Chapter II, 2

Thus the feeling lodged in self-consciousness, “I can do what I will,” accompanies us constantly, but says only that our decisions, or decided acts of will, though springing from the dark depths within us, will always pass at once into the perceptual world, to which our body, like everything else, belongs. This consciousness forms the bridge between the inner and outer worlds, which would otherwise remain separated by a bottomless chasm: the outer world would then contain, as objects, mere perceptions independent of us in every sense, while the inner would contain nothing but ineffectual acts of will, merely felt.—If we questioned someone entirely unreflective, he might express that immediate consciousness, so often taken for consciousness of a supposed freedom of the will, as follows: “I can do what I will: if I will to go left, I go left; if I will to go right, I go right. That depends entirely on my will alone, so I am free.” This statement is certainly perfectly true and correct; only, it already presupposes the will—it assumes that the will has already decided. It can therefore settle nothing about the will's own freedom. For it does not concern the dependence or independence of the occurrence of the act of will itself, but only the consequences of that act once it occurs—or, more precisely, its inevitable manifestation as bodily action. Yet the consciousness underlying this statement is the sole reason why the unreflective—that is, philosophically untrained—person, who may nevertheless be a great scholar in other fields, takes freedom of the will to be something so immediately certain that he declares it an unquestionable truth. He cannot really believe that philosophers seriously doubt it; in his heart he thinks all this talk is merely a fencing exercise in scholastic dialectic and, at bottom, a joke. But precisely because the certainty supplied by that consciousness, which is indeed important, is always so readily at hand, and because a human being, as a primarily and essentially practical rather than theoretical creature, becomes far more clearly conscious of the active side of his acts of will—their efficacy—than of the passive side—their dependence—it is difficult to make the real meaning of our problem intelligible to someone philosophically untrained. It is difficult to bring him to understand that the question now concerns not the consequences but the grounds of his willing on each occasion; that his doing certainly depends entirely on his willing, but what we now want to know is what his willing itself depends on: nothing at all, or something? He can indeed do one thing if he wills it, and just as readily do the other if he wills it; but now he is to consider whether he is also capable of willing the one as well as the other. If, with this aim, we put the question to him in some such form as this: “Can you really follow either of the opposite wishes that have arisen within you? For example, when choosing between two possessions that exclude each other, can you prefer the one just as readily as the other?” he will say: “The choice may be difficult for me; nevertheless, whether I will to choose the one or the other will always depend entirely on me alone, and on no other power. Here I have complete freedom to choose whichever I will, and in doing so I will always follow my will alone.”—If we now say, “But your willing itself—what does that depend on?” the person answers from self-consciousness: “On nothing but me! I can will what I will: what I will, I will.”—He says this last without intending a tautology, or even, in the innermost depths of his consciousness, falling back on the principle of identity, which alone makes it true. Rather, pressed here to the utmost, he speaks of a willing of his willing, which is as if he spoke of an I of his I. He has been driven back to the core of his self-consciousness, where he finds his I and his will indistinguishable, but nothing remains by which to judge either. Whether, in that choice, his very willing of the one rather than the other—his person and the objects of choice being assumed as given—could possibly turn out otherwise than it finally does; or whether the data just specified determine it as necessarily as the fact that in a triangle the largest side lies opposite the largest angle: this question lies so far from natural self-consciousness that it cannot even be brought to understand it, much less carry the answer within itself, ready-made or even as an undeveloped seed, needing only to express it without reflection.—As described, then, the unreflective but philosophically untrained person will still seek refuge from the perplexity the question must produce, if genuinely understood, behind that immediate certainty: “What I will, I can do, and I will what I will,” as stated above. He will try this again and again, countless times, so that it will be difficult to make him stand his ground before the actual question, which he is always trying to elude. Nor should we blame him: for the question is truly a deeply troubling one. With a probing hand it reaches into the human being's innermost essence. It asks whether he too, like everything else in the world, is a being determined once and for all by his very constitution, possessing, like every other being in nature, definite, enduring properties from which his reactions necessarily follow when an external occasion arises. Those reactions would accordingly bear a character unchangeable from this side, and consequently, in whatever may be modifiable in them, would be entirely at the mercy of determination by external occasions. Or does he alone form an exception to the whole of nature? If we nevertheless finally succeed in making him stand his ground before this troubling question, and in making clear to him that what is being investigated is the origin of his acts of will themselves, the possible rule—or complete absence of any rule—governing their arising, we will discover that immediate self-consciousness contains no information about it. For here the unreflective person himself abandons it and reveals his perplexity through reflection and all manner of attempted explanations. He tries to draw their grounds now from his experience of himself and others, now from general rules of the understanding; but the uncertainty and wavering of his explanations show clearly enough that his immediate self-consciousness supplies no information about the question properly understood, though it had an answer ready at once when the question was misunderstood. The ultimate reason is that a person's will is his actual self, the true core of his being. It therefore forms the ground of his consciousness, as something simply given and present, beyond which he cannot go. For he himself is as he wills, and wills as he is. To ask him whether he could also will otherwise than he wills is therefore to ask whether he could also be someone other than himself; and he does not know. For precisely this reason the philosopher too, who differs from him only in training, must, if he wants clarity in this difficult matter, turn to his understanding, which supplies knowledge a priori; to reason, which reflects on that knowledge; and to experience, which presents his own and others' actions to him for the interpretation and verification of such knowledge of the understanding. He must turn to these as the final and only competent tribunal. Its verdict will certainly not be as easy, immediate, and simple as that of self-consciousness, but it will address the matter and suffice. The head has raised the question, and the head must also answer it.

The feeling within self-consciousness, "I can do what I will," is always with us. But it says only this: our decisions, or settled acts of will, always pass straight into the world of perception, even though they arise in the dark depths within us. Our body belongs to that world like everything else. This consciousness forms the bridge between the inner and outer worlds. Without it, a bottomless chasm would keep them apart. The outer world would contain only perceptions as objects, independent of us in every sense. The inner world would contain only acts of will that we felt but that had no effect. If we questioned someone with no philosophical preconceptions, they would express this immediate consciousness roughly as follows. It is the consciousness so often mistaken for consciousness of a supposed freedom of the will: "I can do what I will. If I will to go left, I go left. If I will to go right, I go right. It depends entirely on my will alone. So I am free." This statement is certainly completely true and correct. But it already presupposes the will. It assumes that the will has already decided. So it can establish nothing about the will's own freedom. It says nothing at all about whether the occurrence of the act of will itself is dependent or independent. It concerns only the consequences of that act once it occurs. More precisely, it concerns the act's inevitable appearance as a bodily action. But the consciousness behind that statement is the sole reason why the unreflective person considers freedom of the will so immediately certain. Such a person lacks philosophical training, though they may be a great scholar in other fields. They declare this freedom to be an unquestionable truth. They cannot really believe that philosophers seriously doubt it. In their heart they think all this talk is just a fencing exercise in academic argument, and basically a joke. The certainty supplied by that consciousness is indeed important, and they always have it readily at hand. Besides, a human being is primarily and essentially a practical being, not a theoretical one. We are far more clearly conscious of the active side of our acts of will—their effectiveness—than of the passive side—their dependence. For these reasons it is hard to make someone without philosophical training grasp the real meaning of our problem. It is hard to get them to understand that we are now asking not about the consequences of their willing on each occasion, but about its grounds. Their actions certainly depend on their willing alone. But we now want to know what that willing itself depends on. Does it depend on nothing at all, or on something? They can certainly do one thing if they will it, and equally do the other if they will it. But they must now consider whether they are also capable of willing either one. To make this clear, suppose we ask: "Can you really follow either of two opposite wishes that have arisen within you? For example, if you must choose between two things you could own, and cannot have both, can you prefer either one just as well as the other?" They will say: "Perhaps I may find it hard to choose. But whether I will to choose one or the other will always depend entirely on me alone, and on no other power. I have complete freedom to choose whichever I will. And in doing so I will always follow only my own will." If we then ask, "But what does your willing itself depend on?" they answer from self-consciousness: "On nothing but me! I can will what I will. What I will is what I will." They say this last part without intending a tautology. Nor, even at the deepest level of their consciousness, are they appealing to the principle of identity, which alone makes it true. Instead, pressed to the limit here, they speak of willing their own willing. That is like speaking of an I belonging to their I. They have been driven back to the core of their self-consciousness. There they find that their I and their will cannot be distinguished, but nothing remains with which to judge either. Take that choice, with their person and the objects of choice assumed as given. Could their willing one thing rather than the other possibly turn out any differently from the way it finally does? Or do those given facts determine it as necessarily as the fact that a triangle's largest side lies opposite its largest angle? This question lies so far beyond natural self-consciousness that it cannot even be brought to understand it. Still less does it carry the answer within itself, ready-made or even as an undeveloped seed, needing only to state it without reflection. As explained, the unreflective person without philosophical training will keep trying to escape the perplexity that the question must cause if truly understood. As noted above, they take refuge behind the immediate certainty: "I can do what I will, and I will what I will." They will try this again and again, countless times. It will be hard to make them stop and face the real question, which they always try to slip away from. We should not blame them. The question really is deeply troubling. Its probing hand reaches into the innermost nature of a human being. It asks whether a person, like everything else in the world, is a being whose own constitution fixes what they are once and for all. Do they, like every other being in nature, have definite, lasting properties? Do their reactions to external occasions necessarily follow from those properties, so that their reactions have a character unchangeable from this side? And does this leave whatever may be changeable in those reactions entirely subject to determination by external occasions? Or does the human being alone form an exception to all of nature? Suppose we finally manage to make this person stop and face that troubling question. Suppose we make it clear that we are investigating the origin of their acts of will themselves: whether those acts arise according to some rule or with no rule at all. We will then discover that immediate self-consciousness has no information about this. The unreflective person now abandons it themselves. They reveal their bewilderment by thinking things over and trying all sorts of explanations. They try to ground these explanations sometimes in experience of themselves and others, sometimes in general rules of the understanding. But their uncertain, shifting explanations show clearly enough that immediate self-consciousness gives no answer to the question properly understood. Earlier, it had an answer ready at once to the question misunderstood. The ultimate reason is that a person's will is their actual self, the true core of their being. It therefore forms the basis of their consciousness, as something simply given and present, beyond which they cannot go. For they themselves are as they will, and will as they are. So asking whether they could will differently from the way they do means asking whether they could be someone other than themselves. And they do not know that. For just this reason, a philosopher, who differs from them only in training, must also look elsewhere to reach clarity in this difficult matter. They must turn to their understanding, which supplies knowledge independent of experience; to reason, which reflects on that knowledge; and to experience, which presents their own and others' actions for interpreting and checking this knowledge supplied by the understanding. These form the final and only competent authority. Its decision will not be as easy, immediate, and simple as that of self-consciousness. But it will address the question and answer it adequately. The head raised the question, and the head must answer it.