Chapter III, 11
Original German
Hier ist daran zu erinnern, daß jede Existentia eine Essentia voraussetzt: d. h. jedes Seiende muß eben auch etwas sein, ein bestimmtes Wesen haben. Es kann nicht dasein und dabei doch nichts sein, nämlich so etwas wie das Ens metaphysicum, d. h. ein Ding welches ist und weiter nichts als ist, ohne alle Bestimmungen und Eigenschaften, und folglich ohne die aus diesen fließende entschiedene Wirkungsart: sondern so wenig eine Essentia ohne Existentia eine Realität liefert (was Kant durch das bekannte Beispiel von hundert Thalern erläutert hat); ebensowenig vermag dies eine Existentia ohne Essentia. Denn jedes Seiende muß eine ihm wesentliche, eigentümliche Natur haben, vermöge welcher es ist was es ist, die es stets behauptet, deren Aeußerungen von den Ursachen mit Notwendigkeit hervorgerufen werden; während hingegen diese Natur selbst keineswegs das Werk jener Ursachen, noch durch dieselben modifikabel ist. Alles dieses aber gilt vom Menschen und seinem Willen ebensosehr, wie von allen übrigen Wesen in der Natur. Auch er hat zur Existentia eine Essentia, d. h. grundwesentliche Eigenschaften, die eben seinen Charakter ausmachen und nur der Veranlassung von außen bedürfen, um hervorzutreten. Folglich zu erwarten, daß ein Mensch, bei gleichem Anlaß, einmal so, ein andermal aber ganz anders handeln werde, wäre wie wenn man erwarten wollte, daß derselbe Baum, der diesen Sommer Kirschen trug, im nächsten Birnen tragen werde. Die Willensfreiheit bedeutet, genau betrachtet, eine Existentia ohne Essentia; welches heißt, daß etwas sei und dabei doch nichts sei, welches wiederum heißt, nicht sei, also ein Widerspruch ist.
Der Einsicht hierin, wie auch in die a priori gewisse und daher ausnahmslose Gültigkeit des Gesetzes der Kausalität, ist es zuzuschreiben, daß alle wirklich tiefen Denker aller Zeiten, so verschieden auch ihre sonstigen Ansichten sein mochten, darin übereinstimmten, daß sie die Notwendigkeit der Willensakte bei eintretenden Motiven behaupteten und das liberum arbitrium verwarfen. Sogar haben sie, eben weil die unberechenbar große Majorität der zum Denken unfähigen und dem Scheine und Vorurteil preisgegebenen Menge dieser Wahrheit allezeit hartnäckig widerstrebte, sie auf die Spitze gestellt, um sie in den entschiedensten, ja, übermütigsten Ausdrücken zu behaupten. Der bekannteste von diesen ist der Esel des Buridan, nach welchem man jedoch, seit ungefähr hundert Jahren, in den von Buridan noch vorhandenen Schriften vergeblich sucht. Ich selbst besitze eine augenscheinlich noch im 15. Jahrhundert gedruckte Ausgabe seiner Sophismata, ohne Druckort, noch Jahreszahl, noch Seitenzahl, in der ich oft vergeblich danach gesucht habe, obgleich fast auf jeder Seite Esel als Beispiele vorkommen. Bayle, dessen Artikel Buridan die Grundlage alles seitdem darüber Geschriebenen ist, sagt sehr unrichtig, daß man nur von dem einen Sophisma Buridans wisse; da ich einen ganzen Quartanten Sophismata von ihm habe. Auch hätte Bayle, da er die Sache so ausführlich behandelt, wissen sollen, was jedoch auch seitdem nicht bemerkt zu sein scheint, daß jenes Beispiel, welches gewissermaßen zum Symbol oder Typus der großen hier von mir verfochtenen Wahrheit geworden ist, weit älter ist, als Buridan. Es findet sich im Dante, der das ganze Wissen seiner Zeit inne hatte, vor Buridan lebte und nicht von Eseln, sondern von Menschen redet, mit folgenden Worten, welche das vierte Buch seines Paradiso eröffnen:
Intra duo cibi, distanti e moventiD'un modo, prima si morria di fame,Che liber’ uomo l'un recasse a' denti∗).
∗) Inter duos cibos aeque remotos unoque modo motos constitutus, homo prius fame periret, quam ut, absoluta libertate usus, unum eorum dentibus admoveret.
Ja, es findet sich schon im Aristoteles, De coelo, II, 13, mit diesen Worten: καὶ ὁ λόγος τοῦ πεινῶντος καὶ διψῶντος σφόδρα μὲν, ὁμοίως δὲ, καὶ τῶν ἐδωδίμων καὶ ποτῶν ἴσον ἀπέχοντος, καὶ γὰρ τοῦτον ἠρεμεῖν ἀναγκαῖον (item ea, quae de sitiente vehementer esurienteque dicuntur, cum aeque ab his, quae eduntur atque bibuntur, distat: quiescat enim necesse est). Buridan, der aus diesen Quellen das Beispiel überkommen hatte, vertauschte den Menschen gegen einen Esel, bloß weil es die Gewohnheit dieses dürftigen Scholastikers ist, zu seinen Beispielen entweder Sokrates und Plato, oder asinum zu nehmen.
Die Frage nach der Willensfreiheit ist wirklich ein Probierstein, an welchem man die tief denkenden Geister von den oberflächlichen unterscheiden kann, oder ein Grenzstein, wo beide auseinandergehen, indem die ersteren sämtlich das notwendige Erfolgen der Handlung, bei gegebenem Charakter und Motiv, behaupten, die letzteren hingegen, mit dem großen Haufen, der Willensfreiheit anhängen. Sodann gibt es noch einen Mittelschlag, welcher, sich verlegen fühlend, hin und her laviert, sich und andern den Zielpunkt verrückt, sich hinter Worte und Phrasen flüchtet, oder die Frage so lange dreht und verdreht, bis man nicht mehr weiß, worauf sie hinauslief. So hat es schon Leibniz gemacht, der viel mehr Mathematiker und Polyhistor, als Philosoph war∗). Aber um solche Hin- und Herredner zur Sache zu bringen, muß man ihnen die Frage folgendermaßen stellen und nicht davon abgehen:
∗) Leibnizens Haltlosigkeit in diesem Punkte zeigt sich am deutlichsten in seinem Briefe an Coste, Opera phil, ed. Erdmann, p. 447; demnächst auch in der Théodicée, § 45–53.
1 Sind einem gegebenen Menschen, unter gegebenen Umständen, zwei Handlungen möglich, oder nur eine? — Antwort aller Tiefdenkenden: Nur eine.
2 Konnte der zurückgelegte Lebenslauf eines gegebenen Menschen — angesehen, daß einerseits sein Charakter unveränderlich feststeht und andererseits die Umstände, deren Einwirkung er zu erfahren hatte, durchweg und bis auf das Kleinste herab von äußeren Ursachen, die stets mit strenger Notwendigkeit eintreten, und deren aus lauter ebenso notwendigen Gliedern bestehende Kette ins Unendliche hinaufläuft, notwendig bestimmt wurden, — irgend worin, auch nur im Geringsten, in irgend einem Vorgang, einer Scene, anders ausfallen, als er ausgefallen ist? — Nein! ist die konsequente und richtige Antwort.
Die Folgerung aus beiden Sätzen ist: Alles was geschieht, vom Größten bis zum Kleinsten, geschieht notwendig. Quidquid fit necessario fit.
Wer bei diesen Sätzen erschrickt, hat noch einiges zu lernen und anderes zu verlernen: danach aber wird er erkennen, daß sie die ergiebigste Quelle des Trostes und der Beruhigung sind. — Unsere Thaten sind allerdings kein erster Anfang, daher in ihnen nichts wirklich Neues zum Dasein gelangt: sondern durch das was wir thun, erfahren wir bloß was wir sind.
Auf der, wenn auch nicht deutlich erkannten, doch gefühlten Ueberzeugung von der strengen Notwendigkeit alles Geschehenden beruht auch die bei den Alten so fest stehende Ansicht vom Fatum, der εἱμαρμένη, wie auch der Fatalismus der Mohammedaner, sogar auch der überall unvertilgbare Glaube an Omina, weil eben selbst der kleinste Zufall notwendig eintritt und alle Begebenheiten, sozusagen, miteinander Tempo halten, mithin alles in allem widerklingt. Endlich hängt sogar dies damit zusammen, daß, wer ohne die leiseste Absicht und ganz zufällig einen andern verstümmelt oder getötet hat, dieses Piaculum sein ganzes Leben hindurch betrauert, mit einem Gefühl, welches dem der Schuld verwandt scheint, und auch von andern, als persona piacularis (Unglücksmensch), eine eigene Art von Diskredit erfährt. Ja sogar auf die christliche Lehre von der Gnadenwahl ist die gefühlte Ueberzeugung von der Unveränderlichkeit des Charakters und der Notwendigkeit seiner Aeußerungen wohl nicht ohne Einfluß gewesen. — Endlich will ich noch folgende ganz beiläufige Bemerkung hier nicht unterdrücken, die jeder, je nachdem er über gewisse Dinge denkt, beliebig stehen oder fallen lassen mag. Wenn wir die strenge Notwendigkeit alles Geschehenden, vermöge einer alle Vorgänge ohne Unterschied verknüpfenden Kausalkette nicht annehmen, sondern diese letztere an unzähligen Stellen durch eine absolute Freiheit unterbrochen werden lassen; so wird alles Vorhersehen des Zukünftigen, im Traume, im hellsehenden Somnambulismus und im zweiten Gesicht (second sight), selbst objektiv, folglich absolut unmöglich, mithin undenkbar; weil es dann gar keine objektiv wirkliche Zukunft gibt, die auch nur möglicherweise vorhergesehen werden könnte: statt daß wir jetzt doch nur die subjektiven Bedingungen hiezu, also die subjektive Möglichkeit, bezweifeln. Und selbst dieser Zweifel kann bei den Wohlunterrichteten heutzutage nicht mehr Raum gewinnen, nachdem unzählige Zeugnisse, von glaubwürdigster Seite, jene Anticipationen der Zukunft festgestellt haben.
Ich füge noch ein paar Betrachtungen als Korollarien zur festgestellten Lehre von der Notwendigkeit alles Geschehenden hinzu.
Was würde aus dieser Welt werden, wenn nicht die Notwendigkeit alle Dinge durchzöge und zusammenhielte, besonders aber der Zeugung der Individuen vorstände? Ein Monstrum, ein Schutthaufen, eine Fratze ohne Sinn und Bedeutung, — nämlich das Werk des wahren und eigentlichen Zufalls. —
Wünschen, daß irgend ein Vorfall nicht geschehen wäre, ist eine thörichte Selbstquälerei: denn es heißt etwas absolut Unmögliches wünschen, und ist so unvernünftig, wie der Wunsch, daß die Sonne im Westen aufginge. Weil eben alles Geschehende, Großes wie Kleines, streng notwendig eintritt, ist es durchaus eitel, darüber nachzudenken, wie geringfügig und zufällig die Ursachen waren, welche jenen Vorfall herbeigeführt haben, und wie so sehr leicht sie hätten anders sein können: denn dies ist illusorisch; indem sie alle mit ebenso strenger Notwendigkeit eingetreten sind und mit ebenso vollkommener Macht gewirkt haben, wie die, infolge welcher die Sonne im Osten aufgeht. Wir sollen vielmehr die Begebenheiten, wie sie eintreten, mit eben dem Auge betrachten, wie das Gedruckte, welches wir lesen, wohl wissend, daß es dastand, ehe wir es lasen.
Musean translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Musean translation, made directly from the German, including the author’s notes and appendix. Source edition: Arthur Schopenhauers sämtliche Werke, vol. VII, Die beiden Grundprobleme der Ethik (Stuttgart: J. G. Cotta, n.d. [1890s]), Internet Archive item arthurschopenha07schouoft
We must recall here that every existence presupposes an essence: whatever exists must also be something, must have a definite nature. It cannot exist and yet be nothing—something like a metaphysical being, a thing that is and merely is, without any determinations or qualities, and consequently without the definite mode of action flowing from them. Just as an essence without existence supplies no reality, as Kant explained through the familiar example of a hundred thalers, neither can an existence without essence do so. Whatever exists must have a nature essential and peculiar to it, through which it is what it is and which it always maintains. Causes necessarily call forth that nature’s manifestations, but the nature itself is neither the work of those causes nor something they can modify. All this applies to a person and his will just as much as to every other being in nature. He too has an essence along with his existence: fundamental qualities that constitute his character and need only an outward occasion to manifest themselves. To expect someone to act one way on one occasion and quite differently on another, with the same occasion in each case, would therefore be like expecting the same tree that bore cherries this summer to bear pears next summer. Strictly considered, freedom of the will means existence without essence: something being and yet being nothing, which in turn means not being at all, and is therefore a contradiction.
Insight into this, and into the a priori certainty and therefore exceptionless validity of the law of causality, explains why all truly profound thinkers of every age, however different their other views, agreed in affirming the necessity of acts of will when motives appear and in rejecting freedom of choice. Indeed, precisely because the incalculably great majority of the crowd, incapable of thought and surrendered to semblance and prejudice, has always stubbornly resisted this truth, they sharpened it to its utmost point, asserting it in the most decisive, even defiant expressions. The best known is Buridan’s ass, which, however, people have searched for in vain for about a hundred years in Buridan’s surviving writings. I myself possess an edition of his Sophismata, apparently printed as early as the 15th century, without place of printing, year or page numbers. I have often searched it unsuccessfully for the example, although asses appear as examples on almost every page. Bayle, whose article Buridan is the foundation of everything written on the subject since, says quite incorrectly that only Buridan’s one sophism is known, whereas I have a whole quarto volume of his Sophismata. Bayle, having discussed the matter so fully, should also have known something that seems to have escaped notice even since: the example, which has become a symbol or type of the great truth I defend here, is far older than Buridan. It occurs in Dante, who held all the knowledge of his age, lived before Buridan, and speaks not of asses but of human beings in the following words opening the fourth canto of his Paradiso:
Between two foods, equally distant and inviting,A man would starve to death beforeHe freely brought one of them to his teeth∗).
∗) Placed between two foods equally distant and equally moving him, a person would die of hunger before, exercising absolute freedom, he brought either of them to his teeth.
Indeed, it already occurs in Aristotle, De coelo, II, 13, in these words: “And the argument about someone who is intensely hungry and thirsty, but equally so, and equally distant from food and drink: for he too must remain at rest” (“Likewise what is said of someone exceedingly thirsty and hungry, when he stands equally distant from things to eat and drink: for he must remain at rest”). Buridan, having inherited the example from these sources, exchanged the human being for an ass merely because this impoverished Scholastic habitually takes either Socrates and Plato, or an ass, for his examples.
The question of freedom of the will is truly a touchstone by which profound minds can be distinguished from superficial ones, or a boundary stone where the two part company. The former all maintain that, given character and motive, an action follows necessarily; the latter cling with the crowd to freedom of the will. Then there is a middling sort who, feeling embarrassed, tacks back and forth, shifts the point at issue for himself and others, takes refuge behind words and phrases, or twists and turns the question until no one knows any longer what it meant. Leibniz already behaved so, being far more a mathematician and polymath than a philosopher∗). To bring such back-and-forth talkers to the point, however, we must put the question to them as follows and not depart from it:
∗) Leibniz’s instability on this point is clearest in his letter to Coste, Opera phil, ed. Erdmann, p. 447; next in the Théodicée, § 45–53.
1 For a given person under given circumstances, are two actions possible, or only one?—The answer of all profound thinkers: only one.
2 Could the past course of a given person’s life have turned out differently in any respect, however slight, in any event or scene, from the way it did turn out? On the one hand, his character stands immutably fixed; on the other, the circumstances acting upon him were necessarily determined throughout, down to the smallest detail, by external causes that always occur with strict necessity, their chain of equally necessary links extending backward into infinity.—No! is the consistent and correct answer.
The conclusion from both propositions is: Everything that happens, from the greatest to the smallest, happens necessarily. Whatever occurs, occurs necessarily.
Anyone alarmed by these propositions still has something to learn and something else to unlearn. Afterward, however, he will recognize them as the richest source of comfort and reassurance. Our deeds are certainly no first beginning, and nothing truly new comes into existence through them. Rather, through what we do, we merely learn what we are.
The conviction, though not clearly known yet felt, that everything happens with strict necessity also underlies the ancients’ firmly established belief in fate, or destiny, as well as the fatalism of Muslims, and even the ineradicable belief in omens found everywhere. Even the smallest chance occurrence happens necessarily, and all events, so to speak, keep time together, so that everything echoes in everything. Finally, this is connected even with the fact that someone who, without the slightest intention and entirely by accident, has maimed or killed another mourns this deed requiring expiation throughout his life, with a feeling that seems akin to guilt. Others too regard him with a peculiar discredit as a person needing expiation—an ill-fated person. Indeed, the felt conviction that character is unchanging and its manifestations necessary has probably not been without influence even on the Christian doctrine of election by grace. Finally, I will not suppress the following wholly incidental observation, which anyone may accept or reject as he pleases, according to his views on certain matters. If we do not assume the strict necessity of everything that happens through a causal chain linking all events without distinction, but allow this chain to be interrupted at countless points by absolute freedom, all foreseeing of the future—in dreams, clairvoyant trance states and second sight—becomes objectively, and therefore absolutely, impossible and thus inconceivable. There would then be no objectively real future that could even possibly be foreseen, whereas at present we doubt only the subjective conditions, and hence the subjective possibility, of such foreseeing. Even this doubt can no longer find a place among the well-informed today, after countless testimonies from the most credible sources have established such anticipations of the future.
I add a few further considerations as corollaries to the established doctrine that everything happens necessarily.
What would become of this world if necessity did not run through all things and hold them together, presiding especially over the generation of individuals? A monstrosity, a heap of rubble, a grimace without sense or meaning—the work, that is, of true and actual chance.
To wish that some event had not happened is foolish self-torment: it means wishing for something absolutely impossible, and is as unreasonable as wishing that the sun rose in the west. Since everything that happens, great or small, occurs with strict necessity, it is utterly futile to ponder how slight and accidental the causes of an event were, and how very easily they might have been different. This is an illusion: all those causes occurred with just as strict a necessity and acted with just as complete a power as those through which the sun rises in the east. Rather, we should regard events as they occur with the same eyes with which we regard the printed words we read, knowing well that they stood there before we read them.
Plain English translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Plain English translation, made independently and directly from the German, not from the Musean edition or a published English translation, including the author’s notes and appendix. Source edition: Arthur Schopenhauers sämtliche Werke, vol. VII, Die beiden Grundprobleme der Ethik (Stuttgart: J. G. Cotta, n.d. [1890s]), Internet Archive item arthurschopenha07schouoft
Here we should remember that every existence presupposes an essence. That is, anything that exists must also be something: it must have a definite nature. It cannot exist yet be nothing, like the so-called metaphysical being—a thing that is and does nothing but be, without any defining features or properties, and consequently without any definite way of acting that follows from them. An essence without existence cannot give us something real, as Kant explained with his well-known example of a hundred thalers. Just as little can an existence without an essence. Anything that exists must have an essential nature of its own, through which it is what it is. It always maintains that nature, whose expressions are necessarily called forth by causes. But this nature itself is not the work of those causes at all, nor can they modify it. All this applies to a human being and their will just as much as to all other beings in nature. A person, too, has an essence as well as an existence: fundamental properties that make up their character and need only an occasion from outside to appear. So expecting someone to act one way on one occasion and completely differently on another, when the occasion is the same, would be like expecting the same tree that bore cherries this summer to bear pears next summer. Examined closely, freedom of the will means an existence without an essence. This means that something is, yet is nothing—which in turn means that it is not. So it is a contradiction.
Insight into this, as well as into the validity of the law of causality, which is certain independently of experience and therefore allows no exceptions, explains why all truly deep thinkers of every age have agreed on this point, however different their other views may have been. They have maintained that acts of will follow necessarily when motives appear, and have rejected free choice. The unimaginably great majority of the crowd, incapable of thought and at the mercy of appearances and prejudices, has always stubbornly resisted this truth. For that very reason, these thinkers have even pushed it to extremes, asserting it in the most decisive, indeed most defiant terms. The best-known example is Buridan's ass. Yet for about a hundred years people have searched in vain for it in Buridan's surviving writings. I myself own an edition of his Sophismata, evidently printed back in the 15th century, with no place of printing, date, or page numbers. I have often searched it in vain for this example, although asses appear as examples on almost every page. Bayle, whose article Buridan is the basis of everything written about the matter since, says quite incorrectly that we know of only one sophism by Buridan. I have a whole quarto volume of his Sophismata. And since Bayle deals with the matter at such length, he should have known something that apparently no one has noticed since, either: this example, which has become something of a symbol or model of the great truth I am defending here, is much older than Buridan. It appears in Dante, who possessed all the knowledge of his age, lived before Buridan, and speaks not of asses but of people. These words open the fourth book of his Paradiso:
Between two foods, equally distant and temptingIn the same way, a person would starve to deathBefore freely bringing either one to their teeth∗).
∗) Placed between two foods equally far away and offering the same inducement, a person would die of hunger before, exercising absolute freedom, bringing either of them to their teeth.
Indeed, it already appears in Aristotle, De coelo, II, 13, in these words: "And the argument about someone who is intensely but equally hungry and thirsty, and equally far from food and drink: this person too must necessarily remain still." (Likewise, what is said about someone intensely thirsty and hungry, when equally far from things to eat and drink: that person must necessarily remain at rest.) Buridan, who inherited the example from these sources, replaced the person with an ass simply because this limited Scholastic habitually uses either Socrates and Plato or an ass for his examples.
The question of freedom of the will really is a touchstone for distinguishing deep thinkers from superficial ones, or a boundary marker where the two part ways. The former all maintain that, given character and motive, the action necessarily follows. The latter, along with the crowd, cling to freedom of the will. Then there is an intermediate kind who feel awkward and maneuver back and forth, shift the target for themselves and others, take refuge behind words and phrases, or twist and turn the question until no one knows any longer what it was getting at. Leibniz already did this. He was much more a mathematician and a scholar of many subjects than a philosopher∗). But to bring such evasive talkers to the point, we must put the question to them as follows and refuse to move away from it:
∗) Leibniz's lack of any firm position on this point appears most clearly in his letter to Coste, Opera phil, ed. Erdmann, p. 447; and next in the Théodicée, § 45–53.
1 For a given person under given circumstances, are two actions possible, or only one?—The answer of all deep thinkers: only one.
2 Consider the life a given person has already lived. On the one hand, their character is fixed and unchanging. On the other, the circumstances whose influence they had to undergo were necessarily determined, throughout and down to the smallest detail, by external causes. These causes always arise with strict necessity, and their chain, made up entirely of equally necessary links, extends backward to infinity. Given this, could that life have turned out differently in any respect, even in the slightest, in any event or scene, from the way it did?—No! That is the consistent and correct answer.
The conclusion from these two propositions is: everything that happens, from the greatest to the smallest, happens necessarily. Whatever happens, happens necessarily.
Anyone frightened by these propositions still has some things to learn and others to unlearn. Afterward, however, they will recognize them as the richest source of comfort and peace of mind.—Our actions are certainly not a first beginning, so nothing truly new comes into existence through them. Rather, through what we do, we merely learn what we are.
The ancients' firmly held belief in fate, in destiny, also rests on a conviction, felt even if not clearly understood, of the strict necessity of everything that happens. So does the fatalism of Muslims, and even the ineradicable belief in omens found everywhere. For even the smallest chance event occurs necessarily, and all events, so to speak, keep time with one another, so that everything echoes in everything else. Finally, this is also connected with the following fact: someone who has maimed or killed another person without the slightest intention, entirely by accident, mourns this deed requiring atonement throughout their life, with a feeling that seems akin to guilt. Other people also regard them with a peculiar kind of discredit, as a person requiring expiation (an unlucky person). Indeed, the felt conviction that character cannot change and that its expressions are necessary probably also had some influence on the Christian doctrine of election by grace.—Finally, I do not want to hold back the following entirely incidental observation. Anyone may accept or reject it as they please, depending on what they think about certain matters. Suppose we do not accept the strict necessity of everything that happens through a causal chain linking all events without distinction. Suppose instead we let this chain be broken at countless points by absolute freedom. Then all foreseeing of the future—in dreams, in clairvoyant trance, and in second sight—becomes impossible even objectively, and therefore absolutely impossible and inconceivable. For there would then be no objectively real future that could even possibly be foreseen. As things stand, by contrast, we doubt only the subjective conditions for this, and thus its subjective possibility. And nowadays even this doubt can no longer find a place among well-informed people, since countless testimonies from the most trustworthy sources have established these anticipations of the future.
I will add a few more reflections as consequences of the established account of the necessity of everything that happens.
What would become of this world if necessity did not run through all things and hold them together, and especially govern the generation of individuals? A monster, a heap of rubble, a meaningless, senseless grotesque shape—the work, that is, of true and actual chance.—
Wishing that some event had not happened is foolish self-torment. It means wishing for something absolutely impossible and is as unreasonable as wishing that the sun would rise in the west. Precisely because everything that happens, great or small, occurs with strict necessity, it is completely pointless to reflect on how trivial and accidental the causes were that brought that event about, and how very easily they might have been different. That is an illusion. They all occurred with just as strict a necessity and acted with just as complete a power as the causes through which the sun rises in the east. Instead, we should view events as they occur in just the same way as the printed words we read, knowing full well that they were already there before we read them.
About this section
Chapter III, 11 is part of On the Freedom of the Will 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 17 of 28 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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