Preface to the Second Edition
Original German
Nicht den Zeitgenossen, nicht den Landsgenossen, — der Menschheit übergebe ich mein nunmehr vollendetes Werk, in der Zuversicht, daß es nicht ohne Werth für sie seyn wird; sollte auch dieser, wie es das Loos des Guten in jeder Art mit sich bringt, erst spät erkannt werden. Denn nur für sie, nicht für das vorübereilende, mit seinem einstweiligen Wahn beschäftigte Geschlecht, kann es gewesen seyn, daß mein Kopf, fast wider meinen Willen, ein langes Leben hindurch, seiner Arbeit unausgesetzt obgelegen hat. An dem Werth derselben hat, während der Zeit, auch der Mangel an Theilnahme mich nicht irre machen können; weil ich fortwährend das Falsche, das Schlechte, zuletzt das Absurde und Unsinnige [1] in allgemeiner Bewunderung und Verehrung stehen sah und bedachte, daß wenn Diejenigen, welche das Aechte und Rechte zu erkennen fähig sind, nicht so selten wären, daß man einige zwanzig Jahre hindurch vergeblich nach ihnen sich umsehen kann, Derer, die es hervorzubringen vermögen, nicht so wenige seyn könnten, daß ihre Werke nachmals eine Ausnahme machen [2] Hegel'sche Philosophie. von der Vergänglichkeit irdischer Dinge; wodurch dann die erquickende Aussicht auf die Nachwelt verloren gienge, deren Jeder, der sich ein hohes Ziel gesteckt hat, zu seiner Stärkung bedarf. — Wer eine Sache, die nicht zu materiellem Nutzen führt, ernsthaft nimmt und betreibt, darf auf die Theilnahme der Zeitgenossen nicht rechnen. Wohl aber wird er meistens sehen, daß unterdessen der Schein solcher Sache sich in der Welt geltend macht und seinen Tag genießt: und dies ist in der Ordnung. Denn die Sache selbst muß auch ihrer selbst wegen betrieben werden: sonst kann sie nicht gelingen; weil überall jede Absicht der Einsicht Gefahr droht. Demgemäß hat, wie die Litterargeschichte durchweg bezeugt, jedes Werthvolle, um zur Geltung zu gelangen, viel Zeit gebraucht; zumal wenn es von der belehrenden, nicht von der unterhaltenden Gattung war: und unterdessen glänzte das Falsche. Denn die Sache mit dem Schein der Sache zu vereinigen ist schwer, wo nicht unmöglich. Das eben ist ja der Fluch dieser Welt der Noth und des Bedürfnisses, daß Diesen Alles dienen und fröhnen muß: daher eben ist sie nicht so beschaffen, daß in ihr irgend ein edles und erhabenes Streben, wie das nach Licht und Wahrheit ist, ungehindert gedeihen und seiner selbst wegen daseyn dürfte. Sondern selbst wenn ein Mal ein solches sich hat geltend machen können und dadurch der Begriff davon eingeführt ist; so werden alsbald die materiellen Interessen, die persönlichen Zwecke, auch seiner sich bemächtigen, um ihr Werkzeug, oder ihre Maske daraus zu machen. Demgemäß mußte, nachdem Kant die Philosophie von Neuem zu Ansehen gebracht hatte, auch sie gar bald das Werkzeug der Zwecke werden, der staatlichen von oben, der persönlichen von unten; — denn auch, genau genommen, nicht sie; doch ihr Doppelgänger, der für sie gilt. Dies darf sogar uns nicht befremden: denn die unglaublich große Mehrzahl der Menschen ist, ihrer Natur zufolge, durchaus keiner andern, als materieller Zwecke fähig, ja, kann keine andern begreifen. Demnach ist das Streben nach Wahrheit allein ein viel zu hohes und excentrisches, als daß erwartet werden dürfte, daß Alle, daß Viele, ja daß auch nur Einige aufrichtig daran Theil nehmen sollten. Sieht man dennoch ein Mal, wie z. B. eben jetzt in Deutschland, eine auffallende Regsamkeit, ein allgemeines Treiben, Schreiben und Reden in Sachen der Philosophie; so darf man zuversichtlich voraussetzen, daß das wirkliche primum mobile, die versteckte Triebfeder solcher Bewegung, aller feierlichen Mienen und Versicherungen ungeachtet, allein reale, nicht ideale Zwecke sind, daß nämlich persönliche, amtliche, kirchliche, staatliche, kurz, materielle Interessen es sind, die man dabei im Auge hat, und daß folglich bloße Parteizwecke die vielen Federn angeblicher Weltweisen in so starke Bewegung setzen, mithin daß Absichten, nicht Einsichten, der Leitstern dieser Tumultuanten sind, die Wahrheit aber gewiß das Letzte ist, woran dabei gedacht wird. Sie findet keine Parteigänger: vielmehr kann sie, durch ein solches philosophisches Streitgetümmel hindurch, ihren Weg so ruhig und unbeachtet zurücklegen, wie durch die Winternacht des finstersten, im starrsten Kirchenglauben befangenen Jahrhunderts, wo sie etwan nur als Geheimlehre wenigen Adepten mitgetheilt, oder gar dem Pergament allein anvertraut wird. Ja, ich möchte sagen, daß keine Zeit der Philosophie ungünstiger seyn kann, als die, da sie von der einen Seite als Staatsmittel, von der andern als Erwerbsmittel schnöde mißbraucht wird. Oder glaubt man etwan, daß bei solchem Streben und unter solchem Getümmel, so nebenher auch die Wahrheit, auf die es dabei gar nicht abgesehen ist, zu Tage kommen wird? Die Wahrheit ist keine Hure, die sich Denen an den Hals wirft, welche ihrer nicht begehren: vielmehr ist sie eine so spröde Schöne, daß selbst wer ihr Alles opfert noch nicht ihrer Gunst gewiß seyn darf.
Machen nun die Regierungen die Philosophie zum Mittel ihrer Staatszwecke; so sehen andererseits die Gelehrten in philosophischen Professuren ein Gewerbe, das seinen Mann nährt, wie jedes andere: sie drängen sich also danach, unter Versicherung ihrer guten Gesinnung, d. h. der Absicht, jenen Zwecken zu dienen. Und sie halten Wort: nicht Wahrheit, nicht Klarheit, nicht Plato, nicht Aristoteles, sondern die Zwecke, denen zu dienen sie bestellt worden, sind ihr Leitstern und werden sofort auch das Kriterium des Wahren, des Werthvollen, des zu Beachtenden, und ihres Gegentheils. Was daher jenen nicht entspricht, und wäre es das Wichtigste und Außerordentlichste in ihrem Fach, wird entweder verurtheilt, oder, wo dies bedenklich scheint, durch unmüthiges Ignoriren erstickt. Man sehe nur ihren einhelligen Eifer gegen den Pantheismus: wird irgend ein Tropf glauben, er gehe aus Ueberzeugung hervor? — Wie sollte auch überhaupt die zum Brodgewerbe herabgewürdigte Philosophie nicht in Sophistik ausarten? Eben weil dies unausbleiblich ist und die Regel „Weß Brod ich eß', deß Lied ich sing'“ von jeher gegolten hat, war bei den Alten das Geldverdienen mit der Philosophie das Merkmal des Sophisten. — Nun kommt aber noch hinzu, daß, da in dieser Welt überall nichts als Mittelmäßigkeit zu erwarten steht, gefordert werden darf und für Geld zu haben ist, man mit dieser auch hier vorlieb zu nehmen hat. Danach sehen wir denn, auf allen Deutschen Universitäten, die liebe Mittelmäßigkeit sich abmühen, die noch gar nicht vorhandene Philosophie aus eigenen Mitteln zu Stande zu bringen, und zwar nach vorgeschriebenem Maaß und Ziel; — ein Schauspiel, über welches zu spotten beinahe grausam wäre.
Während solchermaaßen schon lange die Philosophie durchgängig als Mittel dienen mußte, von der einen Seite zu öffentlichen, von der andern zu Privatzwecken, bin ich, davon ungestört, seit mehr als dreißig Jahren, meinem Gedankenzuge nachgegangen, eben auch nur weil ich es mußte und nicht anders konnte, aus einem instinktartigen Triebe, der jedoch von der Zuversicht unterstützt wurde, daß was Einer Wahres gedacht und Verborgenes beleuchtet hat, doch auch irgendwann von einem andern denkenden Geiste gefaßt werden, ihn ansprechen, freuen und trösten wird: zu einem solchen redet man, wie die uns Aehnlichen zu uns geredet haben und dadurch unser Trost in dieser Lebensöde geworden sind. Seine Sache treibt man derweilen ihrer selbst wegen und für sich selbst. Nun aber steht es um philosophische Meditationen seltsamerweise so, daß gerade nur Das, was Einer für sich selbst durchdacht und erforscht hat, nachmals auch Andern zu Gute kommt; nicht aber Das, was schon ursprünglich für Andere bestimmt war. Kenntlich ist Jenes zunächst am Charakter durchgängiger Redlichkeit; weil man nicht sich selbst zu täuschen sucht, noch sich selber hohle Nüsse darreicht; wodurch dann alles Sophisticiren und aller Wortkram wegfällt und in Folge hievon jede hingeschriebene Periode für die Mühe sie zu lesen sogleich entschädigt. Dem entsprechend tragen meine Schriften das Gepräge der Redlichkeit und Offenheit so deutlich auf der Stirn, daß sie schon dadurch grell abstechen von denen der drei berühmten Sophisten der nachkantischen Periode: stets findet man mich auf dem Standpunkt der Reflexion, d. i. der vernünftigen Besinnung und redlichen Mittheilung, niemals auf dem der Inspiration, genannt intellektuelle Anschauung, oder auch absolutes Denken, beim rechten Namen jedoch Windbeutelei und Scharlatanerei. — In diesem Geiste also arbeitend und während dessen immerfort das Falsche und Schlechte in allgemeiner Geltung, ja, Windbeutelei3 und Scharlatanerei4 in höchster Verehrung sehend, habe ich längst auf den Beifall meiner Zeitgenossen verzichtet. Es ist unmöglich, daß eine Zeitgenossenschaft5 Fichte und Schelling.
6 Hegel., welche, zwanzig Jahre hindurch, einen Hegel, diesen geistigen Kaliban, als den größten der Philosophen ausgeschrien hat, so laut, daß es in ganz Europa widerhallte, Den, der Das angesehen, nach ihrem Beifall lüstern machen könnte. Sie hat keine Ehrenkränze mehr zu vergeben: ihr Beifall ist prostituirt, und ihr Tadel hat nichts zu bedeuten. Daß es hiemit mein Ernst sei, ist daraus ersichtlich, daß, wenn ich irgend nach dem Beifall meiner Zeitgenossen getrachtet hätte, ich zwanzig Stellen hätte streichen müssen, welche allen Ansichten derselben ganz und gar widersprechen, ja, zum Theil ihnen anstößig seyn müssen. Allein ich würde es mir zum Vergehen anrechnen, jenem Beifall auch nur eine Silbe zum Opfer zu bringen. Mein Leitstern ist ganz ernstlich die Wahrheit gewesen: ihm nachgehend durfte ich zunächst nur nach meinem eigenen Beifall trachten, gänzlich abgewendet von einem, in Hinsicht auf alle höheren Geistesbestrebungen, tief gesunkenen Zeitalter und einer, bis auf die Ausnahmen, demoralisirten Nationallitteratur, in welcher die Kunst, hohe Worte mit niedriger Gesinnung zu verbinden, ihren Gipfel erreicht hat. Den Fehlern und Schwächen, welche meiner Natur, wie jeder die ihrigen, nothwendig anhängen, kann ich freilich nimmermehr entgehen; aber ich werde sie nicht durch unwürdige Akkommodationen vermehren.
Was nunmehr diese zweite Auflage betrifft, so freut es mich zuvörderst, daß ich nach fünfundzwanzig Jahren nichts zurückzunehmen finde, also meine Grundüberzeugungen sich wenigstens an mir selbst bewährt haben. Die Veränderungen im ersten Bande, welcher allein den Text der ersten Auflage enthält, berühren demnach nirgends das Wesentliche, sondern betreffen theils nur Nebendinge, größtentheils aber bestehen sie in meist kurzen, erläuternden, hin und wieder eingefügten Zusätzen. Bloß die Kritik der Kantischen Philosophie hat bedeutende Berichtigungen und ausführliche Zusätze erhalten; da solche sich hier nicht in ein ergänzendes Buch bringen ließen, wie die vier Bücher, welche meine eigene Lehre darstellen, jedes eines, im zweiten Bande, erhalten haben. Bei diesen habe ich letztere Form der Vermehrung und Verbesserung deswegen gewählt, weil die seit ihrer Abfassung verstrichenen fünfundzwanzig Jahre in meiner Darstellungsweise und im Ton des Vortrags eine so merkliche Veränderung herbeigeführt haben, daß es nicht wohl angieng, den Inhalt des zweiten Bandes mit dem des ersten in ein Ganzes zu verschmelzen, als bei welcher Fusion beide zu leiden gehabt haben würden. Ich gebe daher beide Arbeiten gesondert und habe an der früheren Darstellung oft selbst da, wo ich mich jetzt ganz anders ausdrücken würde, nichts geändert; weil ich mich hüten wollte, nicht durch die Krittelei des Alters die Arbeit meiner jüngern Jahre zu verderben. Was in dieser Hinsicht zu berichtigen seyn möchte, wird sich, mit Hülfe des zweiten Bandes, im Geiste des Lesers schon von selbst zurechtstellen. Beide Bände haben, im vollen Sinne des Worts, ein ergänzendes Verhältniß zu einander, sofern nämlich dieses darauf beruht, daß das eine Lebensalter des Menschen, in intellektueller Hinsicht, die Ergänzung des andern ist: daher wird man finden, daß nicht bloß jeder Band Das enthält, was der andere nicht hat, sondern auch, daß die Vorzüge des einen gerade in Dem bestehen, was dem andern abgeht. Wenn demnach die erste Hälfte meines Werkes vor der zweiten Das voraus hat, was nur das Feuer der Jugend und die Energie der ersten Konception verleihen kann; so wird dagegen diese jene übertreffen durch die Reife und vollständige Durcharbeitung der Gedanken, welche allein den Früchten eines langen Lebenslaufes und seines Fleißes zu Theil wird. Denn, als ich die Kraft hatte, den Grundgedanken meines Systems ursprünglich zu erfassen, ihn sofort in seine vier Verzweigungen zu verfolgen, von ihnen auf die Einheit ihres Stammes zurückzugehen und dann das Ganze deutlich darzustellen; da konnte ich noch nicht im Stande seyn, alle Theile des Systems, mit der Vollständigkeit, Gründlichkeit und Ausführlichkeit durchzuarbeiten, die nur durch eine vieljährige Meditation desselben erlangt werden, als welche erfordert ist, um es an unzähligen Thatsachen zu prüfen und zu erläutern, es durch die verschiedenartigsten Belege zu stützen, es von allen Seiten hell zu beleuchten, die verschiedenen Gesichtspunkte danach kühn in Kontrast zu stellen, die mannigfaltigen Materien rein zu sondern und wohlgeordnet darzulegen. Daher, wenngleich es dem Leser allerdings angenehmer seyn müßte, mein ganzes Werk aus Einem Gusse zu haben, statt daß es jetzt aus zwei Hälften besteht, welche beim Gebrauch aneinander zu bringen sind; so wolle er bedenken, daß dazu erfordert gewesen wäre, daß ich in Einem Lebensalter geleistet hätte, was nur in zweien möglich ist, indem ich dazu in Einem Lebensalter hätte die Eigenschaften besitzen müssen, welche die Natur an zwei ganz verschiedene vertheilt hat. Demnach ist die Nothwendigkeit, mein Werk in zwei einander ergänzenden Hälften zu liefern, der zu vergleichen, in Folge welcher man ein achromatisches Objektivglas, weil es aus Einem Stücke zu verfertigen unmöglich ist, dadurch zu Stande bringt, daß man es aus einem Konvexglase von Flintglas und einem Konkavglase von Krownglas zusammensetzt, deren vereinigte Wirkung allererst das Beabsichtigte leistet. Andererseits jedoch wird der Leser, für die Unbequemlichkeit zwei Bände zugleich zu gebrauchen, einige Entschädigung finden in der Abwechselung und Erholung, welche die Behandlung des selben Gegenstandes, vom selben Kopfe, im selben Geist, aber in sehr verschiedenen Jahren, mit sich bringt. Inzwischen ist es für Den, welcher mit meiner Philosophie noch nicht bekannt ist, durchaus rathsam, zuvörderst den ersten Band, ohne Hinzuziehung der Ergänzungen, durchzulesen und diese erst bei einer zweiten Lektüre zu benutzen; weil es ihm sonst zu schwer seyn würde, das System in seinem Zusammenhange zu fassen, als in welchem es allein der erste Band darlegt, während im zweiten die Hauptlehren einzeln ausführlicher begründet und vollständig entwickelt werden. Selbst wer zu einer zweiten Durchlesung des ersten Bandes sich nicht entschließen sollte, wird besser thun, den zweiten erst nach demselben und für sich durchzulesen, in der geraden Folge seiner Kapitel, als welche allerdings in einem, wiewohl loseren Zusammenhang mit einander stehen, dessen Lücken ihm die Erinnerung des ersten Bandes, wenn er ihn wohl gefaßt hat, vollkommen ausfüllen wird: zudem findet er überall die Zurückweisung auf die betreffenden Stellen des ersten Bandes, in welchem ich, zu diesem Behuf, die in der ersten Auflage durch bloße Trennungslinien bezeichneten Abschnitte in der zweiten mit Paragraphenzahlen versehen habe. —
Schon in der Vorrede zur ersten Auflage habe ich erklärt, daß meine Philosophie von der Kantischen ausgeht und daher eine gründliche Kenntniß dieser voraussetzt: ich wiederhole es hier. Denn Kants Lehre bringt in jedem Kopf, der sie gefaßt hat, eine fundamentale Veränderung hervor, die so groß ist, daß sie für eine geistige Wiedergeburt gelten kann. Sie allein nämlich vermag, den ihm angeborenen, von der ursprünglichen Bestimmung des Intellekts herrührenden Realismus wirklich zu beseitigen, als wozu weder Berkeley noch Malebranche ausreichen; da diese zu sehr im Allgemeinen bleiben, während Kant ins Besondere geht, und zwar in einer Weise, die weder Vorbild noch Nachbild kennt und eine ganz eigenthümliche, man möchte sagen unmittelbare Wirkung auf den Geist hat, in Folge welcher dieser eine gründliche Enttäuschung erleidet und fortan alle Dinge in einem andern Lichte erblickt. Erst hiedurch aber wird er für die positiveren Aufschlüsse empfänglich, welche ich zu geben habe. Wer hingegen der Kantischen Philosophie sich nicht bemeistert hat, ist, was sonst er auch getrieben haben mag, gleichsam im Stande der Unschuld, nämlich in demjenigen natürlichen und kindlichen Realismus befangen geblieben, in welchem wir Alle geboren sind und der zu allem Möglichen, nur nicht zur Philosophie befähigt. Folglich verhält ein Solcher sich zu jenem Ersteren wie ein Unmündiger zum Mündigen. Daß diese Wahrheit heut zu Tage paradox klingt, welches in den ersten dreißig Jahren nach dem Erscheinen der Vernunftkritik keineswegs der Fall gewesen wäre, kommt daher, daß seitdem ein Geschlecht herangewachsen ist, welches Kanten eigentlich nicht kennt, da hiezu mehr, als eine flüchtige, ungeduldige Lektüre, oder ein Bericht aus zweiter Hand gehört, und Dieses wieder daher, daß dasselbe, in Folge schlechter Anleitung, seine Zeit mit den Philosophemen gewöhnlicher, also unberufener Köpfe, oder gar windbeutelnder Sophisten, die man ihm unverantwortlicher Weise anpries, vergeudet hat. Daher die Verworrenheit in den ersten Begriffen und überhaupt das unsäglich Rohe und Plumpe, welches aus der Hülle der Pretiosität und Prätensiosität, in den eigenen philosophischen Versuchen des so erzogenen Geschlechts, hervorsieht. Aber in einem heillosen Irrthum ist Der befangen, welcher vermeint, er könne Kants Philosophie aus den Darstellungen Anderer davon kennen lernen. Vielmehr muß ich vor dergleichen Relationen, zumal aus neuerer Zeit, ernstlich warnen: und gar in diesen allerletzten Jahren sind mir in Schriften der Hegelianer Darstellungen der Kantischen Philosophie vorgekommen, die wirklich ins Fabelhafte gehen. Wie sollten auch die schon in frischer Jugend durch den Unsinn der Hegelei verrenkten und verdorbenen Köpfe noch fähig seyn, Kants tiefsinnigen Untersuchungen zu folgen? Sie sind früh gewöhnt, den hohlsten Wortkram für philosophische Gedanken, die armseligsten Sophismen für Scharfsinn, und läppischen Aberwitz für Dialektik zu halten, und durch das Aufnehmen rasender Wortzusammenstellungen, bei denen etwas zu denken der Geist sich vergeblich martert und erschöpft, sind ihre Köpfe desorganisirt. Für sie gehört keine Kritik der Vernunft, für sie keine Philosophie: für sie gehört eine medicina mentis, zunächst als Kathartikon etwan un petit cours de senscommunologie, und dann muß man weiter sehen, ob bei ihnen noch jemals von Philosophie die Rede seyn kann. — Die Kantische Lehre also wird man vergeblich irgend wo anders suchen, als in Kants eigenen Werken: diese aber sind durchweg belehrend, selbst da wo er irrt, selbst da wo er fehlt. In Folge seiner Originalität gilt von ihm im höchsten Grade was eigentlich von allen ächten Philosophen gilt: nur aus ihren eigenen Schriften lernt man sie kennen; nicht aus den Berichten Anderer. Denn die Gedanken jener außerordentlichen Geister können die Filtration durch den gewöhnlichen Kopf hindurch nicht vertragen. Geboren hinter den breiten, hohen, schön gewölbten Stirnen, unter welchen strahlende Augen hervorleuchteten, kommen sie, wenn versetzt in die enge Behausung und niedrige Bedachung der engen, gedrückten, dickwändigen Schädel, aus welchen stumpfe, auf persönliche Zwecke gerichtete Blicke hervorspähen, um alle Kraft und alles Leben, und sehen sich selber nicht mehr ähnlich. Ja, man kann sagen, diese Art Köpfe wirken wie unebene Spiegel, in denen Alles sich verrenkt, verzerrt, das Ebenmaaß seiner Schönheit verliert und eine Fratze darstellt. Nur von ihren Urhebern selbst kann man die philosophischen Gedanken empfangen: daher hat wer sich zur Philosophie getrieben fühlt, die unsterblichen Lehrer derselben im stillen Heiligthum ihrer Werke selbst aufzusuchen. Die Hauptkapitel eines jeden dieser ächten Philosophen werden in ihre Lehren hundert Mal mehr Einsicht verschaffen, als die schleppenden und schielenden Relationen darüber, welche Alltagsköpfe zu Stande bringen, die noch zudem meistens tief befangen sind in der jedesmaligen Modephilosophie, oder ihrer eigenen Herzensmeinung. Aber es ist zum Erstaunen, wie entschieden das Publikum vorzugsweise nach jenen Darstellungen aus zweiter Hand greift. Hiebei scheint in der That die Wahlverwandschaft zu wirken, vermöge welcher die gemeine Natur zu ihres Gleichen gezogen wird und demnach sogar was ein großer Geist gesagt hat lieber von ihres Gleichen vernehmen will. Vielleicht beruht Dies auf dem selben Princip mit dem System des wechselseitigen Unterrichts, nach welchem Kinder am besten von ihres Gleichen lernen.
Jetzt noch ein Wort für die Philosophieprofessoren. — Die Sagacität, den richtigen und feinen Takt, womit sie meine Philosophie, gleich bei ihrem Auftreten, als etwas ihren eigenen Bestrebungen ganz Heterogenes, wohl gar Gefährliches, oder, populär zu reden, etwas das nicht in ihren Kram paßt, erkannt haben, so wie die sichere und scharfsinnige Politik, vermöge derer sie das ihr gegenüber allein richtige Verfahren sogleich herausfanden, die vollkommene Einmüthigkeit, mit der sie dasselbe in Anwendung brachten, endlich die Beharrlichkeit mit welcher sie ihm treu geblieben sind, — habe ich von jeher bewundern müssen. Dieses Verfahren, welches nebenbei sich auch durch die überaus leichte Ausführbarkeit empfiehlt, besteht bekanntlich im gänzlichen Ignoriren und dadurch im Sekretiren, — nach Goethe's maliziösem Ausdruck, welcher eigentlich das Unterschlagen des Wichtigen und Bedeutenden besagt. Die Wirksamkeit dieses stillen Mittels wird erhöht durch den Korybantenlärm, mit welchem die Geburt der Geisteskinder der Einverstandenen gegenseitig gefeiert wird, und welcher das Publikum nöthigt hinzusehen und die wichtigen Mienen gewahr zu werden, mit welchen man sich darüber begrüßt. Wer könnte das Zweckmäßige dieses Verfahrens verkennen? Ist doch gegen den Grundsatz primum vivere, deinde philosophari nichts einzuwenden. Die Herren wollen leben und zwar von der Philosophie leben: an diese sind sie, mit Weib und Kind, gewiesen, und haben, trotz dem povera e nuda vai filosofia des Petrarka, es darauf gewagt. Nun ist aber meine Philosophie ganz und gar nicht darauf eingerichtet, daß man von ihr leben könnte. Es fehlt ihr dazu an den ersten, für eine wohlbesoldete Kathederphilosophie unerläßlichen Requisiten, zunächst gänzlich an einer spekulativen Theologie, welche doch gerade — dem leidigen Kant mit seiner Vernunftkritik zum Trotz — das Hauptthema aller Philosophie seyn soll und muß, wenn gleich diese dadurch die Aufgabe erhält, immerfort von dem zu reden, wovon sie schlechterdings nichts wissen kann; ja, die meinige statuirt nicht ein Mal die von den Philosophieprofessoren so klug ersonnene und ihnen unentbehrlich gewordene Fabel von einer unmittelbar und absolut erkennenden, anschauenden, oder vernehmenden Vernunft, die man nur gleich Anfangs seinen Lesern aufzubinden braucht, um nachher in das von Kant unserer Erkenntniß gänzlich und auf immer abgesperrte Gebiet jenseit der Möglichkeit aller Erfahrung, auf die bequemste Weise von der Welt, gleichsam mit vier Pferden einzufahren, woselbst man sodann gerade die Grunddogmen des modernen, judaisirenden, optimistischen Christenthums unmittelbar offenbart und auf das schönste zurechtgelegt vorfindet. Was nun, in aller Welt, geht meine, dieser wesentlichen Requisiten ermangelnde, rücksichtslose und nahrungslose, grüblerische Philosophie, — welche zu ihrem Nordstern ganz allein die Wahrheit, die nackte, unbelohnte, unbefreundete, oft verfolgte Wahrheit hat und, ohne rechts oder links zu blicken, gerade auf diese zusteuert, — jene alma mater, die gute, nahrhafte Universitätsphilosophie an, welche, mit hundert Absichten und tausend Rücksichten belastet, behutsam ihres Weges daherlavirt kommt, indem sie allezeit die Furcht des Herrn, den Willen des Ministeriums, die Satzungen der Landeskirche, die Wünsche des Verlegers, den Zuspruch der Studenten, die gute Freundschaft der Kollegen, den Gang der Tagespolitik, die momentane Richtung des Publikums und was noch Alles vor Augen hat? Oder was hat mein stilles, ernstes Forschen nach Wahrheit gemein mit dem gellenden Schulgezänke der Katheder und Bänke, dessen innerste Triebfedern stets persönliche Zwecke sind? Vielmehr sind beide Arten der Philosophie sich von Grund aus heterogen. Darum auch giebt es mit mir keinen Kompromiß und keine Kameradschaft, und findet bei mir Keiner seine Rechnung, als etwan Der, welcher nichts, als die Wahrheit suchte; also keine der philosophischen Parteien des Tages: denn sie alle verfolgen ihre Absichten; ich aber habe bloße Einsichten zu bieten, die zu keiner von jenen passen, weil sie eben nach keiner gemodelt sind. Damit aber meine Philosophie selbst kathederfähig würde, müßten erst ganz andere Zeiten heraufgezogen seyn. — Das wäre also etwas Schönes, wenn so eine Philosophie, von der man gar nicht leben kann, Luft und Licht, wohl gar allgemeine Beachtung gewönne! Mithin war Dies zu verhüten und mußten dagegen Alle für Einen Mann stehen. Beim Bestreiten und Widerlegen aber hat man nicht so leichtes Spiel: auch ist Dies schon darum ein mißliches Mittel, weil es die Aufmerksamkeit des Publikums auf die Sache hinlenkt und diesem das Lesen meiner Schriften den Geschmack an den Lukubrationen der Philosophieprofessoren verderben könnte. Denn wer den Ernst gekostet hat, dem wird der Spaaß, zumal von der langweiligen Art, nicht mehr munden. Demnach also ist das so einmüthig ergriffene schweigende System das allein richtige, und kann ich nur rathen, dabei zu bleiben und damit fortzufahren, so lange es geht, so lange nämlich bis einst aus dem Ignoriren die Ignoranz abgeleitet wird: dann wird es zum Einlenken gerade noch Zeit seyn. Unterweilen bleibt ja doch Jedem unbenommen, sich hier und da ein Federchen zu eigenem Gebrauch auszurupfen, da zu Hause der Ueberfluß an Gedanken nicht sehr drückend zu seyn pflegt. So kann denn das Ignorir- und Schweigesystem noch eine gute Weile vorhalten, wenigstens die Spanne Zeit, die ich noch zu leben haben mag; womit schon viel gewonnen ist. Wenn auch dazwischen hie und da eine indiskrete Stimme sich hat vernehmen lassen, so wird sie doch bald übertäubt vom lauten Vortrag der Professoren, welche das Publikum von ganz andern Dingen, mit wichtiger Miene, zu unterhalten wissen. Ich rathe jedoch, auf die Einmüthigkeit des Verfahrens etwas strenger zu halten und besonders die jungen Leute zu überwachen, als welche bisweilen schrecklich indiskret sind. Denn selbst so kann ich doch nicht verbürgen, daß das belobte Verfahren für immer vorhalten wird, und kann für den endlichen Ausgang nicht einstehen. Es ist nämlich eine eigene Sache um die Lenkung des im Ganzen guten und folgsamen Publikums. Wenn wir auch so ziemlich zu allen Zeiten die Gorgiasse und Hippiasse oben auf sehen, das Absurde in der Regel kulminirt und es unmöglich scheint, daß durch den Chorus der Bethörer und Bethörten die Stimme des Einzelnen je durchdränge; — so bleibt dennoch jederzeit den ächten Werken eine ganz eigenthümliche, stille, langsame, mächtige Wirkung, und wie durch ein Wunder sieht man sie endlich aus dem Getümmel sich erheben, gleich einem Aerostaten, der aus dem dicken Dunstkreise dieses Erdenraums in reinere Regionen emporschwebt, wo er, ein Mal angekommen, stehen bleibt, und Keiner mehr ihn herabziehen vermag.
Geschrieben in Frankfurt a. M. im Februar 1844.
Musean translation
Mouseia's complete machine-assisted Musean translation of the three prefaces, the four books with paragraphs 1 to 71, and the appendix on Kant, made directly from the corrected German text of the third edition (Leipzig, F. A. Brockhaus, 1859), with the printed page consulted wherever a reading was in doubt. Footnote numbers are this edition's own, assigned in reading order, so note calls and the notes they point to can differ; a few notes the scan cut short end where the printed page ends.
Not to my contemporaries, not to my countrymen—to humanity I commit my now completed work, in the confidence that it will not be without value for it, even if that value, as is the lot of the good in every kind, should be recognized only late. For it can only have been for humanity, and not for the passing generation, busy with its momentary delusion, that my head, almost against my will, has applied itself without pause to its labor through a long life. Meanwhile even the lack of sympathy could not make me doubt the worth of that labor; for I saw continually the false, the bad, and finally the absurd and nonsensical [1] held in universal admiration and veneration, and I reflected that if those who are capable of recognizing the genuine and the right were not so rare that one may look about for them in vain for some twenty years, those who are able to produce it could not be so few that their works should afterward form an exception [2] The Hegelian philosophy. to the transience of earthly things; whereby the refreshing prospect of posterity would be lost, which everyone who has set a high goal needs for strength.—Those who take seriously and pursue a cause that leads to no material gain must not count on the sympathy of their contemporaries. What they will mostly see, rather, is that in the meantime the semblance of such a cause asserts itself in the world and enjoys its day; and this is as it should be. For the cause itself must also be pursued for its own sake, otherwise it cannot succeed; since everywhere every design endangers insight. Accordingly, as the whole history of literature attests, everything of value has needed much time to gain recognition, especially if it belonged to the instructive and not the entertaining kind; and meanwhile the false shone. For to unite the cause with the semblance of the cause is hard, if not impossible. That, indeed, is the curse of this world of need and necessity, that everything must serve and be subject to need; hence it is not so constituted that any noble and sublime striving, such as that after light and truth, could thrive unhindered and be permitted to exist for its own sake. Rather, even if such a striving has once managed to assert itself, and the concept of it has thereby been introduced, material interests and personal ends will promptly seize upon that too, to make of it their tool or their mask. Accordingly, after Kant had brought philosophy once more into esteem, it too very soon had to become the instrument of ends, of the state’s from above, of personal ends from below;—or rather, strictly speaking, not philosophy itself, but its double, which passes for it. This need not surprise even us: for the incredibly large majority of people are, by their nature, capable of no ends but material ones, and indeed can conceive no others. The striving after truth alone is accordingly far too lofty and eccentric for it to be expected that all, or many, or even only a few should take a sincere part in it. If one nevertheless sees for once, as for example right now in Germany, a striking stir, a general bustle of doing, writing and talking in matters of philosophy, one may confidently presume that the real primum mobile, the hidden mainspring of such a movement, in spite of all solemn faces and assurances, is solely real, not ideal ends; that it is, namely, personal, official, ecclesiastical, political, in short material interests that one has in view; and that consequently mere party ends set the many pens of would-be sages in such vigorous motion; that designs, therefore, not insights, are the lodestar of these agitators, while truth is certainly the last thing thought of. Truth finds no partisans: rather it can make its way through such a philosophical turmoil of strife as quietly and unnoticed as through the winter night of the darkest century, bound fast in the stiffest church belief, when it is perhaps only imparted as a secret doctrine to a few adepts, or even entrusted to parchment alone. Indeed, I would say that no time can be more unfavorable to philosophy than one in which it is basely misused on the one side as an instrument of state, on the other as a means of earning a living. Or does one perhaps believe that amid such striving and such tumult truth too, which is not what is aimed at in the least, will come to light on the side, as it were? Truth is no whore who throws herself at the neck of those who do not desire her; rather she is such a coy beauty that even one who sacrifices everything to her cannot yet be sure of her favor.
Now if the governments make philosophy a means to their ends of state, the scholars on the other hand see in professorships of philosophy a trade that feeds its man like any other: they therefore crowd toward them, with assurances of their good sentiments, that is, of their intention to serve those ends. And they keep their word: not truth, not clarity, not Plato, not Aristotle, but the ends they have been appointed to serve are their lodestar, and at once become also the criterion of what is true, of what is valuable, of what deserves notice, and of their opposites. Whatever therefore does not accord with those ends, even if it were the most important and extraordinary thing in their field, is either condemned or, where that seems risky, smothered by sullen ignoring. Just look at their unanimous zeal against pantheism: will any simpleton believe it springs from conviction?—And how, indeed, should philosophy, degraded to a bread-winning trade, not degenerate into sophistry? Precisely because this is unavoidable, and the rule “Whose bread I eat, his song I sing” has always held, earning money by philosophy was among the ancients the mark of the sophist.—But now there comes besides this the fact that, since in this world nothing but mediocrity is anywhere to be expected, demanded, and had for money, one must put up with it here too. Accordingly we see, in all the German universities, dear mediocrity toiling to bring about, from its own resources, the philosophy that does not yet exist at all, and indeed according to prescribed measure and goal;—a spectacle at which it would be almost cruel to scoff.
While in this way philosophy has long been made throughout to serve as a means, on the one side for public, on the other for private ends, I, undisturbed by this, have for more than thirty years followed my own train of thought, likewise only because I had to and could not do otherwise, from an instinctive impulse, which was, however, supported by the confidence that whatever truth a person has thought and whatever hidden thing has been illuminated will at some time be grasped by another thinking mind, appeal to it, gladden and console it: it is to such a mind that one speaks, as those like us have spoken to us and have thereby become our consolation in this desert of life. Meanwhile one pursues one’s cause for its own sake and for oneself. Now with philosophical meditations the case is strangely such that precisely only what someone has thought through and investigated for themselves afterward benefits others too, but not what was originally destined for others. The former is recognizable first of all by the character of thoroughgoing honesty; because one does not seek to deceive oneself, nor hand oneself hollow nuts; whereby all sophistry and all verbiage fall away, and as a consequence every sentence set down at once repays the trouble of reading it. Accordingly my writings bear the stamp of honesty and candor so plainly on their brow that they stand out sharply by this alone from those of the three famous sophists of the post-Kantian period: one always finds me on the standpoint of reflection, that is, of rational deliberation and honest communication, never on that of inspiration, called intellectual intuition, or also absolute thinking, but which by its right name is windbaggery and charlatanry.—Working in this spirit, then, and seeing all the while the false and the bad in general currency, indeed windbaggery3 and charlatanry4 in the highest veneration, I long ago renounced the applause of my contemporaries. It is impossible that a body of contemporaries5 Fichte and Schelling.
6 Hegel. that has for twenty years proclaimed a Hegel, this spiritual Caliban, as the greatest of philosophers, and so loudly that it echoed throughout Europe, should be able to make anyone who has looked on at that covetous of its applause. It has no more garlands of honor to bestow: its applause is prostituted, and its censure means nothing. That I am in earnest in this is evident from the fact that, had I sought the applause of my contemporaries at all, I should have had to strike out twenty passages which flatly contradict all their views and in part must even be offensive to them. But I would count it a transgression to sacrifice even a syllable to that applause. My lodestar has been, in all earnestness, truth: following it, I could at first aim only at my own approval, turned wholly away from an age sunk deep in regard to all higher strivings of the spirit, and from a national literature demoralized save for the exceptions, in which the art of joining lofty words to base sentiments has reached its summit. The faults and weaknesses that necessarily cling to my nature, as to every nature its own, I can indeed never escape; but I will not increase them by unworthy accommodations.
As for this second edition, I am glad first of all that after twenty-five years I find nothing to retract, so that my fundamental convictions have at least proved themselves in my own case. The alterations in the first volume, which alone contains the text of the first edition, accordingly touch nothing essential anywhere, but concern partly only side matters, while for the most part they consist of generally brief, explanatory additions inserted here and there. Only the critique of the Kantian philosophy has received significant corrections and detailed additions; since these could not be put here into a supplementary book, as the four books that set forth my own doctrine have each received one, in the second volume. For these I chose the latter form of enlargement and improvement because the twenty-five years that have elapsed since their composition have brought about so marked a change in my manner of presentation and in the tone of delivery that it was hardly feasible to fuse the content of the second volume with that of the first into one whole; both would have suffered from such a fusion. I therefore give both works separately, and in the earlier presentation have often changed nothing even where I would now express myself quite differently, because I wanted to guard against spoiling the work of my younger years by the carping of age. Whatever may need correcting in this respect will, with the help of the second volume, set itself right of its own accord in the reader’s mind. Both volumes stand to one another, in the full sense of the word, in a relation of supplementation, insofar as this rests on the fact that one stage of a person’s life is, intellectually, the complement of the other; hence it will be found that not only does each volume contain what the other lacks, but also that the merits of the one consist precisely in what the other is without. If, accordingly, the first half of my work has the advantage over the second in what only the fire of youth and the energy of first conception can give, the second will in turn surpass the first in the maturity and complete working-through of the thoughts, which falls only to the fruits of a long course of life and its diligence. For when I had the strength to grasp originally the fundamental thought of my system, to pursue it at once into its four branchings, to go back from them to the unity of their trunk, and then to present the whole clearly, I could not yet be in a position to work through all the parts of the system with the completeness, thoroughness and fullness of detail that are attained only through many years of meditation upon it—a meditation required in order to test and elucidate it on countless facts, to support it with the most varied proofs, to light it brightly from all sides, to set the different points of view boldly in contrast, and to separate the manifold materials cleanly and lay them out in good order. Therefore, although it would doubtless be more agreeable to the reader to have my whole work cast in one piece, instead of its consisting, as now, of two halves that must be brought together in use, let the reader consider that this would have required me to accomplish in one stage of life what is possible only in two, since I should have had to possess in one stage of life the qualities which nature has distributed between two quite different ones. The necessity of delivering my work in two mutually complementary halves is accordingly comparable to that by virtue of which an achromatic objective lens, since it is impossible to make it from one piece, is produced by composing it of a convex lens of flint glass and a concave lens of crown glass, whose united effect first accomplishes what is intended. On the other hand, the reader will find some compensation for the inconvenience of using two volumes at once in the variety and refreshment which the treatment of the same subject, by the same head, in the same spirit, but in very different years, brings with it. Meanwhile, for anyone not yet acquainted with my philosophy it is altogether advisable to read the first volume through first, without drawing in the supplements, and to use these only on a second reading; since otherwise it would be too hard to grasp the system in its coherence, in which alone the first volume sets it out, whereas in the second the main doctrines are founded one by one more fully and developed completely. Even one who should not resolve on a second reading of the first volume will do better to read the second only after it and by itself, in the straight order of its chapters, which do stand in a connection with one another, though a looser one, whose gaps the recollection of the first volume, if it has been well grasped, will completely fill; besides, one finds everywhere the references back to the relevant places in the first volume, in which, for this purpose, I have in the second edition furnished with paragraph numbers the sections that in the first edition were marked merely by dividing lines.— Already in the preface to the first edition I declared that my philosophy proceeds from Kant’s and therefore presupposes a thorough knowledge of it: I repeat that here. For Kant’s doctrine produces in every head that has grasped it a fundamental change so great that it may count as a spiritual rebirth. It alone, namely, is able really to remove the realism innate in the mind, which springs from the original destination of the intellect—for which neither Berkeley nor Malebranche suffices, since these remain too much in generalities, whereas Kant goes into particulars, and indeed in a way that knows neither model nor imitation and has a quite peculiar, one might say immediate effect on the mind, in consequence of which it suffers a thorough disillusionment and henceforth sees all things in another light. Only through this, however, does it become receptive to the more positive disclosures that I have to give. Whoever, on the other hand, has not mastered the Kantian philosophy, whatever else they may have pursued, has remained, as it were, in the state of innocence, that is, caught in that natural and childlike realism in which we are all born and which fits one for everything possible except philosophy. Consequently such a person stands to the former as one under age to one of age. That this truth sounds paradoxical today, which in the first thirty years after the appearance of the Critique of Reason would by no means have been the case, comes from the fact that a generation has since grown up which does not really know Kant, since for that more is needed than a cursory, impatient reading or a report at second hand; and this again comes from the fact that this generation, owing to bad guidance, has squandered its time on the philosophemes of ordinary and therefore unqualified heads, or even of windbag sophists, whom it was inexcusably urged to admire. Hence the confusion in the first concepts and, in general, the unspeakably crude and clumsy element that peers out from the veil of preciousness and pretension in the philosophical attempts of the generation so educated. But whoever supposes they can get to know Kant’s philosophy from the expositions of others is caught in a hopeless error. Rather I must earnestly warn against such reports, above all from recent times: and in these very last years I have come across, in the writings of the Hegelians, expositions of the Kantian philosophy that really pass into the fabulous. And how, indeed, should heads already twisted out of joint and spoiled in fresh youth by the nonsense of Hegelry still be capable of following Kant’s profound investigations? They are accustomed early to take the hollowest verbiage for philosophical thoughts, the most wretched sophisms for acuteness, and inane lunacy for dialectic, and through taking in maddening combinations of words, over which the mind tortures and exhausts itself in vain to think something, their heads are disorganized. For them no Critique of Reason is fit, for them no philosophy: for them a medicina mentis is fit, first as a cathartic perhaps un petit cours de senscommunologie, and then one must see further whether there can ever be talk of philosophy with them.—The Kantian doctrine, then, one will seek in vain anywhere other than in Kant’s own works: and these are throughout instructive, even where he errs, even where he fails. Owing to his originality it holds of him in the highest degree what holds properly of all genuine philosophers: only from their own writings does one come to know them, not from the reports of others. For the thoughts of those extraordinary minds cannot bear filtration through the ordinary head. Born behind the broad, high, finely vaulted foreheads from beneath which radiant eyes shine forth, they lose, when transplanted into the narrow dwelling and low roof of narrow, compressed, thick-walled skulls, out of which dull glances bent on personal ends peer, all strength and all life, and no longer look like themselves. Indeed, one may say that heads of this kind work like uneven mirrors, in which everything is twisted and distorted, loses the symmetry of its beauty, and presents a grimace. Only from their originators themselves can one receive philosophical thoughts: hence whoever feels driven to philosophy must seek out its immortal teachers in the quiet sanctuary of their own works. The principal chapters of any one of these genuine philosophers will give a hundred times more insight into their doctrines than the lumbering and squinting reports about them turned out by everyday heads, who moreover are for the most part deeply caught in the fashionable philosophy of the day, or in their own cherished opinions. But it is astonishing how decidedly the public reaches by preference for those expositions at second hand. Here elective affinity does indeed seem to be at work, by virtue of which the common nature is drawn to its like, and accordingly prefers to hear even what a great mind has said from its like. Perhaps this rests on the same principle as the system of mutual instruction, according to which children learn best from their like.
Now one more word for the professors of philosophy.—The sagacity, the right and fine tact with which they recognized my philosophy, at its very first appearance, as something wholly heterogeneous to their own endeavors, even dangerous, or, to speak popularly, something that does not suit their shop; as well as the sure and astute policy by virtue of which they at once found the only proper course toward it, the perfect unanimity with which they put it into practice, and finally the perseverance with which they have remained faithful to it—all this I have always had to admire. This procedure, which incidentally also commends itself by its extremely easy execution, consists, as is well known, in total ignoring and thereby in “secreting,” to use Goethe’s malicious expression, which properly signifies the suppression of what is important and significant. The effectiveness of this silent means is heightened by the Corybantic din with which the birth of the intellectual offspring of those in agreement is celebrated reciprocally, and which compels the public to look and to notice the important airs with which they greet one another over it. Who could fail to recognize the expediency of this procedure? There is, after all, nothing to object to in the maxim primum vivere, deinde philosophari. The gentlemen want to live, and indeed to live from philosophy: to it they are assigned, with wife and child, and have, despite Petrarch’s povera e nuda vai filosofia, ventured upon it. Now my philosophy is not at all arranged so that one could live from it. It lacks for this the first requisites indispensable to a well-paid chair philosophy, above all, and entirely, a speculative theology, which—in spite of the wretched Kant with his Critique of Reason—is supposed to be, and must be, the main theme of all philosophy, even though this gives it the task of speaking continually of that of which it absolutely cannot know anything; indeed mine does not even posit the fable, so cleverly devised by the professors of philosophy and become indispensable to them, of a reason that immediately and absolutely knows, intuits or apprehends, which one need only tie onto one’s readers at the outset in order afterward to drive in, in the most convenient way in the world, as it were with four horses, to the domain beyond the possibility of all experience, entirely and forever closed by Kant to our knowledge, where one then finds precisely the basic dogmas of modern, judaizing, optimistic Christianity immediately revealed and laid out in the most beautiful fashion. What, in all the world, has my philosophy—lacking these essential requisites, heeding no considerations, yielding no bread, brooding, which has for its north star solely truth, naked, unrewarded, unbefriended, often persecuted truth, and steers straight for it without looking right or left—to do with that alma mater, the good, nourishing university philosophy, which, burdened with a hundred intentions and a thousand considerations, comes cautiously tacking along its way, keeping always before its eyes the fear of the Lord, the will of the ministry, the statutes of the established church, the wishes of the publisher, the attendance of students, the good friendship of colleagues, the course of the day’s politics, the momentary direction of the public, and whatever else? Or what has my quiet, earnest inquiry after truth in common with the shrill school-squabbling of lecterns and benches, whose innermost springs are always personal ends? Rather, the two kinds of philosophy are heterogeneous to one another from the ground up. Therefore also there is with me no compromise and no comradeship, and with me no one finds their account unless it be one who sought nothing but truth; hence none of the philosophical parties of the day: for they all pursue their intentions; I, however, have only insights to offer, which fit none of those, because they have been modeled on none. For my philosophy itself to become fit for the lectern, quite other times would first have to have risen.—That would be a fine thing, then, if such a philosophy, from which one cannot live at all, were to win air and light, even general notice! This, therefore, had to be prevented, and all had to stand as one man against it. Disputing and refuting, however, is not so easy a game: and this is also a risky means for the reason that it turns the attention of the public to the matter, and the reading of my writings might spoil the public’s taste for the lucubrations of the professors of philosophy. For whoever has tasted earnestness will no longer relish the jest, especially of the tedious kind. Accordingly the silent system, so unanimously adopted, is the only right one, and I can only advise them to stay with it and to continue with it as long as it goes, namely until some day the ignoring is traced to ignorance: then there will still be just time enough to change course. Meanwhile it remains open to anyone to pluck a little feather here and there for their own use, since at home the superabundance of thoughts is not usually very oppressive. Thus the system of ignoring and silence can hold out a good while yet, at least for the span of time I may still have to live; with which much is already gained. Even if here and there in between an indiscreet voice has made itself heard, it is soon drowned by the loud lecturing of the professors, who know how to entertain the public, with an important air, about quite other things. I advise, however, holding somewhat more strictly to the unanimity of the procedure, and watching especially the young people, who are at times terribly indiscreet. For even so I cannot vouch that the lauded procedure will hold out forever, and cannot answer for the final outcome. It is a peculiar matter, namely, to steer the public, which is on the whole good and docile. Even if at nearly all times we see the Gorgiases and Hippiases on top, the absurd as a rule at its zenith, and it seems impossible that through the chorus of deceivers and deceived the voice of the individual should ever penetrate;—yet genuine works always retain a quite peculiar, quiet, slow, powerful effect, and as though by a miracle one sees them at last rise out of the tumult, like a balloon that floats up from the thick atmosphere of this earthly space into purer regions, where, once arrived, it stays, and no one can any longer pull it down.
Written at Frankfurt a. M. in February 1844.
Plain English translation
Mouseia's complete machine-assisted Plain English edition, made independently and directly from the same corrected German text of the 1859 third edition, then reviewed section by section against that German base and corrected, with the printed page consulted wherever a reading was in doubt. Footnote numbers are this edition's own, assigned in reading order, so note calls and the notes they point to can differ; a few notes the scan cut short end where the printed page ends.
I hand over my now finished work not to my contemporaries and not to my countrymen—I hand it to humanity. I trust that it will not be without value to humanity, even if, as is the lot of anything good of any kind, that value is recognized only late. For it can only have been for humanity, not for the generation that rushes past, busy with its passing delusion, that my mind, almost against my will, has kept at its work without a break through a long life. During that time even the lack of interest could not shake my confidence in the value of the work. I kept seeing what is false and bad, and in the end what is absurd and nonsensical [1], held in general admiration and honor. And I reflected that if those who are able to recognize what is genuine and right were not so rare that one can look around for them in vain for some twenty years, then those who are able to produce it could not be so few that their works would later make an exception [2] Hegelian philosophy. to the transience of earthly things. If that happened, the refreshing prospect of posterity would be lost, and everyone who has set a high goal needs that prospect to keep up their strength.—Anyone who takes seriously, and pursues, something that brings no material benefit must not count on the interest of contemporaries. But what that person will mostly see is that in the meantime the mere appearance of such a thing makes itself felt in the world and enjoys its day. And that is as it should be. For the thing itself must be pursued for its own sake; otherwise it cannot succeed, because every private aim is a danger to insight. Accordingly, as the history of literature everywhere shows, everything of value has needed a long time to come into its own, especially if it was of the instructive kind and not the entertaining kind. And meanwhile what was false shone. For it is hard, if not impossible, to unite the thing with the appearance of the thing. That, indeed, is the curse of this world of need and want, that everything must serve and wait on these. For that very reason it is not made so that any noble and lofty striving, like the striving for light and truth, could thrive unhindered and exist for its own sake. Rather, even if such a striving has once managed to make itself felt, and the idea of it has thereby been introduced, material interests and personal purposes will immediately take hold of it too, to make it their tool or their mask. Accordingly, after Kant had brought philosophy back into esteem, it too very soon had to become a tool of purposes: the purposes of the state from above, and personal purposes from below.—Strictly speaking, though, it was not philosophy itself that became the tool but its double, which passes for it. We should not even be surprised at this. For the incredibly large majority of people are by their nature capable of no purposes except material ones; indeed, they can grasp no other. So the striving for truth alone is far too high and eccentric for us to expect that all, or many, or even just a few should take a sincere part in it. Still, if you ever see, as just now in Germany for example, a striking liveliness, a general bustle of doing, writing and talking on philosophical matters, you can confidently assume that the real primum mobile, the hidden driving spring of such a movement, whatever the solemn faces and assurances, consists only of real purposes, not ideal ones. That is, what people have in view are personal, official, church and state interests—in short, material interests. So mere party purposes set the many pens of alleged philosophers in such brisk motion, and intentions, not insights, are the guiding star of these troublemakers, while truth is surely the last thing anyone thinks of. Truth finds no partisans. On the contrary, it can make its way through such a philosophical uproar as quietly and unnoticed as through the winter night of the darkest century, held fast in the most rigid church belief, when perhaps it was passed on only as a secret doctrine to a few initiates, or even entrusted to parchment alone. Indeed, I would say that no age can be less favorable to philosophy than one in which it is shamefully misused, on one side as a tool of the state and on the other as a way of earning a living. Or does anyone suppose that with such aims and in such an uproar, truth will also come to light on the side, when it is not what anyone is after? Truth is no whore who throws herself at the neck of those who do not desire her. Rather she is such a coy beauty that even someone who sacrifices everything to her cannot be sure of her favor.
If governments make philosophy a tool for their state purposes, then scholars on the other side see a philosophy professorship as a trade that feeds its man, like any other. So they crowd after it, assuring everyone of their good attitude, that is, of their intention to serve those purposes. And they keep their word. It is not truth, not clarity, not Plato, not Aristotle but the purposes they were appointed to serve that are their guiding star, and these at once become the test of what is true, what is valuable, what deserves attention, and of their opposites. So whatever does not suit those purposes—even if it is the most important and extraordinary thing in their field—is either condemned or, where that seems risky, smothered by sullen silence. Just look at their unanimous zeal against pantheism: will any fool believe it comes from conviction?—And how could philosophy, once degraded to a bread-winning trade, fail to degenerate into sophistry? Precisely because this is unavoidable, and the rule “Whose bread I eat, his song I sing” has always held, earning money from philosophy was among the ancients the mark of the sophist.—And there is more. Since in this world nothing but mediocrity is to be expected, can be demanded, and can be had for money, we have to make do with it here too. So at every German university we see dear mediocrity struggling to produce, out of its own resources, a philosophy that does not yet exist at all, and to produce it by a prescribed measure and toward a prescribed goal. It is a spectacle that it would be almost cruel to mock.
While philosophy has long had to serve, throughout, as a means—on one side for public purposes and on the other for private ones—I have gone on following my train of thought, undisturbed by all that, for more than thirty years. I did it only because I had to and could not do otherwise, out of an instinctive drive. Yet that drive was supported by the confidence that whatever truth anyone has thought and whatever hidden thing anyone has lit up will sooner or later be grasped by some other thinking mind, and will speak to it, please it and comfort it. One speaks to such a mind as those who resemble us spoke to us and thereby became our comfort in the bleakness of life. Meanwhile one pursues one’s subject for its own sake and for oneself. Now, with philosophical meditations, oddly enough, it is only what one has thought through and investigated for oneself that afterward does others good too, and not what was meant for others from the start. You can recognize the first kind, to begin with, by its thoroughgoing honesty. One is not trying to deceive oneself or to hand oneself empty nuts. So all sophistry and all word-mongering fall away, and as a result every sentence written down immediately pays back the trouble of reading it. Accordingly my writings carry the stamp of honesty and openness so plainly on their foreheads that they already stand out sharply by this from those of the three famous sophists of the post-Kantian period. You will always find me on the ground of reflection, that is, of reasonable thought and honest communication, never on that of inspiration, called intellectual intuition or absolute thinking, which by its right name is humbug and charlatanry.—So, working in this spirit, and all the while seeing what is false and bad in general esteem, and humbug3 and charlatanry4 held in the highest honor, I gave up long ago on the applause of my contemporaries. It is impossible that a body of contemporaries5 Fichte and Schelling.
6 Hegel. that has for twenty years proclaimed a Hegel, that mental Caliban, as the greatest of philosophers, and so loudly that it echoed through all of Europe, could make anyone who has seen this hungry for its applause. It has no more wreaths of honor to give. Its applause has been prostituted, and its blame means nothing. That I am in earnest about this is clear from the fact that if I had sought the applause of my contemporaries at all, I would have had to strike out twenty passages that flatly contradict all their views and in part must even offend them. But I would count it as a wrong to sacrifice even one syllable to that applause. My guiding star has been truth, in all seriousness. Following it, I could aim at first only at my own approval, turned completely away from an age that has sunk deep in all higher strivings of the mind, and from a national literature, demoralized except for a few exceptions, in which the art of joining lofty words to low attitudes has reached its peak. The faults and weaknesses that necessarily cling to my nature, as to everyone’s, I can of course never escape. But I will not add to them by unworthy accommodations.
As for this second edition, I am glad first of all that after twenty-five years I find nothing to take back. So my basic convictions have at least proved themselves in my own case. The changes in the first volume, which alone contains the text of the first edition, therefore touch nothing essential. They concern partly only minor matters, but mostly they consist of additions that are usually short, explanatory, and inserted here and there. Only the critique of Kant’s philosophy has received significant corrections and detailed additions. These could not be put into a supplementary book here, as they were for the four books that present my own teaching, each of which has received one in the second volume. For those four books I chose that form of expansion and improvement because the twenty-five years since they were written have brought about so marked a change in my manner of presentation and my tone that it was not really possible to fuse the content of the second volume with that of the first into one whole. Both would have suffered from such a fusion. So I give the two works separately. In the earlier presentation I have often changed nothing even where I would now express myself quite differently, because I wanted to guard against spoiling the work of my younger years by the fault-finding of old age. Whatever may need correcting in this respect will set itself right in the reader’s mind, with the help of the second volume. The two volumes stand to each other, in the full sense of the word, as supplements of each other, insofar as that relation rests on the fact that one stage of a person’s life is, intellectually, the supplement of the other. So one will find not only that each volume contains what the other lacks, but also that the strengths of one lie precisely in what the other is missing. If the first half of my work has an advantage over the second in what only the fire of youth and the energy of first conception can give, then the second will surpass the first in the maturity and thorough working-out of the thoughts, which fall only to the fruits of a long life and its diligence. For when I had the strength to grasp the basic thought of my system originally, to follow it at once into its four branches, to go back from them to the unity of their trunk, and then to present the whole clearly, I could not yet be in a position to work through all the parts of the system with the completeness, thoroughness and detail that come only from many years of meditating on it. That kind of meditation is needed to test the system against countless facts and illustrate it with them, to support it with the most varied evidence, to light it brightly from all sides, to set its different viewpoints boldly in contrast, and to separate the many kinds of material cleanly and set them out in good order. So the reader would no doubt find it more pleasant to have my whole work cast in one piece, instead of two halves that have to be brought together when it is used. But the reader should bear in mind that this would have required me to accomplish in one stage of life what is possible only in two, because I would have had to possess in one stage of life the qualities that nature has divided between two quite different ones. The necessity of delivering my work in two halves that complete each other is therefore like the necessity by which one makes an achromatic objective lens. Since it is impossible to make one from a single piece, one puts it together from a convex lens of flint glass and a concave lens of crown glass, and only their combined effect does what is wanted. On the other hand, the reader will find some compensation for the inconvenience of using two volumes at once in the variety and refreshment that come from treating the same subject, by the same mind, in the same spirit, but in very different years. Meanwhile, for anyone not yet familiar with my philosophy, it is absolutely advisable to read the first volume through first, without consulting the supplements, and to use them only on a second reading. Otherwise it would be too hard to grasp the system as a connected whole, which only the first volume sets out, while in the second the main teachings are given more detailed grounds one by one and are fully developed. Even someone who cannot decide on a second reading of the first volume will do better to read the second only after the first, and by itself, in the straight order of its chapters. These do stand in a connection with each other, though a looser one, and memory of the first volume, if it has been well grasped, will completely fill its gaps. Besides, the reader finds everywhere references back to the relevant passages of the first volume. For that purpose I have given section numbers, in the second edition, to the divisions that were marked in the first edition by mere dividing lines.— I already said in the preface to the first edition that my philosophy starts from Kant’s and so presupposes a thorough knowledge of it. I repeat that here. For Kant’s teaching produces in every mind that has grasped it a fundamental change, so great that it can count as a spiritual rebirth. It alone can really remove the realism we are born with, which comes from the original purpose of the intellect. Neither Berkeley nor Malebranche is enough for that, because they stay too general, while Kant goes into particulars. He does this in a way that has no model before it and no copy after it, and it has a quite peculiar, one might say immediate, effect on the mind. As a result the mind suffers a thorough disillusionment and from then on sees all things in a different light. Only in this way does it become receptive to the more positive explanations I have to give. Anyone, on the other hand, who has not mastered Kant’s philosophy, whatever else that person may have pursued, is still in a kind of state of innocence. Such a person has stayed caught in that natural, childlike realism in which we are all born and which fits us for everything possible except philosophy. Such a person therefore stands to the former as a minor stands to an adult. It sounds paradoxical today to say this, which would not have been so at all in the first thirty years after the Critique of Reason appeared. The reason is that a generation has since grown up that does not really know Kant. To know him takes more than a hasty, impatient reading or a secondhand report. And this in turn comes from the fact that this generation, badly guided, has wasted its time on the philosophical doctrines of ordinary minds, who had no calling for it, or even of humbugging sophists whom it was irresponsibly urged to admire. Hence the confusion in the first concepts, and in general the unspeakable crudeness and clumsiness that peeks out from under the cloak of preciousness and pretension in the philosophical efforts of a generation brought up like that. But anyone who imagines it possible to get to know Kant’s philosophy from other people’s accounts of it is caught in a hopeless error. Rather, I must seriously warn against such reports, especially recent ones. In these last few years in particular I have come across, in writings of the Hegelians, accounts of Kant’s philosophy that are really fantastic. And how could minds that were twisted and ruined in their fresh youth by the nonsense of Hegelry still be able to follow Kant’s profound inquiries? They were trained early to take the emptiest word-mongering for philosophical thoughts, the most wretched sophisms for acuteness, and silly nonsense for dialectic. Their minds are disorganized by taking in raving combinations of words, over which the mind torments and exhausts itself in vain trying to think something. For them there is no place for a critique of reason, no place for philosophy. What they need is a medicina mentis, first, as a purgative, perhaps un petit cours de senscommunologie, and then we must see whether philosophy can ever be spoken of in their case at all.—So Kant’s teaching will be sought in vain anywhere except in Kant’s own works. These are instructive throughout, even where he errs, even where he fails. Because of his originality, what really holds of all genuine philosophers holds of him to the highest degree: you get to know them only from their own writings, not from other people’s reports. For the thoughts of those extraordinary minds cannot stand being filtered through the ordinary head. Born behind broad, high, finely arched foreheads from under which radiant eyes shine out, they lose all their strength and life when moved into the cramped dwelling and low roof of narrow, pressed, thick-walled skulls, from which dull eyes, set on personal ends, peer out. They no longer look like themselves. One can even say that heads of this kind work like uneven mirrors, in which everything is twisted and distorted, loses the symmetry of its beauty and shows up as a grimace. One can receive philosophical thoughts only from their originators themselves. So anyone who feels driven toward philosophy should seek out its immortal teachers in the quiet sanctuary of their own works. The main chapters of any one of these genuine philosophers will give a hundred times more insight into their teachings than the dragging and squinting reports about them made by everyday minds, who are, besides, mostly deeply caught up in the fashionable philosophy of the moment, or in their own heart’s opinion. Yet it is astonishing how decidedly the public prefers those secondhand accounts. Here the elective affinity really seems to be at work, by which common nature is drawn to its like, and therefore would rather hear even what a great mind has said from its like. Perhaps this rests on the same principle as the system of mutual instruction, by which children learn best from their own kind.
Now one more word for the professors of philosophy.—I have always had to admire the shrewdness and the right, fine tact with which they recognized my philosophy, right when it appeared, as something quite foreign to their own endeavors, even dangerous, or, to put it popularly, something that does not suit their business. I have equally admired the sure and clever policy by which they at once found the only right way of dealing with it, the perfect unanimity with which they applied it, and finally the persistence with which they have stayed true to it. This way of dealing, which among other things recommends itself by being extremely easy to carry out, consists, as everyone knows, in total ignoring and thereby in secreting—in Goethe’s malicious expression, which really means suppressing what is important and significant. The effectiveness of this quiet means is increased by the Corybantic din with which the birth of the intellectual children of those in the agreement is celebrated by one another. That din forces the public to look and to notice the important faces with which they greet each other about it. Who could fail to see how well suited this way is to its end? After all, there is nothing to object to in the principle primum vivere, deinde philosophari. These gentlemen want to live, and to live from philosophy. They are tied to it, with wife and children, and they have risked it despite Petrarch’s povera e nuda vai filosofia. Now my philosophy is not set up at all so that anyone could live from it. It lacks the first requirements that a well-paid lecture-hall philosophy cannot do without. First of all it lacks entirely a speculative theology, which—in spite of the wretched Kant and his Critique of Reason—is supposed to be, and must be, the main theme of all philosophy, even though that gives philosophy the task of talking all the time about what it can absolutely know nothing of. Indeed, mine does not even lay down the fable, so cleverly devised by the professors of philosophy and become indispensable to them, of a reason that knows, intuits or perceives directly and absolutely. All you need to do is tie that on your readers right at the start, in order afterwards to drive into the territory beyond the possibility of all experience (which Kant closed off completely and forever to our knowledge) in the most comfortable way in the world, as if with a four-horse carriage. There you then find the basic dogmas of modern, judaizing, optimistic Christianity directly revealed and beautifully laid out. What on earth, then, does my philosophy have to do with that alma mater, the good, nourishing university philosophy? Mine lacks these essential requirements. It is regardless of consequences, has no bread to offer, and is brooding. Its north star is truth alone, the naked, unrewarded, unfriended, often persecuted truth, and it steers straight toward it without looking right or left. The university philosophy comes tacking cautiously along its way, burdened with a hundred aims and a thousand considerations. It always keeps in view the fear of the Lord, the will of the ministry, the statutes of the established church, the wishes of the publisher, the approval of the students, the good friendship of colleagues, the course of the day’s politics, the momentary direction of the public, and whatever else. Or what has my quiet, serious search for truth in common with the shrill school-squabbling of lecterns and benches, whose innermost driving springs are always personal ends? On the contrary, the two kinds of philosophy are foreign to each other from the ground up. That is also why there is no compromise or comradeship with me, and why nobody gets what they want from me, except perhaps one who sought nothing but truth. That excludes all the philosophical parties of the day: for they all pursue their intentions, while I have only insights to offer, which fit none of them, because they were not molded after any. For my philosophy itself to become fit for the lecture hall, quite different times would first have to arrive.—That would be a fine thing indeed, if a philosophy that one cannot live from at all should gain air and light, and even general notice! So this had to be prevented, and everyone had to stand together as one man. But disputing and refuting is not such easy play. It is also a risky means, because it draws the public’s attention to the matter, and reading my writings might spoil the public’s taste for the lucubrations of the philosophy professors. For whoever has tasted seriousness will no longer enjoy the fun, especially the boring kind. So the silent system, so unanimously adopted, is the only right one, and I can only advise them to stick to it and go on with it as long as it works. That is, until the day when ignorance is inferred from the ignoring: then there will be just time enough to change course. Meanwhile it remains open to anyone to pluck a little feather here and there for their own use, since at home the abundance of thoughts is not usually very oppressive. So the system of ignoring and silence can hold out a good while longer, at least for the span of time I may still have to live, and that already gains a lot. Even if an indiscreet voice has now and then made itself heard in between, it is soon drowned out by the loud lectures of the professors, who know how to entertain the public with quite different things, with an air of importance. I advise them, however, to hold somewhat more strictly to unanimity in procedure and to watch the young people in particular, who are sometimes terribly indiscreet. For even so I cannot guarantee that the praised procedure will hold out forever, and I cannot vouch for the final outcome. For steering the public, which is on the whole good and obedient, is a peculiar matter. Even if at almost every time we see the Gorgiases and Hippiases on top, the absurd as a rule reaching its peak, and it seems impossible that the voice of a single person could ever break through the chorus of deceivers and deceived,—still genuine works always keep a quite peculiar, quiet, slow, powerful effect. And, as if by a miracle, one finally sees them rise out of the tumult, like a balloon that floats up from the thick atmosphere of this earthly space into purer regions. Once it has arrived there, it stays, and no one can pull it down again.
Written in Frankfurt am Main in February 1844.
About this section
Preface to the Second Edition is part of The World as Will and Representation, Volume I 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 book 2 of 8 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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