own carelessness or rashness is at least partly to blame, repeated, painful reflection on how it could have been prevented is a salutary self-chastisement for our instruction and improvement, and thus for the future. And when we have committed obvious mistakes, we should not, as we generally do, try to excuse, embellish, or minimize them to ourselves, but admit them and set them clearly before our eyes in their full magnitude, so as to form a firm resolve to avoid them in future. Admittedly, in doing so we must inflict on ourselves the great pain of dissatisfaction with ourselves; but a person who is not beaten is not educated.

13 In everything that concerns our well-being or misery, we should keep the imagination on a tight rein: first of all, then, build no castles in the air, because they are too costly, since immediately afterward we must tear them down again amid sighs. But even more should we guard against frightening our hearts by painting pictures of merely possible misfortunes. For if these were wholly plucked out of the air, or at least very far-fetched, then on waking from such a dream we would immediately know that it had all been mere illusion, and would therefore rejoice all the more in the better reality, perhaps taking from it a warning against very remote though possible misfortunes. But our imagination does not readily play with such things: in a wholly idle way it builds, at most, cheerful castles in the air. The material for its dark dreams consists of misfortunes that, however remotely, do to some extent really threaten us: these it enlarges, brings their possibility much closer than it truly is, and paints them in the most terrifying colors. On waking, we cannot shake off such a dream as readily as a cheerful one; for reality immediately refutes the latter and leaves at most a faint hope in the lap of possibility. But if we have surrendered ourselves to dark fantasies (blue devils), they have brought images close to us that do not readily withdraw again: for the possibility of the thing in general is established, and we cannot at all times apply a measure to its degree. It now easily becomes a probability, and we have delivered ourselves into the hands of fear. We should therefore consider things that concern our well-being or misery solely with the eye of reason and judgment, and consequently operate by dry, cool deliberation, with mere concepts and in the abstract. The imagination should be kept out of the game, for it cannot judge, but merely sets images before our eyes that move our feelings uselessly and often very painfully. This rule should be observed most strictly in the evening. For just as darkness makes us fearful and causes us to see terrifying shapes everywhere, so, analogously, does indistinctness of thought, because every uncertainty breeds insecurity. Thus in the evening, when exhaustion has overlaid understanding and judgment with a subjective darkness, when the intellect is tired and agitated and cannot get to the bottom of things, the objects of our meditation, if they concern our personal circumstances, readily take on a dangerous appearance and turn into phantoms of terror. This happens most of all at night in bed, when the mind is wholly exhausted and judgment therefore no longer equal to its task, while the imagination is still active. Then night gives everything its black coloring. Hence our thoughts before falling asleep, or even on waking during the night, are generally almost as grievous distortions and perversions of things as dreams are, and, if they concern personal affairs, usually pitch-black, indeed horrifying. By morning all such phantoms of terror have vanished, just like dreams; this is the meaning of the Spanish proverb: Night is tinted, day is white (the night is colored, the day is white). But even in the evening, as soon as the light is lit, the understanding, like the eye, does not see as clearly as by day: this time is therefore unsuitable for meditation on serious, especially unpleasant, affairs. Morning is the right time for this, as indeed it is for all accomplishments without exception, intellectual as well as physical. For morning is the youth of the day: everything is cheerful, fresh, and easy; we feel strong and have all our faculties entirely at our disposal. We should not shorten it by getting up late, nor squander it on unworthy occupations or conversations, but regard it as the quintessence of life and keep it, in a sense, sacred. Evening, by contrast, is the old age of the day: in the evening we are weary, talkative, and frivolous.—Every day is a little life—every waking and rising a little birth, every fresh morning a little youth, and every going to bed and falling asleep a little death.

In general, however, our state of health, sleep, nourishment, temperature, weather, surroundings, and much else that is external exert a powerful influence on our mood, and this in turn on our thoughts. Hence our view of a matter, like our capacity for an achievement, is so dependent on time and even place. Therefore,

“Make use of a good mood,For it comes so seldom.”

We must wait to see whether and when objective conceptions and original thoughts choose to come; even thorough consideration of a personal matter does not always succeed at the time we have appointed in advance and sat down for it. It too chooses its own time, when the train of thought appropriate to it awakens unbidden and we follow it with full involvement.

The recommended restraint of the imagination also means not allowing it to bring back before us and paint anew injustices, damage, losses, insults, slights, hurts, and the like that we suffered in the past, because in doing so we reawaken long-dormant indignation, anger, and all the hateful passions, polluting our inner life. For, according to a beautiful analogy offered by the Neoplatonist Proclus, just as every city contains, alongside its noble and distinguished inhabitants, a rabble of every kind, so in every person, even the noblest and most elevated, all that is lowest and most vulgar in human, indeed animal, nature is present as a disposition. This rabble must not be stirred to riot, nor allowed to look out of the windows, since it makes an ugly sight; but the imaginative scenes just described are its demagogues. Here too belongs the fact that the smallest vexation, whether originating in people or things, can swell into a monster that drives us out of our minds if we keep brooding over it and painting it in glaring colors on an enlarged scale. Rather, we should view everything unpleasant as prosaically and soberly as possible, so that we can take it as lightly as possible.

Just as small objects held close to the eye restrict our field of vision and hide the world, so the people and things in our immediate surroundings, however utterly insignificant and unimportant they may be, will often occupy our attention and thoughts beyond all due measure, and in an unpleasing way at that, displacing important thoughts and affairs. We should work against this.

14 At the sight of something we do not possess, the thought very readily rises in us: “What if that were mine?” and makes us feel the lack of it. Instead, we should ask more often: “What if that were not mine?” I mean that we should sometimes try to look at what we possess as it would appear to us after we had lost it—and everything, whatever it may be: property, health, friends, beloved, wife, child, horse, and dog; for usually only loss teaches us the value of things. By contrast, the recommended way of considering them will, first, immediately make their possession give us more happiness than before, and second, make us take every precaution against losing them: not endangering our property, not angering our friends, not exposing our wife's fidelity to temptation, watching over our children's health, and so on.—We often seek to brighten the gloom of the present by speculating on favorable possibilities, and invent all kinds of chimerical hopes, each pregnant with a disappointment that will not fail to arrive when the hope shatters against harsh reality. It would be better to make the many unfavorable possibilities the object of our speculation, since this would lead partly to precautions against them and partly to pleasant surprises when they do not materialize. After all, we are always noticeably cheerful after enduring a certain amount of fear. Indeed, it is even good occasionally to picture great misfortunes that might possibly befall us, in order to bear more easily the much smaller ones that actually do befall us afterward, since we can then console ourselves by looking back at those great ones that did not occur. Yet in following this rule, we must not neglect the one preceding it.

15 Because the affairs and events that concern us appear and run across one another quite separately, without order or relation to one another, in the starkest contrast, with nothing in common except that they are our affairs, our thinking and worrying about them must be equally abrupt if it is to match them.—Accordingly, when we take up one matter, we must abstract from all the rest and dismiss them from our minds, so as to attend to, enjoy, or endure each thing in its own time, wholly unconcerned with the remainder: we must have drawers, as it were, for our thoughts, opening one while all the others remain closed. In this way we ensure that a heavily pressing care does not blight every small enjoyment of the present and rob us of all peace; that one deliberation does not displace another; that concern for one important affair does not lead to neglect of many lesser ones, and so on. Above all, however, anyone capable of lofty and noble reflections should never allow his mind to be so entirely occupied and filled by personal affairs and low concerns that they bar those reflections from entering: for that would truly be to lose, for life's sake, the reasons for living.—Admittedly, this directing and redirecting of ourselves, like so much else, requires self-restraint; but we should be strengthened in it by the reflection that everyone must endure a great deal of severe external constraint, without which no life passes, while a little self-restraint applied in the right place prevents much external constraint later on, just as a small arc of a circle close to the center corresponds to an arc often a hundred times greater at the circumference. Nothing frees us so much from external constraint as self-restraint: this is what Seneca's saying means: If you wish to subject everything to yourself, subject yourself to reason (ep. 37). Moreover, self-restraint always remains in our power, and in an extreme case, or where it touches our most sensitive point, we can ease it somewhat; external constraint, by contrast, is inconsiderate, unrelenting, and merciless. It is therefore wise to forestall the latter by means of the former.

16 To set a limit to our wishes, keep our desires in check, tame our anger, always remembering that only an infinitely small portion of all that is desirable is attainable by the individual, whereas many evils must befall everyone—in a word, to refrain and endure, abstain and endure—is a rule without whose observance neither wealth nor power can prevent us from feeling wretched. This is what Horace means:

In all you do, read and inquire of the learnedHow you may pass your life in quiet ease;Lest ever-needy desire harass and torment you,Or fear, or hope for things of middling use.

17 “Life consists in motion” (Life is sustained by movement), says Aristotle, with evident justice; and just as our physical life therefore exists only in and through unceasing movement, so our inner, intellectual life continually requires occupation—occupation with something, through doing or thinking. Evidence of this is already supplied by the drumming with hands or some implement to which unoccupied and thoughtless people immediately resort. For our existence is essentially restless: hence complete inactivity soon becomes intolerable to us by producing the most dreadful boredom. We should regulate this impulse, then, so as to satisfy it methodically, and thereby better. Thus activity, pursuing something, if possible making something, but at least learning something, is indispensable to human happiness: our powers demand to be used, and we would like to perceive the result of their use in some way. In this respect, however, the greatest satisfaction comes from making something, producing it, whether a basket or a book; to see a work grow daily under our hands and finally reach completion gives immediate happiness. A work of art, a piece of writing, even mere handiwork, supplies this; admittedly, the nobler the kind of work, the higher the enjoyment. Happiest in this respect are the highly gifted, who are conscious of their capacity to produce significant, great, and coherent works. For through this, an interest of a higher kind spreads over their entire existence and gives it a flavor lacking in that of the others, which, compared with theirs, is therefore quite insipid. For them, life and the world possess, besides the material interest common to all, a second and higher, a formal interest, since they contain the material for their works, which they are busily engaged in collecting throughout their lives whenever personal need gives them any breathing room. Their intellect, too, is in a sense twofold: one part for ordinary relationships—the affairs of the will—like everyone else's; another for the purely objective apprehension of things. Thus they live a double life, spectators and actors at once, while the rest are only the latter.—Meanwhile, let everyone pursue something in accordance with his abilities. For how harmfully the lack of purposeful activity, of some kind of work, affects us becomes apparent on long pleasure trips, when from time to time we feel positively unhappy, because without a real occupation we have been torn, as it were, from our natural element. To toil and struggle against resistance is as necessary to a human being as digging is to a mole. The standstill brought about by the all-sufficiency of lasting enjoyment would be intolerable to him. Overcoming obstacles is the fullest enjoyment of his existence, whether they are material, as in action and business, or intellectual, as in learning and research: struggling with them and winning makes him happy. If he lacks the opportunity, he creates it as he can: according to his individuality, he will hunt, play cup-and-ball, or, guided by the unconscious pull of his nature, seek quarrels, spin intrigues, or engage in frauds and all kinds of villainy, merely to put an end to the state of rest he finds intolerable. Peace is difficult in idleness.

18 We should take not images of the imagination but clearly conceived concepts as the guiding star of our endeavors. Yet the reverse usually happens. For on closer examination we shall find that what ultimately tips the balance in our decisions is generally not concepts and judgments, but an imagined picture representing and standing for one of the alternatives. I no longer remember in which novel by Voltaire or Diderot, when the hero was a young man, a Hercules at the crossroads, virtue always appeared to him in the shape of his old tutor, holding a snuffbox in his left hand and a pinch of snuff in his right, moralizing in this posture; vice, on the other hand, appeared in the shape of his mother's chambermaid.—Especially in youth, the goal of our happiness becomes fixed in the form of certain pictures that float before us and often persist through half, indeed the whole, of life. They are really teasing phantoms: for once we have reached them, they dissolve into nothing as we discover that they deliver none of what they promised. Such are particular scenes of domestic, civic, social, or rural life; pictures of home, surroundings, decorations of honor, marks of respect, and so on and so on. Every fool has his hobbyhorse; the image of the beloved often belongs here too. It is surely natural that we should fare this way: for what is perceived, being immediate, also acts more immediately on our will than a concept, an abstract thought, which gives only the universal without the particular, even though it is precisely the particular that contains reality; it can therefore act on our will only indirectly. And yet it is the concept alone that keeps its word; hence it is a mark of cultivation to trust only it. Admittedly, it may sometimes need illustration and paraphrase through a few images, but only with a grain of salt.

19 The preceding rule can be subsumed under the more general one that we should everywhere master the impression made by what is present and, in general, directly perceived. Compared with what is merely thought and known, this impression is disproportionately strong, not by virtue of its matter and content, which are often very slight, but by virtue of its form, its perceptibility and immediacy, which presses upon our feelings and disturbs their peace or shakes their resolutions. For what is present, what is perceived, being easily taken in at a glance, always acts with its whole force at once; thoughts and reasons, by contrast, require time and quiet to be thought through piece by piece, so that we cannot have them wholly present at every moment. Consequently, something pleasant that we have renounced after reflection still tempts us at the sight of it; likewise, a judgment whose complete incompetence we know still hurts us; an insult whose contemptibility we recognize still angers us; likewise, ten reasons against the existence of a danger are outweighed by the false appearance of its actual presence, and so on. In all these cases, the original irrationality of our nature asserts itself. Women, too, will often succumb to an impression of this kind, and few men possess such a predominance of reason that they do not suffer from its effects. Where we cannot entirely overcome it by mere thoughts, the best course is to neutralize one impression by its opposite: for example, the impression of an insult by seeking out those who esteem us; the impression of a threatening danger by actually contemplating what counteracts it. Even that Italian of whom Leibniz tells us (in the nouveaux essais, Liv. I, c. 2, § 11) was able to withstand the pains of torture by never, throughout it, letting the image of the gallows to which his confession would have brought him escape his imagination for a moment, as he had resolved; for this reason he cried from time to time, I see you—words he later explained in this way.—For the very reason considered here, when all those around us hold a different opinion and behave accordingly, it is difficult not to be shaken by them, even when we are convinced of their error. To a fugitive, persecuted king traveling in earnest incognito, the ceremonial deference shown in private by his trusted companion must be an almost necessary strengthening of the heart, lest he end by doubting himself.

20 Having already emphasized in the second chapter the high value of health, as the first and most important thing for our happiness, I shall give here a few very general rules of conduct for strengthening and preserving it.

We should harden ourselves by imposing plenty of exertion and hardship on the body, both as a whole and in every part, as long as we are healthy, and by accustoming ourselves to resist adverse influences of every kind. But as soon as an unhealthy condition makes itself known, whether in the whole or in one part, we must immediately adopt the opposite procedure and spare and tend the sick body, or part of it, in every way; for what is suffering and weakened cannot be hardened.

A muscle is strengthened by vigorous use; a nerve, by contrast, is weakened by it. Thus we should exercise our muscles through every suitable exertion, but protect the nerves from all such strain: the eyes, then, from overly bright, especially reflected light, from every exertion in twilight, and from prolonged looking at objects that are too small; likewise the ears from excessive noise; but above all the brain from forced, overprolonged, or ill-timed exertion. Accordingly, we should let it rest during digestion, because the very same vital force that forms thoughts in the brain is then working strenuously in the stomach and intestines to prepare chyme and chyle; likewise during, or even after, considerable muscular exertion. For the motor nerves behave like the sensory ones; and just as the pain we feel in injured limbs has its true seat in the brain, so it is not really the legs and arms that walk and work, but the brain—namely the part of it that, by way of the medulla oblongata and spinal cord, excites the nerves of those limbs and thereby sets them in motion. Accordingly, the fatigue we feel in our legs or arms also has its true seat in the brain; for this very reason only those muscles whose movement is voluntary, that is, proceeds from the brain, grow tired, whereas those that work involuntarily, like the heart, do not. Clearly, then, the brain is impaired if we force it to perform strenuous muscular activity and intellectual exertion at the same time, or even in close succession. This does not conflict with the fact that at the beginning of a walk, or on short walks in general, we often feel heightened mental activity: for then the brain parts in question have not yet become fatigued, and on the other hand, such light muscular activity and the increased respiration it causes promote the ascent to the brain of arterial blood, now also better oxygenated.—Above all, however, we should give the brain the full measure of sleep needed for its restoration; for sleep is to the whole person what winding is to a clock. (Vergl. Welt als Wille und Vorstellung II, 217.—3. Aufl. II, 240.) This measure will be greater the more developed and active the brain is; to exceed it, however, would merely waste time, because sleep then loses in intensity what it gains in extent. (Vergl. Welt als Wille und Vorstellung II, 247.—3. Aufl. II, 275.)[O] In general, we should understand clearly that our thinking is nothing but the organic function of the brain, and accordingly behaves analogously to every other organic activity with respect to exertion and rest. As excessive strain damages the eyes, so it damages the brain. It has rightly been said that the brain thinks as the stomach digests. The delusion of an immaterial, simple soul, essentially and always thinking, and consequently untiring, which merely lodges in the brain and needs nothing in the world, has certainly led many to senseless practices and the blunting of their intellectual powers—as, for example, Frederick the Great once tried to give up sleeping altogether. Professors of philosophy would do well not to promote such a delusion, ruinous even in practice, through their distaff philosophy that aims to conform to the catechism.—We should accustom ourselves to regarding our intellectual powers entirely as physiological functions, so as to treat, spare, exert them, and so on accordingly, and to remember that every physical suffering, discomfort, or disorder, in whatever part, affects the mind. The best preparation for this is Cabanis, On the Relations between the Physical and Moral Aspects of Man.

[O] Sleep is a piece of death that we borrow in advance, receiving in exchange the renewal and restoration of the life exhausted by a day. Sleep is a loan taken out from death. Sleep borrows from death to maintain life. Or: it is the interim interest on death, which itself is repayment of the principal. The more generous the interest and the more regularly it is paid, the later that repayment will be demanded.

Neglect of the advice given here is the reason some great minds, and great scholars too, have become feebleminded, childish, and even insane in old age. That the celebrated English poets of this century, for example, such as Walter Scott, Wordsworth, Southey, and others, became mentally dull and incapable in old age, indeed already in their sixties, and even sank into imbecility, is doubtless to be explained by their all having practiced authorship as a trade, lured by high fees, and thus having written for money. This tempts one to unnatural exertion; and whoever harnesses his Pegasus to the yoke and drives his Muse with a whip will pay for it in a way analogous to someone who has rendered forced service to Venus. I suspect that Kant, too, in his later years, after at last becoming famous, overworked himself and thereby brought on the second childhood of his final four years.—

Every month of the year has a distinctive and immediate influence—that is, one independent of the weather—on our health, our physical condition generally, and indeed our mental condition too.

C. Concerning our conduct toward others.

21 To make one's way through the world, it is advisable to take along a large supply of caution and forbearance: the former protects us from damage and loss, the latter from disputes and quarrels.

Anyone who must live among people must not unconditionally reject any individuality, since it has once and for all been established and given by nature—not even the worst, most pitiful, or most ridiculous. Rather, he must take it as something unalterable, which, in consequence of an eternal and metaphysical principle, must be as it is; and in bad cases he should think: “There must be such odd creatures too.” If he does otherwise, he commits an injustice and challenges the other person to a war to the death. For no one can change his essential individuality: his moral character, powers of understanding, temperament, physiognomy, and so forth. If we condemn his nature entirely, he has no recourse but to fight us as a mortal enemy, for we are willing to grant him the right to exist only on condition that he become someone other than he unalterably is. To be able to live among people, then, we must allow everyone, with his given individuality, however it may have turned out, to exist and count for something, and may concern ourselves only with making use of it as its kind and constitution permit; we must neither hope to change it nor condemn it outright as it is[P]. This is the true meaning of the saying “Live and let live.” The task, however, is not as easy as it is just, and anyone who can avoid a good many individualities forever should count himself fortunate.—Meanwhile, to learn to endure people, we should exercise our patience on inanimate objects that stubbornly resist our actions by mechanical or other physical necessity, for which there is daily opportunity. We afterward learn to transfer the patience acquired in this way to people by accustoming ourselves to think that whenever they obstruct us, they too must do so by a necessity arising from their nature just as strict as that by which inanimate things act; hence it is as foolish to grow indignant at what they do as at a stone that rolls into our path.

[P] With some people, the wisest thought is: “I shall not change him, so I shall make use of him.”

22 It is astonishing how easily and quickly similarity or dissimilarity of intellect and disposition reveals itself between people in conversation: it makes itself felt in every trifle. Even if the conversation concerns the most remote, indifferent things, between essentially dissimilar people almost every sentence spoken by one will more or less displease the other, and some will positively annoy him. Similar people, by contrast, immediately feel a certain agreement in everything, which, where the similarity is great, soon flows into perfect harmony, indeed into unison. This explains, first, why entirely ordinary people are so sociable and so easily find very good company everywhere—such thoroughly dear, decent people. With the unusual it is the reverse, and all the more so the more distinguished they are; so that in their isolation they can sometimes positively rejoice to have discovered in another person even a single fiber akin to themselves, however small it may be! For each person can be only as much to the other as the other is to him. Truly great minds, like eagles on the heights, nest alone.—Second, this makes it understandable how like-minded people find one another so quickly, as if drawn together magnetically: kindred souls greet each other from afar. Admittedly, one will most often have occasion to observe this among the base-minded or poorly endowed, but only because they exist in legions, whereas better and more excellent natures are, and are called, rare. Accordingly, in a large association directed toward practical ends, for example, two genuine scoundrels will recognize each other as quickly as though they wore a field insignia, and will immediately join forces to plot abuse or betrayal. Likewise, if we imagine, impossible though it may be, a large gathering composed entirely of very sensible and intelligent people, except for two fools who were also there, these two will feel drawn toward each other by sympathy, and soon each will rejoice in his heart to have met at least one reasonable man after all. It is truly remarkable to witness how two people, especially from among the morally and intellectually backward, recognize each other at first sight, eagerly strive to approach, and rush toward each other with friendly, joyful greetings, as though they were old acquaintances; so striking is it that one is tempted, in accordance with the Buddhist doctrine of transmigration, to suppose that they had already been friends in a former life.

What keeps people apart, however, even where there is much agreement, and may also produce temporary disharmony between them, is the difference in their present moods, which are almost always different for each person, according to his present circumstances, occupation, surroundings, physical condition, current train of thought, and so on. From this arise dissonances between the most harmonious personalities. To be able always to make the correction needed to remove this disturbance and introduce an equal temperament would be an achievement of the highest cultivation. How much a shared mood contributes to social intercourse can be gauged from the fact that even a large gathering is stirred to lively mutual communication and sincere interest, amid universal contentment, as soon as something objective—a danger, a hope, a piece of news, an unusual sight, a play, music, or anything else—acts upon everyone at once and in the same way. For such a thing, by overpowering all private interests, produces a universal unity of mood. In the absence of such an objective influence, a subjective one is generally adopted, and bottles are accordingly the usual means of bringing a shared mood into company. Even tea and coffee serve this purpose.

Yet this very disharmony, which differences of momentary mood so readily introduce into every association, partly explains why everyone appears idealized, indeed sometimes almost transfigured, in memory, which is free from this and all similar disturbing, though passing, influences. Memory works like the converging lens in a camera obscura: it draws everything together and thereby produces a much more beautiful image than its original. We gain the advantage of being seen in this way partly through any absence. For although idealizing memory needs a considerable time to complete its work, it begins at once. For this reason it is even wise to appear before one's acquaintances and good friends only at substantial intervals; on meeting them again, one will then notice that memory has already been at work.

23 No one can see above himself. By this I mean that everyone sees in another only as much as he himself is; for he can grasp and understand him only in proportion to his own intelligence. If this is of the lowest kind, all intellectual gifts, even the greatest, will fail to have any effect on him, and in their possessor he will perceive only what is lowest in his individuality: all his weaknesses, faults of temperament and character. For him, these will make up the man. The other's higher intellectual powers have no more existence for him than color does for the blind. For all minds are invisible to someone who has none; and every estimation is the product of the worth of what is esteemed multiplied by the estimator's range of understanding. It follows that we level ourselves with everyone to whom we speak, since everything in which we may surpass him disappears, and even the self-denial required for this remains entirely unrecognized. If we now consider how thoroughly low-minded and poorly endowed, and thus how thoroughly common, most people are, we shall see that it is impossible to speak with them without, for that time, becoming common ourselves, by analogy with electrostatic induction. We shall then thoroughly understand the true sense and aptness of the expression “making oneself common,” but also gladly avoid any company with which we can communicate only through the shameful part of our nature. We shall also see that, in the presence of dullards and fools, there is only one way to display our understanding, and that is not to talk to them. Admittedly, however, in company some people will then sometimes feel like a dancer who has come to a ball and found nothing but people who are lame: with whom is he to dance?

24 That person wins my high esteem, as one chosen out of a hundred, who, when he has something to wait for and is therefore sitting unoccupied, does not immediately begin rhythmically tapping or rattling whatever happens to come to hand—his stick, perhaps, or knife and fork, or anything else. He is probably thinking about something. Many people, by contrast, plainly show that seeing has entirely taken the place of thinking in them: they seek to make themselves conscious of their existence by rattling, if, that is, there is no cigar at hand, which serves precisely the same purpose. For the same reason they are also constantly all eyes and ears for everything happening around them.

25 Rochefoucauld aptly observed that it is difficult to esteem someone highly and love him greatly at the same time. Accordingly, we would have to choose whether to seek people's love or their esteem. Their love is always self-interested, though in very different ways. Moreover, the means by which it is gained are not always such as to make us proud. A person will chiefly be liked in proportion to how low he sets his demands on the minds and hearts of others—and does so in earnest, without pretense, and not merely from the forbearance rooted in contempt. If we now recall Helvétius's very true saying, The degree of intelligence needed to please us is a fairly exact measure of the degree of intelligence we possess, the conclusion follows from these premises.—With people's esteem, by contrast, it is the reverse: it is wrested from them only against their will, and for that very reason is generally concealed. Hence it gives us inwardly a much greater satisfaction: it is connected with our worth, which does not directly hold of people's love, for love is subjective, esteem objective. Love, of course, is more useful to us.

26 Most people are so subjective that fundamentally nothing interests them except themselves alone. Hence, at everything said, they immediately think of themselves, and every accidental connection, however remote, with something personal to them seizes and occupies their whole attention, so that they have no power of comprehension left for the objective subject of the conversation; likewise, no reasons carry any weight with them as soon as their interest or vanity opposes them. Thus they are so easily distracted, so easily hurt, insulted, or offended that, when speaking objectively with them about anything at all, one cannot take enough care against any possible, perhaps unfavorable, connections between what is said and the precious, delicate self before one. For this alone concerns them, and nothing else; and while they have no sense or feeling for the truth and aptness, or beauty, subtlety, and wit of another person's speech, they are exquisitely sensitive to anything that might, even in the remotest or most indirect way, wound their petty vanity or reflect at all unfavorably upon their supremely precious self. In their vulnerability they resemble little dogs whose paws one so easily steps on without intending to, and must then listen to the squealing; or they may be compared to a sick person covered with wounds and boils, with whom one must most cautiously avoid every possible touch. With some, however, the matter goes so far that they feel intelligence and understanding displayed in conversation with them, or at least not sufficiently concealed, as a downright insult, though for the time being they still hide it; afterward, the inexperienced person vainly wonders and broods over how on earth he could have incurred their resentment and hatred.—But they are just as easily flattered and won over. Hence their judgment is generally bribed, and is merely a pronouncement in favor of their party or class, not an objective and just one. All this rests on the fact that in them the will far outweighs knowledge, and their scant intellect stands entirely in the will's service, unable to free itself from it even for a moment.

A magnificent proof of people's pitiful subjectivity, in consequence of which they relate everything to themselves and return in a straight line from every thought to themselves, is supplied by astrology, which relates the courses of the great celestial bodies to the miserable ego, and also connects comets in the sky with earthly squabbles and rascalities. Yet this has been done at all times, even in the most ancient. (S. z. B. Stob. Eclog. L. I, c. 22, 9, pag. 478.)

27 Whenever some absurdity is spoken in public or in company, or written in literature, and well received, or at least not refuted, we should not despair and suppose that matters will now rest there. Rather, we should know and take comfort in the fact that afterward, and gradually, the matter will be ruminated upon, illuminated, considered, weighed, discussed, and usually judged correctly in the end; so that, after an interval proportionate to its difficulty, almost everyone will finally grasp what the clear mind saw at once. Meanwhile, of course, we must be patient. For a man of sound insight among the deluded resembles someone whose watch keeps the right time in a town where all the tower clocks are set wrong. He alone knows the true time, but what good does it do him? Everyone goes by the town clocks that show it falsely—even those who know that his watch alone gives the true time.

28 People resemble children in becoming naughty when spoiled; hence we must not be too indulgent or affectionate toward anyone. Just as we will generally not lose a friend by refusing him a loan, but very easily by giving it, so we will not easily lose one through proud and somewhat neglectful behavior, but often through too much friendliness and obligingness, which make him arrogant and unbearable, thereby bringing about the breach. Above all, people simply cannot bear the thought that we need them: insolence and presumption are its inseparable followers. In some this thought arises, to a certain degree, merely because we associate with them, perhaps speaking with them often or in a familiar manner: immediately they will suppose that we must also put up with something from them, and will try to extend the bounds of politeness. Hence so few are suited to any closer association, and we should take special care not to make ourselves familiar with low natures. But if someone actually forms the idea that he is much more necessary to me than I am to him, he immediately feels as though I had stolen something from him: he will seek revenge and try to get it back. Superiority in personal dealings arises solely from not needing others in any way, and letting this be seen. For this reason, it is advisable to make everyone, man or woman, feel from time to time that we could manage perfectly well without them: this strengthens friendship. Indeed, with most people it can do no harm to let a grain of disdain toward them slip in now and then; they will value our friendship all the more. He who does not esteem is esteemed (whoever does not show regard is regarded), says a shrewd Italian proverb. But if someone is genuinely of very great value to us, we must conceal this from him as though it were a crime. This is not exactly pleasing, but it is true. Dogs can scarcely bear great friendliness, let alone human beings.

29 That people of a nobler kind and higher gifts so often betray a striking lack of knowledge of people and worldly wisdom, especially in youth, and are therefore easily deceived or otherwise misled, while low natures find their way in the world much faster and better, is because, in the absence of experience, we must judge a priori, and because, in general, no experience can equal the a priori. For their own selves put this a priori into the hands of those of the ordinary sort, but not into those of the noble and excellent, since precisely as such they differ widely from the others. Thus when they calculate others' thinking and actions according to their own, the calculation does not come out right.

But even when such a person has finally learned a posteriori, that is, through instruction from others and his own experience, what is to be expected of people taken as a whole—namely, that about 5/6 of them are so constituted, morally or intellectually, that anyone not brought into connection with them by circumstances does better to avoid them from the outset and, as far as possible, remain entirely out of contact with them—he will nevertheless scarcely ever attain an adequate conception of their pettiness and wretchedness, but will continually have to extend and complete it as long as he lives, meanwhile very often miscalculating to his own detriment. And then again, even after he has truly taken the instruction received to heart, it will still sometimes happen that, on entering a gathering of people as yet unknown to him, he has to wonder how they all, judging by their speech and expressions, appear quite reasonable, honest, sincere, honorable, and virtuous, and perhaps even clever and intelligent as well. Yet this should not mislead him: it comes merely from nature's not proceeding like bad poets, who, when depicting scoundrels or fools, go about it so clumsily and pointedly that behind each such character we seem to see the poet standing, continually disavowing his sentiments and speech and crying in a warning voice: “This is a scoundrel, this is a fool; put no trust in what he says.” Nature, by contrast, proceeds like Shakespeare and Goethe, in whose works every character, even if it is the devil himself, remains in the right while he stands there speaking, because he is conceived so objectively that we are drawn into his interests and compelled to take part in them: for, just like the works of nature, he is developed from an inner principle by virtue of which his words and actions appear natural, and therefore necessary.—Thus anyone who expects devils in the world to go about with horns and fools with bells will always be their prey or their plaything. Added to this is the fact that in personal dealings people behave like the moon and hunchbacks, namely, they always show only one side; indeed, everyone has an innate talent for working his physiognomy, through facial expression, into a mask that represents exactly what he really ought to be, and which, being calculated exclusively for his individuality, lies upon and fits him so precisely that the effect is exceedingly deceptive. He puts it on whenever it is a matter of ingratiating himself. We should put as much trust in it as if it were made of oilcloth, remembering the excellent Italian proverb: No dog is so vicious that it does not wag its tail (no dog is so bad that it would not wag its tail).

In any case, we should take great care not to form a very favorable opinion of any new acquaintance; otherwise, in the great majority of cases, we shall be disappointed, to our embarrassment or even our harm.—The following also deserves consideration here: it is precisely in little things, where a person is not on guard, that character reveals itself. In insignificant actions and mere manners we can often readily observe the boundless selfishness that knows not the slightest consideration for others and will later assert itself in larger matters, though in disguise. We should not miss such opportunities. If someone behaves inconsiderately in the small daily events and relations of life, in matters to which the law does not concern itself with trifles applies; if he seeks only his own advantage or convenience to others' detriment, appropriates what is there for everyone, and so on, we may be certain there is no justice in his heart. He will be a scoundrel in larger matters too, whenever law and force do not tie his hands; trust him no farther than the threshold. Indeed, someone who unashamedly breaks the rules of his club will also break the laws of the state as soon as he can do so without danger[Q].

[Q] If good outweighed evil in people as they generally are, it would be more advisable to rely on their justice, fairness, gratitude, loyalty, love, or compassion than on their fear. But since the reverse is true of them, the reverse is more advisable.

If someone with whom we have dealings or associate has done something unpleasant or vexatious to us, we need only ask whether he is worth so much to us that we are willing to put up with the same thing from him again, repeatedly, and even somewhat intensified—or not. (To forgive and forget is to throw costly experience out the window.) If the answer is yes, there is little to say about it, because talking helps little: we must therefore let the matter pass, with or without an admonition, but should know that in doing so we have invited its repetition. If the answer is no, we must break with our valued friend at once and forever, or dismiss him if he is a servant. For, when the occasion arises, he will inevitably do precisely the same thing, or something entirely analogous, even if he now most solemnly and sincerely assures us of the contrary. A person can forget everything, everything, except himself, his own nature. Character is absolutely incorrigible, because all human actions flow from an inward principle by virtue of which, under the same circumstances, a person must always do the same thing and cannot do otherwise. Read my prize essay on the so-called freedom of the will and free yourself from the delusion. Hence reconciliation with a friend with whom we have broken is also a weakness we pay for when, at the first opportunity, he does precisely and exactly the same thing that caused the break—indeed, with still greater boldness, secretly conscious of being indispensable. The same applies to dismissed servants whom we take back. For the same reason, we may no more expect someone to act as before under changed circumstances. Rather, people change their attitudes and behavior as quickly as their interests change; indeed, their calculating self-interest draws its bills at such short sight that one would have to be even more shortsighted not to let them be protested.

Suppose, then, that we wished to know how someone would act in a position into which we intend to place him: we must not rely on his promises and assurances. Even if he speaks sincerely, he is speaking of something he does not know. We must therefore calculate his conduct solely by considering the circumstances he is to enter and their conflict with his character.

To gain the clear and thorough understanding so necessary of people's true and very sad nature as they mostly are, it is exceedingly instructive to use their activities and behavior in literature as a commentary on their activities and behavior in practical life, and conversely. This is very useful in preventing us from losing our bearings about either ourselves or them. Yet no trait of particular baseness or stupidity encountered in life or literature should ever become a source of vexation and anger, but only of knowledge: we should see it as a new contribution to the characterization of the human race, and take note of it accordingly. We shall then regard it much as a mineralogist regards a very characteristic mineral specimen he has found.—There are exceptions, indeed incomprehensibly great ones, and differences of individuality are enormous; but taken as a whole, as has long been said, the world lies in wickedness: savages devour one another and civilized people cheat one another, and this is called the way of the world. What are states, with all their elaborate machinery directed outward and inward, and their instruments of force, but arrangements to set bounds to human beings' boundless injustice? Do we not see throughout history every king, as soon as his position is secure and his country enjoys some prosperity, use it to fall upon neighboring states with his army as with a band of robbers? Are not almost all wars, at bottom, raids for plunder? In early antiquity, and partly in the Middle Ages as well, the conquered became the victors' slaves—that is, at bottom, they had to work for them. Yet those who pay war contributions must do the same: they surrender the yield of earlier labor. In all wars it is only a matter of stealing, says Voltaire; and the Germans should take the lesson to heart.

30 No character is such that it may be left to itself and given entirely free rein: every character needs guidance through concepts and maxims. But if we wish to go far in this—to the point of developing an acquired and artificial character arising not from our inborn nature but solely from rational reflection—we shall very soon find

Though you drive nature out with a pitchfork, it will always return

confirmed. We may understand a rule for behavior toward others perfectly well, even discover and aptly express it ourselves, and yet violate it in actual life immediately afterward. But we should not let this discourage us into thinking it impossible to guide our behavior in the world by abstract rules and maxims, and therefore best simply to let ourselves go. The matter is like every theoretical precept and instruction for practice: understanding the rule is the first thing; learning to apply it is the second. Reason achieves the former at once, practice the latter gradually. We show a pupil the fingerings on an instrument, the parries and thrusts with a rapier: despite the best intentions he immediately goes wrong, and now thinks it almost impossible to observe them in the speed of reading music or the heat of combat. Yet he gradually learns through practice, stumbling, falling, and rising again. So it is with grammatical rules in writing and speaking Latin. In just the same way, the boor becomes a courtier, the hothead a polished man of the world, the openhearted person reserved, the noble person ironic. Yet such self-training, acquired through long habit, will always act as a constraint imposed from outside, which nature never entirely ceases to resist and sometimes unexpectedly breaks through. For all action according to abstract maxims stands to action from original, inborn inclination as a human artifact—say a clock, whose form and movement are imposed on a material foreign to them—stands to a living organism, in which form and material interpenetrate and are one. This relation of acquired to inborn character thus confirms a saying of the Emperor Napoleon: everything that is not natural is imperfect. This is, in general, a rule applying to everything whatever, physical or moral; the sole exception I can think of is the natural aventurine known to mineralogists, which does not equal the artificial kind.

Hence a warning here against every kind of affectation. It always arouses contempt: first as a deception, cowardly as such because it rests on fear; second as a person's condemnation of himself by himself, since he wishes to appear what he is not, and therefore what he considers better than what he is. Affecting any quality, boasting of it, is a confession that one does not possess it. Whether someone vaunts courage, learning, intelligence, wit, success with women, wealth, high station, or anything else, we may infer that precisely there he is somewhat deficient. For someone who truly possesses a quality perfectly does not think of parading and affecting it, but is entirely at ease about it. This is also the sense of the Spanish proverb: a horseshoe that clatters is missing a nail (a clattering horseshoe lacks a nail). Certainly, as said at the outset, no one may give himself unconditional free rein and show himself entirely as he is, because the much that is evil and bestial in our nature needs concealment. But this justifies only the negative, dissimulation, not the positive, simulation.—We should also know that affectation is recognized even before it becomes clear what someone is actually affecting. Finally, it does not hold out in the long run: the mask falls off one day. No one can wear a feigned character for long. Things feigned soon fall back into their own nature. (Seneca de Clementia, L. I, c. 1.)

31 Just as we carry the weight of our own body without feeling it as we do that of any other body we wish to move, so we notice not our own faults and vices but only those of others.—Yet in another person everyone has a mirror in which he clearly sees his own vices, faults, bad manners, and repulsive qualities of every kind. Usually, however, he behaves like the dog that barks at the mirror, not knowing it sees itself and supposing it is another dog. Whoever criticizes others works at his own improvement. Thus those inclined and accustomed to subjecting others' outward behavior, and their actions and omissions generally, to attentive and sharp criticism silently within themselves thereby work at their own improvement and perfection. They will possess either justice or at least enough pride and vanity to avoid themselves what they so often condemn severely. The reverse applies to the tolerant: we grant this indulgence and ask it in return. The Gospel moralizes very beautifully about the splinter in another's eye and the beam in one's own; but the nature of the eye makes it look outward and not at itself. Noticing and blaming our own faults in others is therefore a very suitable means of becoming aware of them. To improve ourselves, we need a mirror.

This rule also applies to style and manner of writing: whoever admires a new folly in them instead of blaming it will imitate it. Hence every such folly spreads so rapidly in Germany. The Germans are very tolerant: one can tell. We grant this indulgence and ask it in return is their motto.

32 In youth, a person of nobler nature believes that the essential and decisive relations between people, and the connections arising from them, are ideal: those resting on similarity of disposition, ways of thinking, taste, intellectual powers, and so forth. Later, however, he discovers that they are real: those founded on some material interest. These underlie almost all connections; indeed, most people have no conception of any other relations. Accordingly everyone is taken according to his office, trade, nation, or family—in general, the position and role convention has assigned him—and is sorted and handled on a factory pattern accordingly. What he is in and for himself, as a human being by virtue of his personal qualities, is considered only at discretion and therefore exceptionally, and is set aside and ignored by everyone whenever convenient, hence most of the time. But the more substance he has in this respect, the less he will like that arrangement, and he will therefore try to withdraw from its reach. Yet it rests on the fact that in this world of want and need, the means of meeting these are everywhere the essential, and consequently predominant, thing.

33 As paper money circulates instead of silver, so outward demonstrations of true respect and friendship, and gestures imitating them as naturally as possible, circulate in the world in place of the things themselves. On the other hand, one may also ask whether there are people who really deserve them. In any case, I value the wagging tail of an honest dog more than a hundred such demonstrations and gestures.

True, genuine friendship presupposes a strong, purely objective, entirely disinterested concern for another's well-being and suffering, and this in turn a real identification with one's friend. The selfishness of human nature opposes this so strongly that true friendship belongs to those things of which, as with colossal sea serpents, one does not know whether they are fabulous or exist somewhere. There are, however, various connections between people, resting chiefly, to be sure, on hidden selfish motives of the most varied kinds, yet mingled with a grain of that true and genuine friendship. This ennobles them enough that in this world of imperfections they may with some justice bear the name of friendship. They stand far above everyday connections, which are rather of such a kind that we would not speak another word to most of our good acquaintances if we heard how they speak of us in our absence.

Apart from occasions when we need serious help and considerable sacrifices, the best opportunity to test a friend's genuineness comes when we tell him of a misfortune that has just struck us. His features then display either true, inward, unmixed sorrow, or, through their composed calm or a fleeting secondary expression, confirm Rochefoucauld's well-known saying: In the adversity of our best friends, we always find something that does not displease us. Ordinary so-called friends can often scarcely suppress the twitch of a slight, complacent smile on such occasions.—Few things so surely put people in good humor as telling them of a considerable misfortune that has recently befallen us, or frankly revealing some personal weakness to them.—Characteristic!—

Distance and long absence injure every friendship, however reluctantly we admit it. For people we do not see, even our dearest friends, gradually dry up over the years into abstract concepts, so that our concern for them becomes increasingly merely rational, indeed traditional. Lively and deeply felt concern remains reserved for those before our eyes, even if they are only beloved animals. Such is the sensory nature of humanity. Here too, then, Goethe's saying proves true:

"The present is a mighty goddess."

(Tasso, Aufzug 4, Auftr. 4.)

Friends of the house generally bear that name rightly, being more friends of the house than of its master, and thus more like cats than dogs.

Friends call themselves sincere; enemies are so. We should therefore use their criticism for self-knowledge, like a bitter medicine.—

Friends in need are rare?—On the contrary! Scarcely have we made friends with someone before he is already in need and wants to borrow money.—

34 What a novice someone is who imagines that displaying intelligence and understanding is a means of making himself popular in society! Rather, in the overwhelmingly vast majority they arouse hatred and resentment, all the more bitter because the person feeling it has no right to complain of its cause, and even conceals it from himself. The process is this: if someone notices and feels great intellectual superiority in the person he is talking to, he silently and without clear awareness concludes that the other notices and feels his inferiority and limitations to the same degree. This unspoken inference arouses his bitterest hatred, resentment, and rage. (Vergl. Welt als Wille und Vorstell., 3. Aufl., Bd. II, 256, the quoted words of Dr. Johnson and Merck, Goethe's youthful friend.) Gracián therefore rightly says: "To be well liked, the only means is to clothe oneself in the skin of the simplest of beasts." (S. Oraculo manual, y arte de prudencia, 240. [Obras, Amberes 1702, P. II, p. 287.]) Displaying intelligence and understanding is, after all, merely an indirect way of reproaching everyone else for their incapacity and stupidity. Moreover, a vulgar nature rises in revolt at the sight of its opposite, and envy is the revolt's secret instigator. For satisfying vanity, as we see daily, is a pleasure people prize above all others, yet it is possible only by comparing themselves with others. Of no advantages, however, are human beings so proud as intellectual ones: on these alone rests their superiority to animals[R]. To confront someone with decided superiority in this respect, and before witnesses into the bargain, is therefore the greatest audacity. He feels challenged to revenge and will generally seek an opportunity to take it through insult, thereby passing from the domain of intelligence to that of the will, where in this respect we are all equal. Thus, while station and wealth may always count on high esteem in society, intellectual advantages can expect nothing of the kind. At best they are ignored; otherwise they are regarded as a sort of impertinence, or as something their possessor has acquired illicitly and now presumes to parade. Everyone therefore secretly intends to inflict some other humiliation on him in return, merely waiting for the opportunity. Even the humblest behavior will scarcely succeed in begging pardon for intellectual superiority. Sadi says in the Gulistan (S. 146 der Übersetzung von Graf): "Know that the unintelligent feel a hundred times more aversion toward the intelligent than the intelligent feel toward the unintelligent."—Intellectual inferiority, by contrast, is a real recommendation. The comforting feeling of superiority is to the mind what warmth is to the body: everyone therefore approaches whatever promises it as instinctively as a stove or sunshine. Only someone decidedly lower can offer this: lower in intellectual qualities among men, in beauty among women. Admittedly, it takes some doing to demonstrate unfeigned inferiority before certain people. By contrast, observe the heartfelt friendliness with which a tolerably attractive girl meets a thoroughly ugly one. Physical advantages count for little among men, though one does feel more comfortable beside a smaller man than a larger one. Accordingly, stupid and ignorant men and ugly women are universally liked and sought after: they easily acquire a reputation for having an exceedingly good heart, since everyone needs a pretext for affection, before himself and others. Precisely for this reason, intellectual superiority of every kind is a very isolating quality: it is shunned and hated, and all manner of faults are invented in its possessor as a pretext[S]. Beauty has just the same effect among women: very beautiful girls find no female friend, indeed no companion. They would do better not even to apply for positions as companions, for at their very entrance the face of the hoped-for new mistress darkens: neither for herself nor for her daughters does she need such a foil.—Advantages of rank work in the opposite way, however, since unlike personal advantages they act not through contrast and distance but through reflection, as surrounding colors act on a face.

[R] We may say that a human being has given himself his will, for that is himself; but the intellect is an endowment received from heaven—that is, from eternal, mysterious fate and its necessity, of which his mother was merely the instrument.

[S] Friendships and comradeships are by far the chief means of getting ahead in the world. But great abilities always make people proud, and thus ill suited to flattering those who possess only slight abilities, before whom they are even expected to conceal and deny their great ones. Consciousness of possessing only slight abilities has the opposite effect: it goes excellently with humility, affability, obligingness, and respect for what is inferior, and thus gains friends and patrons.

What has been said applies not merely to state service, but also to honorary posts, dignities, indeed fame in the learned world: in academies, for example, dear mediocrity is always on top, people of merit get in late or never, and so with everything.

35 Laziness, selfishness, and vanity very often account for the greatest part of our trust in others: laziness when we prefer to trust someone else rather than investigate, watch, or act ourselves; selfishness when the need to talk about our affairs tempts us to confide something to him; vanity when it belongs to the things on which we pride ourselves. Nevertheless, we demand that our confidence be honored.

We should not, however, become angry at distrust, for it contains a compliment to honesty: the sincere admission of its great rarity, which places it among the things whose existence is doubted.

36 I gave one basis of politeness, that Chinese cardinal virtue, in my Ethics, S. 201 (2. Aufl. 198); the other lies in the following. It is a tacit agreement mutually to ignore one another's wretched moral and intellectual condition and not reproach each other with it, whereby, to mutual advantage, it comes to light somewhat less readily.

Politeness is prudence; consequently impoliteness is stupidity. To make enemies needlessly and wantonly through it is madness, like setting one's house on fire. For politeness, like reckoning tokens, is an openly false coin: to be sparing with it shows a lack of understanding, while generosity with it shows understanding. All nations close their letters with your very humble servant, your most obedient servant, your most devoted servant; only the Germans hold back from "servant"—because it is not true, after all! But someone who carries politeness to the point of sacrificing real interests resembles a person who gives genuine gold pieces instead of reckoning tokens.—Just as wax, naturally hard and brittle, becomes so pliable with a little warmth that it assumes any desired shape, so even stubborn and hostile people can be made flexible and obliging through a little politeness and friendliness. Politeness is therefore to human beings what warmth is to wax.

Politeness is admittedly a difficult task insofar as it requires us to show the greatest respect to everyone, while the great majority deserve none; and to simulate the liveliest interest in them, while we must be glad to have no interest in them at all.—To unite politeness with pride is a masterpiece.—

Insults, which really always consist in expressions of disrespect, would discompose us far less if, on the one hand, we did not cherish an utterly exaggerated conception of our high worth and dignity, and thus immeasurable arrogance, and if, on the other, we had made clear to ourselves what each person generally thinks of another in his heart. What a glaring contrast there is between most people's sensitivity to the faintest hint of criticism directed at them and what they would hear if they eavesdropped on their acquaintances' conversations about them! We should rather keep in mind that ordinary politeness is merely a grinning mask: then we would not cry out if it shifted a little or were removed for a moment. But when someone becomes downright rude, it is as though he had thrown off his clothes and stood there in a state of nature. To be sure, like most people in that condition, he cuts a poor figure.

37 We must take no other person as a model for our actions and omissions, because position, circumstances, and relations are never the same, and because differences of character also give actions a different coloring; hence when two do the same thing, it is not the same thing. After mature consideration and searching reflection, we must act in accordance with our own character. Thus originality is indispensable in practice too; otherwise what we do does not fit what we are.

38 Do not dispute anyone's opinion, but consider that if you wished to talk him out of every absurdity he believes, you could reach Methuselah's age without finishing.

In conversation we should also refrain from all corrective remarks, however well intended: for it is easy to hurt people, difficult if not impossible to improve them.

If the absurdities of a conversation we are obliged to hear begin to vex us, we must imagine it is a scene in a comedy between two fools. Tried and tested.—Whoever has come into the world seriously to instruct it in the most important matters may count himself lucky if he escapes with his skin whole.

39 Whoever wants his judgment to be believed should state it coolly and without passion. All vehemence springs from the will; the judgment will therefore be attributed to this, not to knowledge, which is cold by nature. Since the will is the fundamental element in human beings, while knowledge is merely secondary and added later, people will sooner believe the judgment arose from an excited will than that the excitement of the will arose merely from the judgment.

40 Even with the best right to do so, do not be tempted into self-praise. Vanity is so common and merit so uncommon that whenever we seem to praise ourselves, even indirectly, everyone will wager a hundred to one that it is vanity speaking through us, lacking the understanding to perceive the ridiculousness of the matter.—Yet for all this, Bacon of Verulam may not be entirely wrong in saying that something always sticks applies to self-praise as well as slander, and therefore recommending it in moderate doses.

41 If you suspect someone is lying, pretend to believe him: he will grow bold, lie more extravagantly, and be unmasked. If, on the other hand, you notice that part of a truth he wishes to conceal has slipped out, pretend to disbelieve it, so that, provoked by contradiction, he sends up the rear guard of the whole truth.

42 We should regard all our personal affairs as secrets, and to our good acquaintances we must remain complete strangers beyond what they see with their own eyes. For their knowledge of the most innocent things may, through time and circumstances, bring us harm.—In general it is more advisable to display understanding by what we leave unsaid than by what we say. The former is a matter of prudence, the latter of vanity. The opportunity for both occurs equally often, but we frequently prefer the fleeting satisfaction offered by the latter to the lasting benefit brought by the former. We should even deny ourselves the relief of once speaking a word aloud to ourselves, as lively people sometimes do, lest it become a habit: thought and word thereby become so intimate and brotherly that speaking with others gradually passes into thinking aloud; whereas prudence commands that a wide gulf be kept open between our thinking and our speaking.

Sometimes we think others cannot possibly believe something concerning us, while it never occurs to them to doubt it. But if we cause the thought to occur to them, they can no longer believe it either. Yet we often betray ourselves merely because we imagine it impossible that people do not notice—just as we plunge from a height through vertigo, that is, through the thought that it is impossible to stand firm here, while the torment of standing here is so great that it is better to cut it short. This delusion is called vertigo.

On the other hand, we should know that people, even those who otherwise show no particular acuteness, are excellent algebraists in the personal affairs of others, where from a single given quantity they solve the most intricate problems. If, for example, we tell them of a former occurrence while omitting all names and other identifying features of the people concerned, we must take care not to introduce any entirely definite and individual circumstance, however slight: a place, a point in time, the name of a minor participant, or anything else even directly connected with it. They then instantly have a definite given quantity, from which their algebraic acuteness works out everything else. Curiosity's enthusiasm is so great here that through it the will drives its spurs into the intellect's sides, urging it on to the remotest conclusions. For as unreceptive and indifferent as people are to general truths, they are just as eager for individual ones.

Accordingly, every teacher of worldly wisdom has recommended silence most urgently and with the most varied arguments; I can therefore leave the matter at what has been said. I will add only a few Arabic maxims, particularly striking and little known. "What your enemy should not know, do not tell your friend."—"If I keep my secret silent, it is my prisoner; if I let it slip, I am its prisoner."—"On the tree of silence hangs its fruit: peace."

43 No money is more profitably spent than that out of which we have been cheated: we have acquired prudence directly in exchange.

44 If possible, we should harbor animosity toward no one, but carefully note and remember everyone's ways of proceeding, to establish his worth, at least in relation to ourselves, and regulate our conduct and behavior toward him accordingly—always convinced of character's immutability. Ever to forget a bad trait in a person is like throwing away hard-earned money.—In this way we protect ourselves against foolish familiarity and foolish friendship.—

"Neither love nor hate" contains half of all worldly wisdom; "say nothing and believe nothing" contains the other half. Yet we shall gladly turn our backs on a world that makes rules like these and those that follow necessary.

45 To show anger or hatred in words or features is useless, dangerous, imprudent, ridiculous, and vulgar. We must therefore never show anger or hatred except in deeds. We shall be able to do the latter more perfectly the more perfectly we have avoided the former.—Only cold-blooded animals are venomous.

46 Speak without emphasis: this old rule of worldly people aims to leave it to others' understanding to discover what one has said. That understanding is slow, and before it has finished, one is gone. Speaking with emphasis, by contrast, means addressing feeling, where everything turns out the other way. With a polite gesture and friendly tone, one can even say downright insults to some people without immediate danger.

D. Our Conduct toward the Course of the World and Fate.

47 Whatever form human life takes, its elements are always the same; essentially it is therefore the same everywhere, whether lived in a hut or at court, in a monastery or in the army. However varied its events, adventures, good fortune and misfortune may be, it is like confectionery: there are many kinds of intricate and colorful figures, but all are kneaded from one dough. What happens to one person is far more like what befell another than the latter thinks while listening to the account. The events of our lives also resemble the pictures in a kaleidoscope: at every turn we see something different, yet really always have the same thing before our eyes.

48 There are three world powers, an ancient very aptly says: understanding, strength, and fortune—prudence, strength, and luck. I believe the last has the greatest power. For our path through life may be compared to the course of a ship. Fate, chance, favorable or adverse fortune, plays the part of the wind, swiftly carrying us far forward or throwing us far back; against it our own effort and striving can do little. These play the part of the oars: after many hours' labor has brought us some distance forward, a sudden gust throws us just as far back. If favorable, however, it advances us so greatly that we have no need of the oars. A Spanish proverb expresses this power of fortune unsurpassably: give your son luck and throw him into the sea (give your son good fortune and throw him into the sea).

Chance is certainly an evil power, to which we should entrust as little as possible. Yet among all givers, who is the only one who, in giving, simultaneously shows us most plainly that we have no claim at all to his gifts; that we owe them not to our worthiness but solely to his goodness and grace; and that from precisely this we may draw the joyful hope of humbly receiving many more unmerited gifts?—It is chance: chance, who understands the royal art of making it clear that beside his favor and grace all merit is powerless and counts for nothing.—

When we look back on our path through life, survey its "labyrinthine wandering course," and must now see so much happiness missed and so much misfortune brought upon ourselves, we can easily go too far in self-reproach. For our life's course is by no means entirely our own work, but the product of two factors: the sequence of events and the sequence of our decisions, which constantly interlock and modify one another. Moreover, in both our horizon is always very limited: we cannot predict our decisions from far off, still less foresee events; of either, only the present ones are really well known to us. As long as our goal is still distant, therefore, we cannot even steer straight toward it, but only direct our course approximately and by conjecture, often having to tack. All we can do is make our decisions according to the circumstances of the moment, hoping to choose in a way that brings us nearer our main goal. Thus events and our fundamental intentions are generally comparable to two forces pulling in different directions; the diagonal resulting from them is our life's course.—Terence said: Human life is like playing dice: if the throw you most need does not fall, correct by skill what has fallen by chance; he must have had some kind of backgammon in mind. More briefly we may say: fate shuffles the cards and we play. But the following comparison would express my present reflection most aptly. Life is like chess: we devise a plan, but it remains conditional on what our opponent in chess, and fate in life, may please to do. The resulting alterations to our plan are usually so great that in its execution it can scarcely be recognized in more than a few fundamental features.

Yet in our life's course there is something beyond all this. That we are often more foolish than we believe is a commonplace truth confirmed all too frequently; that we are often wiser than we ourselves suppose, by contrast, is a discovery made only by those who have experienced it, and even then only late. There is something within us wiser than our heads. For in the great outlines and principal steps of our life's course, we act less from clear knowledge of what is right than from an inward impulse—one might say instinct—arising from the deepest ground of our being. Afterward we criticize our actions according to clear but also meager, acquired, indeed borrowed concepts, general rules, others' examples, and so forth, without sufficiently considering that "one thing does not suit everyone." We then easily become unjust to ourselves. But in the end it becomes apparent who was right, and only an old age happily attained is capable, subjectively and objectively, of judging the matter.

Perhaps that inward impulse is under the guidance, unknown to us, of prophetic dreams forgotten on waking, which thereby give our life the consistency of tone and dramatic unity that our so often wavering, erring, and easily swayed cerebral consciousness could not provide. Through it, for example, someone called to great achievements of a particular kind feels this inwardly and secretly from youth and works toward it as bees work at building their hive. For everyone, however, it is what Baltasar Gracián calls the great faculty of sound judgment: the great instinctive guardianship of oneself, without which one perishes.—Acting according to abstract principles is difficult, succeeds only after much practice, and even then not every time; moreover, such principles are often insufficient. Yet everyone has certain inborn concrete principles in his blood and substance, the result of all his thinking, feeling, and willing. He generally does not know them in the abstract, but only on looking back over his life discovers that he has always followed them and been drawn by them as by an invisible thread. According to their nature they will lead him to happiness or unhappiness.

49 We should constantly keep before our eyes the effect of time and the changeability of things, and therefore immediately imagine the opposite of whatever is happening now: vividly picture misfortune in good fortune, enmity in friendship, bad weather in fine weather, hatred in love, betrayal and regret in confidence and openness—and conversely as well. This would provide a lasting source of true worldly wisdom, keeping us always reflective and less easily deceived. Usually we would thereby merely have anticipated time's effect.—But perhaps for no knowledge is experience so indispensable as for a correct estimate of the instability and change of things. Since every state necessarily exists for the time it lasts, and therefore with the fullest right, every year, month, and day looks as though it now intended at last to remain in the right for all eternity. Yet none does, and change alone is constant. The prudent person is the one whom apparent stability does not deceive and who also foresees the direction change will next take[T]. People, by contrast, generally take the temporary state of things, or the direction of their course, as permanent because they have the effects before their eyes but do not understand the causes. Yet it is the causes that carry the seed of future changes within them, while the effect, which alone exists for those people, contains nothing of this. They hold to the effect, assuming that the unknown causes capable of producing it will also be able to preserve it. They have the advantage that when they err, it is always in unison, so the calamity that consequently befalls them is always general, whereas a thinking mind, if mistaken, stands alone into the bargain.—Incidentally, this confirms my proposition that error always arises from reasoning backward from consequence to ground. See "Welt als W. u. V." Bd. 1, S. 90. (3. Aufl. 94.)

[T] Chance has so much scope in all human affairs that if we immediately try to forestall a danger threatening from afar by making sacrifices, that danger often disappears through some unforeseen turn of events. Not only are the sacrifices then lost, but the change they have brought about is now, under altered circumstances, precisely a disadvantage. We must therefore not extend our precautions too far into the future, but also reckon with chance and boldly face some dangers, hoping they will pass like so many black thunderclouds.

We should, however, anticipate time only theoretically, by foreseeing its effects, not practically: not forestall it by demanding before its time what only time can bring. Whoever does so will discover that there is no worse or more relentless usurer than time itself, and that when forced to make advances it charges heavier interest than any Jew. For example, quicklime and heat can force a tree to put out leaves, blossoms, and fruit within a few days, but afterward it dies.—If a youth wants already to exercise the reproductive power of a man, even for only a few weeks, and achieve at nineteen what he could very well do at thirty, time may grant the advance, but part of the strength of his future years, indeed part of his life itself, is the interest.—There are illnesses from which one recovers properly and thoroughly only by allowing them their natural course, after which they disappear of themselves without leaving a trace. But if one demands to be healthy immediately and now, just now, here too time must make an advance: the illness is driven out, but the interest is weakness and chronic ailments for life.—If in times of war or unrest one needs money immediately, just now, one is compelled to sell land or government securities for 1/3 or even less of their value, which one could receive in full by allowing time its rights and waiting a few years; but one forces it to make an advance.—Or one needs a sum for a long journey: within one or two years it could have been saved from income. But one will not wait, so it is borrowed or temporarily taken from capital; that is, time must advance it. Its interest is then disorder in the finances, a permanent and growing deficit one never gets rid of.—Such, then, is time's usury: all who cannot wait become its victims. Trying to accelerate the measured course of time is the most costly undertaking. Beware, therefore, of owing time interest.

50 A characteristic difference between ordinary and intelligent minds, often evident in everyday life, is that in considering and estimating possible dangers the former always ask and consider only what of the kind has already happened; the latter consider for themselves what could possibly happen. They remember that, as a Spanish proverb says, what does not happen in a year happens in a moment (what does not happen within a year happens within a few minutes). The difference is certainly natural: surveying what can happen requires understanding; what has happened, merely the senses.

Let our maxim be: sacrifice to the evil demons! That is, we should not shrink from a certain expenditure of effort, time, inconvenience, elaborate precautions, money, or privation to close the door to the possibility of a misfortune; the greater the misfortune would be, the smaller, remoter, and more improbable its possibility may be. The clearest example of this rule is the insurance premium: a sacrifice publicly offered by everyone on the altar of the evil demons.

51 We should not break into great rejoicing or great lamentation over any event, partly because of the changeability of all things, which may transform it at any moment, and partly because our judgment of what benefits or harms us is deceptive. Hence almost everyone has at some time lamented what later proved his true greatest good, or rejoiced over what became the source of his greatest sufferings. Shakespeare beautifully expressed the disposition recommended here against this:

I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief,That the first face of neither, on the start,Can woman me unto it.[U]

(All's well, A. 3. sc. 2.)

[U] I have already felt so many assaults of joy and sorrow that I no longer let the first sight of the occasion for either immediately sweep me away in womanly fashion.

In general, someone who remains composed through every misfortune shows that he knows how colossal and thousandfold are the possible evils of life, and therefore regards what has now occurred as a very small part of what might come. This is the Stoic disposition, according to which we should never be forgetful of the human condition, but always remember what a sad and pitiable lot human existence is in general, and how innumerable the evils to which it is exposed. To renew this insight, we need only look around anywhere: wherever we may be, we shall soon have before our eyes this struggling, writhing, and torment over wretched, bare, unprofitable existence. We shall then moderate our demands, learn to accommodate ourselves to the imperfection of all things and conditions, and always look out for misfortunes, to avoid or endure them. For misfortunes great and small are the very element of our lives; we should always keep this in mind, without, however, becoming a gloomy person and lamenting with Beresford over the hourly miseries of human life and pulling faces, still less invoking God at a flea bite. Rather, as a cautious person, we should carry care in anticipating and preventing misfortunes—whether arising from people or things—so far and refine it so well that, like a clever fox, we neatly avoid every great or small mishap, which is usually only clumsiness in disguise.

That a misfortune is easier to bear when we have considered it possible beforehand and, as people say, braced ourselves for it, may arise chiefly from this: when we calmly consider the event before it occurs, as a mere possibility, we clearly survey the extent of the misfortune on every side and thus recognize it at least as finite and comprehensible. Consequently, when it actually strikes, it can exert no more than its true weight. If, by contrast, we have not done this but are struck unprepared, the frightened mind cannot accurately measure the magnitude of the misfortune in the first moment: it is now beyond its survey and therefore readily appears immeasurable, or at least much greater than it really is. In the same way, darkness and uncertainty make every danger appear greater. Admittedly, we have also considered consolations and remedies for the misfortune anticipated as possible, or at least become accustomed to the idea of it.

Nothing will better equip us to bear the misfortunes that strike us calmly, however, than conviction of the truth I derived from its ultimate grounds and established in my prize essay On the Freedom of the Will; as it says there, S. 62 (2. Aufl. S. 60): "Everything that happens, from the greatest to the smallest, happens necessarily." For human beings soon know how to reconcile themselves to what is unavoidably necessary, and this knowledge lets them regard everything, even what is brought about by the strangest accidents, as just as necessary as what occurs according to the most familiar rules and with complete foresight. I refer here to what I said (Welt als W. u. V. Bd. 1, S. 345 u. 46 [3. Aufl. 361]) about the calming effect of knowing the unavoidable and necessary. Whoever is permeated by this conviction will first do what he can, then willingly suffer what he must.

The little mishaps that vex us hourly may be regarded as intended to keep us in practice, so that amid good fortune our strength to bear great ones does not grow entirely slack. Against daily harassment, petty friction in human dealings, insignificant provocations, others' improprieties, gossip, and the like, we must be a horn-skinned Siegfried: not feel them at all, much less take them to heart and brood over them. Instead, let none of it approach us; kick it aside like little stones lying in the path, and by no means admit it into our inward reflection and rumination.

52 What people commonly call fate, however, is usually only their own foolish behavior. We therefore cannot take too much to heart the beautiful passage in Homer (JL. XXIII, 313 sqq.) where he recommends intelligent deliberation, that is, prudent reflection. For even if our worst deeds are punished only in the next world, our foolish ones are punished already in this one—though now and then mercy may take the place of justice.

It is not someone who looks fierce, but someone who looks clever, who appears terrible and dangerous—as surely as the human brain is a more terrible weapon than the lion's claw.—

The most accomplished man of the world would be the one who never stalled in indecision and never fell into haste.

53 Next to prudence, courage is a quality very essential to our happiness. Certainly we can give ourselves neither: we inherit the former from our mother, the latter from our father. Yet resolve and practice can assist what we already have. This world, where "the dice fall iron-hard," requires an iron spirit, armored against fate and armed against human beings. For the whole of life is a struggle, every step is contested, and Voltaire rightly says: In this world one succeeds only at sword point, and dies with weapons in hand. A cowardly soul therefore shrinks, loses heart, and wails as soon as clouds gather, or even merely appear on the horizon. Let our motto rather be:

Do not yield to evils, but advance more boldly against them.

As long as the outcome of a dangerous affair remains merely doubtful, as long as there is still a possibility of a happy result, there must be no thought of losing courage, only of resistance; just as we must not despair of the weather as long as a patch of blue remains in the sky. Indeed, let us reach the point of saying:

If the shattered world should fall upon him,Its ruins would strike him unafraid.

The whole of life itself, much less its goods, is not worth such cowardly trembling and shrinking of the heart:

Therefore live bravely,And set brave hearts against adversity.

Yet excess is possible even here, for courage can degenerate into rashness. Indeed, a certain measure of fearfulness is necessary to maintaining ourselves in the world; cowardice is merely exceeding it. Bacon of Verulam expressed this very aptly in his etymological explanation of panic terror, which leaves far behind the older one preserved by Plutarch (de Iside et Osir. c. 14). He derives it from Pan, as personified nature, and says: For the nature of things has implanted in all living beings fear and dread, which preserve their life and existence and avoid and repel approaching evils. Yet this same nature does not know how to keep within bounds, but always mingles vain and empty fears with salutary ones, so that all things, could they be seen within, are utterly full of panic terrors, especially human things. (De sapientia veterum VI.) The characteristic feature of panic terror, moreover, is that it is not clearly conscious of its grounds, but assumes them rather than knows them; indeed, if necessary, it simply treats fear itself as a ground for fear.

Plain English translation

Independent machine-assisted translation from the German, following the 1913 Ernst Ohle edition.

Advice and Maxims.

I aim at completeness here even less than anywhere else. Otherwise I would have to repeat the many rules for living, some excellent, laid down by thinkers of every age, from Theognis and Pseudo-Solomon down to Rochefoucauld. I could not then avoid many worn-out commonplaces. With completeness, systematic arrangement also largely falls away. We can console ourselves for the absence of both by remembering that in matters of this kind they almost inevitably bring boredom in their wake. I have given only what happened to occur to me, seemed worth sharing, and, as far as I remember, has not yet been said—at least not fully and in just this way. So this is merely a gleaning after what others have already accomplished in this boundless field.

Still, to bring some order to the great variety of views and advice belonging here, I will divide them into general points, points concerning our behavior toward ourselves, then toward others, and finally toward the course of the world and fate.

A. General.

1 I regard as the highest rule of all practical wisdom a statement Aristotle made in passing in the Nicomachean Ethics (VII, 12): “The sensible person pursues freedom from pain, not pleasure” (The prudent man seeks what is free from pain, not what is pleasant). This might be put still better in German as: “The reasonable person pursues not pleasure, but freedom from pain”; or: “The reasonable person aims at freedom from pain, not enjoyment.” Its truth rests on the fact that all enjoyment and happiness are negative in nature, while pain is positive. An explanation and justification of this latter statement can be found in my main work, Bd. I, § 58. But I will also illustrate it here with a fact observable every day. If the whole body is healthy and sound except for one small sore or otherwise painful spot, the health of the whole does not enter consciousness. Our attention is constantly directed toward the pain of the injured spot, and the comfortable feeling of being alive as a whole is canceled.—Likewise, if all our affairs are going as we wish except for one that runs contrary to our intentions, that one keeps coming into our head, even if it is unimportant. We think about it often and give little thought to all the other, more important things going as we wish.—In both cases, it is the will that is impaired: in one case as it takes objective form in the organism, in the other as it does so in human striving. In both, we see that its satisfaction always has only a negative effect and is therefore not felt directly at all. At most, it enters consciousness through reflection. Its obstruction, by contrast, is positive and therefore makes itself known. Every enjoyment consists merely in removing this obstruction, in being freed from it, and is therefore short-lived.

This, then, is the basis of Aristotle’s rule praised above. It tells us to focus not on life’s pleasures and comforts, but on escaping its countless evils as far as possible. If this were not the right course, Voltaire’s statement, Happiness is only a dream, and pain is real, would have to be as false as it is in fact true. Accordingly, anyone wishing to assess the result of his life in terms of happiness should draw up the account not by the joys he has enjoyed, but by the evils he has escaped. Indeed, the study of happiness must begin by teaching that its very name is a euphemism, and that “living happily” can mean only living “less unhappily”—in other words, tolerably. Life is not really there to be enjoyed, but to be endured and got through. Various expressions convey this: to pass one’s life, to discharge the task of life, the Italian one gets by like this, and the German “one must try to get through,” “he will find his way through the world,” and so on. Indeed, in old age it is a consolation to have the work of life behind us. The happiest lot therefore belongs to someone who gets through life without excessive mental or physical pain, not to someone who has experienced the liveliest joys or the greatest pleasures. Anyone who judges the happiness of a life by these latter things has chosen the wrong measure. Pleasures are and remain negative. The belief that they bring happiness is a delusion cherished by envy as its own punishment. Pains, by contrast, are positively felt, so their absence is the measure of happiness in life. If freedom from boredom is added to freedom from pain, earthly happiness is essentially achieved. The rest is an illusion. It follows that one should never buy pleasures at the price of pain, or even the risk of pain. Otherwise one pays for something negative and therefore illusory with something positive and real. On the other hand, one remains the winner by sacrificing pleasures to escape pain. In either case it makes no difference whether the pains follow the pleasures or precede them. It is truly the greatest mistake to try to turn this scene of misery into a pleasure resort, setting pleasures and joys as one’s goal rather than the greatest possible freedom from pain, as so many people do. Someone who takes too dark a view and sees this world as a kind of hell, and therefore thinks only of obtaining a fireproof room in it, is much less mistaken. The fool runs after life’s pleasures and finds himself deceived; the wise person avoids its evils. If even this fails, fate is to blame, not his foolishness. But insofar as he succeeds, he is not deceived, for the evils he avoided are thoroughly real. Even if he should have gone too far out of his way to avoid them and sacrificed pleasures unnecessarily, nothing has really been lost. All pleasures are illusory, and grieving over missing them would be petty, even ridiculous.

Failure to recognize this truth, encouraged by optimism, causes a great deal of unhappiness. When we are free from suffering, restless desires hold out visions of a happiness that does not exist and tempt us to pursue it. In doing so, we bring pain on ourselves, and pain is undeniably real. Then we mourn the painless condition we have lost. It lies behind us like a paradise we have thrown away, and we wish in vain that we could undo what has happened. It is as though an evil demon were always using the illusions of desire to lure us out of the painless condition that is the greatest real happiness.—Without looking into the matter, a young man believes the world exists to be enjoyed. He thinks it is the home of a positive happiness that only those who lack the skill to seize it fail to find. Novels and poems reinforce this belief. So does the world's universal, constant use of deceptive appearances, which I will return to shortly. From then on, his life is a more or less calculated hunt for positive happiness, which is supposed to consist of positive pleasures. He must take his chances with the dangers he exposes himself to. As a rule, this hunt for game that does not exist leads to very real, positive unhappiness. It arrives as pain, suffering, illness, loss, worry, poverty, disgrace, and a thousand kinds of distress. The discovery of his mistake comes too late.—Suppose, instead, that he follows the rule we are considering here and plans his life around avoiding suffering: keeping away need, illness, and every kind of distress. Then his goal is real. Something can be achieved, and all the more so the less this plan is disturbed by the pursuit of the illusion of positive happiness. This agrees with what Goethe, in Elective Affinities, has Mittler say, a man who is always working for other people's happiness: "Anyone who wants to get rid of a trouble always knows what he wants. Anyone who wants something better than he has is completely blind." This recalls the fine French saying: The better is the enemy of the good. Indeed, we can derive from this the basic idea of Cynicism, as I have explained it in my main work, Bd. 2, Kap. 16. What led the Cynics to reject all pleasures, if not the thought of the pains connected with them, directly or indirectly? Avoiding those pains seemed far more important to them than gaining the pleasures. They were deeply struck by the insight that pleasure is negative and pain positive. Consistently, then, they did everything they could to avoid evils. But for that purpose they considered it necessary to reject pleasures completely and deliberately, because they saw them only as traps that hand us over to pain.

As Schiller says, we were all born in Arcadia. That is, we enter the world full of claims to happiness and pleasure, and cherish the foolish hope of making those claims good. As a rule, though, fate soon comes along, grabs us roughly, and teaches us that nothing is ours: everything is its. It has an undisputed right not only to all we own and earn, and to wife and child, but even to arm and leg, eye and ear—yes, to the nose in the middle of our face. In any case, after a while experience comes and teaches us that happiness and pleasure are a mirage. Visible only from a distance, they vanish when we approach. Suffering and pain, on the other hand, are real. They make themselves felt directly and need neither illusion nor expectation. If this lesson takes effect, we stop chasing happiness and pleasure. Instead, we try as far as possible to keep pain and suffering out. We then recognize that the best the world has to offer is a painless, quiet, bearable existence. We limit our demands to that, to be all the more sure of meeting them. The surest way to avoid being very unhappy is not to demand to be very happy. Goethe's youthful friend Merck saw this too when he wrote: "The nasty claim to happiness—and to the amount we dream of, at that—spoils everything in this world. Anyone who can free himself from it and wants nothing but what is in front of him can get by" (Briefe an und von Merck, S. 100). So it is advisable to reduce our demands for pleasure, possessions, rank, honor, and so on to a very modest level. It is precisely the pursuit of and struggle for happiness, splendor, and pleasure that brings on great misfortunes. This is wise and advisable for another reason too: being very unhappy is quite easy, whereas being very happy is not merely difficult but entirely impossible. So the poet of practical wisdom is quite right to sing:

Whoever loves the golden middle wayLives safely, free of the filthOf a run-down home, and sensibly avoidsA palace others envy.

The huge pine is shaken harderBy the winds; high towers fallWith a heavier crash; and lightning strikesThe highest mountain peaks.

But someone who has fully taken in the teaching of my philosophy knows that our whole existence is something that would be better not to be, and that the greatest wisdom is to deny and reject it. Such a person will have no great expectations of any thing or condition. He will not pursue anything in the world with passion or complain bitterly about failing to obtain something. Instead, he will be deeply convinced by Plato's statement, "Nothing in human affairs deserves to be taken very seriously" (rep. X, 604), and also by this:

If you have lost possession of a world,Do not grieve over it: it is nothing;And if you have gained possession of a world,Do not rejoice over it: it is nothing.The pains and joys pass away;Pass the world by: it is nothing.

Anwari Soheili.

(See the motto to Sadis Gulistan, übers. von Graf.)

What makes these helpful insights especially hard to gain is the world's deceptive show, mentioned above. Young people should therefore be shown early what lies behind it. Most splendid things are mere appearances, like stage scenery: the substance is missing. Ships with flags and garlands, for example, cannon fire, festive lighting, drums and trumpets, cheering and shouting, and so on are all the signboard, the signal, the hieroglyph for joy. But joy itself is usually nowhere to be found. It alone has declined the invitation. Where it really does appear, it generally comes uninvited and unannounced, of its own accord and without ceremony. Indeed, it slips in quietly, often on the most insignificant, trivial occasions, in the most everyday circumstances, and on occasions that are anything but splendid or glorious. Like gold in Australia, it is scattered here and there at the whim of chance, without rule or law, usually in tiny grains and very rarely in large masses. All the things mentioned above, on the other hand, are meant only to make others believe that joy has arrived. Creating that impression in other people's minds is the purpose. Grief is no different from joy in this respect. How mournfully that long, slow funeral procession approaches! The line of carriages has no end. But just look inside: they are all empty. In fact, the dead person is being taken to the grave only by all the coachmen in the city. What a telling picture of this world's friendship and respect! Such is the falsehood, emptiness, and show of human activity.—Another example is a crowd of invited guests in formal clothes receiving a festive welcome. They are the signboard for refined, elevated social life. But usually only constraint, discomfort, and boredom have arrived in its place. For wherever there are many guests, there is much rabble—even if every one of them wears the star of an order on his chest. Truly good company is always, and necessarily, very small. In general, glittering, noisy celebrations and entertainments always have an emptiness inside, perhaps even a jarring note. This is partly because they loudly contradict the misery and poverty of our existence, and the contrast brings out the truth more strongly. Yet from the outside it all makes an impression, and that was the purpose. Chamfort puts it delightfully: Society, social circles, drawing rooms, what is called the world, is a wretched play, a bad opera with nothing of interest, kept going to some extent by the stage machinery, the costumes, and the scenery.—In the same way, academies and university chairs of philosophy are the signboard, the outward appearance of wisdom. But wisdom too has generally declined the invitation and is to be found somewhere else entirely.—Clanging bells, priestly costumes, pious gestures, and grotesque behavior are the signboard, the false appearance of devotion, and so on.—Almost everything in the world can therefore be called an empty nutshell. The kernel itself is rare, and rarer still is it found inside the shell. It must be sought somewhere else entirely, and is usually found only by chance.

2 To judge how happy someone is, do not ask what pleases him. Ask what troubles him. The more insignificant this is in itself, the happier he is. It takes a state of well-being to be sensitive to little things. In misfortune we do not notice them at all.

3 Beware of building your life's happiness on a broad foundation by making it depend on many requirements. On that kind of foundation it collapses most easily, because it offers far more opportunities for accidents, and they will certainly come. In this respect the structure of our happiness works the opposite way from all other structures, which stand most firmly on a broad foundation. So the surest way to escape great unhappiness is to keep your demands as low as possible in relation to your resources of every kind.

In general, one of the greatest and most common follies is to make elaborate preparations for life, whatever form they take. First of all, these count on a full human lifetime, which very few people reach. Even if they live that long, life still turns out to be too short for the plans they made, since carrying them out always takes far more time than expected. Like all human affairs, such plans also face so many risks of failure and obstruction that they very rarely reach their goal. Finally, even if everything is achieved in the end, we have left out of account the changes that time brings about in ourselves. We have failed to consider that our capacities, both for achieving things and for enjoying them, do not last throughout our lives. As a result, we often work toward things that no longer suit us when we finally obtain them. Or we spend years preparing a work, while those years quietly take away the strength needed to carry it out. So it often happens that we can no longer enjoy the wealth acquired through so much prolonged effort and danger, and have worked for others. Or we are no longer able to fill the position we have finally reached after years of activity and ambition. These things have come too late for us. Or the reverse happens: we come too late with what we have to offer, where achievements or creative work are concerned. The taste of the time has changed. A new generation has grown up that takes no interest in these things. Others have got ahead of us by shorter routes, and so on. Horace has everything discussed under this number in mind when he says:

Why wear out a mind too smallFor plans that stretch forever?

This frequent mistake arises from an unavoidable optical illusion of the mind's eye. Seen from its entrance, life looks endless; but looking back from the end of the course, it seems very short. Of course, this has its good side: without that illusion, hardly anything great would be accomplished.

In general, we go through life like a traveler. As he walks forward, things take on different shapes from those they showed at a distance, and seem to change as he approaches. This is especially true of our wishes. We often find something quite different from what we were looking for, and even something better. Often, too, we find what we wanted by an entirely different route from the one we first took in vain. In particular, where we were looking for pleasure, happiness, and joy, we often find instruction, insight, and knowledge instead: a lasting, genuine good in place of a fleeting, apparent one. This is also the idea running like a bass line through Wilhelm Meister. It is an intellectual novel, and for that very reason belongs to a higher kind than all the others, even Walter Scott's. Those are all merely ethical: they consider human nature only from the side of the will. The same basic idea is also symbolized in The Magic Flute, that grotesque but meaningful hieroglyph with its many meanings. It is drawn in broad, rough strokes, like stage scenery. Indeed, the symbolism would be complete if, at the end, Tamino gave up his wish to possess Tamina and asked for, and received, only initiation in the temple of wisdom instead, while Papageno, his necessary opposite, duly received his Papagena.—Outstanding, noble people soon become aware of this education by fate. They accept it gratefully and are willing to learn from it. They see that instruction can be found in the world, but not happiness. They therefore become used to exchanging hopes for insights, and content to do so, and finally say with Petrarch:

I feel no pleasure other than learning.

This can even go so far that they pursue their wishes and aims only for show, in a playful way, as it were. What they really and inwardly expect in earnest is only instruction. This then gives them a thoughtful, inspired, elevated air.—In this sense we can also say that we are like the alchemists. Looking only for gold, they discovered gunpowder, porcelain, medicines, and even laws of nature.

B. Our behavior toward ourselves.

4 A worker helping put up a building may not know the plan of the whole, or may not always have it in mind. That is how a person, as he spins out the individual days and hours of his life, relates to his life's course as a whole and its character. The more worthy, meaningful, planned, and individual that course is, the more necessary and helpful it is for him occasionally to see a reduced outline of it: its plan. Of course, this also requires him to have made a small start on "know yourself." He must know what he really wants, chiefly and above all else, and so what matters most to his happiness, and then what comes second and third. He must also recognize his overall calling, his role, and his relationship to the world. If these are significant and grand, then seeing the plan of his life on a smaller scale will do more than anything else to strengthen him, lift his spirits, elevate him, encourage him to act, and keep him from going astray.

Only when a traveler reaches high ground can he look over the road he has covered, with all its twists and turns, and see how it fits together. In the same way, only at the end of a period of our lives, or indeed of our entire lives, do we recognize the true connection between our actions, achievements, and works: their precise consistency and links, and also their value. While we are engaged in them, we always act only according to the fixed qualities of our character, under the influence of motives, and within the limits of our abilities. So we act necessarily throughout, since at each moment we do only what seems right and suitable to us just then. Only the result shows what has come of it. Looking back over the whole connection shows how it happened and through what means. That is also why, while performing the greatest deeds or creating immortal works, we are not aware of them as such. We see them only as suited to our present purposes, matching our current intentions, and therefore right just now. Only afterward do our character and abilities shine out from the connected whole. Then, in the individual details, we see how, as if through inspiration, we took the only right path among a thousand wrong ones, guided by our genius. All this applies to theory as well as practice, and, in the reverse sense, to what is bad and unsuccessful.

5 An important part of practical wisdom is giving the right share of our attention to the present and to the future, so that neither spoils the other for us. Careless people live too much in the present; anxious, worried people too much in the future. Rarely does anyone strike exactly the right balance. Some people live only in the future through striving and hoping. They always look ahead and impatiently rush toward what is coming, as though it alone will bring true happiness, while letting the present slip by unnoticed and unenjoyed. Despite their knowing expressions, they are like those donkeys in Italy whose pace is quickened by a bundle of hay hanging from a stick attached to their heads. They always see it just ahead of them and hope to reach it. These people cheat themselves out of their whole existence by always living only for the time being—until they are dead.—Instead of being constantly and exclusively occupied with plans and worries for the future, or giving ourselves up to longing for the past, we should never forget that only the present is real and certain. The future almost always turns out differently from what we imagine. Even the past was different. In fact, both amount to less, on the whole, than they seem to us. Distance makes objects smaller to the eye, but larger to the mind. Only the present is true and actual. It is time actually filled with reality, and our existence lies in it alone. We should therefore always give it a cheerful welcome. We should consciously enjoy as such every bearable hour that is free from immediate troubles or pain. That means not clouding it with gloomy looks over past disappointments or worries about the future. It is completely foolish to push away a good present hour, or deliberately spoil it, out of resentment over the past or anxiety about what is coming. Set aside a definite time for worry, and even for regret. But afterward, think of what has happened in these terms:

But let us leave what has happened, though we grieve,Forcing the spirit in our hearts to submit to necessity,

and of the future in these terms:

These things rest on the knees of the gods,

but of the present: Think of each separate day as a separate life (Sen.), and make this only real time as pleasant for yourself as possible.

Only future troubles that are certain, and whose time of arrival is also certain, have a right to disturb us. There will be very few of these. Troubles are either merely possible, at most probable, or they are certain but their time of arrival is completely uncertain. If we let either kind prey on us, we will never have another peaceful moment. To avoid losing our peace in life over uncertain or indefinite troubles, we must get used to regarding the first kind as though they will never come, and the second as though they certainly will not come soon.

But the more fear leaves someone in peace, the more his wishes, desires, and demands disturb him. Goethe's much-loved song, "I have staked my cause on nothing," really says this: only after a person has been driven out of every possible claim and thrown back on bare, stripped-down existence does he gain the peace of mind that forms the basis of human happiness. That peace is necessary if he is to find the present, and therefore his whole life, enjoyable. For the same purpose, we should always remember that today comes only once and never again. Yet we imagine it will come back tomorrow. Tomorrow, however, is another day, which also comes only once. We forget that each day is an integral and therefore irreplaceable part of life. Instead, we treat it as falling under life in the way individuals fall under a general concept.—We would also appreciate and enjoy the present more if, in good health and good times, we always remembered how, in illness or sorrow, memory holds up every hour free from pain and deprivation as infinitely enviable: a lost paradise, an unappreciated friend. But we live through our good days without noticing them. Only when bad ones arrive do we wish the good ones back. With a gloomy face, we let a thousand cheerful, pleasant hours pass by unenjoyed, only to sigh for them later with fruitless longing in dark times. Instead, we should value every bearable present moment, even the everyday ones we now let pass so indifferently, and perhaps even push impatiently on their way. We should always remember that this moment is now passing into that glorified past, where memory will preserve it from then on, surrounded by the light of permanence. One day, especially in a bad hour, memory will lift the curtain, and it will appear as an object of our deepest longing.

6 Every limitation makes us happier. The narrower the range of what we see, do, and come into contact with, the happier we are. The wider it is, the more often we feel tormented or frightened. Our worries, wishes, and fears grow in number and size along with it. That is why even blind people are not as unhappy as we must suppose in advance of experience. The gentle, almost cheerful calm in their features bears this out. This rule also partly explains why the second half of life turns out sadder than the first. Over the course of life, the horizon of our aims and relationships keeps widening. In childhood it is limited to our immediate surroundings and closest relationships. In youth it already reaches much farther. In adulthood it covers our whole life's course, and often extends to the most distant connections, to states and peoples. In old age it includes our descendants.—Every limitation, on the other hand, even an intellectual one, helps our happiness. The less the will is stirred up, the less suffering there is; and we know that suffering is positive, while happiness is only negative. A limited field of activity removes the external occasions that stir up the will; a limited mind removes the internal ones. The latter, however, has the disadvantage of opening the door to boredom. Boredom indirectly becomes the source of countless sufferings, because people reach for anything just to banish it. They try diversions, company, luxury, gambling, drinking, and so on, which bring harm, ruin, and misfortune of every kind. It is hard to be at peace in idleness. How much external limitation promotes human happiness, as far as happiness can go, and is even necessary for it, can be seen from the idyll. This is the only kind of poetry that attempts to portray happy people, and it always and essentially presents them in very limited circumstances and surroundings. A feeling for this also lies behind our enjoyment of so-called genre paintings.—Accordingly, the greatest possible simplicity in our circumstances, and even uniformity in our way of life, will make us happier, as long as they do not produce boredom. They make us least aware of life itself, and therefore of its essential burden. It flows along like a stream without waves or whirlpools.

7 In the end, our well-being or unhappiness depends on what fills and occupies our consciousness. In general, any purely intellectual occupation will do much more for a mind capable of it than real life, with its constant alternation of success and failure, its shocks and troubles. Of course, this already requires strong intellectual gifts. We should also note a reciprocal effect here. Just as an outwardly active life distracts and draws us away from study, depriving the mind of the calm and concentration it needs, so sustained mental work makes us more or less unfit for the bustle and activity of real life. It is therefore advisable to stop it completely for a while whenever circumstances arise that call for energetic practical action of any kind.

8 To live with full awareness and draw every lesson our own experience contains, we need to look back often. We should go over what we have lived through, done, and experienced, and what we felt at the time. We should also compare our former judgments with our present ones, our intentions and efforts with their results and the satisfaction those results gave us. This is a review of the private lesson experience has given each of us. Our own experience can also be seen as the text, and reflection and knowledge as the commentary on it. Much reflection and knowledge with little experience is like an edition with two lines of text and forty lines of commentary on each page. Much experience with little reflection and limited knowledge is like the Bipontine editions without notes, which leave much not understood.

Pythagoras's rule points to the same recommendation: in the evening, before falling asleep, review what you have done during the day. Someone who lives amid a rush of business or pleasures, never turning over his past but simply continuing to reel off his life, loses clear self-awareness. His mind becomes a chaos, and a certain confusion enters his thoughts. His abrupt, fragmentary, almost chopped-up conversation soon reveals it. This is all the more true the greater the external restlessness and the mass of impressions, and the less active his mind is within.

A related observation is that, after a long time has passed and the circumstances and surroundings that affected us are gone, we cannot recall and revive the mood and feelings they stirred up in us then. But we can remember our own statements that they prompted at the time. These are the result, expression, and measure of those feelings. Memory, or paper, should therefore carefully preserve such statements from memorable times. Diaries are very useful for this.

9 To be enough for ourselves, to be our own everything, and to be able to say, Everything I have, I carry with me, is certainly the quality that does most for our happiness. That is why Aristotle's statement, "Happiness belongs to the self-sufficient" (Happiness belongs to those who are sufficient for themselves. Eth. Eud. 7, 2), cannot be repeated too often. (Essentially, this is also the thought expressed with a very charming turn of phrase in Chamfort's saying, which I placed at the head of this essay as its motto.) For one thing, no one can count with any certainty on anyone but himself. For another, the burdens and disadvantages, the danger and annoyance, that society brings with it are countless and unavoidable.

There is no more mistaken route to happiness than a life in fashionable society, with luxury and wild living (the high life). Its aim is to turn our wretched existence into a succession of joys, pleasures, and amusements. Disappointment is inevitable here, and just as inevitable in its required accompaniment: people lying to one another[K].

[K] Just as our body is wrapped in clothes, our mind is wrapped in lies. Our speech, our actions, our whole manner of being is false. Only through this covering can our true feelings sometimes be guessed, as the shape of the body can be guessed through clothes.

To begin with, all social company necessarily requires mutual adjustment and moderation. The larger the gathering, the blander it becomes. Each person can be entirely himself only while alone. Anyone who does not love solitude does not love freedom either, because we are free only when we are alone. Constraint is the inseparable companion of all social company. Every gathering demands sacrifices, and these are harder to make the more significant one's individuality is. Accordingly, each person will avoid, endure, or love solitude in exact proportion to his own worth. In solitude the wretched person feels all his wretchedness, the great mind all its greatness: in short, everyone feels what he is. Further, the higher someone stands in nature's ranking, the more alone he stands, essentially and unavoidably. In that case it is a blessing if physical solitude matches his intellectual solitude. Otherwise, being frequently surrounded by unlike beings interferes with him, even attacks him, robs him of himself, and offers nothing in exchange. Nature has also placed the widest moral and intellectual differences between people. Society ignores these and treats everyone as equal—or rather, substitutes the artificial distinctions and grades of class and rank, which very often run directly counter to nature's ranking. This arrangement suits those whom nature has placed low very well. But the few whom it has placed high lose out. That is why they tend to withdraw from society, and why the ordinary and vulgar dominate every large gathering. What spoils society for great minds is that others have equal rights, and therefore equal claims, despite unequal abilities and therefore unequal contributions to the gathering. So-called good society recognizes every kind of distinction except intellectual distinction: that is actually forbidden. Society requires us to show boundless patience with every folly, absurdity, perversity, and dullness. Personal excellence, on the other hand, must beg forgiveness or hide itself. Intellectual superiority gives offense by its mere existence, without any intention to do so. Thus so-called good society not only has the disadvantage of offering us people we cannot praise or love. It also refuses to let us be what suits our nature. Instead, it forces us to shrink, or even disfigure ourselves, for the sake of agreement with others. Intelligent remarks and ideas belong only in intelligent company. In ordinary company they are positively hated. To please there, it is absolutely necessary to be shallow and narrow-minded. So in such company we must deny ourselves severely, giving up three-quarters of ourselves to make ourselves like the others. In exchange, of course, we have those others. But the more worth a person has in himself, the more he will find that the gain does not cover the loss and the deal goes against him. As a rule, people cannot pay their debts: that is, their company has nothing to compensate us for its boredom, burdens, and unpleasantness, and for the self-denial it imposes. Most company is therefore such that anyone who trades it for solitude makes a good bargain. Society cannot tolerate genuine superiority, meaning intellectual superiority, and it is also hard to find. So, to replace it, society has arbitrarily adopted a false, conventional superiority. This rests on arbitrary rules, is handed down traditionally among the upper classes, and changes like a password. It is what is called good manners, social polish, being fashionable. But whenever it clashes with genuine superiority, its weakness becomes apparent.—Besides, when social polish arrives, common sense withdraws.

In general, each person can be in the most complete harmony only with himself, not with his friend or his lover. Differences in individuality and mood always produce a dissonance, however slight. So true, deep peace of heart and complete peace of mind—the highest earthly good after health—can be found only in solitude, and as a lasting state only in the deepest seclusion. If one's own self is great and rich, one then enjoys the happiest condition to be found on this poor earth. Yes, let it be said plainly: however closely friendship, love, and marriage bind people together, in the end each person is genuinely concerned only for himself, and at most for his child as well.—The less someone needs to come into contact with people, whether because of external circumstances or his own condition, the better off he is. Solitude and isolation let us survey all their evils at once, even if we do not feel them all at once. Society, by contrast, is treacherous. Behind the appearance of amusement, communication, social enjoyment, and so on, it hides great and often incurable evils. One of youth's main studies should be learning to endure solitude, because it is a source of happiness and peace of mind.—From all this it follows that the best-off person is the one who has counted only on himself and can be his own everything. Cicero even says: No one can fail to be supremely happy who depends entirely on himself and places everything in himself alone. (Paradox. II.) Besides, the more someone has in himself, the less others can be to him. A certain feeling of being fully sufficient to oneself keeps people of inner worth and richness from making the considerable sacrifices that company demands, let alone seeking it with marked self-denial. The opposite makes ordinary people so sociable and accommodating: they find it easier to put up with others than with themselves. There is also the fact that what has real worth in the world is not valued, and what is valued has no worth. The seclusion of every worthy and outstanding person is both the proof and the consequence of this. Given all this, someone who has something genuinely valuable in himself will show true practical wisdom by limiting his needs if necessary, simply to preserve or extend his freedom. Since his person has unavoidable ties to the human world, he will settle its dealings with that world as briefly as possible.

What makes people sociable, on the other hand, is their inability to endure solitude, and in solitude themselves. Inner emptiness and weariness drive them into company, and also abroad and on travels. Their minds lack the spring to set themselves in motion, so they seek to increase it through wine, and many become drunkards that way. For the same reason they need constant stimulation from outside, and the strongest kind at that: stimulation by beings like themselves. Without it, their minds collapse under their own weight and sink into an oppressive lethargy[L]. Likewise, we could say that each of them is only a small fraction of the idea of humanity. He needs a great deal of supplementation by others to produce something like a full human consciousness. A whole person, by contrast, a human being in the fullest sense, is a unit rather than a fraction, and is therefore enough for himself. In this sense, ordinary company can be compared to that Russian horn music in which each horn has only one note. Music results only when they all come in at precisely the right time. The outlook and mind of most people are as monotonous as such a single-note horn. Many of them even look as if they always had just one and the same thought and were incapable of thinking any other. This explains not only why they are so boring, but also why they are so sociable and prefer to move in herds: people's tendency to flock together. The monotony of his own being becomes unbearable to each of them—all foolishness suffers from weariness with itself. Only together, through combination, do they amount to anything, like those horn players. An intelligent person, by contrast, can be compared to a virtuoso who performs his concerto alone, or to a piano. Just as the piano is a small orchestra by itself, so he is a small world. He presents within a single consciousness what the others become only by working together. Like the piano, he is suited not to being a part of the symphony but to a solo and a complete whole. If he is to work with them, he can do so only as the leading voice with accompaniment, like the piano, or to give the pitch in vocal music, like the piano.—Meanwhile, anyone who likes company can draw this rule from the comparison: what his companions lack in quality must be replaced to some extent by quantity. A single intelligent person may give him enough company. But if only the ordinary sort can be found, it is good to have plenty of them, so that their variety and cooperation produce something, on the analogy of that horn music. And may heaven grant him patience to go with it.

[L] As everyone knows, troubles are eased by being borne together. People seem to count boredom among them, so they sit together to be bored in company. Just as love of life is at bottom only fear of death, so people's urge to socialize is not really direct. It rests not on love of company but on fear of solitude. They are not so much seeking the delightful presence of others as fleeing the emptiness and uneasiness of being alone, along with the monotony of their own consciousness. To escape this, they put up even with bad company, and likewise accept the annoyance and constraint that all company necessarily brings. But if their dislike of all this wins out, and as a result they become used to solitude and hardened against its immediate impression, so that it no longer has the effects described above, they can then remain constantly alone in the greatest comfort, without longing for company. That is precisely because their need for it is not direct, while they have now grown used to solitude's beneficial qualities.

People's inner emptiness and poverty also explain the following. When people of a better kind come together in an association for some noble, ideal purpose, the outcome is almost always this: some of humanity's rabble slip or push their way in. They belong to that countless mass that fills and covers everything everywhere like vermin, always ready to seize on anything at all to relieve their boredom, just as under other circumstances they would relieve their need. Soon they either destroy the whole enterprise or change it so much that it becomes almost the opposite of its original purpose.

Sociability can also be regarded as people warming one another mentally, like the bodily warmth they produce by crowding together in severe cold. But someone with plenty of mental warmth of his own does not need such grouping. A fable I devised in this sense can be found in the 2nd volume of this work, in the last chapter. From all this, each person's sociability is roughly in inverse proportion to his intellectual worth. Saying "He is very unsociable" almost amounts to saying "He is a man of great qualities."

For an intellectually outstanding person, solitude offers a double advantage: first, being with himself, and second, not being with others. We will value the second highly if we consider how much constraint, trouble, and even danger every association brings. All our trouble comes from not being able to be alone, says Labruyère. Sociability is one of the dangerous, indeed destructive, inclinations, since it brings us into contact with beings the great majority of whom are morally bad and intellectually dull or misguided. An unsociable person is someone who does not need them. Having enough in oneself to have no need of company is a great blessing for this reason alone: almost all our suffering arises from society. Peace of mind, which is the most essential element of happiness after health, is endangered by all company and therefore cannot exist without a considerable amount of solitude. To gain the happiness of peace of mind, the Cynics renounce all possessions. Someone who renounces society for the same purpose has chosen the wisest means. For Bernardin de St. Pierre's words are as apt as they are beautiful: A reduced diet restores health to the body, and a reduced diet of people restores peace to the soul. So anyone who makes friends with solitude early, and even comes to love it, has acquired a gold mine. But by no means everyone can do this. Just as need originally drives people together, boredom does so once need is removed. Without either, everyone would probably remain alone, if only because solitude alone gives each person surroundings that match the exclusive importance, indeed uniqueness, he has in his own eyes. The world's crowds reduce this to nothing, giving it a painful contradiction at every step. In this sense solitude is even everyone's natural condition. It restores him, like the first Adam, to the original happiness suited to his nature.

But Adam had neither father nor mother! So in another sense solitude is not natural to human beings. On entering the world, a person finds himself not alone but among parents and siblings, in a community. Love of solitude therefore cannot exist as an original inclination. It can arise only from experience and reflection, in proportion to the development of one's own intellectual power, but also with advancing years. Thus, in general, each person's urge to socialize will be in inverse proportion to his age. A small child screams with fear and distress if left alone for just a few minutes. For a boy, being alone is a great punishment. Young men readily join one another. Only the nobler and more high-minded among them already seek solitude at times, though they still find it hard to spend a whole day alone. An adult man, on the other hand, finds this easy. He can already be alone a great deal, and more so the older he gets. An old man, left as the sole survivor of vanished generations, who has partly outgrown life's pleasures and partly lost his feeling for them, finds his true element in solitude. In each individual, however, the growing inclination to withdraw and be alone will always be in proportion to his intellectual worth. As I said, it is not a purely natural inclination called forth directly by needs. Rather, it is only an effect of experience and reflection on it, especially the insight gained into the miserable moral and intellectual condition of most people. The worst of it is that, in each individual, moral and intellectual imperfections conspire and work hand in hand. This produces all kinds of extremely unpleasant phenomena that make most people's company unenjoyable, even unbearable. So although a great many things in this world are very bad, the worst of all remains society. Even Voltaire, that sociable Frenchman, had to say: The earth is covered with people who do not deserve to be spoken to. The gentle Petrarch, who loved solitude so strongly and persistently, gives the same reason for this inclination:

I have always sought a solitary life(The riverbanks, the fields, and woods know it),To escape these twisted, shifty mindsThat have lost the road to heaven.

He develops the point in the same spirit in his fine book de vita solitaria, which seems to have been Zimmermann's model for his famous work on solitude. In his sarcastic way, Chamfort expresses this same merely secondary, indirect origin of unsociability when he says: People sometimes say of a man who lives alone, he does not like society. That is often like saying a man does not like walking because he does not enjoy walking in the forest of Bondy in the evening[M]. But the gentle Christian Angelus Silesius says exactly the same thing in his own way and mythical language:

"Herod is an enemy; Joseph is reason,To whom God reveals the danger in a dream (in the mind).The world is Bethlehem, Egypt solitude:Run, my soul! Run, or you will die of sorrow."

[M] Sadi says in the same sense, in the Gulistan (S. die Übers. v. Graf p. 65): "Since that time we have taken leave of society and chosen the path of withdrawal, for safety lies in solitude."

Jordanus Brunus speaks in the same sense: So many men who wished to taste heavenly life on earth said with one voice: "Look, I fled far away and remained in solitude." In the same spirit, Sadi the Persian reports of himself in the Gulistan: "Tired of my friends in Damascus, I withdrew into the desert near Jerusalem to seek the company of animals." In short, everyone whom Prometheus formed from better clay has spoken in this sense. What pleasure can they find in the company of beings with whom they have any connection that could establish fellowship only through the lowest and least noble part of their own nature: its everyday, trivial, and vulgar elements? Since these others cannot rise to their level, they have no choice but to drag them down to their own, and that is what they try to do. It is therefore an aristocratic feeling that nourishes the inclination to withdraw and be alone. All scoundrels are sociable to a pitiful degree. The first sign of a person of a nobler kind, on the other hand, is that he takes no pleasure in the rest. He increasingly prefers solitude to their company. Then, gradually, with the years, he comes to see that, apart from rare exceptions, the only choice in the world is between solitude and vulgarity. Harsh as this sounds, even Angelus Silesius, despite his Christian gentleness and love, could not leave it unsaid:

"Solitude is needed: just do not be vulgar,And you can be in a desert anywhere."

As for the truly great minds, it is surely natural that these real educators of the whole human race feel as little inclination to frequent company with the rest as a teacher feels to join the games of the noisy crowd of children around him. They have come into the world to steer humanity toward truth on the sea of its errors, and to draw it upward out of the dark pit of its crudeness and vulgarity, toward light, education, and refinement. They must live among others without really belonging to them. From youth on, they therefore feel themselves to be noticeably different beings. But only gradually, with the years, do they clearly understand the situation. They then take care to add physical distance to their intellectual distance from others. No one is allowed to approach unless he himself is already more or less exempt from the general vulgarity.

All this shows that love of solitude does not appear directly as an original drive. It develops indirectly and only gradually, especially in nobler minds, and not without overcoming the natural urge to socialize. At times it even has to resist Mephistopheles' whisper:

"Stop playing with your grief,Which eats away your life like a vulture:Even the worst company makes you feelThat you are human, among other humans."

Solitude is the lot of all outstanding minds. They will sometimes sigh over it, but will always choose it as the lesser of two evils. With advancing age, however, dare to be wise becomes ever easier and more natural in this respect. In one's sixties, the drive toward solitude is truly natural, even instinctive. Everything now combines to encourage it. The strongest pull toward sociability, love of women and the sexual drive, no longer operates. Indeed, old age's lack of sexuality lays the basis for a certain self-sufficiency that gradually absorbs the urge to socialize altogether. We have got past a thousand illusions and follies. Active life is mostly over. We have nothing more to expect, no more plans or intentions. The generation we really belong to is no longer alive. Surrounded by an unfamiliar generation, we are already objectively and essentially alone. Meanwhile, time flies faster, and we still want to use it intellectually. Provided the mind has kept its strength, the great store of knowledge and experience gained, the gradually completed working-through of all our thoughts, and the well-practiced facility of all our powers now make study of every kind more interesting and easier than ever. We see clearly into a thousand things that used to be lost in fog. We reach conclusions and feel our full superiority. Long experience has taught us to stop expecting much from people. Taken as a whole, they are not the sort who improve on closer acquaintance. Instead, we know that, apart from rare strokes of luck, we will meet only very defective specimens of human nature, better left alone. We are therefore no longer exposed to the usual illusions. We soon recognize what each person is, and will rarely feel a wish to enter into closer relations with him. Finally, especially if we recognize solitude as a friend from youth, the habit of isolation and of keeping our own company has been added and become second nature. Love of solitude, which once had to be wrested from the urge to socialize, is now entirely natural and simple. We are like a fish in water when alone. Thus every outstanding individuality, being unlike the rest and therefore standing alone, feels oppressed in youth by this essential isolation, but relieved by it in old age.

Of course, each person shares in this genuine advantage of old age only in proportion to his intellectual powers. An exceptional mind benefits most, though probably everyone does to a lesser degree. Only extremely impoverished, vulgar natures will remain as sociable in old age as before. They burden a society they no longer fit into, and at best manage to be tolerated, whereas once they were sought after.

The inverse relationship described between our age and our degree of sociability also has a side that can be understood in terms of purpose. The younger someone is, the more he still has to learn in every respect. Nature has directed him toward the mutual instruction everyone receives through contact with his own kind. In this sense, human society can be called a great Bell-Lancaster educational institution. Books and schools are artificial institutions, since they lie outside nature's plan. So it is very fitting that the younger someone is, the more diligently he attends this natural school.

Nothing is happy in every respect, says Horace, and an Indian proverb says, "No lotus without a stem." So solitude too, alongside its many advantages, has its small disadvantages and troubles. Compared with those of society, however, they are slight. Anyone who has something genuinely valuable in himself will therefore always find it easier to get along without people than with them.—Among those disadvantages is one that is less easy to become aware of than the others. Constantly staying at home makes our body so sensitive to outside influences that every cool breeze affects it unhealthily. In the same way, constant withdrawal and solitude make our mind so sensitive that the most insignificant incidents, words, or even mere expressions make us feel disturbed, offended, or hurt. Someone who always stays in the bustle pays no attention to such things.

But suppose someone, especially in his younger years, cannot endure the emptiness of solitude for long, however often justified dislike of people has already driven him back into it. I advise him to get used to taking part of his solitude into company. He should learn to be alone to some extent even among others: not immediately telling them what he thinks, and not taking what they say too seriously. Instead, he should expect little from them, morally or intellectually, and strengthen in himself an indifference to their opinions. This is the surest way to practice a consistently praiseworthy tolerance. Then, though in their midst, he will not be entirely in their company, but will take a more purely objective attitude toward them. This will protect him from too close a contact with society, and therefore from any contamination or even injury. We even have a dramatic portrayal worth reading of this limited or guarded sociability in Moratin's comedy "el Café o sea la comedia nueva," in the character of D. Pedro, especially in the second and third scenes of the first act. In this sense, society can also be compared to a fire. A wise person warms himself at a proper distance, rather than reaching into it like a fool, who burns himself and then flees into the cold of solitude, complaining that the fire burns.

10 Envy is natural to human beings, yet it is both a vice and a misfortune[N]. We should therefore regard it as the enemy of our happiness and try to smother it like an evil demon. Seneca guides us toward this with these fine words: Let what is ours please us without comparison: someone tormented by a happier person will never be happy (de ira III, 30), and again: When you have looked at how many are ahead of you, think how many follow behind (ep. 15). So we should look more often at those who are worse off than ourselves than at those who seem better off. Even when real troubles have arrived, the most effective comfort, though it flows from the same source as envy, will come from considering sufferings greater than our own. Next to that comes the company of people in the same position as ourselves, our companions in misfortune.

[N] People's envy shows how unhappy they feel. Their constant attention to what others do and do not do shows how bored they are.

So much for the active side of envy. On the passive side—being envied—we should consider that no hatred is as unforgiving as envy. We should therefore not work tirelessly and eagerly to arouse it. We would do better to deny ourselves this pleasure, like many others, because of its dangerous consequences.—There are three aristocracies: 1. the aristocracy of birth and rank, 2. the aristocracy of money, 3. the intellectual aristocracy. The last is really the noblest, and is recognized as such if only it is given time. Frederick the Great himself said: Privileged souls rank as equals of sovereigns. He said this to his court marshal, who objected that, while ministers and generals ate at the marshal's table, Voltaire was to sit at a table reserved for reigning rulers and their princes.—Each of these aristocracies is surrounded by an army of envious people. They are secretly bitter toward every member of it and, if they have nothing to fear from him, try in many ways to make him understand, "You are no better than we are!" But these very efforts betray their conviction of the opposite. The person envied should deal with this by keeping every member of that crowd at a distance and avoiding all contact with them as far as possible, so that a wide gulf keeps them apart. Where that is impossible, he should endure their efforts with the utmost calm, since their source itself neutralizes them. We see this procedure used everywhere. Members of one aristocracy, on the other hand, will usually get along well and without envy with members of either of the other two, because each weighs his own distinction against the other's.

11 Consider an undertaking carefully and repeatedly before carrying it out. Even after thinking everything through as thoroughly as possible, make some allowance for the inadequacy of all human knowledge. There may still be circumstances that are impossible to investigate or foresee and that could make the whole calculation wrong. This consideration will always put weight on the negative side of the scales and advise us not to disturb important matters unnecessarily: do not unsettle what is settled. But once you have made your decision and begun the work, so that everything must now take its course and only the outcome remains to be awaited, do not torment yourself by constantly reconsidering what has already been done and repeatedly thinking about possible dangers. Instead, put the matter entirely out of mind. Keep that whole compartment of thought closed, reassuring yourself that you considered everything carefully at the proper time. The Italian proverb gives the same advice: Tie it securely, then let it go. Goethe translates this as "Saddle up well and ride with confidence." Incidentally, a large part of his sayings under the heading "Proverbial" are translated Italian proverbs.—If the outcome is bad nonetheless, it is because all human affairs are subject to chance and error. Socrates, the wisest of men, needed a warning divine voice just to make the right choices in his own personal affairs, or at least avoid mistakes. This proves that no human understanding is adequate to the task. So the saying, supposedly from a pope, that we ourselves bear at least some blame for every misfortune that strikes us is not unconditionally true in every case, though it is true in the vast majority of cases. A feeling of this even seems to play a large part in people's attempts to hide their misfortunes as much as possible and put on a contented face as far as they can. They fear that others will infer guilt from suffering.

12 When an unfortunate event has already happened and can no longer be changed, do not even allow yourself the thought that things could be otherwise, still less the thought of how it could have been prevented. That is precisely what raises the pain to an unbearable level, turning you into a self-tormentor. Instead, act like King David. As long as his son lay sick, he constantly stormed Jehovah with prayers and pleading. But once his son was dead, he snapped his fingers at it and gave it no further thought. Anyone who cannot be that carefree should take refuge in a fatalistic standpoint. He should make clear to himself the great truth that everything that happens occurs necessarily and is therefore unavoidable.

For all that, this rule is one-sided. It is useful for our immediate relief and reassurance in misfortune. But when our own carelessness or recklessness is at least partly to blame, as is usually the case, repeatedly and painfully considering how it could have been prevented is a healthy self-discipline. It teaches us sense and improves us, and so serves the future. And we should not try to excuse, gloss over, or minimize obvious mistakes to ourselves, as we generally do. We should admit them and clearly set them before our eyes in their full size, so that we can firmly resolve to avoid them in future. Of course, in doing this we must inflict on ourselves the great pain of dissatisfaction with ourselves. But a person who has not been beaten is not educated.

13 In everything that concerns our well-being or unhappiness, we should keep our imagination on a leash. First of all, do not build castles in the air: they cost too much, since immediately afterward we have to tear them down again with sighs. But we should be even more careful not to frighten ourselves by picturing merely possible misfortunes. If these were wholly invented, or at least very far-fetched, then on waking from such a dream we would know at once that it had all been illusion. We would enjoy the better reality all the more, and might even take from it a warning against very remote, though possible, misfortunes. But our imagination does not readily play with that kind. When entirely idle, it builds at most cheerful castles in the air. The material of its dark dreams consists of misfortunes that really do threaten us to some extent, even if from a distance. It magnifies these, brings their possibility much nearer than it really is, and paints them in the most frightening colors. On waking, we cannot shake off such a dream as quickly as a cheerful one. Reality immediately refutes the cheerful dream and leaves at most a faint hope in the realm of possibility. But if we have given ourselves over to gloomy imaginings (dark fears), they have brought images close to us that do not recede so easily. The possibility of the thing in general is certain, and we cannot always apply a measure to its degree of possibility. It then easily turns into probability, and we have delivered ourselves into the hands of anxiety. So we should consider matters affecting our well-being or unhappiness only with the eye of reason and judgment. We should use dry, cool reflection, working with bare concepts and in the abstract. Imagination must be kept out of it. It cannot judge; it merely puts images before our eyes that stir our feelings needlessly and often very painfully. This rule should be followed most strictly in the evening. Darkness makes us fearful and lets us see frightening shapes everywhere. Unclear thoughts have a similar effect, because every uncertainty breeds insecurity. So in the evening, when exhaustion has covered understanding and judgment with an inner darkness, when the intellect is tired and confused and cannot get to the bottom of things, the subjects we think about readily take on a dangerous appearance and become terrifying images if they concern our personal affairs. This is most true at night in bed, when the mind is completely exhausted and judgment no longer up to its task, while imagination is still active. Then night gives everything its black coloring. Our thoughts before falling asleep, or especially on waking in the night, are therefore usually almost as bad distortions and reversals of things as dreams are. And when they concern personal affairs, they are usually pitch-black, even horrifying. In the morning all these terrifying images have vanished, just like dreams. That is what the Spanish proverb means: The night is dark-colored, the day is white (the night is colored, the day white). But even in the evening, once the light is lit, the understanding, like the eye, does not see as clearly as by day. So this time is not suited to thinking over serious, especially unpleasant, affairs. Morning is the right time for that, as it is for every kind of work without exception, mental as well as physical. Morning is the youth of the day. Everything is cheerful, fresh, and easy. We feel strong and have all our abilities fully at our disposal. We should not shorten it by getting up late, or waste it on unworthy occupations or conversations. We should regard it as the essence of life and in a sense keep it sacred. Evening, on the other hand, is the old age of the day. In the evening we are tired, talkative, and careless.—Every day is a little life: every waking and getting up a little birth, every fresh morning a little youth, and every going to bed and falling asleep a little death.

In general, our health, sleep, food, temperature, weather, surroundings, and many other external things have a powerful influence on our mood, and our mood on our thoughts. So our view of a matter, as well as our ability to accomplish something, depends greatly on time and even place. Therefore,

"Make use of a good mood,For it comes so rarely."

It is not just objective insights and original thoughts whose arrival we must wait for, to see whether and when they choose to come. Even careful consideration of a personal matter does not always succeed at the time we have set aside for it, when we have sat down ready to think. It too chooses its own time. Then the appropriate train of thought comes alive uninvited, and we follow it with full attention.

Keeping imagination on a leash, as recommended, also means not allowing it to bring back and paint pictures of wrongs, harm, losses, insults, slights, hurts, and the like that we suffered in the past. This stirs up long-dormant resentment, anger, and all hateful passions again, polluting our mind. According to a fine comparison given by the Neoplatonist Proclus, every city contains not only noble and distinguished people but also rabble of every kind (the mob). In the same way, even the noblest and most elevated person has within him, as a potential, the very lowest and most vulgar elements of human, indeed animal, nature. This rabble must not be stirred into a riot or allowed to look out of the windows, because it makes an ugly sight. But the acts of imagination just described are its demagogues. Another related point is that the smallest annoyance, whether caused by people or things, can swell into a monster that drives us out of our minds if we keep brooding over it and painting it in glaring colors on an enlarged scale. Instead, we should view everything unpleasant in the most matter-of-fact, sober way, so that we can take it as lightly as possible.

Small objects held close to the eye restrict our field of vision and hide the world. In the same way, the people and things in our immediate surroundings, however utterly insignificant and unimportant they may be, often occupy our attention and thoughts far more than they deserve, and in an unpleasant way at that, crowding out important thoughts and concerns. We should work against this.

14 When we see something we do not own, the thought very easily occurs to us: "What if that were mine?" It makes us feel the lack of it. Instead, we should ask more often: "What if that were not mine?" I mean that we should sometimes try to view what we have as it would appear to us after we had lost it. This applies to everything, whatever it may be: property, health, friends, a lover, wife, child, horse, and dog. Usually, only loss teaches us the value of things. The way of looking at them recommended here, on the other hand, will first make us immediately happier to have them than we were before. Second, it will lead us to prevent their loss in every way: not risking our property, not angering our friends, not exposing our wife's faithfulness to temptation, watching over our children's health, and so on.—We often try to brighten a gloomy present by speculating on favorable possibilities. We invent all kinds of illusory hopes, each pregnant with a disappointment that is sure to arrive when the hope shatters against hard reality. It would be better to speculate on the many bad possibilities. This would lead partly to precautions against them, and partly to pleasant surprises when they do not come true. After all, we are always noticeably more cheerful after getting through a period of anxiety. Indeed, it is even good sometimes to picture great misfortunes that could possibly strike us. Then we can bear the much smaller ones that actually come more easily, comforting ourselves by looking back at those great ones that did not happen. But in following this rule, we must not neglect the preceding one.

15 The affairs and events that concern us appear and become entangled quite separately, without order or connection, in the sharpest contrast, with nothing in common except that they are our affairs. To match them, our thoughts and concerns about them must change just as abruptly.—So when we take up one thing, we must set everything else aside and put it out of mind, attending to, enjoying, or enduring each thing in its own time, entirely unconcerned about the rest. We must have drawers for our thoughts, as it were, opening one while all the others stay closed. This keeps a heavy worry from spoiling every small pleasure of the present and robbing us of all peace. It keeps one line of thought from displacing another, and concern for an important affair from causing us to neglect many smaller ones, and so on. Above all, someone capable of high and noble reflections should never let personal affairs and low concerns so completely occupy and fill his mind that they block those reflections from entering. That would truly be to lose the reasons for living for the sake of life.—Of course, this directing and redirecting of ourselves, like so much else, requires self-discipline. We should find strength for it in this thought: everyone must endure many great constraints from outside, which no life can avoid. Yet a little self-restraint applied at the right point prevents much external constraint later. It is like a small section of a circle near the center corresponding to a section at the circumference often a hundred times larger. Nothing frees us from external constraint as much as self-restraint. That is the meaning of Seneca's saying: If you want to subject everything to yourself, subject yourself to reason (ep. 37). Besides, self-restraint always remains in our control. In an extreme case, or where it touches our most sensitive spot, we can ease it a little. External constraint, on the other hand, is inconsiderate, unsparing, and merciless. It is therefore wise to forestall it with self-restraint.

16 We should set a limit to our wishes, keep our desires in check, and master our anger, always remembering that an individual can attain only an infinitely small part of all that is desirable, while many evils must strike everyone. In short: refrain and endure, abstain and bear up. Without observing this rule, neither wealth nor power can prevent us from feeling wretched. This is what Horace is getting at:

Through it all, read and ask knowledgeable peopleAbout how you can pass your life peacefully,So that ever-needy desire does not drive and torment you,Nor fear, nor hope for things of only modest use.

17 "Life consists in movement" (Life depends on motion), says Aristotle, obviously rightly. Our physical life exists only in and through ceaseless movement. In the same way, our inner, mental life requires constant occupation: being busy with something, through action or thought. Even the drumming of hands or some object, to which unoccupied and thoughtless people immediately turn, shows this. Our existence is essentially restless. Complete inactivity soon becomes unbearable because it brings on the most dreadful boredom. We should regulate this drive so as to satisfy it systematically and therefore better. Activity, then—doing something, making something if possible, or at least learning something—is indispensable to human happiness. Our powers demand to be used, and we want to perceive the result somehow. In this respect, however, the greatest satisfaction comes from making something, producing it, whether a basket or a book. Seeing a work grow daily under our hands and finally reach completion makes us happy directly. A work of art, a piece of writing, even a simple piece of manual work does this. Of course, the nobler the work, the greater the enjoyment. In this respect the happiest people are the highly gifted, who know they can produce significant, great, coherent works. A higher kind of interest thereby spreads over their whole existence, giving it a flavor missing from that of the rest, whose lives are quite bland by comparison. For them, besides the material interest common to everyone, life and the world have a second, higher interest: an interest in form, because they contain the material for their works. Throughout their lives they eagerly collect this material whenever personal need gives them any room to breathe. Their intellect is also in a sense twofold: one part for ordinary relationships, the affairs of the will, like everyone else's; another for the purely objective understanding of things. So they live a double life, spectators and actors at once, while the rest are only actors.—Meanwhile, let everyone pursue something suited to his abilities. We notice how harmful the lack of planned activity or any kind of work is on long pleasure trips, when now and then we feel truly unhappy. Without a real occupation, we have been torn out of our natural element, as it were. Human beings need to exert themselves and struggle against resistance as a mole needs to dig. The standstill brought about by the complete satisfaction of a lasting pleasure would be unbearable. Overcoming obstacles is the full enjoyment of human existence. Whether the obstacles are material, as in practical activity, or intellectual, as in learning and research, the struggle and victory make us happy. If we lack an opportunity for this, we create one as best we can. According to our individuality, we will hunt, play cup-and-ball, or, guided by the unconscious pull of our nature, seek quarrels, hatch intrigues, or engage in fraud and all kinds of wrongdoing, just to end the state of rest we find unbearable. It is hard to be at peace in idleness.

18 We should take clearly thought-out concepts, not images of the imagination, as the guiding star of our efforts. But usually the opposite happens. On closer examination, we will find that what finally decides our choices is usually not concepts and judgments, but an imagined picture representing and standing for one of the alternatives. I no longer remember in which novel by Voltaire or Diderot this occurs: when the hero was a young man, a Hercules at the crossroads, virtue always appeared to him in the form of his old tutor, holding a snuffbox in his left hand and a pinch in his right, and moralizing in that pose. Vice, on the other hand, appeared as his mother's chambermaid.—Especially in youth, the goal of our happiness takes the form of a few images that hover before us, often remaining for half our lives or even our whole lives. They are really teasing ghosts. Once we reach them, they dissolve into nothing, as we discover that they deliver none of what they promised. Examples are particular scenes of domestic, civic, social, or country life; pictures of our home and surroundings, decorations of honor, marks of respect, and so on and so on. Every fool has his hobbyhorse. The image of the beloved often belongs here too. It is surely natural for us to be affected this way. What is vividly perceived, being immediate, acts more directly on our will than a concept or abstract thought does. An abstract thought gives only the general, without the particular that actually contains reality. It can therefore act on our will only indirectly. Yet only the concept keeps its word, so it is a mark of education to trust only that. Of course, it may sometimes need explanation and restatement through a few images—but with a grain of salt.

19 The preceding rule falls under a more general one: we should always master the impression made by what is present and vividly perceived. Compared with what is merely thought and known, this impression is disproportionately strong, not because of its subject matter or content, which is often very slight, but because of its form: vividness and immediacy. These press in on the mind, disturbing its peace or shaking its resolutions. What is present and vividly perceived is easy to take in, so it always acts with its full force at once. Thoughts and reasons, on the other hand, need time and quiet to be considered piece by piece. We therefore cannot have all of them fully in mind at every moment. As a result, a pleasure we have renounced after reflection still tempts us when we see it. Likewise, a judgment hurts us although we know the person making it is completely unqualified; an insult angers us although we recognize it as beneath contempt; ten reasons against the existence of a danger are outweighed by the false appearance that it is actually present, and so on. In all this, our original irrationality asserts itself. Women will often succumb to an impression of this kind, and few men have reason so firmly in command that they do not suffer its effects. Where thoughts alone cannot entirely overcome it, the best course is to neutralize one impression with its opposite. For example, counter the impression of an insult by seeking out people who value us highly, or that of a threatening danger by actually looking at what works against it. The Italian whom Leibniz describes (in den nouveaux essais, Liv. I, c. 2, § 11) could even withstand the pain of torture this way. As he had resolved, he never for a moment let the image of the gallows, to which his confession would have brought him, leave his imagination during the torture. That is why he called out from time to time, I see you; he later explained his words in this way.—For the very reason considered here, when everyone around us holds a different opinion and acts accordingly, it is hard not to be shaken by them even if we are convinced they are wrong. A king fleeing persecution and traveling strictly under a concealed identity must find the private ceremonial submission of his trusted companion an almost necessary encouragement, to keep him from finally doubting himself.

20 In the second chapter I have already stressed the great value of health, the first and most important condition of our happiness. Here I will give a few very general rules for strengthening and preserving it.

As long as you are healthy, toughen yourself by giving the body, both as a whole and in each part, plenty of exertion and hardship. Get used to resisting adverse influences of every kind. But as soon as an unhealthy condition appears, whether in the whole body or one part, immediately take the opposite approach. Spare and care for the sick body or part in every way. What is suffering and weakened cannot be toughened.

Heavy use strengthens a muscle but weakens a nerve. So exercise your muscles through every suitable exertion, but protect your nerves from all strain. Protect the eyes from excessively bright light, especially reflected light, from all strain in dim light, and from looking for long periods at objects that are too small. Likewise protect the ears from excessively loud noise. Above all, protect the brain from forced, overly prolonged, or ill-timed exertion. Let it rest during digestion, because the same vital force that forms thoughts in the brain is then working hard in the stomach and intestines to prepare chyme and chyle. Likewise, let it rest during or after considerable muscular exertion. Motor nerves are like sensory nerves in this respect. Just as the pain we feel in injured limbs has its real seat in the brain, it is not really the legs and arms that walk and work, but the brain: specifically, the part that stimulates the nerves of those limbs through the medulla and spinal cord and thereby sets them moving. Accordingly, the fatigue we feel in our legs or arms also has its real seat in the brain. That is why only muscles whose movement is voluntary, meaning directed by the brain, become tired, and not those that work involuntarily, like the heart. Clearly, then, the brain is harmed if we force it to perform strong muscular activity and mental exertion simultaneously, or even in close succession. This does not conflict with the heightened mental activity we often feel at the beginning of a walk, or on short walks generally. The parts of the brain in question have not yet become tired. At the same time, this light muscular activity and the increased breathing it brings promote the upward flow of arterial blood to the brain, blood that is now also better oxygenated.—Above all, give the brain the full amount of sleep it needs for recovery. Sleep is to the whole person what winding is to a clock. (Vergl. Welt als Wille und Vorstellung II, 217. – 3. Aufl. II, 240.) The more developed and active the brain, the greater this amount will be. Exceeding it, however, would merely waste time, because sleep then loses in intensity what it gains in duration. (Vergl. Welt als Wille und Vorstellung II, 247. – 3. Aufl. II, 275.)[O] In general, understand clearly that our thinking is nothing but the organic function of the brain, and therefore behaves like every other organic activity in its need for exertion and rest. Excessive exertion damages the brain just as it damages the eyes. It has rightly been said: the brain thinks as the stomach digests. The delusion of an immaterial, simple soul that thinks essentially and constantly, and is therefore tireless, merely lodging in the brain and needing nothing in the world, has certainly led many people to treat themselves foolishly and dull their mental powers. Frederick the Great, for example, once tried to give up sleeping altogether. Professors of philosophy would do well not to encourage such a practically destructive delusion with their old wives' philosophy, which tries to conform to the catechism.—We should get used to regarding our mental powers entirely as physiological functions, and treat, spare, and exercise them accordingly. We should remember that every bodily illness, trouble, or disorder, in whatever part, affects the mind. Cabanis, des Rapports du physique et du moral de l'homme, best equips us for this.

[O] Sleep is a piece of death that we borrow in advance, receiving in exchange the restoration and renewal of life exhausted by a day. Sleep is a loan taken from death. Sleep borrows from death to maintain life. Or it is the interim interest on death, which is itself the repayment of the principal. The more generously and regularly the interest is paid, the later that repayment is demanded.

Neglect of the advice given here is why some great minds and great scholars have become mentally weak, childish, and even insane in old age. The celebrated English poets of this century, for example, such as Walter Scott, Wordsworth, Southey, and others, became mentally dull and incapable in old age, even in their sixties, and sank into mental disability. This can undoubtedly be explained by the fact that, tempted by high fees, they all practiced writing as a trade: they wrote for money. That leads to unnatural exertion. Anyone who puts his Pegasus in a harness and drives his Muse with a whip will pay for it in a way like someone who has performed forced service for Venus. I suspect that Kant too overworked himself in his later years, after he had finally become famous, and thereby brought on the second childhood of his last four years.—

Every month of the year has a distinctive, direct influence—that is, one independent of the weather—on our health and our bodily condition generally, and even on our mental condition.

C. Our behavior toward others.

21 To get through the world, it is useful to take along a large supply of caution and forbearance. The first protects us from harm and loss; the second from disputes and quarrels.

Anyone who has to live among people must not reject any individuality unconditionally, since nature has once and for all established and given it—not even the worst, most pitiful, or most ridiculous one. Instead, he must accept it as something unchangeable that, as a consequence of an eternal, metaphysical principle, must be what it is. In bad cases he should think: "There have to be odd characters like this too." If he takes a different attitude, he acts unjustly and challenges the other person to a fight to the death. No one can change his essential individuality: his moral character, powers of understanding, temperament, facial features, and so on. If we condemn his being completely, he has no choice but to fight us as a mortal enemy. We are willing to grant him the right to exist only on condition that he becomes someone other than the person he unchangeably is. So to live among people, we must let everyone exist and count for something with his given individuality, whatever it may be. We may concern ourselves only with using it as its kind and nature allow. We must neither hope to change it nor condemn it outright as it is[P]. This is the true meaning of "Live and let live." The task is not as easy as it is fair, however, and anyone who can avoid a good many individualities forever should count himself lucky.—Meanwhile, to learn to endure people, practice patience on lifeless objects that stubbornly resist what we are doing through mechanical or other physical necessity. There are daily opportunities for this. We can then learn to transfer the patience gained to people, getting used to the thought that whenever they obstruct us, they too must do so through a necessity arising from their nature, just as strict as the necessity with which lifeless things act. So becoming indignant at what they do is as foolish as becoming indignant at a stone that rolls into our path.

[P] With some people, the wisest thought is: "I will not change him, so I will make use of him."

22 It is astonishing how easily and quickly similarity or difference of mind and feeling reveals itself between people in conversation. It can be felt in every little detail. Even if the conversation concerns the most remote, unimportant matters, between essentially unlike people almost every sentence spoken by one will more or less displease the other, and some will positively annoy him. Similar people, on the other hand, immediately feel a certain agreement in everything. If they are very similar, this soon flows into complete harmony, even unison. This explains, first, why entirely ordinary people are so sociable and so easily find very good company everywhere: such genuinely dear, worthy people. With unusual people the opposite happens, increasingly so the more outstanding they are. In their isolation they can sometimes feel truly delighted to find even one fiber like their own in someone else, however small it may be! For each person can be only as much to the other as the other is to him. Truly great minds nest alone, like eagles on the heights.—Second, this explains how like-minded people find one another so quickly, as though drawn together by a magnet: kindred souls greet one another from afar. Of course, we will most often have a chance to observe this in the low-minded or poorly gifted, but only because they exist in legions, whereas better and outstanding natures are, and are called, rare. Thus, for example, in a large association directed toward practical aims, two genuine scoundrels will recognize each other as quickly as if they wore a military badge. They will immediately join forces to plot abuse or betrayal. Likewise, imagine, impossible as it is, a large gathering made up entirely of very sensible, intelligent people except for two fools. These two will feel sympathetically drawn to one another, and each will soon rejoice inwardly that he has met at least one reasonable man. It really is remarkable to witness how two people, especially those who lag behind morally and intellectually, recognize one another at first sight, eagerly try to approach, and hurry toward one another with friendly, joyful greetings as though they were old acquaintances. It is so striking that we are tempted to suppose, in keeping with the Buddhist doctrine of the transmigration of souls, that they had already been friends in a previous life.

What keeps people apart, however, even when they agree on much, and may also produce temporary disharmony between them, is the difference in their present moods. Each person's mood is almost always different, depending on his current situation, occupation, surroundings, physical condition, train of thought at the moment, and so on. This creates dissonances between even the most harmonious personalities. Always being able to make the adjustment needed to remove this disturbance and establish an equal temperament would be an achievement of the highest cultivation. We can gauge how much a shared mood does for social fellowship from this: even a large gathering is stirred to lively communication and sincere mutual interest, with general enjoyment, as soon as something objective affects everyone at once and in the same way. It may be a danger, a hope, a piece of news, an unusual sight, a play, music, or anything else. By overpowering all private interests, such things produce a universal unity of mood. In the absence of such an objective influence, people usually reach for a subjective one. Bottles are therefore the usual means of bringing a shared mood into a gathering. Even tea and coffee serve this purpose.

The disharmony that differences of momentary mood so easily introduce into all company also partly explains why everyone appears idealized, and sometimes almost glorified, in memory. Memory is free of these and all similar disturbing, though temporary, influences. It acts like the converging lens in a camera obscura: it draws everything together, producing a much more beautiful image than the original. We already gain some of the advantage of being seen this way through any absence. Although idealizing memory needs a good deal of time to complete its work, it begins at once. For this reason it is even wise to show yourself to acquaintances and good friends only after considerable intervals. When you meet again, you will then notice that memory has already been at work.

23 No one can see above himself. By this I mean that each person sees in another only as much as he himself is. He can grasp and understand the other only within the limits of his own intelligence. If that is of the lowest kind, all intellectual gifts, even the greatest, will have no effect on him. He will perceive nothing in their owner except the lowest part of his individuality: all his weaknesses and faults of temperament and character. These will make up that person for him. The other's higher intellectual abilities exist for him no more than color does for someone blind. For all minds are invisible to someone who has none, and every appraisal is a product of the worth of what is appraised multiplied by the appraiser's range of understanding. It follows that we put ourselves on a level with everyone we speak to. Whatever advantage we may have over him disappears, and even the self-denial required for this goes completely unrecognized. Consider how thoroughly low-minded and poorly gifted, and therefore how thoroughly vulgar, most people are. We will then see that it is impossible to speak to them without becoming vulgar ourselves for that time, by analogy with electrical induction. We will fully understand the real meaning and aptness of the expression "lowering oneself," and will gladly avoid all company with which we can communicate only through the shameful part of our nature. We will also see that, with stupid people and fools, there is only one way to show our intelligence: not to speak to them. Of course, someone in society will then sometimes feel like a dancer who has come to a ball and found only people unable to walk: whom is he to dance with?

24 Someone earns my high respect as one chosen out of a hundred if, when he has something to wait for and is sitting unoccupied, he does not immediately start tapping or rattling rhythmically with whatever is at hand—his stick, perhaps, or his knife and fork, or anything else. He is probably thinking about something. With many people, on the other hand, it is obvious that looking has entirely taken the place of thinking. They try to become aware of their existence by making a clatter, unless a cigar is at hand to serve the same purpose. For the same reason, they are constantly all eyes and ears for everything happening around them.

25 Rochefoucauld aptly observed that it is hard to respect someone highly and love him greatly at the same time. We would therefore have to choose whether to seek people's love or their respect. Their love is always self-interested, though in very different ways. Besides, what wins it is not always something we can be proud of. Someone will chiefly be liked in proportion to how little he demands of other people's minds and hearts, genuinely and without pretense, and not merely from the sort of forbearance rooted in contempt. Now recall Helvétius's very true statement: The degree of intelligence needed to please us is a fairly exact measure of the degree of intelligence we have. The conclusion follows from these premises.—With people's respect, on the other hand, it is the reverse. It is wrested from them only against their will and, for that very reason, is usually hidden. So it gives us much greater inward satisfaction. It is connected with our worth, which is not directly true of people's love: love is subjective, respect objective. Love, of course, is more useful to us.

26 Most people are so subjective that, at bottom, nothing interests them except themselves alone. That is why, whatever is said, they immediately think of themselves. Any accidental connection, however remote, with something personal to them seizes and takes over their full attention. They have no mental capacity left for the objective subject of the conversation. Likewise, no reasons count with them as soon as their interest or vanity opposes those reasons. They are therefore so easily distracted, hurt, insulted, or offended that, in speaking objectively with them about anything at all, we cannot be too careful about any possible, perhaps unfavorable, connection between what is said and the dear, delicate self before us. That alone matters to them, nothing else. While they have no sense or feeling for what is true, apt, beautiful, subtle, or witty in another person's speech, they are exquisitely sensitive to anything that might wound their petty vanity, however remotely or indirectly, or reflect unfavorably in any way on their highly precious self. In their sensitivity they resemble little dogs whose paws we so easily step on without noticing, and then have to listen to the squealing. Or they can be compared to a patient covered in wounds and swellings, with whom we must take the utmost care to avoid any possible touch. Some go so far as to feel intelligence and understanding displayed in conversation with them—or merely not sufficiently hidden—as a direct insult, though they conceal this for the moment. Later, the inexperienced person thinks and puzzles in vain over what on earth he could have done to earn their resentment and hatred.—But they are just as easily flattered and won over. Their judgment is therefore usually bribed: merely a declaration in favor of their party or class, not an objective, fair judgment. All this rests on the fact that in them the will far outweighs knowledge, and their limited intellect is entirely in the will's service, unable to free itself even for a moment.

A magnificent example of people's pitiful subjectivity is astrology. Because of this subjectivity, people relate everything to themselves and return in a straight line from every thought to themselves. Astrology relates the movements of the great heavenly bodies to the miserable self, and also connects comets in the sky with earthly squabbles and scoundrelly behavior. This has happened in all ages, even the most ancient. (S. z. B. Stob. Eclog. L. I, c. 22, 9, pag. 478.)

27 Whenever something wrongheaded is said in public or in company, or written in literature, and is well received, or at least not refuted, do not despair and think it will be left at that. Instead, know and take comfort that afterward, gradually, the matter will be turned over, examined, thought about, weighed, discussed, and usually judged correctly in the end. After a period suited to its difficulty, almost everyone will finally understand what the clear mind saw at once. Meanwhile, of course, we must be patient. A person with correct insight among the deluded is like someone whose watch keeps the right time in a city where all the tower clocks are set wrong. He alone knows the true time, but what good does it do him? Everyone follows the wrongly set city clocks, even those who know that his watch alone gives the true time.

28 People are like children in becoming ill-behaved when spoiled. So we must not be too yielding or affectionate toward anyone. As a rule, we will not lose a friend by refusing him a loan, but may very easily lose him by granting it. Likewise, we will not easily lose one through a proud and somewhat neglectful manner, but often will through too much friendliness and helpfulness. These make him arrogant and unbearable, bringing about the break. Above all, people simply cannot handle the thought that we need them. Insolence and presumption follow it inseparably. In some, this thought arises to a degree merely because we have dealings with them, perhaps speaking to them often or in a familiar way. They immediately think we must put up with something from them too, and will try to stretch the boundaries of politeness. That is why so few people are suited to any closer relationship, and why we should be especially careful not to become familiar with low natures. If someone actually gets the idea that I need him far more than he needs me, he immediately feels as if I had stolen something from him. He will try to take revenge and get it back. Superiority in dealing with others arises only from not needing them in any way, and showing it. For this reason it is advisable to let everyone, man or woman, feel from time to time that we could very well do without them. This strengthens friendship. Indeed, with most people it can do no harm to mix in a grain of disregard now and then. They value our friendship all the more. Someone who shows no regard is held in regard (one who does not respect is respected), as a subtle Italian proverb says. But if someone really means a great deal to us, we must hide it from him as though it were a crime. This is not exactly pleasant, but it is true. Even dogs can barely tolerate great friendliness, let alone people.

29 People of nobler character and greater gifts so often reveal a striking lack of knowledge of people and worldly wisdom, especially in youth. As a result, they are easily deceived or otherwise misled, while low natures find their way in the world much faster and better. The reason is that without experience we must judge in advance of experience, and no experience can ever match that prior understanding. Ordinary people find this prior understanding in their own selves, but noble and outstanding people do not, precisely because they are so different from the others. So when they calculate other people's thinking and actions on the basis of their own, the calculation is wrong.

Even if such a person has finally learned from experience, through instruction by others and his own experience, what to expect from people in general, he will still hardly ever gain an adequate idea of their pettiness and wretchedness. He has learned, that is, that about 5/6 of them are so constituted, morally or intellectually, that anyone not linked to them by circumstances does better to avoid them from the start and, as far as possible, stay out of all contact with them. Yet throughout his life he will have to keep extending and completing that idea, and in the meantime will very often miscalculate to his own harm. And even after really taking the lesson to heart, he will still sometimes enter a gathering of people he does not yet know and find himself wondering how, from their speech and expressions, they all seem entirely reasonable, honest, sincere, honorable, and virtuous, and perhaps clever and intelligent as well. But this should not mislead him. It happens only because nature does not work like bad poets. When they portray scoundrels or fools, they do it so clumsily and deliberately that we seem to see the poet standing behind every such character, constantly disowning his attitudes and speech and calling out in warning: "This is a scoundrel, this is a fool; pay no attention to what he says." Nature, on the other hand, works like Shakespeare and Goethe. In their works every character, even the devil himself, is in the right while he stands before us and speaks. He is conceived so objectively that we are drawn into his interests and forced to share in them. Like nature's works, he has developed from an inner principle by which his words and actions appear natural, and therefore necessary.—So anyone who expects devils to walk around with horns and fools with bells will always be their prey or their plaything. Besides, in company people act like the moon and people with hunched backs: they always show only one side. Everyone even has an inborn talent for using facial expression to turn his face into a mask representing exactly what he really ought to be. Because it is designed exclusively for his individuality, it fits and suits him so closely that the effect is extraordinarily deceptive. He puts it on whenever it matters to win someone's favor. We should give it no more credit than if it were made of oilcloth, remembering the excellent Italian proverb: No dog is so vicious that it does not wag its tail (no dog is so bad that it would not wag its tail).

In any case, be very careful not to form a very favorable opinion of someone you have just met. In most cases you will be disappointed, to your own embarrassment or even harm. This is also worth remembering: people show their character precisely in small matters, where they are not watching themselves. In trivial actions or mere manners, you can often easily observe a boundless selfishness that gives no consideration at all to others. Later it will reveal itself in major matters too, though in disguise. Do not let such an opportunity pass. Suppose someone acts inconsiderately in the small daily events and relationships of life, in matters to which the saying the law does not concern itself with trifles applies. He pursues only his own advantage or convenience at others' expense; he takes for himself what is there for everyone, and so on. Then be sure that there is no justice in his heart. He will be a scoundrel in major matters too, whenever the law and force do not tie his hands. Do not trust him an inch. Indeed, someone who has no qualms about breaking his club's rules will also break the state's laws as soon as he can do so without danger[Q].

[Q] If the good outweighed the bad in people as most of them are, it would be wiser to rely on their justice, fairness, gratitude, loyalty, love, or compassion than on their fear. But since the reverse is true of them, the reverse is wiser.

When someone we deal with or spend time with has done something unpleasant or annoying to us, we only need to ask ourselves one question. Is he worth so much to us that we are willing to put up with the same thing again and repeatedly, even in a somewhat worse form—or not? (Forgiving and forgetting means throwing costly experience out the window.) If the answer is yes, there is little to say about it, since talking does little good. We must let the matter pass, with or without a warning. But we should know that by doing so we have asked him to do it to us again. If the answer is no, we must break with our dear friend immediately and forever, or dismiss him if he is a servant. For when the occasion arises, he will inevitably do exactly the same thing, or something entirely similar, even if he now solemnly and sincerely assures us otherwise. A person can forget anything at all, but not himself, not his own nature. Character simply cannot be corrected. All human actions flow from an inner principle that makes a person always act the same way under the same circumstances. He cannot do otherwise. Read my prize essay on so-called freedom of the will, and free yourself from this delusion. For the same reason, making up with a friend you have broken with is a weakness you will pay for. At the first opportunity he will do precisely the same thing that caused the break. Indeed, he will do it even more brazenly, secretly aware that you cannot do without him. The same applies to dismissed servants whom you take back. For the same reason, we must no more expect someone to do the same thing as before under changed circumstances. On the contrary, people change their attitudes and behavior just as quickly as their interests change. Indeed, their self-interest draws bills payable at such short notice that we would have to be even more shortsighted ourselves not to refuse payment.

Suppose, then, we want to know how someone will act in a position we are thinking of putting him in. We must not rely on his promises and assurances. Even if he speaks sincerely, he is speaking about something he does not know. We must instead work out how he will act solely by considering the circumstances he will enter and how they will interact with his character.

To gain the clear and thorough understanding we so badly need of people's true and very sad nature, as most of them are, it is extremely instructive to use their activities and behavior in literature as a commentary on their activities and behavior in practical life, and the other way around. This helps us avoid losing confidence in either our own judgment or our judgment of them. But no instance of particular baseness or stupidity that we come across in life or literature should ever become a source of annoyance and anger. It should only add to our knowledge. We should see it as another contribution to our understanding of the human race's character and remember it accordingly. We will then view it much as a mineralogist views a very characteristic mineral specimen he has found. There are exceptions—yes, incomprehensibly great ones—and the differences between individuals are enormous. But taken as a whole, as people have long said, the world lies in evil. Savages eat one another, and civilized people cheat one another, and that is called the way of the world. What are states, with all their elaborate machinery directed outward and inward, and all their instruments of force, but arrangements for setting limits to people's boundless injustice? Throughout history, don't we see every king, once he is securely established and his country enjoys some prosperity, use it to invade neighboring states with his army as if it were a band of robbers? Aren't almost all wars basically raids for plunder? In early antiquity, and to some extent in the Middle Ages too, the defeated became the victors' slaves. That basically means they had to work for them. But people who pay war contributions have to do the same: they hand over the proceeds of earlier work. In every war, the only aim is robbery, says Voltaire, and the Germans should take this to heart.

30 No character is such that it can be left to itself and allowed to let itself go completely. Every character needs guidance from concepts and principles. But if you want to go very far in this—to develop a character that does not spring from your inborn nature, but solely from rational reflection, a truly acquired and artificial character—you will very soon find the following confirmed:

You may drive nature out with a pitchfork, but it will keep coming back.

You may understand a rule for dealing with others perfectly well. You may even discover it yourself and express it accurately. Yet in actual life you may break it the very next moment. Still, do not let this discourage you into thinking it is impossible to guide your behavior in the world by abstract rules and principles, and that it is therefore best simply to let yourself go. It is the same here as with all theoretical rules and instructions for practical matters. Understanding the rule comes first; learning to apply it comes second. Reason gives us the first all at once; practice gives us the second gradually. You show a student the finger positions on an instrument, or the parries and thrusts with a rapier. Despite his best intentions, he immediately gets them wrong. He now thinks it is almost impossible to observe them while quickly reading music or in the heat of combat. Yet through practice he gradually learns, stumbling, falling, and getting up again. It is the same with the rules of grammar in writing and speaking Latin. In just this way a clumsy fellow becomes a courtier, a hothead becomes a polished man of the world, an open person becomes reserved, and a noble person becomes ironic. Yet self-training acquired through long habit will always work like a constraint imposed from outside. Nature never entirely stops resisting it and sometimes unexpectedly breaks through. Acting on abstract principles stands to acting from an original, inborn inclination as a human artifact—say, a clock—stands to a living organism. In the clock, form and movement are forced on matter foreign to them. In the organism, form and matter permeate each other and are one. This relationship between acquired and inborn character therefore confirms Emperor Napoleon's saying: Everything that is not natural is imperfect. This is, in fact, a rule that applies to absolutely everything, physical or moral. The only exception I can think of is natural aventurine, familiar to mineralogists, which is inferior to the artificial kind.

For this reason, let me also warn against every kind of affectation. It always arouses contempt. First, it is a deception, and as such cowardly, because it rests on fear. Second, it is a judgment people pass against themselves: they want to appear to be what they are not, and therefore consider it better than what they are. Pretending to have a quality and showing it off is an admission that you lack it. Whether someone boasts of courage, learning, intelligence, wit, success with women, wealth, high rank, or anything else, you can conclude that this is precisely where he falls somewhat short. Someone who really possesses a quality in full does not think of displaying it and pretending to it. He is quite at ease about it. This is also the meaning of the Spanish proverb: A rattling horseshoe is missing a nail (a rattling horseshoe lacks a nail). Of course, as I said at the start, no one should give himself completely free rein and show himself entirely as he is. Much that is bad and beastly in our nature needs covering up. But this justifies only the negative act of hiding something, not the positive act of pretending. You should also know that affectation is recognized even before it becomes clear what exactly someone is pretending to. And finally, it does not hold up over time: one day the mask falls off. No one can keep up an assumed character for long. Things that are false soon fall back into their own nature. (Seneca de Clementia, L. I, c. 1.)

31 We carry the weight of our own body without feeling it, though we feel the weight of any other body we try to move. In the same way, we notice other people's faults and vices, but not our own. Yet in other people each of us has a mirror where we can clearly see our own vices, faults, bad habits, and every kind of unpleasant trait. But we usually behave like a dog barking at a mirror. It does not know it is seeing itself and thinks it is another dog. Someone who picks apart other people is working on improving himself. People who have the habit and inclination to subject others' outward behavior, and their actions and inaction in general, to careful and sharp criticism, silently and privately, are thereby working on their own improvement and development. They will have either enough fairness, or at least enough pride and vanity, to avoid doing what they so often condemn severely. The opposite applies to tolerant people: We grant this indulgence and ask for it in return. The Gospel moralizes very nicely about the speck in someone else's eye and the beam in your own. But the eye's nature makes it look outward, not at itself. So noticing and criticizing our faults in others is a very suitable way to become aware of them in ourselves. We need a mirror to improve ourselves.

This rule also applies to style and writing. Anyone who admires a new foolishness in them, instead of criticizing it, will imitate it. That is why every such foolishness spreads so quickly in Germany. Germans are very tolerant: it shows. We grant this indulgence and ask for it in return is their motto.

32 In his youth, a person of nobler character believes that the essential and decisive relationships between people, and the bonds arising from them, are ideal ones. That is, they rest on similar attitudes, ways of thinking, tastes, intellectual abilities, and so on. Later he discovers that they are material ones: those based on some material interest. These underlie almost all connections. In fact, most people have no idea of any other relationships. Accordingly, everyone is judged by his office, occupation, nationality, or family—in short, by the position and role that convention has assigned him. He is sorted accordingly and treated as if on a production line. What he is in himself, as a human being with personal qualities, comes up only when someone chooses, and thus only exceptionally. Everyone sets it aside and ignores it whenever convenient, which is most of the time. But the more substance a person has in himself, the less he will like this arrangement, and the more he will try to escape its reach. Yet it rests on the fact that in this world of hardship and need, the means of meeting them are everywhere the essential thing, and therefore the dominant one.

33 Just as paper money circulates instead of silver, outward displays and gestures imitated as naturally as possible circulate in the world instead of true respect and true friendship. On the other hand, we might also ask whether there are people who really deserve them. In any case, I value an honest dog's wagging tail more than a hundred such displays and gestures.

True, genuine friendship requires a strong, purely objective, and entirely unselfish concern for another person's well-being and suffering. That in turn requires really identifying yourself with your friend. The selfishness of human nature is so opposed to this that true friendship is like gigantic sea serpents: we do not know whether it is mythical or exists somewhere. Still, there are various bonds between people that, though based mainly on hidden selfish motives of the most varied kinds, contain a grain of that true and genuine friendship. This ennobles them enough that, in this world of imperfections, they may with some justice bear the name of friendship. They stand far above everyday connections. Those are such that we would never speak another word to most of our good acquaintances if we heard how they talk about us in our absence.

Apart from occasions when you need serious help and considerable sacrifices, the best opportunity to test whether a friend is genuine is the moment you tell him about a misfortune that has just struck you. His face will then show either true, heartfelt, unmixed sorrow, or else, through its composed calm or a fleeting secondary expression, it will confirm Rochefoucauld's familiar saying: In the misfortunes of our best friends, we always find something that does not displease us. On such occasions ordinary so-called friends can often barely suppress the twitch of a faint, pleased smile. Few things put people in a good mood as reliably as telling them about a serious misfortune that recently struck you, or openly revealing some personal weakness. How characteristic!

Distance and long absence damage every friendship, however reluctantly we admit it. Over the years, people we do not see gradually dry up into abstract concepts, even if they are our dearest friends. Our concern for them becomes increasingly a matter of reason alone, or even merely of tradition. Lively and deeply felt concern is reserved for those we have before our eyes, even if they are only beloved animals. Human nature depends that much on the senses. So Goethe's saying proves true here too:

“The present is a mighty goddess.”

(Tasso, Aufzug 4, Auftr. 4.)

Friends of the house usually deserve that name: they are more attached to the house than to its master, and so are more like cats than dogs.

Friends call themselves sincere; enemies are sincere. So we should use their criticism to gain self-knowledge, like a bitter medicine.

Friends in need are rare? Quite the opposite! You have barely made friends with someone before he is already in need and wants to borrow money.

34 What a novice someone must be to imagine that showing intelligence and understanding is a way to make himself popular in company! On the contrary, in the overwhelmingly vast majority it arouses hatred and resentment. These are all the more bitter because the person feeling them has no right to complain of their cause, and even hides it from himself. More precisely, this is what happens. When someone notices and feels the great intellectual superiority of the person he is talking to, he silently and without clear awareness concludes that the other person is equally aware of his inferiority and limitations. This unspoken inference arouses his bitterest hatred, resentment, and fury. (Vergl. Welt als Wille und Vorstell., 3. Aufl., Bd. II, 256, the quoted words of Dr. Johnson and Merck, Goethe's friend in his youth.) Gracián therefore rightly says: “To be well liked, the only way is to dress in the skin of the stupidest animal.” (S. Oraculo manual, y arte de prudencia, 240. [Obras, Amberes 1702, P. II, p. 287.]) After all, displaying intelligence and understanding is merely an indirect way of reproaching everyone else for their incompetence and dullness. Besides, an ordinary nature rebels when it sees its opposite, and envy is the secret instigator of the rebellion. As we can see every day, satisfying their vanity is a pleasure people prize above all others. Yet it is possible only by comparing themselves with others. And people are prouder of intellectual advantages than of any others: these alone give them their superiority over animals[R]. So confronting someone with your clear superiority in this respect, especially before witnesses, is the height of rashness. He feels challenged to take revenge. Usually he will look for an opportunity to do so by insulting you. In this way he moves from the territory of intelligence to that of the will, where in this respect we are all equal. So while rank and wealth can always count on high respect in society, intellectual advantages can expect nothing of the sort. At best they are ignored. Otherwise they are seen as a kind of impertinence, or as something their owner has acquired without permission and now has the nerve to parade. To pay him back, everyone secretly plans to humiliate him in some other way and waits for the chance. Even the humblest behavior will scarcely succeed in begging forgiveness for intellectual superiority. Sadi says in the Gulistan (S. 146 der Übersetzung von Graf): “You should know that an unintelligent person feels a hundred times more hostility toward an intelligent one than an intelligent person feels dislike toward an unintelligent one.” Intellectual inferiority, on the other hand, is a real recommendation. The comforting feeling of superiority is to the mind what warmth is to the body. So everyone approaches whatever promises that feeling as instinctively as they approach a stove or sunshine. Only someone distinctly inferior can promise it: inferior in mental qualities among men, and in beauty among women. Admittedly, with some people, it takes some doing to demonstrate inferiority without pretending. But look at the warm friendliness with which a passably attractive girl greets a thoroughly ugly one. Physical advantages do not count for much among men, though a man does feel more comfortable beside someone shorter than beside someone taller. Consequently, stupid and ignorant men, and ugly women, are universally popular and sought after. They easily acquire a reputation for having an extremely good heart, because everyone needs an excuse for their affection, both to themselves and to others. For that very reason, intellectual superiority of every kind is a very isolating quality. People avoid and hate it, and invent all sorts of faults in its owner to justify doing so[S]. Beauty has exactly the same effect among women. Very beautiful girls find no female friend, not even a companion. They would do better not even to apply for jobs as companions. The moment they enter, the face of their hoped-for new mistress darkens: neither for herself nor for her daughters does she need such a foil. Advantages of rank, on the other hand, have the opposite effect. Unlike personal advantages, they do not work through contrast and distance, but through reflection, as the colors of the surroundings do on a face.

[R] We can say that a person has given himself his will, because that is what he himself is. But his intellect is an endowment he has received from heaven—that is, from eternal, mysterious fate and its necessity, of which his mother was merely the instrument.

[S] Friendships and comradeships are by far the chief means of getting ahead in the world. But great abilities always make people proud, and so ill suited to flattering people with only slight abilities—people from whom they are supposed to hide and deny their own great ones. Awareness of having only slight abilities works in the opposite way. It fits perfectly with humility, friendliness, helpfulness, and respect for what is bad, and so gains friends and patrons.

This applies not only to government service, but also to honorary positions, distinctions, and even fame in the scholarly world. Thus, for example, in academies dear mediocrity always has the upper hand, while people of merit get in late or never. And so it goes with everything.

35 Laziness, selfishness, and vanity very often play the greatest part in our trust in others. Laziness does so when we would rather trust someone else than investigate, keep watch, or act ourselves. Selfishness does so when our need to talk about our own affairs leads us to confide something to another person. Vanity does so when it is something we take pride in. Nevertheless, we demand that people honor our trust.

On the other hand, we should not be angry at mistrust. It contains a compliment to honesty: the sincere admission that honesty is so very rare that it belongs among the things whose existence people doubt.

36 I gave one reason for politeness, that Chinese cardinal virtue, in my Ethics, S. 201 (2. Aufl. 198). The other is as follows. It is a tacit agreement to ignore each other's wretched moral and intellectual condition and not reproach one another for it. This makes that condition somewhat less likely to come to light, to the advantage of both parties.

Politeness is good sense; consequently, rudeness is stupidity. Making enemies through needless, willful rudeness is madness, like setting fire to your own house. Politeness is like counting tokens: it is an openly counterfeit currency. Being stingy with such a currency shows a lack of sense; being generous with it shows sense. Every nation ends its letters with your very humble servant—your most obedient servant—your most devoted servant. Only the Germans hold back from “servant”—because it is not true, after all! But someone who carries politeness so far as to sacrifice real interests is like someone who gives real gold coins instead of counting tokens. Wax, naturally hard and brittle, becomes so pliable with a little heat that it takes any shape you wish. In the same way, a little politeness and friendliness can make even stubborn and hostile people flexible and obliging. So politeness is to people what heat is to wax.

Politeness is admittedly a difficult task in that it demands that we show everyone the greatest respect, though the vast majority deserve none. It also demands that we pretend to take the liveliest interest in them, though we should be glad to have no interest in them at all. Combining politeness with pride is a masterstroke.

We would be much less upset by insults, which really always consist in expressions of disrespect, if we did not, on the one hand, have a completely exaggerated idea of our own high worth and dignity, and thus boundless arrogance; and if, on the other, we had made clear to ourselves what people generally think and feel about one another in their hearts. What a glaring contrast there is between most people's sensitivity to the slightest hint of criticism directed at them and what they would hear if they eavesdropped on their acquaintances' conversations about them! We should instead keep in mind that ordinary politeness is only a grinning mask. Then we would not raise an outcry when it shifts a little or is taken off for a moment. But when someone becomes downright rude, it is as if he has thrown off his clothes and stands there completely naked. Admittedly, like most people in that condition, he makes a poor showing.

37 Do not take anyone else as a model for what you do or leave undone. Situation, circumstances, and relationships are never the same. And differences in character give an action a different coloring too. Hence, when two people do the same thing, it is not the same. After careful consideration and close thought, you must act in accordance with your own character. So originality is essential in practical matters too. Otherwise, what you do does not fit what you are.

38 Do not dispute anyone's opinion. Instead, remember that if you wanted to talk him out of all the absurdities he believes, you could reach Methuselah's age without finishing.

In conversation, you should also avoid all corrective remarks, however well meant. It is easy to hurt people, but hard, if not impossible, to improve them.

When the absurdities of a conversation we have to listen to begin to annoy us, we must imagine it is a scene in a comedy between two fools. Tried and tested. Anyone who has come into the world to teach it seriously and in the most important matters can count himself lucky if he escapes with his skin intact.

39 If you want your judgment to be believed, state it coolly and without passion. All vehemence springs from the will, so people will attribute the judgment to that, not to knowledge, which is cool by nature. The will is what is fundamental in a person; knowledge is only secondary, something added. So people will be more likely to believe that the judgment arose from an excited will than that the will's excitement arose solely from the judgment.

40 Even if you have every right to do so, do not let yourself be drawn into praising yourself. Vanity is so common, and merit so uncommon, that whenever we seem to praise ourselves, even indirectly, everyone will bet a hundred to one that it is vanity speaking through us—vanity too unintelligent to see how ridiculous the thing is. Still, Bacon of Verulam may not be entirely wrong when he says that something always sticks applies to self-praise just as it does to slander, and therefore recommends it in moderate doses.

41 If you suspect someone is lying, pretend to believe him. Then he will become bold, lie more extravagantly, and expose himself. But if you notice that part of a truth he wants to conceal is slipping out, pretend not to believe it. Provoked by your contradiction, he will then bring up the rear guard of the whole truth.

42 We must regard all our personal affairs as secrets. Beyond what our good acquaintances see with their own eyes, we must remain complete strangers to them. Their knowledge of the most innocent things can harm us as time and circumstances change. In general, it is wiser to show your intelligence by what you keep to yourself than by what you say. The first is a matter of prudence, the second of vanity. Opportunities for both come equally often. Yet we frequently prefer the fleeting satisfaction the second gives to the lasting benefit the first brings. We should even deny ourselves the relief of occasionally saying a word aloud to ourselves, as lively people sometimes do, so that it does not become a habit. It makes thought and speech so familiar and closely allied that talking with others gradually becomes thinking aloud as well. Prudence, meanwhile, commands us to keep a wide gap open between what we think and what we say.

Sometimes we imagine that others cannot possibly believe something about us, when it has never occurred to them to doubt it. But if we make that thought occur to them, they can no longer believe it either. We often give ourselves away simply because we imagine it is impossible for people not to notice. It is like throwing ourselves down from a height through vertigo—that is, through the thought that it is impossible to stand firm here, and that the agony of standing here is so great that it would be better to cut it short. This delusion is called vertigo.

On the other hand, we should know that people, even those who otherwise show no particular sharpness, are excellent algebraists when it comes to other people's personal affairs. With a single given quantity they solve the most complicated problems. For example, suppose you tell them about some past event, leaving out all names and other ways of identifying the people. Be careful not to include any definite, individual detail, however slight: a place, a time, the name of a minor participant, or anything else even directly connected with it. This immediately gives them a definite known quantity, from which their algebraic sharpness works out everything else. Their curiosity is so excited here that the will digs its spurs into the intellect and drives it on until it reaches the most distant conclusions. For people are as eager for individual truths as they are unreceptive and indifferent to general ones.

In keeping with all this, every teacher of worldly wisdom has recommended keeping quiet in the strongest terms and with the most varied arguments. So I can leave it at what I have said. I will just add a few Arabic maxims that are particularly striking and little known. “Do not tell your friend what your enemy must not know.”—“If I keep my secret, it is my prisoner; if I let it escape, I am its prisoner.”—“On the tree of silence hangs its fruit: peace.”

43 No money is put to better use than the money we have let ourselves be cheated out of. In exchange for it, we have directly acquired good sense.

44 If possible, we should bear no one any hostility. But we should carefully note and remember how each person behaves, so as to establish his worth, at least toward us, and regulate our own conduct and behavior toward him accordingly. We must always remain convinced that character does not change. Ever forgetting a bad trait in someone is like throwing away hard-earned money. In this way we protect ourselves from foolish intimacy and foolish friendship.

“Neither love nor hate” contains half of all worldly wisdom; “say nothing and believe nothing” contains the other half. Admittedly, we will gladly turn our backs on a world that makes rules like these and the next ones necessary.

45 Letting anger or hatred show in words or facial expressions is useless, dangerous, unwise, ridiculous, and vulgar. So you should never show anger or hatred except in deeds. The more completely you have avoided the former, the more completely you will be able to do the latter. Only cold-blooded animals are venomous.

46 Speak without emphasis: this old rule of people of the world aims to leave it to other people's understanding to work out what you have said. Their understanding is slow, and before it has finished you are gone. But speaking with emphasis means speaking to their feelings, and then everything turns out the other way around. With a polite gesture and a friendly tone, you can even say truly insulting things to some people without immediate danger.

D. Concerning our behavior toward the course of the world and fate.

47 Whatever form human life takes, its elements are always the same. So it is essentially the same everywhere, whether lived in a hut or at court, in a monastery or in the army. However varied its events, adventures, strokes of good fortune and misfortunes may be, they are like confectionery. There are many different, intricate, brightly colored shapes, but all are kneaded from one dough. What happens to one person is much more like what happened to another than the latter thinks when he hears the story. The events of our lives also resemble the images in a kaleidoscope. With every turn we see something different, yet we actually always have the same thing before our eyes.

48 There are three powers in the world, an ancient writer very aptly says: understanding, strength, and luck—prudence, strength, and luck. I believe the last of these is the most powerful. Our path through life can be compared to a ship's course. Fate, luck, favorable or unfavorable fortune, plays the role of the wind, carrying us quickly far ahead or throwing us far back. Our own efforts and activity can do little against it. They play the role of the oars. After many hours of work have taken us some distance forward, a sudden gust throws us just as far back. But if the wind is favorable, it carries us along so well that we do not need the oars. A Spanish proverb expresses this power of luck unsurpassably: Give your son good luck and throw him into the sea (give your son good luck and throw him into the sea).

Chance is certainly a wicked power, and we should leave as little as possible to it. Yet who, of all givers, is the only one who, as he gives, shows us with complete clarity that we have no claim at all to his gifts? Who shows us that we owe them not to our worthiness, but solely to his kindness and grace, and that precisely for this reason we may draw the joyful hope of humbly receiving many more undeserved gifts? It is chance. It understands the royal art of making clear that against its favor and grace all merit is powerless and counts for nothing.

When we look back over our path through life and survey its “labyrinthine, wandering course,” we see so much happiness we missed, so much misfortune we brought on ourselves, that we can easily go too far in blaming ourselves. For our life's course is by no means entirely our own work. It is the product of two factors: the series of events and the series of our decisions. These always interact and modify each other. Besides, in both our outlook is always very limited. We cannot predict our decisions far ahead, and still less can we foresee events. In fact, only the present ones of either kind are properly known to us. So as long as our goal is still far away, we cannot even steer straight toward it. We can only direct our course approximately, by conjecture, and must often tack. All we can do is make our decisions according to the circumstances of the moment, hoping to hit on something that will bring us closer to our main goal. Thus events and our fundamental intentions can usually be compared to two forces pulling in different directions. The resulting diagonal is our life's course. Terence said: Human life is like playing dice: if the throw you most need does not fall, you must use skill to correct the throw that chance has given you. He must have been thinking of a kind of backgammon. We can put it more briefly: fate shuffles the cards, and we play. But the following comparison would best express my present thought. Life is like chess. We draw up a plan, but it remains dependent on what the opponent chooses to do in chess, and fate in life. The changes our plan undergoes as a result are usually so great that, when carried out, it can barely be recognized by a few basic features.

There is, however, something else in our life's course that goes beyond all this. That we are often more foolish than we think is a commonplace truth, confirmed all too often. But that we are often wiser than we ourselves imagine is a discovery made only by those who have experienced it—and even they make it only late. There is something in us wiser than our head. In the broad outlines and main steps of our lives, we act less from a clear knowledge of what is right than from an inner impulse. We might call it instinct, coming from the deepest ground of our being. Afterward, we find fault with our actions according to clear but also meager concepts, acquired or even borrowed, according to general rules, other people's examples, and so on. We do not give enough thought to “One thing does not suit everyone,” and so we easily become unjust to ourselves. But in the end it becomes clear which was right. Only old age, when we have been fortunate enough to reach it, is qualified both subjectively and objectively to judge the matter.

Perhaps that inner impulse is guided, without our awareness, by prophetic dreams forgotten on waking. In this way they may give our lives a consistency of tone and dramatic unity that our conscious brain could not provide, wavering and wandering as it so often does, and so easily changing its mind. Because of this, for example, someone called to great achievements of a particular kind feels it inwardly and secretly from youth onward, and works toward it as bees work at building their hive. For everyone, though, it is what Baltasar Gracián calls the great power of sound judgment: the great instinctive care for oneself without which one goes under. Acting on abstract principles is difficult. It succeeds only after much practice, and even then not every time. Besides, such principles are often inadequate. On the other hand, everyone has certain inborn, concrete principles that are in his blood, since they are the result of all his thinking, feeling, and willing. Usually he does not know them in the abstract. Only when looking back over his life does he become aware that he has always followed them and been drawn along by them as by an invisible thread. Depending on what they are, they will lead him to happiness or unhappiness.

49 We should constantly keep in view the effects of time and the changeability of things. Whatever is happening now, we should therefore immediately imagine its opposite. In good fortune we should vividly picture misfortune; in friendship, hostility; in fine weather, bad weather; in love, hatred; in trust and openness, betrayal and regret; and likewise the other way around. This would provide a lasting source of true worldly wisdom. We would always remain levelheaded and would not be so easily deceived. Usually we would merely have anticipated the effects of time. But perhaps no understanding needs experience so indispensably as a correct estimate of the instability and change of things. Every condition, for as long as it lasts, exists necessarily and therefore with the fullest right. So every year, month, and day looks as though it were finally the one that intended to remain right for all eternity. But none does, and change alone is constant. The wise person is the one not deceived by apparent stability, who also foresees the direction change will take next[T]. People generally regard the present state of things, or the direction they are taking, as permanent because they see the effects but do not understand the causes. Yet it is the causes that carry the seed of future changes within them. The effect, which alone exists for these people, contains none of this. They cling to it and assume that the causes unknown to them, which were able to produce it, will also be able to preserve it. They have the advantage that when they are mistaken, they are always mistaken in unison. So the calamity that strikes them as a result is always general, while the thinking person, if mistaken, is alone into the bargain. Incidentally, this confirms my proposition that error always arises from reasoning backward from a consequence to its ground. See “Welt als W. u. V.” Bd. 1, S. 90. (3. Aufl. 94.)

[T] Chance has such wide scope in all human affairs that, if we immediately try to prevent a danger threatening from afar by making sacrifices, that danger often disappears through an unforeseen turn of events. Then not only are the sacrifices wasted, but the change they brought about is now a downright disadvantage under the altered circumstances. So our precautions must not reach too far into the future. We should also count on chance, and boldly face some dangers in the hope that, like so many dark storm clouds, they will pass over.

But we should anticipate time only in theory, by foreseeing its effects—not in practice, by trying to get ahead of it and demanding before the time what only time can bring. Anyone who does this will find that there is no worse or more relentless usurer than time itself. When forced to make advances, it charges heavier interest than any Jew. For example, with quicklime and heat you can force a tree so strongly that it puts out leaves, flowers, and fruit within a few days. But then it dies. If a youth wants to exercise a man's reproductive power already, even if only for a few weeks, and perform at nineteen what he could very well do at thirty, time may indeed make the advance. But the interest is part of the strength of his future years, even part of his life itself. There are illnesses from which we recover properly and completely only by letting them run their natural course, after which they disappear of themselves without leaving a trace. But if we demand to be healthy immediately, now, this very moment, time must make an advance here too. The illness is driven off, but the interest is weakness and chronic ailments for life. If we need money in times of war or unrest, and need it immediately, this very moment, we are forced to sell real estate or government securities for 1/3 of their value or even less. We would receive their full value if we gave time its due and waited a few years. Instead, we force it to make an advance. Or we need a sum of money for a long journey. We could save it from our income within one or two years, but we do not want to wait. So we borrow it or take it provisionally from our capital: that is, time must advance it. Its interest here is disorder that has taken hold in our finances, a permanent and growing deficit we never get rid of. Such is time's usury. Everyone who cannot wait becomes its victim. Trying to speed up the measured course of time is the costliest undertaking. So take care not to owe time interest.

50 One characteristic difference between ordinary and intelligent minds shows itself very often in everyday life. When considering and assessing possible dangers, ordinary minds always ask and consider only what of the kind has already happened. Intelligent minds, by contrast, think for themselves about what could possibly happen. They remember that, as a Spanish proverb says, What does not happen in a year happens in a moment (what does not happen within a year happens within a few minutes). This difference is admittedly natural. Surveying what can happen requires understanding; surveying what has happened requires only the senses.

But let our principle be: sacrifice to the evil demons! That is, we should not shrink from a certain expenditure of effort, time, inconvenience, trouble, money, or self-denial to shut the door on the possibility of a misfortune. The greater the misfortune would be, the smaller, more remote, and less probable that possibility may be. The clearest example of this rule is the insurance premium. It is a sacrifice everyone openly makes on the altar of the evil demons.

51 No event should make us burst into great rejoicing or great lamentation. This is partly because everything is changeable and can alter at any moment, and partly because our judgment of what benefits or harms us is unreliable. As a result, almost everyone has at some time lamented something that later proved to be truly best for him, or rejoiced over something that became the source of his greatest suffering. Shakespeare beautifully expressed the attitude I recommend instead:

I have felt so many twists of joy and griefThat neither, at its first appearance,Can sweep me away like a woman.[U]

(All's well, A. 3. sc. 2.)

[U] I have already felt so many fits of joy and grief that I no longer let the first sight of a cause for either immediately sweep me away like a woman.

In general, someone who remains calm in every misfortune shows that he knows how enormous and varied life's possible evils are. He therefore regards the one that has now arrived as a very small part of what could come. This is the Stoic attitude. In keeping with it, we should never be forgetful of the human condition, but always remember what a sad and miserable lot human existence is in general, and the countless evils to which it is exposed. To refresh this understanding, we need only look around us anywhere. Wherever we are, we will soon see this struggling, wriggling, and tormenting ourselves for a wretched, bare existence that yields nothing. We will then lower our expectations, learn to accept the imperfection of all things and conditions, and always anticipate misfortunes so as to avoid or endure them. For misfortunes, large and small, are the very element of our lives. We should always keep this in mind. But that is no reason to behave like a grouch, lamenting and pulling faces with Beresford over the hourly miseries of human life, still less to call on God over a flea bite. Instead, as a cautious person, we should carry our care in anticipating and preventing misfortunes—whether they come from people or things—so far, and refine it so much, that like a clever fox we neatly avoid every great or small mishap, which is usually only clumsiness in disguise.

A misfortune is easier to bear if we have considered it possible beforehand and, as people say, prepared ourselves for it. This may chiefly be because, when we calmly think about it before it occurs, as a mere possibility, we clearly survey the extent of the misfortune on every side. We recognize it at least as something finite and understandable. As a result, when it actually strikes, it can affect us with no more than its real weight. But if we have not done this and are struck unprepared, our frightened mind cannot accurately measure the misfortune's size at the first moment. It cannot now take it all in, so it easily seems immeasurable, or at least much greater than it really is. In the same way, darkness and uncertainty make every danger seem greater. Of course, there is also the fact that for a misfortune anticipated as possible, we have thought over grounds for comfort and ways of remedying it, or at least become accustomed to the idea of it.

But nothing will better enable us to endure calmly the misfortunes that strike us than conviction of the truth I derived from its ultimate grounds and established in my prize essay on freedom of the will. As it says there, S. 62 (2. Aufl. S. 60): “Everything that happens, from the greatest to the smallest, happens necessarily.” People soon learn to accept what is unavoidably necessary. This understanding lets them see everything, even what the strangest coincidences bring about, as just as necessary as what follows the most familiar rules and is fully foreseen. Here I refer to what I said (Welt als W. u. V. Bd. 1, S. 345 u. 46 [3. Aufl. 361]) about the calming effect of understanding what is inevitable and necessary. Anyone thoroughly convinced of this will first do what he can, and then willingly suffer what he must.

We can regard the small misfortunes that vex us every hour as intended to keep us in practice, so that good fortune does not entirely weaken our power to endure great ones. Toward daily annoyances, petty friction in dealing with people, insignificant slights, others' improper behavior, gossip, and the like, we must be a horn-skinned Siegfried. That is, we should not feel them at all, much less take them to heart and brood over them. We should let none of this reach us, but kick it aside like little stones in our path, and never admit it into our inward reflection and brooding.

52 What people commonly call fate is usually only their own stupid behavior. So we cannot take too much to heart the fine passage in Homer (JL. XXIII, 313 sqq.) where he recommends resourcefulness, that is, careful thought. For even if we pay for our worst acts only in the next world, we pay for our stupid ones already in this world—though now and then mercy may take the place of justice.

It is not someone with a fierce look, but someone with a clever look, who seems frightening and dangerous—as surely as a human brain is a more terrible weapon than a lion's claw.

The most accomplished person of the world would be someone who never stalled in indecision and never rushed into anything.

53 Along with prudence, courage is a quality very essential to our happiness. Admittedly, we cannot give ourselves either: we inherit the first from our mother and the second from our father. Yet determination and practice can strengthen what we have of them. This world, where “the dice fall like iron,” calls for a spirit of iron, armored against fate and armed against people. For all of life is a struggle; every step is contested. Voltaire rightly says: In this world we succeed only at sword point, and we die with weapons in our hands. So it is a cowardly soul that shrinks, starts losing heart, and whines as soon as clouds gather, or even merely appear on the horizon. Instead, let our motto be:

Do not give in to evils, but advance against them more boldly.

As long as the outcome of a dangerous affair is still uncertain, as long as a happy outcome remains possible, we must think not of losing courage, but only of resistance. In the same way, we must not despair of the weather as long as there is still a patch of blue in the sky. Indeed, we should reach the point of saying:

If the shattered world should fall upon him,Its ruins will strike him unafraid.

Not even life as a whole, let alone its possessions, is worth such cowardly trembling and shrinking of the heart:

So live bravely,And set brave hearts against adversity.

Yet excess is possible here too, for courage can degenerate into recklessness. In fact, a certain amount of fear is necessary for our survival in the world. Cowardice is merely going beyond that amount. Bacon of Verulam expressed this very aptly in his explanation of the origin of the term panic terror. It far surpasses the older explanation preserved for us by Plutarch (de Iside et Osir. c. 14). Bacon derives it from Pan, as nature personified, and says: For the nature of things has implanted fear and dread in all living beings, to preserve their life and existence and to avoid and ward off approaching evils. Yet this same nature does not know how to keep within bounds. It always mixes vain and empty fears with beneficial ones, so that all things, if we could see into them, would be found full of panic terrors, especially human beings. (De sapientia veterum VI.) Incidentally, the characteristic thing about panic is that it is not clearly aware of its reasons. It assumes them rather than knows them, and if necessary actually treats fear itself as a reason for fear.

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Chapter 5 is part of Aphorisms on the Wisdom of Life by Arthur Schopenhauer. This page sets the German original beside 2 direct-source translations, so any line can be checked against the source. It is chapter 6 of 7 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.

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