Chapter III, 6

Where consciousness is rational—that is, capable of knowledge beyond perception, of concepts and thoughts—motives become entirely independent of the present and the actual surroundings, and are thereby hidden from the spectator. They are now mere thoughts carried about in a person’s head. Their origin, however, lies outside it, often very far away: sometimes in his own experience of past years, sometimes in what others have handed down through speech and writing, even from the remotest times. Their origin is nevertheless always real and objective, although the often difficult combination of complicated external circumstances introduces many errors, and transmission introduces many deceptions, so that motives also include much folly. Moreover, people often hide the motives of their actions from everyone else, and sometimes even from themselves, when they shrink from recognizing what really moves them to do this or that. Meanwhile, we see their actions occur and seek to discover their motives by conjecture. We assume those motives as firmly and confidently as we would the cause of any observed movement of inanimate bodies, convinced that either event is impossible without a cause. Correspondingly, in our own plans and undertakings, we reckon with the effect of motives on people with a certainty that would fully equal our calculations of the mechanical effects of mechanical devices, if we knew the individual characters of the people concerned as precisely as we know the length and thickness of the beams, the diameters of the wheels, the weight of the loads, and so forth. Everyone follows this assumption while looking outward, dealing with others and pursuing practical ends, for human understanding is designed for those ends. But when someone tries to judge the matter theoretically and philosophically—something for which human intelligence is not really designed—and makes himself the object of judgment, he is misled by the immaterial nature of abstract motives just described. Consisting merely of thoughts, they are tied to no present moment or surrounding place, and meet their obstacles only in other thoughts as counter-motives. He is misled so far that he doubts their existence, or at least the necessity of their action, and imagines that whatever is done could just as well remain undone: that the will decides of itself, without a cause, and that each of its acts is a first beginning of an unforeseeable series of changes brought about by it. This error is especially supported by the false interpretation of the statement of self-consciousness sufficiently examined in the first section, “I can do what I will.” That statement may resound, as at any time, even while several mutually exclusive motives are acting, for the moment merely appealing to the will. Taken together, these things are the source of the natural illusion from which the error arises that self-consciousness contains certainty of freedom of our will: freedom understood as something deciding without sufficient reasons, contrary to all laws of pure understanding and of nature, whose resolutions, under given circumstances and in one and the same person, could turn out one way or the opposite.

To explain the origin of this error, so important to our subject, particularly and as clearly as possible, and thus supplement the preceding section’s inquiry into self-consciousness, let us imagine someone standing in the street and saying to himself: “It is 6 in the evening; the day’s work is done. I can go for a walk now, or go to the club. I can climb the tower to watch the sunset; I can go to the theater; I can visit this friend or that one. Yes, I can even run out through the gate into the wide world and never return. All this rests with me alone; I have complete freedom to do it. Yet I shall do none of it now, but go home just as freely to my wife.” This is exactly as though water said: “I can rise in towering waves—yes, in the sea during a storm! I can rush down swiftly—yes, in a riverbed! I can plunge down foaming and bubbling—yes, in a waterfall! I can rise freely into the air as a jet—yes, in a fountain! I can even boil away and vanish—yes, at 80°! Yet I shall do none of these things now, but remain of my own free will, calm and clear, in the reflecting pond.” Just as water can do all this only when the determining causes of one occurrence or another appear, so that person can do what he imagines himself able to do only under the same condition. Until the causes appear, it is impossible for him; once they do, he must act, just as water must when placed in the corresponding circumstances. Strictly considered, his error—the illusion produced here by misinterpreted self-consciousness that he could do all those things right now—rests on this: only one image at a time can be present to his imagination, excluding everything else for the moment. When he pictures the motive for one of the actions proposed as possible, he immediately feels its effect on his will, which it draws toward itself. In technical language, this is called a wish. He now thinks he could raise this wish to an act of will—that is, carry out the proposed action—but this is an illusion. Reflection would immediately intervene, reminding him of the motives pulling in other directions or opposing it; he would then see that the deed does not occur. As these different, mutually exclusive motives are presented in succession, constantly accompanied by the inward “I can do what I will,” the will turns at once toward every motive imagination holds before it, like a weather vane on a well-greased pivot in an unsteady wind. It turns successively toward all the motives presented as possible, and at each one the person thinks he could will it and thus fix the vane at that point. This is mere illusion. His “I can will this” is in truth hypothetical, carrying the qualification “if I did not prefer to will that other thing.” That qualification, however, cancels the supposed ability to will the first. Let us return to our imagined person deliberating at 6 o’clock, and suppose he now notices me standing behind him, philosophizing about him and denying his freedom to perform all those actions possible for him. He might easily carry out one of them to refute me. But then my very denial, and its effect on his contrary spirit, would have been the motive compelling him to do it. This motive could move him only to one of the easier actions listed above, however—going to the theater, for example—and by no means to the last, running out into the wide world. For that, the motive would be far too weak. Equally mistaken is someone who, holding a loaded pistol, thinks he could shoot himself with it. The mechanical means of carrying out the act is the least of what is needed. The essential thing is an extraordinarily strong, and therefore rare, motive possessing the immense force required to outweigh the desire for life—or, more accurately, the fear of death. Only once such a motive has appeared can he actually shoot himself, and must do so, unless a still stronger counter-motive, if one is possible at all, prevents the deed.

But when consciousness is rational—that is, capable of knowledge that is not perceptual, of concepts and thoughts—motives become entirely independent of the present moment and the actual surroundings. They are therefore hidden from an observer. They are now mere thoughts that a person carries around in their head. Yet their origin lies outside it, often very far away: sometimes in the person's own experience of past years, sometimes in accounts passed on by others through speech and writing, even from the most distant times. Their origin is always real and objective. Still, the often difficult task of combining complex external circumstances introduces many errors, and accounts passed on by others introduce many deceptions. Consequently, motives also include many foolish ideas. Added to this, people often hide the motives for their actions from everyone else, and sometimes even from themselves, when they shrink from recognizing what is really moving them to do one thing or another. Meanwhile, we see their actions take place and try to discover their motives by guesswork. We assume those motives as firmly and confidently as we would assume a cause for any movement of lifeless bodies that we had seen occur. We are convinced that the one is as impossible without a cause as the other. Accordingly, in the other direction, when making our own plans and undertaking projects, we calculate how motives will affect people. We would do this with exactly the same certainty with which we calculate the mechanical effects of mechanical devices, if we knew the individual characters of the people we were dealing with as precisely as we know the length and thickness of beams, the diameters of wheels, the weight of loads, and so on. Everyone follows this assumption as long as they look outward, deal with other people, and pursue practical aims. Human understanding is designed for these purposes. But suppose someone tries to judge the matter theoretically and philosophically, which human intelligence is not really designed to do, and makes themselves the object of their judgment. Then they are misled by the immaterial nature, described above, of abstract motives consisting of mere thoughts. These motives are not tied to any present moment or surroundings, and even the obstacles they encounter are only other thoughts acting as opposing motives. This misleads the person so far that they doubt the existence of these motives, or at least the necessity of their effects. They think that what is done could just as well be left undone, that the will decides by itself, without a cause, and that each of its acts is a first beginning of an incalculable series of changes it brings about. This error is especially encouraged by a false interpretation of the statement of self-consciousness examined sufficiently in the first section: “I can do what I will.” This is particularly so when that statement makes itself heard, as it does at any time, even under the influence of several mutually exclusive motives that, for the moment, merely urge the will toward action. All this together is the source of the natural illusion from which the error arises that our self-consciousness gives us certainty of our will's freedom. Freedom here means that, contrary to all the laws of pure understanding and of nature, the will decides without sufficient grounds, and that under given circumstances, in one and the same person, its decisions could go either one way or the opposite way.

To explain in specific and unmistakable terms how this error, so important to our subject, arises, and thus to supplement the investigation of self-consciousness in the preceding section, let us imagine a man standing, perhaps, in the street and saying to himself: “It is 6 p.m. The day's work is over. I can take a walk now, or I can go to the club. I can also climb the tower to watch the sunset. I can also go to the theater. I can also visit this friend or that one. In fact, I can also run out through the town gate into the wide world and never come back. All this is entirely up to me. I have complete freedom to do it. Yet I am doing none of it now, but going home to my wife just as freely.” This is exactly as if water were to say: “I can rise in high waves (yes—in the sea during a storm); I can rush rapidly downhill (yes—in a riverbed); I can plunge down, foaming and surging (yes—in a waterfall); I can rise freely into the air as a jet (yes—in a fountain); finally, I can even boil away and disappear (yes—at a temperature of 80°). Yet I am doing none of this now, but freely remaining still and clear in the reflecting pond.” Water can do all those things only when the causes determining one or another of them occur. In just the same way, the man can do what he imagines he can do only under that same condition. Until the causes occur, it is impossible for him. But once they do, he must do it, just as water must act once it is placed in the corresponding circumstances. His error, and in general the illusion arising here from misinterpreted self-consciousness that he can do all those things right now, rests, on closer inspection, on this: only one image at a time can be present to his imagination, and for the moment it excludes everything else. When he imagines the motive for one of the actions he has proposed as possible, he immediately feels its effect on his will, which is drawn toward it. This is technically called a wish. But he now thinks that he can also raise this to an actual act of will—that is, carry out the proposed action. This, however, is an illusion. Reflection would immediately step in and remind him of the motives pulling him in other directions or opposing the action. He would then see that the action does not take place. As he imagines different, mutually exclusive motives one after another, with the inner statement “I can do what I will” constantly accompanying them, the will turns, as it were, like a weathervane on a well-oiled pivot in a shifting wind. It immediately turns toward every motive that the imagination presents to it, toward all the possible motives in succession. At each one, the man thinks he can will it, and so fix the vane at that point. This is pure illusion. For his “I can will this” is really conditional and carries the qualification “if I did not prefer to will that other thing.” But this qualification cancels out that ability to will. Let us return to the man we imagined deliberating at 6 p.m. Suppose he now notices that I am standing behind him, philosophizing about him and denying his freedom to perform all those actions that are possible for him. He might very well perform one of them to refute me. But in that case, my denial and its effect on his urge to contradict me would have been precisely the motive compelling him to do it. Even so, this motive could move him only to one or another of the easier actions listed above, such as going to the theater, but certainly not to the last one, running off into the wide world. The motive would be far too weak for that. Many people are equally mistaken when, holding a loaded pistol, they think they can shoot themselves with it. The mechanical means of carrying it out is the least important part. The main thing is an extremely strong and therefore rare motive, with the enormous power needed to outweigh the desire to live, or more accurately, the fear of death. Only once such a motive has appeared can they actually shoot themselves, and must do so—unless an even stronger opposing motive, if such a thing is possible at all, prevents the act.