Counsels and Maxims


by


Arthur Schopenhauer


Translated by T. Bailey Saunders, M.A.




Le bonheur n’est pas chose aisée: il est

très difficile de le trouver en nous, et impossible

de le trouver ailleurs
.


CHAMFORT.







INTRODUCTION.


If my object in these pages were to present a complete scheme of
counsels and maxims for the guidance of life, I should have to
repeat the numerous rules—some of them excellent—which
have been drawn up by thinkers of all ages, from Theognis and
Solomon1 down to La Rochefoucauld;
and, in so doing, I should inevitably entail upon the reader a vast
amount of well-worn commonplace. But the fact is that in this work
I make still less claim to exhaust my subject than in any other of
my writings.


1 I refer to the proverbs and
maxims ascribed, in the Old Testament, to the king of that
name.]


An author who makes no claims to completeness must also, in a
great measure, abandon any attempt at systematic arrangement. For
his double loss in this respect, the reader may console himself by
reflecting that a complete and systematic treatment of such a
subject as the guidance of life could hardly fail to be a very
wearisome business. I have simply put down those of my thoughts
which appear to be worth communicating—thoughts which, as far
as I know, have not been uttered, or, at any rate, not just in the
same form, by any one else; so that my remarks may be taken as a
supplement to what has been already achieved in the immense
field.



However, by way of introducing some sort of order into the great
variety of matters upon which advice will be given in the following
pages, I shall distribute what I have to say under the following
heads: (1) general rules; (2) our relation to ourselves; (3) our
relation to others; and finally, (4) rules which concern our manner
of life and our worldly circumstances. I shall conclude with some
remarks on the changes which the various periods of life produce in
us.




CHAPTER I.


GENERAL RULES.—SECTION 1.


The first and foremost rule for the wise conduct of life seems
to me to be contained in a view to which Aristotle parenthetically
refers in the Nichomachean Ethics:"#note2">2 [Greek: o phronimoz to alupon dioke e ou
to aedu] or, as it may be rendered, not pleasure, but freedom
from pain, is what the wise man will aim at
.



2 vii. (12) 12.]


The truth of this remark turns upon the negative character of
happiness,—the fact that pleasure is only the negation of
pain, and that pain is the positive element in life. Though I have
given a detailed proof of this proposition in my chief
work,3 I may supply one more
illustration of it here, drawn from a circumstance of daily
occurrence. Suppose that, with the exception of some sore or
painful spot, we are physically in a sound and healthy condition:
the sore of this one spot, will completely absorb our attention,
causing us to lose the sense of general well-being, and destroying
all our comfort in life. In the same way, when all our affairs but
one turn out as we wish, the single instance in which our aims are
frustrated is a constant trouble to us, even though it be something
quite trivial. We think a great deal about it, and very little
about those other and more important matters in which we have been
successful. In both these cases what has met with resistance is
the will; in the one case, as it is objectified in the
organism, in the other, as it presents itself in the struggle of
life; and in both, it is plain that the satisfaction of the will
consists in nothing else than that it meets with no resistance. It
is, therefore, a satisfaction which is not directly felt; at most,
we can become conscious of it only when we reflect upon our
condition. But that which checks or arrests the will is something
positive; it proclaims its own presence. All pleasure consists in
merely removing this check—in other words, in freeing us from
its action; and hence pleasure is a state which can never last very
long.


3 Welt als Wille und
Vorstellung
. Vol. I., p. 58.]



This is the true basis of the above excellent rule quoted from
Aristotle, which bids us direct our aim, not toward securing what
is pleasurable and agreeable in life, but toward avoiding, as far
as possible, its innumerable evils. If this were not the right
course to take, that saying of Voltaire’s, Happiness is
but a dream and sorrow is real
, would be as false as it is, in
fact, true. A man who desires to make up the book of his life and
determine where the balance of happiness lies, must put down in his
accounts, not the pleasures which he has enjoyed, but the evils
which he has escaped. That is the true method of eudaemonology; for
all eudaemonology must begin by recognizing that its very name is a
euphemism, and that to live happily only means to live
less unhappily
—to live a tolerable life. There is no
doubt that life is given us, not to be enjoyed, but to be
overcome—to be got over. There are numerous expressions
illustrating this—such as degere vitam, vita
defungi
; or in Italian, si scampa cosi; or in German,
man muss suchen durchzukommen; er wird schon durch die Welt
kommen
, and so on. In old age it is indeed a consolation to
think that the work of life is over and done with. The happiest lot
is not to have experienced the keenest delights or the greatest
pleasures, but to have brought life to a close without any very
great pain, bodily or mental. To measure the happiness of a life by
its delights or pleasures, is to apply a false standard. For
pleasures are and remain something negative; that they produce
happiness is a delusion, cherished by envy to its own punishment.
Pain is felt to be something positive, and hence its absence is the
true standard of happiness. And if, over and above freedom from
pain, there is also an absence of boredom, the essential conditions
of earthly happiness are attained; for all else is chimerical.



It follows from this that a man should never try to purchase
pleasure at the cost of pain, or even at the risk of incurring it;
to do so is to pay what is positive and real, for what is negative
and illusory; while there is a net profit in sacrificing pleasure
for the sake of avoiding pain. In either case it is a matter of
indifference whether the pain follows the pleasure or precedes it.
While it is a complete inversion of the natural order to try and
turn this scene of misery into a garden of pleasure, to aim at joy
and pleasure rather than at the greatest possible freedom from
pain—and yet how many do it!—there is some wisdom in
taking a gloomy view, in looking upon the world as a kind of Hell,
and in confining one’s efforts to securing a little room that
shall not be exposed to the fire. The fool rushes after the
pleasures of life and finds himself their dupe; the wise man avoids
its evils; and even if, notwithstanding his precautions, he falls
into misfortunes, that is the fault of fate, not of his own folly.
As far as he is successful in his endeavors, he cannot be said to
have lived a life of illusion; for the evils which he shuns are
very real. Even if he goes too far out of his way to avoid evils,
and makes an unnecessary sacrifice of pleasure, he is, in reality,
not the worse off for that; for all pleasures are chimerical, and
to mourn for having lost any of them is a frivolous, and even
ridiculous proceeding.


The failure to recognize this truth—a failure promoted by
optimistic ideas—is the source of much unhappiness. In
moments free from pain, our restless wishes present, as it were in
a mirror, the image of a happiness that has no counterpart in
reality, seducing us to follow it; in doing so we bring pain upon
ourselves, and that is something undeniably real. Afterwards, we
come to look with regret upon that lost state of painlessness; it
is a paradise which we have gambled away; it is no longer with us,
and we long in vain to undo what has been done.


One might well fancy that these visions of wishes fulfilled were
the work of some evil spirit, conjured up in order to entice us
away from that painless state which forms our highest
happiness.


A careless youth may think that the world is meant to be
enjoyed, as though it were the abode of some real or positive
happiness, which only those fail to attain who are not clever
enough to overcome the difficulties that lie in the way. This false
notion takes a stronger hold on him when he comes to read poetry
and romance, and to be deceived by outward show—the hypocrisy
that characterizes the world from beginning to end; on which I
shall have something to say presently. The result is that his life
is the more or less deliberate pursuit of positive happiness; and
happiness he takes to be equivalent to a series of definite
pleasures. In seeking for these pleasures he encounters
danger—a fact which should not be forgotten. He hunts for
game that does not exist; and so he ends by suffering some very
real and positive misfortune—pain, distress, sickness, loss,
care, poverty, shame, and all the thousand ills of life. Too late
he discovers the trick that has been played upon him.


But if the rule I have mentioned is observed, and a plan of life
is adopted which proceeds by avoiding pain—in other words, by
taking measures of precaution against want, sickness, and distress
in all its forms, the aim is a real one, and something may be
achieved which will be great in proportion as the plan is not
disturbed by striving after the chimera of positive happiness. This
agrees with the opinion expressed by Goethe in the Elective
Affinities
, and there put into the mouth of Mittler—the
man who is always trying to make other people happy: To desire
to get rid of an evil is a definite object, but to desire a better
fortune than one has is blind folly
. The same truth is
contained in that fine French proverb: le mieux est
l’ennemi du bien
—leave well alone. And, as I have
remarked in my chief work,4 this is
the leading thought underlying the philosophical system of the
Cynics. For what was it led the Cynics to repudiate pleasure in
every form, if it was not the fact that pain is, in a greater or
less degree, always bound up with pleasure? To go out of the way of
pain seemed to them so much easier than to secure pleasure. Deeply
impressed as they were by the negative nature of pleasure and the
positive nature of pain, they consistently devoted all their
efforts to the avoidance of pain. The first step to that end was,
in their opinion, a complete and deliberate repudiation of
pleasure, as something which served only to entrap the victim in
order that he might be delivered over to pain.



4 Welt als Wille und
Vorstellung
, vol. ii., ch. 16.]


We are all born, as Schiller says, in Arcadia. In other words,
we come into the world full of claims to happiness and pleasure,
and we cherish the fond hope of making them good. But, as a rule,
Fate soon teaches us, in a rough and ready way that we really
possess nothing at all, but that everything in the world is at its
command, in virtue of an unassailable right, not only to all we
have or acquire, to wife or child, but even to our very limbs, our
arms, legs, eyes and ears, nay, even to the nose in the
middle of our face. And in any case, after some little time, we
learn by experience that happiness and pleasure are a fata
morgana
, which, visible from afar, vanish as we approach;
that, on the other hand, suffering and pain are a reality, which
makes its presence felt without any intermediary, and for its
effect, stands in no need of illusion or the play of false
hope.


If the teaching of experience bears fruit in us, we soon give up
the pursuit of pleasure and happiness, and think much more about
making ourselves secure against the attacks of pain and suffering.
We see that the best the world has to offer is an existence free
from pain—a quiet, tolerable life; and we confine our claims
to this, as to something we can more surely hope to achieve. For
the safest way of not being very miserable is not to expect to be
very happy. Merck, the friend of Goethe’s youth, was
conscious of this truth when he wrote: It is the wretched way
people have of setting up a claim to happiness
and,
that to, in a measure corresponding with their
desires
that ruins everything in this world. A man
will make progress if he can get rid of this claim,"#note5">5 and desire nothing but what he sees
before him
. Accordingly it is advisable to put very moderate
limits upon our expectations of pleasure, possessions, rank, honor
and so on; because it is just this striving and struggling to be
happy, to dazzle the world, to lead a life full of pleasure, which
entail great misfortune. It is prudent and wise, I say, to reduce
one’s claims, if only for the reason that it is extremely
easy to be very unhappy; while to be very happy is not indeed
difficult, but quite impossible. With justice sings the poet of
life’s wisdom:




Auream quisquis mediocritatem

Diligit, tutus caret obsoleti

Sordibus tecti, caret invidenda

Sobrius aula.

Savius ventis agitatur ingens

Pinus: et celsae graviori casu

Decidunt turres; feriuntque summos

Fulgura monies.6




—the golden mean is best—to live free from the
squalor of a mean abode, and yet not be a mark for envy. It is the
tall pine which is cruelly shaken by the wind, the highest summits
that are struck in the storm, and the lofty towers that fall so
heavily.


5 Letters to and from
Merck.]


6 Horace. Odes II. x.]


He who has taken to heart the teaching of my
philosophy—who knows, therefore, that our whole existence is
something which had better not have been, and that to disown and
disclaim it is the highest wisdom—he will have no great
expectations from anything or any condition in life: he will spend
passion upon nothing in the world, nor lament over-much if he fails
in any of his undertakings. He will feel the deep truth of what
Plato7 says: [Greek: oute ti ton
anthropinon haxion on megalaes spondaes]—nothing in human
affairs is worth any great anxiety; or, as the Persian poet has
it,




Though from thy grasp all worldly things should flee,

Grieve not for them, for they are nothing worth:

And though a world in thy possession be,

Joy not, for worthless are the things of earth.

Since to that better world ’tis given to thee

To pass, speed on, for this is nothing worth.
"#note8">8



7 Republic, x.
604.]



8 Translator’s
Note
. From the Anvár-i Suhailí—The Lights of
Canopus
—being the Persian version of the Table of
Bidpai
. Translated by E.B. Eastwick, ch. iii. Story vi., p.
289.]


The chief obstacle to our arriving at these salutary views is
that hypocrisy of the world to which I have already
alluded—an hypocrisy which should be early revealed to the
young. Most of the glories of the world are mere outward show, like
the scenes on a stage: there is nothing real about them. Ships
festooned and hung with pennants, firing of cannon, illuminations,
beating of drums and blowing of trumpets, shouting and
applauding—these are all the outward sign, the pretence and
suggestion,—as it were the hieroglyphic,—of
joy: but just there, joy is, as a rule, not to be found;
it is the only guest who has declined to be present at the
festival. Where this guest may really be found, he comes generally
without invitation; he is not formerly announced, but slips in
quietly by himself sans facon; often making his appearance
under the most unimportant and trivial circumstances, and in the
commonest company—anywhere, in short, but where the society
is brilliant and distinguished. Joy is like the gold in the
Australian mines—found only now and then, as it were, by the
caprice of chance, and according to no rule or law; oftenest in
very little grains, and very seldom in heaps. All that outward show
which I have described, is only an attempt to make people believe
that it is really joy which has come to the festival; and to
produce this impression upon the spectators is, in fact, the whole
object of it.



With mourning it is just the same. That long funeral
procession, moving up so slowly; how melancholy it looks! what an
endless row of carriages! But look into them—they are all
empty; the coachmen of the whole town are the sole escort the dead
man has to his grave. Eloquent picture of the friendship and esteem
of the world! This is the falsehood, the hollowness, the hypocrisy
of human affairs!


Take another example—a roomful of guests in full dress,
being received with great ceremony. You could almost believe that
this is a noble and distinguished company; but, as a matter of
fact, it is compulsion, pain and boredom who are the real guests.
For where many are invited, it is a rabble—even if they all
wear stars. Really good society is everywhere of necessity very
small. In brilliant festivals and noisy entertainments, there is
always, at bottom, a sense of emptiness prevalent. A false tone is
there: such gatherings are in strange contrast with the misery and
barrenness of our existence. The contrast brings the true condition
into greater relief. Still, these gatherings are effective from the
outside; and that is just their purpose. Chamfort"#note9">9 makes the excellent remark that
societyles cercles, les salons, ce qu’on
appelle le monde
—is like a miserable play, or a bad
opera, without any interest in itself, but supported for a time by
mechanical aid, costumes and scenery.



9 Translator’s
Note
. Nicholas “Chamfort” (1741–94), a
French miscellaneous writer, whose brilliant conversation, power of
sarcasm, and epigrammic force, coupled with an extraordinary
career, render him one of the most interesting and remarkable men
of his time. Schopenhauer undoubtedly owed much to this writer, to
whom he constantly refers.]


And so, too, with academies and chairs of philosophy. You have a
kind of sign-board hung out to show the apparent abode of
wisdom: but wisdom is another guest who declines the
invitation; she is to be found elsewhere. The chiming of bells,
ecclesiastical millinery, attitudes of devotion, insane
antics—these are the pretence, the false show of
piety. And so on. Everything in the world is like a hollow
nut; there is little kernel anywhere, and when it does exist, it is
still more rare to find it in the shell. You may look for it
elsewhere, and find it, as a rule, only by chance.



SECTION 2. To estimate a man’s condition in regard to
happiness, it is necessary to ask, not what things please him, but
what things trouble him; and the more trivial these things are in
themselves, the happier the man will be. To be irritated by
trifles, a man must be well off; for in misfortunes trifles are
unfelt.


SECTION 3. Care should be taken not to build the happiness of
life upon a broad foundation—not to require a great
many things in order to be happy. For happiness on such a
foundation is the most easily undermined; it offers many more
opportunities for accidents; and accidents are always happening.
The architecture of happiness follows a plan in this respect just
the opposite of that adopted in every other case, where the
broadest foundation offers the greatest security. Accordingly, to
reduce your claims to the lowest possible degree, in comparison
with your means,—of whatever kind these may be—is the
surest way of avoiding extreme misfortune.


To make extensive preparations for life—no matter what
form they may take—is one of the greatest and commonest of
follies. Such preparations presuppose, in the first place, a long
life, the full and complete term of years appointed to
man—and how few reach it! and even if it be reached, it is
still too short for all the plans that have been made; for to carry
them out requites more time than was thought necessary at the
beginning. And then how many mischances and obstacles stand in the
way! how seldom the goal is ever reached in human affairs!


And lastly, even though the goal should be reached, the changes
which Time works in us have been left out of the reckoning: we
forget that the capacity whether for achievement or for enjoyment
does not last a whole lifetime. So we often toil for things which
are no longer suited to us when we attain them; and again, the
years we spend in preparing for some work, unconsciously rob us of
the power for carrying it out.


How often it happens that a man is unable to enjoy the wealth
which he acquired at so much trouble and risk, and that the fruits
of his labor are reserved for others; or that he is incapable of
filling the position which he has won after so many years of toil
and struggle. Fortune has come too late for him; or, contrarily, he
has come too late for fortune,—when, for instance, he wants
to achieve great things, say, in art or literature: the popular
taste has changed, it may be; a new generation has grown up, which
takes no interest in his work; others have gone a shorter way and
got the start of him. These are the facts of life which Horace must
have had in view, when he lamented the uselessness of all
advice:—




quid eternis minorem

Consiliis animum fatigas?
"#note10">10



10 Odes II. xi.]


The cause of this commonest of all follies is that optical
illusion of the mind from which everyone suffers, making life, at
its beginning, seem of long duration; and at its end, when one
looks back over the course of it, how short a time it seems! There
is some advantage in the illusion; but for it, no great work would
ever be done.


Our life is like a journey on which, as we advance, the
landscape takes a different view from that which it presented at
first, and changes again, as we come nearer. This is just what
happens—especially with our wishes. We often find something
else, nay, something better than what we are looking for; and what
we look for, we often find on a very different path from that on
which we began a vain search. Instead of finding, as we expected,
pleasure, happiness, joy, we get experience, insight,
knowledge—a real and permanent blessing, instead of a
fleeting and illusory one.



This is the thought that runs through Wilkelm Meister,
like the bass in a piece of music. In this work of Goethe’s,
we have a novel of the intellectual kind, and, therefore,
superior to all others, even to Sir Walter Scott’s, which
are, one and all, ethical; in other words, they treat of
human nature only from the side of the will. So, too, in the
Zauberflöte—that grotesque, but still significant,
and even hieroglyphic—the same thought is symbolized, but in
great, coarse lines, much in the way in which scenery is painted.
Here the symbol would be complete if Tamino were in the end to be
cured of his desire to possess Tainina, and received, in her stead,
initiation into the mysteries of the Temple of Wisdom. It is quite
right for Papageno, his necessary contrast, to succeed in getting
his Papagena.


Men of any worth or value soon come to see that they are in the
hands of Fate, and gratefully submit to be moulded by its
teachings. They recognize that the fruit of life is experience, and
not happiness; they become accustomed and content to exchange hope
for insight; and, in the end, they can say, with Petrarch, that all
they care for is to learn:—




Altro diletto che ‘mparar, non provo.



It may even be that they to some extent still follow their old
wishes and aims, trifling with them, as it were, for the sake of
appearances; all the while really and seriously looking for nothing
but instruction; a process which lends them an air of genius, a
trait of something contemplative and sublime.


In their search for gold, the alchemists discovered other
things—gunpowder, china, medicines, the laws of nature. There
is a sense in which we are all alchemists.




CHAPTER II.


OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES.—SECTION 4.



The mason employed on the building of a house may be quite
ignorant of its general design; or at any rate, he may not keep it
constantly in mind. So it is with man: in working through the days
and hours of his life, he takes little thought of its character as
a whole.


If there is any merit or importance attaching to a man’s
career, if he lays himself out carefully for some special work, it
is all the more necessary and advisable for him to turn his
attention now and then to its plan, that is to say, the
miniature sketch of its general outlines. Of course, to do that, he
must have applied the maxim [Greek: Gnothi seauton]; he must have
made some little progress in the art of understanding himself. He
must know what is his real, chief, and foremost object in
life,—what it is that he most wants in order to be happy; and
then, after that, what occupies the second and third place in his
thoughts; he must find out what, on the whole, his vocation really
is—the part he has to play, his general relation to the
world. If he maps out important work for himself on great lines, a
glance at this miniature plan of his life will, more than anything
else stimulate, rouse and ennoble him, urge him on to action and
keep him from false paths.


Again, just as the traveler, on reaching a height, gets a
connected view over the road he has taken, with its many turns and
windings; so it is only when we have completed a period in our
life, or approach the end of it altogether, that we recognize the
true connection between all our actions,—what it is we have
achieved, what work we have done. It is only then that we see the
precise chain of cause and effect, and the exact value of all our
efforts. For as long as we are actually engaged in the work of
life, we always act in accordance with the nature of our character,
under the influence of motive, and within the limits of our
capacity,—in a word, from beginning to end, under a law of
necessity; at every moment we do just what appears to us
right and proper. It is only afterwards, when we come to look back
at the whole course of our life and its general result, that we see
the why and wherefore of it all.


When we are actually doing some great deed, or creating some
immortal work, we are not conscious of it as such; we think only of
satisfying present aims, of fulfilling the intentions we happen to
have at the time, of doing the right thing at the moment. It is
only when we come to view our life as a connected whole that our
character and capacities show themselves in their true light; that
we see how, in particular instances, some happy inspiration, as it
were, led us to choose the only true path out of a thousand which
might have brought us to ruin. It was our genius that guided us, a
force felt in the affairs of the intellectual as in those of the
world; and working by its defect just in the same way in regard to
evil and disaster.



SECTION 5. Another important element in the wise conduct of life
is to preserve a proper proportion between our thought for the
present and our thought for the future; in order not to spoil the
one by paying over-great attention to the other. Many live too long
in the present—frivolous people, I mean; others, too much in
the future, ever anxious and full of care. It is seldom that a man
holds the right balance between the two extremes. Those who strive
and hope and live only in the future, always looking ahead and
impatiently anticipating what is coming, as something which will
make them happy when they get it, are, in spite of their very
clever airs, exactly like those donkeys one sees in Italy, whose
pace may be hurried by fixing a stick on their heads with a wisp of
hay at the end of it; this is always just in front of them, and
they keep on trying to get it. Such people are in a constant state
of illusion as to their whole existence; they go on living ad
interim
, until at last they die.


Instead, therefore, of always thinking about our plans and
anxiously looking to the future, or of giving ourselves up to
regret for the past, we should never forget that the present is the
only reality, the only certainty; that the future almost always
turns out contrary to our expectations; that the past, too, was
very different from what we suppose it to have been. But the past
and the future are, on the whole, of less consequence than we
think. Distance, which makes objects look small to the outward eye,
makes them look big to the eye of thought. The present alone is
true and actual; it is the only time which possesses full reality,
and our existence lies in it exclusively. Therefore we should
always be glad of it, and give it the welcome it deserves, and
enjoy every hour that is bearable by its freedom from pain and
annoyance with a full consciousness of its value. We shall hardly
be able to do this if we make a wry face over the failure of our
hopes in the past or over our anxiety for the future. It is the
height of folly to refuse the present hour of happiness, or
wantonly to spoil it by vexation at by-gones or uneasiness about
what is to come. There is a time, of course, for forethought, nay,
even for repentance; but when it is over let us think of what is
past as of something to which we have said farewell, of necessity
subduing our hearts—



[Greek: alla ta men protuchthai easomen achnumenoi per

tumhon eni staethessi philon damasntes hanankae],"#note11">11



and of the future as of that which lies beyond our power, in the
lap of the gods—


[Greek: all aetoi men tauta theon en gounasi keitai.]"#note12">12



11 Iliad, xix,
65.]


12 Ibid, xvii,
514]


But in regard to the present let us remember Seneca’s
advice, and live each day as if it were our whole
life,—singulas dies singulas vitas puta: let us make
it as agreeable as possible, it is the only real time we have.


Only those evils which are sure to come at a definite date have
any right to disturb us; and how few there are which fulfill this
description. For evils are of two kinds; either they are possible
only, at most probable; or they are inevitable. Even in the case of
evils which are sure to happen, the time at which they will happen
is uncertain. A man who is always preparing for either class of
evil will not have a moment of peace left him. So, if we are not to
lose all comfort in life through the fear of evils, some of which
are uncertain in themselves, and others, in the time at which they
will occur, we should look upon the one kind as never likely to
happen, and the other as not likely to happen very soon.



Now, the less our peace of mind is disturbed by fear, the more
likely it is to be agitated by desire and expectation. This is the
true meaning of that song of Goethe’s which is such a
favorite with everyone: Ich hab’ mein’ Sach’
auf nichts gestellt
. It is only after a man has got rid of all
pretension, and taken refuge in mere unembellished existence, that
he is able to attain that peace of mind which is the foundation of
human happiness. Peace of mind! that is something essential to any
enjoyment of the present moment; and unless its separate moments
are enjoyed, there is an end of life’s happiness as a whole.
We should always collect that To-day comes only once, and
never returns. We fancy that it will come again to-morrow; but
To-morrow is another day, which, in its turn, comes once
only. We are apt to forget that every day is an integral, and
therefore irreplaceable portion of life, and to look upon life as
though it were a collective idea or name which does not suffer if
one of the individuals it covers is destroyed.



We should be more likely to appreciate and enjoy the present,
if, in those good days when we are well and strong, we did not fail
to reflect how, in sickness and sorrow, every past hour that was
free from pain and privation seemed in our memory so infinitely to
be envied—as it were, a lost paradise, or some one who was
only then seen to have acted as a friend. But we live through our
days of happiness without noticing them; it is only when evil comes
upon us that we wish them back. A thousand gay and pleasant hours
are wasted in ill-humor; we let them slip by unenjoyed, and sigh
for them in vain when the sky is overcast. Those present moments
that are bearable, be they never so trite and common,—passed
by in indifference, or, it may be, impatiently pushed
away,—those are the moments we should honor; never failing to
remember that the ebbing tide is even how hurrying them into the
past, where memory will store them transfigured and shining with an
imperishable light,—in some after-time, and above all, when
our days are evil, to raise the veil and present them as the object
of our fondest regret.


SECTION 6. Limitations always make for happiness. We
are happy in proportion as our range of vision, our sphere of work,
our points of contact with the world, are restricted and
circumscribed. We are more likely to feel worried and anxious if
these limits are wide; for it means that our cares, desires and
terrors are increased and intensified. That is why the blind are
not so unhappy as we might be inclined to suppose; otherwise there
would not be that gentle and almost serene expression of peace in
their faces.


Another reason why limitation makes for happiness is that the
second half of life proves even more dreary that the first. As the
years wear on, the horizon of our aims and our points of contact
with the world become more extended. In childhood our horizon is
limited to the narrowest sphere about us; in youth there is already
a very considerable widening of our view; in manhood it comprises
the whole range of our activity, often stretching out over a very
distant sphere,—the care, for instance, of a State or a
nation; in old age it embraces posterity.


But even in the affairs of the intellect, limitation is
necessary if we are to be happy. For the less the will is excited,
the less we suffer. We have seen that suffering is something
positive, and that happiness is only a negative condition. To limit
the sphere of outward activity is to relieve the will of external
stimulus: to limit the sphere of our intellectual efforts is to
relieve the will of internal sources of excitement. This latter
kind of limitation is attended by the disadvantage that it opens
the door to boredom, which is a direct source of countless
sufferings; for to banish boredom, a man will have recourse to any
means that may be handy—dissipation, society, extravagance,
gaming, and drinking, and the like, which in their turn bring
mischief, ruin and misery in their train. Difficiles in otio
quies
—it is difficult to keep quiet if you have nothing
to do. That limitation in the sphere of outward activity is
conducive, nay, even necessary to human happiness, such as it is,
may be seen in the fact that the only kind of poetry which depicts
men in a happy state of life—Idyllic poetry, I
mean,—always aims, as an intrinsic part of its treatment, at
representing them in very simple and restricted circumstances. It
is this feeling, too, which is at the bottom of the pleasure we
take in what are called genre pictures.



Simplicity, therefore, as far as it can be attained,
and even monotony, in our manner of life, if it does not
mean that we are bored, will contribute to happiness; just because,
under such circumstances, life, and consequently the burden which
is the essential concomitant of life, will be least felt. Our
existence will glide on peacefully like a stream which no waves or
whirlpools disturb.


SECTION 7. Whether we are in a pleasant or a painful state
depends, ultimately, upon the kind of matter that pervades and
engrosses our consciousness. In this respect, purely intellectual
occupation, for the mind that is capable of it, will, as a rule, do
much more in the way of happiness than any form of practical life,
with its constant alternations of success and failure, and all the
shocks and torments it produces. But it must be confessed that for
such occupation a pre-eminent amount of intellectual capacity is
necessary. And in this connection it may be noted that, just as a
life devoted to outward activity will distract and divert a man
from study, and also deprive him of that quiet concentration of
mind which is necessary for such work; so, on the other hand, a
long course of thought will make him more or less unfit for the
noisy pursuits of real life. It is advisable, therefore, to suspend
mental work for a while, if circumstances happen which demand any
degree of energy in affairs of a practical nature.


SECTION 8. To live a life that shall be entirely prudent and
discreet, and to draw from experience all the instruction it
contains, it is requisite to be constantly thinking back,—to
make a kind of recapitulation of what we have done, of our
impressions and sensations, to compare our former with our present
judgments—what we set before us and struggle to achieve, with
the actual result and satisfaction we have obtained. To do this is
to get a repetition of the private lessons of
experience,—lessons which are given to every one.


Experience of the world may be looked upon as a kind of text, to
which reflection and knowledge form the commentary. Where there is
great deal of reflection and intellectual knowledge, and very
little experience, the result is like those books which have on
each page two lines of text to forty lines of commentary. A great
deal of experience with little reflection and scant knowledge,
gives us books like those of the editio Bipontina"#note13">13 where there are no notes and much that
is unintelligible.



13 Translator’s
Note
. A series of Greek, Latin and French classics published
at Zweibräcken in the Palatinate, from and after the year 1779. Cf.
Butter, Ueber die Bipontiner und die editiones
Bipontinae
.]


The advice here given is on a par with a rule recommended by
Pythagoras,—to review, every night before going to sleep,
what we have done during the day. To live at random, in the
hurly-burly of business or pleasure, without ever reflecting upon
the past,—to go on, as it were, pulling cotton off the reel
of life,—is to have no clear idea of what we are about; and a
man who lives in this state will have chaos in his emotions and
certain confusion in his thoughts; as is soon manifest by the
abrupt and fragmentary character of his conversation, which becomes
a kind of mincemeat. A man will be all the more exposed to this
fate in proportion as he lives a restless life in the world, amid a
crowd of various impressions and with a correspondingly small
amount of activity on the part of his own mind.


And in this connection it will be in place to observe that, when
events and circumstances which have influenced us pass away in the
course of time, we are unable to bring back and renew the
particular mood or state of feeling which they aroused in us: but
we can remember what we were led to say and do in regard to them;
and thus form, as it were, the result, expression and measure of
those events. We should, therefore, be careful to preserve the
memory of our thoughts at important points in our life; and herein
lies the great advantage of keeping a journal.


SECTION 9. To be self-sufficient, to be all in all to oneself,
to want for nothing, to be able to say omnia mea mecum
porto
—that is assuredly the chief qualification for
happiness. Hence Aristotle’s remark, [Greek: hae eudaimonia
ton autarchon esti]14—to be
happy means to be self-sufficient—cannot be too often
repeated. It is, at bottom, the same thought as is present in the
very well-turned sentence from Chamfort:



Le bonheur n’est pas chose aisée: il est très
difficile de le trouver en nous, et impossible de le trouver
ailleurs
.


14 Eudem. Eth. VII.
ii. 37.]


For while a man cannot reckon with certainty upon anyone but
himself, the burdens and disadvantages, the dangers and annoyances,
which arise from having to do with others, are not only countless
but unavoidable.


There is no more mistaken path to happiness than worldliness,
revelry, high life: for the whole object of it is to
transform our miserable existence into a succession of joys,
delights and pleasures,—a process which cannot fail to result
in disappointment and delusion; on a par, in this respect, with its
obligato accompaniment, the interchange of lies."#note15">15



15 As our body is concealed
by the clothes we wear, so our mind is veiled in lies. The veil is
always there, and it is only through it that we can sometimes guess
at what a man really thinks; just as from his clothes we arrive at
the general shape of his body.]


All society necessarily involves, as the first condition of its
existence, mutual accommodation and restraint upon the part of its
members. This means that the larger it is, the more insipid will be
its tone. A man can be himself only so long as he is
alone; and if he does not love solitude, he will not love freedom;
for it is only when he is alone that he is really free. Constraint
is always present in society, like a companion of whom there is no
riddance; and in proportion to the greatness of a man’s
individuality, it will be hard for him to bear the sacrifices which
all intercourse with others demands, Solitude will be welcomed or
endured or avoided, according as a man’s personal value is
large or small,—the wretch feeling, when he is alone, the
whole burden of his misery; the great intellect delighting in its
greatness; and everyone, in short, being just what he is.


Further, if a man stands high in Nature’s lists, it is
natural and inevitable that he should feel solitary. It will be an
advantage to him if his surroundings do not interfere with this
feeling; for if he has to see a great deal of other people who are
not of like character with himself, they will exercise a disturbing
influence upon him, adverse to his peace of mind; they will rob
him, in fact, of himself, and give him nothing to compensate for
the loss.


But while Nature sets very wide differences between man and man
in respect both of morality and of intellect, society disregards
and effaces them; or, rather, it sets up artificial differences in
their stead,—gradations of rank and position, which are very
often diametrically opposed to those which Nature establishes. The
result of this arrangement is to elevate those whom Nature has
placed low, and to depress the few who stand high. These latter,
then, usually withdraw from society, where, as soon as it is at all
numerous, vulgarity reigns supreme.



What offends a great intellect in society is the equality of
rights, leading to equality of pretensions, which everyone enjoys;
while at the same time, inequality of capacity means a
corresponding disparity of social power. So-called good
society
recognizes every kind of claim but that of intellect,
which is a contraband article; and people are expected to exhibit
an unlimited amount of patience towards every form of folly and
stupidity, perversity and dullness; whilst personal merit has to
beg pardon, as it were, for being present, or else conceal itself
altogether. Intellectual superiority offends by its very existence,
without any desire to do so.


The worst of what is called good society is not only that it
offers us the companionship of people who are unable to win either
our praise or our affection, but that it does not allow of our
being that which we naturally are; it compels us, for the sake of
harmony, to shrivel up, or even alter our shape altogether.
Intellectual conversation, whether grave or humorous, is only fit
for intellectual society; it is downright abhorrent to ordinary
people, to please whom it is absolutely necessary to be commonplace
and dull. This demands an act of severe self-denial; we have to
forfeit three-fourths of ourselves in order to become like other
people. No doubt their company may be set down against our loss in
this respect; but the more a man is worth, the more he will find
that what he gains does not cover what he loses, and that the
balance is on the debit side of the account; for the people with
whom he deals are generally bankrupt,—that is to say, there
is nothing to be got from their society which can compensate either
for its boredom, annoyance and disagreeableness, or for the
self-denial which it renders necessary. Accordingly, most society
is so constituted as to offer a good profit to anyone who will
exchange it for solitude.


Nor is this all. By way of providing a substitute for
real—I mean intellectual—superiority, which is seldom
to be met with, and intolerable when it is found, society has
capriciously adopted a false kind of superiority, conventional in
its character, and resting upon arbitrary principles,—a
tradition, as it were, handed down in the higher circles, and, like
a password, subject to alteration; I refer to bon-ton
fashion. Whenever this kind of superiority comes into collision
with the real kind, its weakness is manifest. Moreover, the
presence of good tone means the absence of good
sense
.



No man can be in perfect accord with any one but
himself—not even with a friend or the partner of his life;
differences of individuality and temperament are always bringing in
some degree of discord, though it may be a very slight one. That
genuine, profound peace of mind, that perfect tranquillity of soul,
which, next to health, is the highest blessing the earth can give,
is to be attained only in solitude, and, as a permanent mood, only
in complete retirement; and then, if there is anything great and
rich in the man’s own self, his way of life is the happiest
that may be found in this wretched world.


Let me speak plainly. However close the bond of friendship,
love, marriage—a man, ultimately, looks to himself, to his
own welfare alone; at most, to his child’s too. The less
necessity there is for you to come into contact with mankind in
general, in the relations whether of business or of personal
intimacy, the better off you are. Loneliness and solitude have
their evils, it is true; but if you cannot feel them all at once,
you can at least see where they lie; on the other hand, society is
insidious in this respect; as in offering you what appears
to be the pastime of pleasing social intercourse, it works great
and often irreparable mischief. The young should early be trained
to bear being left alone; for it is a source of happiness and peace
of mind.


It follows from this that a man is best off if he be thrown upon
his own resources and can be all in all to himself; and Cicero goes
so far as to say that a man who is in this condition cannot fail to
be very happy—nemo potest non beatissimus esse qui est
totus aptus ex sese, quique in se uno ponit omnia.
"#note16">16 The more a man has in himself, the less
others can be to him. The feeling of self-sufficiency! it is that
which restrains those whose personal value is in itself great
riches, from such considerable sacrifices as are demanded by
intercourse with the world, let alone, then, from actually
practicing self-denial by going out of their way to seek it.
Ordinary people are sociable and complaisant just from the very
opposite feeling;—to bear others’ company is easier for
them than to bear their own. Moreover, respect is not paid in this
world to that which has real merit; it is reserved for that which
has none. So retirement is at once a proof and a result of being
distinguished by the possession of meritorious qualities. It will
therefore show real wisdom on the part of any one who is worth
anything in himself, to limit his requirements as may be necessary,
in order to preserve or extend his freedom, and,—since a man
must come into some relations with his fellow-men—to admit
them to his intimacy as little as possible.



16 Paradoxa
Stoidorum
: II.]


I have said that people are rendered sociable by their ability
to endure solitude, that is to say, their own society. They become
sick of themselves. It is this vacuity of soul which drives them to
intercourse with others,—to travels in foreign countries.
Their mind is wanting in elasticity; it has no movement of its own,
and so they try to give it some,—by drink, for instance. How
much drunkenness is due to this cause alone! They are always
looking for some form of excitement, of the strongest kind they can
bear—the excitement of being with people of like nature with
themselves; and if they fail in this, their mind sinks by its own
weight, and they fall into a grievous lethargy."#note17">17 Such people, it may be said, possess
only a small fraction of humanity in themselves; and it requires a
great many of them put together to make up a fair amount of
it,—to attain any degree of consciousness as men. A man, in
the full sense of the word,—a man par
excellence
—does not represent a fraction, but a whole
number: he is complete in himself.



17 It is a well-known fact,
that we can more easily bear up under evils which fall upon a great
many people besides ourselves. As boredom seems to be an evil of
this kind, people band together to offer it a common resistance.
The love of life is at bottom only the fear of death; and, in the
same way, the social impulse does not rest directly upon the love
of society, but upon the fear of solitude; it is not alone the
charm of being in others’ company that people seek, it is the
dreary oppression of being alone—the monotony of their own
consciousness—that they would avoid. They will do anything to
escape it,—even tolerate bad companions, and put up with the
feeling of constraint which all society involves, in this case a
very burdensome one. But if aversion to such society conquers the
aversion to being alone, they become accustomed to solitude and
hardened to its immediate effects. They no longer find solitude to
be such a very bad thing, and settle down comfortably to it without
any hankering after society;—and this, partly because it is
only indirectly that they need others’ company, and partly
because they have become accustomed to the benefits of being
alone.]


Ordinary society is, in this respect, very like the kind of
music to be obtained from an orchestra composed of Russian horns.
Each horn has only one note; and the music is produced by each note
coming in just at the right moment. In the monotonous sound of a
single horn, you have a precise illustration of the effect of most
people’s minds. How often there seems to be only one thought
there! and no room for any other. It is easy to see why people are
so bored; and also why they are sociable, why they like to go about
in crowds—why mankind is so gregarious. It is the
monotony of his own nature that makes a man find solitude
intolerable. Omnis stultitia laborat fastidio sui: folly
is truly its own burden. Put a great many men together, and you may
get some result—some music from your horns!



A man of intellect is like an artist who gives a concert without
any help from anyone else, playing on a single instrument—a
piano, say, which is a little orchestra in itself. Such a man is a
little world in himself; and the effect produced by various
instruments together, he produces single-handed, in the unity of
his own consciousness. Like the piano, he has no place in a
symphony: he is a soloist and performs by himself,—in
solitude, it may be; or, if in company with other instruments, only
as principal; or for setting the tone, as in singing. However,
those who are fond of society from time to time may profit by this
simile, and lay it down as a general rule that deficiency of
quality in those we meet may be to some extent compensated by an
increase in quantity. One man’s company may be quite enough,
if he is clever; but where you have only ordinary people to deal
with, it is advisable to have a great many of them, so that some
advantage may accrue by letting them all work together,—on
the analogy of the horns; and may Heaven grant you patience for
your task!


That mental vacuity and barrenness of soul to which I have
alluded, is responsible for another misfortune. When men of the
better class form a society for promoting some noble or ideal aim,
the result almost always is that the innumerable mob of humanity
comes crowding in too, as it always does everywhere, like
vermin—their object being to try and get rid of boredom, or
some other defect of their nature; and anything that will effect
that, they seize upon at once, without the slightest
discrimination. Some of them will slip into that society, or push
themselves in, and then either soon destroy it altogether, or alter
it so much that in the end it comes to have a purpose the exact
opposite of that which it had at first.


This is not the only point of view from which the social impulse
may be regarded. On cold days people manage to get some warmth by
crowding together; and you can warm your mind in the same
way—by bringing it into contact with others. But a man who
has a great deal of intellectual warmth in himself will stand in no
need of such resources. I have written a little fable illustrating
this: it may be found elsewhere.18
As a general rule, it may be said that a man’s sociability
stands very nearly in inverse ratio to his intellectual value: to
say that “so and so” is very unsociable, is almost
tantamount to saying that he is a man of great capacity.



18 Translator’s
Note
. The passage to which Schopenhauer refers is
Parerga: vol. ii. § 413 (4th edition). The fable is of
certain porcupines, who huddled together for warmth on a cold day;
but as they began to prick one another with their quills, they were
obliged to disperse. However the cold drove them together again,
when just the same thing happened. At last, after many turns of
huddling and dispersing, they discovered that they would be best
off by remaining at a little distance from one another. In the same
way, the need of society drives the human porcupines
together—only to be mutually repelled by the many prickly and
disagreeable qualities of their nature. The moderate distance which
they at last discover to be the only tolerable condition of
intercourse, is the code of politeness and fine manners; and those
who transgress it are roughly told—in the English
phrase—to keep their distance. By this arrangement
the mutual need of warmth is only very moderately
satisfied,—but then people do not get pricked. A man who has
some heat in himself prefers to remain outside, where he will
neither prick other people nor get pricked himself.]


Solitude is doubly advantageous to such a man. Firstly, it
allows him to be with himself, and, secondly, it prevents him being
with others—an advantage of great moment; for how much
constraint, annoyance, and even danger there is in all intercourse
with the world. Tout notre mal, says La Bruyère, vient
de ne pouvoir être seul
. It is really a very risky, nay, a
fatal thing, to be sociable; because it means contact with natures,
the great majority of which are bad morally, and dull or perverse,
intellectually. To be unsociable is not to care about such people;
and to have enough in oneself to dispense with the necessity of
their company is a great piece of good fortune; because almost all
our sufferings spring from having to do with other people; and that
destroys the peace of mind, which, as I have said, comes next after
health in the elements of happiness. Peace of mind is impossible
without a considerable amount of solitude. The Cynics renounced all
private property in order to attain the bliss of having nothing to
trouble them; and to renounce society with the same object is the
wisest thing a man can do. Bernardin de Saint Pierre has the very
excellent and pertinent remark that to be sparing in regard to food
is a means of health; in regard to society, a means of
tranquillity—la diète des ailmens nous rend la santé du
corps, et celle des hommes la tranquillité de l’âme.
To
be soon on friendly, or even affectionate, terms with solitude is
like winning a gold mine; but this is not something which everybody
can do. The prime reason for social intercourse is mutual need; and
as soon as that is satisfied, boredom drives people together once
more. If it were not for these two reasons, a man would probably
elect to remain alone; if only because solitude is the sole
condition of life which gives full play to that feeling of
exclusive importance which every man has in his own eyes,—as
if he were the only person in the world! a feeling which, in the
throng and press of real life, soon shrivels up to nothing,
getting, at every step, a painful démenti. From this point
of view it may be said that solitude is the original and natural
state of man, where, like another Adam, he is as happy as his
nature will allow.



But still, had Adam no father or mother? There is another sense
in which solitude is not the natural state; for, at his entrance
into the world, a man finds himself with parents, brothers,
sisters, that is to say, in society, and not alone. Accordingly it
cannot be said that the love of solitude is an original
characteristic of human nature; it is rather the result of
experience and reflection, and these in their turn depend upon the
development of intellectual power, and increase with the years.


Speaking generally, sociability stands in inverse ratio with
age. A little child raises a piteous cry of fright if it is left
alone for only a few minutes; and later on, to be shut up by itself
is a great punishment. Young people soon get on very friendly terms
with one another; it is only the few among them of any nobility of
mind who are glad now and then to be alone;—but to spend the
whole day thus would be disagreeable. A grown-up man can easily do
it; it is little trouble to him to be much alone, and it becomes
less and less trouble as he advances in years. An old man who has
outlived all his friends, and is either indifferent or dead to the
pleasures of life, is in his proper element in solitude; and in
individual cases the special tendency to retirement and seclusion
will always be in direct proportion to intellectual capacity.


For this tendency is not, as I have said, a purely natural one;
it does not come into existence as a direct need of human nature;
it is rather the effect of the experience we go through, the
product of reflection upon what our needs really are; proceeding,
more especially, from the insight we attain into the wretched stuff
of which most people are made, whether you look at their morals or
their intellects. The worst of it all is that, in the individual,
moral and intellectual shortcomings are closely connected and play
into each other’s hands, so that all manner of disagreeable
results are obtained, which make intercourse with most people not
only unpleasant but intolerable. Hence, though the world contains
many things which are thoroughly bad, the worst thing in it is
society. Even Voltaire, that sociable Frenchman, was obliged to
admit that there are everywhere crowds of people not worth talking
to: la terre est couverte de gens qui ne méritent pas
qu’on leur parle
. And Petrarch gives a similar reason
for wishing to be alone—that tender spirit! so strong and
constant in his love of seclusion. The streams, the plains and
woods know well, he says, how he has tried to escape the perverse
and stupid people who have missed the way to heaven:—



Cercato ho sempre solitaria vita

(Le rive il sanno, e le campagne e i boschi)


Per fuggir quest’ ingegni storti e loschi

Che la strada del ciel’ hanno smarrita
.



He pursues the same strain in that delightful book of his,
DeVita Solitaria, which seems to have given Zimmerman the
idea of his celebrated work on Solitude. It is the
secondary and indirect character of the love of seclusion to which
Chamfort alludes in the following passage, couched in his sarcastic
vein: On dit quelquefois d’un homme qui vit seul, il
n’aime pas la société. C’est souvent comme si on disait
d’un homme qu’il n’aime pas la promenade, sous le
pretexte qu’il ne se promène pas volontiers le soir dans le
forêt de Bondy
.



You will find a similar sentiment expressed by the Persian poet
Sadi, in his Garden of Roses. Since that time, he says,
we have taken leave of society, preferring the path of
seclusion; for there is safety in solitude
. Angelus
Silesius,19 a very gentle and
Christian writer, confesses to the same feeling, in his own
mythical language. Herod, he says, is the common enemy; and when,
as with Joseph, God warns us of danger, we fly from the world to
solitude, from Bethlehem to Egypt; or else suffering and death
await us!—



Herodes ist ein Feind; der Joseph der Verstand,

Dem machte Gott die Gefahr im Traum (in Geist) bekannt;

Die Welt ist Bethlehem, Aegypten Einsamkeit,

Fleuch, meine Seele! fleuch, sonst stirbest du vor Leid
.




19 Translator’s
Note
. Angelus Silesius, pseudonym for Johannes Scheffler, a
physician and mystic poet of the seventeenth century
(1624–77).]


Giordano Bruno also declares himself a friend of seclusion.
Tanti uomini, he says, che in terra hanno voluto
gustare vita celeste, dissero con una voce, “ecce elongavi
fugiens et mansi in solitudine
“—those who in this
world have desired a foretaste of the divine life, have always
proclaimed with one voice:



Lo! then would I wander far off;


I would lodge in the wilderness.
"#note20">20



20 Psalms, lv. 7.]


And in the work from which I have already quoted, Sadi says of
himself: In disgust with my friends at Damascus, I withdrew
into the desert about Jerusalem, to seek the society of the beasts
of the field
. In short, the same thing has been said by all
whom Prometheus has formed out of better clay. What pleasure could
they find in the company of people with whom their only common
ground is just what is lowest and least noble in their own
nature—the part of them that is commonplace, trivial and
vulgar? What do they want with people who cannot rise to a higher
level, and for whom nothing remains but to drag others down to
theirs? for this is what they aim at. It is an aristocratic feeling
that is at the bottom of this propensity to seclusion and
solitude.


Rascals are always sociable—more’s the pity! and the
chief sign that a man has any nobility in his character is the
little pleasure he takes in others’ company. He prefers
solitude more and more, and, in course of time, comes to see that,
with few exceptions, the world offers no choice beyond solitude on
one side and vulgarity on the other. This may sound a hard thing to
say; but even Angelus Silesius, with all his Christian feelings of
gentleness and love, was obliged to admit the truth of it. However
painful solitude may be, he says, be careful not to be vulgar; for
then you may find a desert everywhere:—




Die Einsamkeit ist noth: doch sei nur nicht gemein,

So kannst du überall in einer Wüste sein
.



It is natural for great minds—the true teachers of
humanity—to care little about the constant company of others;
just as little as the schoolmaster cares for joining in the gambols
of the noisy crowd of boys which surround him. The mission of these
great minds is to guide mankind over the sea of error to the haven
of truth—to draw it forth from the dark abysses of a
barbarous vulgarity up into the light of culture and refinement.
Men of great intellect live in the world without really belonging
to it; and so, from their earliest years, they feel that there is a
perceptible difference between them and other people. But it is
only gradually, with the lapse of years, that they come to a clear
understanding of their position. Their intellectual isolation is
then reinforced by actual seclusion in their manner of life; they
let no one approach who is not in some degree emancipated from the
prevailing vulgarity.


From what has been said it is obvious that the love of solitude
is not a direct, original impulse in human nature, but rather
something secondary and of gradual growth. It is the more
distinguishing feature of nobler minds, developed not without some
conquest of natural desires, and now and then in actual opposition
to the promptings of Mephistopheles—bidding you exchange a
morose and soul-destroying solitude for life amongst men, for
society; even the worst, he says, will give a sense of human
fellowship:—



Hör’ auf mit deinem Gram zu spielen,


Der, wie ein Geier, dir am Leben frisst:

Die schlechteste Gesellschaft lässt dich fühlen

Dass du ein Mensch mit Menschen bist."#note21">21



21 Goethe’s
Faust, Part I., 1281–5.]


To be alone is the fate of all great minds—a fate deplored
at times, but still always chosen as the less grievous of two
evils. As the years increase, it always becomes easier to say, Dare
to be wise—sapere aude. And after sixty, the
inclination to be alone grows into a kind of real, natural
instinct; for at that age everything combines in favor of it. The
strongest impulse—the love of woman’s society—has
little or no effect; it is the sexless condition of old age which
lays the foundation of a certain self-sufficiency, and that
gradually absorbs all desire for others’ company. A thousand
illusions and follies are overcome; the active years of life are in
most cases gone; a man has no more expectations or plans or
intentions. The generation to which he belonged has passed away,
and a new race has sprung up which looks upon him as essentially
outside its sphere of activity. And then the years pass more
quickly as we become older, and we want to devote our remaining
time to the intellectual rather than to the practical side of life.
For, provided that the mind retains its faculties, the amount of
knowledge and experience we have acquired, together with the
facility we have gained in the use of our powers, makes it then
more than ever easy and interesting to us to pursue the study of
any subject. A thousand things become clear which were formerly
enveloped in obscurity, and results are obtained which give a
feeling of difficulties overcome. From long experience of men, we
cease to expect much from them; we find that, on the whole, people
do not gain by a nearer acquaintance; and that—apart from a
few rare and fortunate exceptions—we have come across none
but defective specimens of human nature which it is advisable to
leave in peace. We are no more subject to the ordinary illusions of
life; and as, in individual instances, we soon see what a man is
made of, we seldom feel any inclination to come into closer
relations with him. Finally, isolation—our own
society—has become a habit, as it were a second nature to us,
more especially if we have been on friendly terms with it from our
youth up. The love of solitude which was formerly indulged only at
the expense of our desire for society, has now come to be the
simple quality of our natural disposition—the element proper
to our life, as water to a fish. This is why anyone who possesses a
unique individuality—unlike others and therefore necessarily
isolated—feels that, as he becomes older, his position is no
longer so burdensome as when he was young.



For, as a matter of fact, this very genuine privilege of old age
is one which can be enjoyed only if a man is possessed of a certain
amount of intellect; it will be appreciated most of all where there
is real mental power; but in some degree by every one. It is only
people of very barren and vulgar nature who will be just as
sociable in their old age as they were in their youth. But then
they become troublesome to a society to which they are no longer
suited, and, at most, manage to be tolerated; whereas, they were
formerly in great request.


There is another aspect of this inverse proportion between age
and sociability—the way in which it conduces to education.
The younger that people are, the more in every respect they have to
learn; and it is just in youth that Nature provides a system of
mutual education, so that mere intercourse with others, at that
time of life, carries instruction with it. Human society, from this
point of view, resembles a huge academy of learning, on the Bell
and Lancaster system, opposed to the system of education by means
of books and schools, as something artificial and contrary to the
institutions of Nature. It is therefore a very suitable arrangement
that, in his young days, a man should be a very diligent student at
the place of learning provided by Nature herself.


But there is nothing in life which has not some
drawback—nihil est ab omni parte beatum, as Horace
says; or, in the words of an Indian proverb, no lotus without a
stalk
. Seclusion, which has so many advantages, has also its
little annoyances and drawbacks, which are small, however, in
comparison with those of society; hence anyone who is worth much in
himself will get on better without other people than with them. But
amongst the disadvantages of seclusion there is one which is not so
easy to see as the rest. It is this: when people remain indoors all
day, they become physically very sensitive to atmospheric changes,
so that every little draught is enough to make them ill; so with
our temper; a long course of seclusion makes it so sensitive that
the most trivial incidents, words, or even looks, are sufficient to
disturb or to vex and offend us—little things which are
unnoticed by those who live in the turmoil of life.


When you find human society disagreeable and feel yourself
justified in flying to solitude, you can be so constituted as to be
unable to bear the depression of it for any length of time, which
will probably be the case if you are young. Let me advise you,
then, to form the habit of taking some of your solitude with you
into society, to learn to be to some extent alone even though you
are in company; not to say at once what you think, and, on the
other hand, not to attach too precise a meaning to what others say;
rather, not to expect much of them, either morally or
intellectually, and to strengthen yourself in the feeling of
indifference to their opinion, which is the surest way of always
practicing a praiseworthy toleration. If you do that, you will not
live so much with other people, though you may appear to move
amongst them: your relation to them will be of a purely objective
character. This precaution will keep you from too close contact
with society, and therefore secure you against being contaminated
or even outraged by it.22 Society
is in this respect like a fire—the wise man warming himself
at a proper distance from it; not coming too close, like the fool,
who, on getting scorched, runs away and shivers in solitude, loud
in his complaint that the fire burns.



22 This restricted, or, as
it were, entrenched kind of sociability has been dramatically
illustrated in a play—well worth reading—of
Moratin’s, entitled El Café o sea la Comedia Nuova
(The Cafe or the New Comedy), chiefly by one of the characters, Don
Pedro and especially in the second and third scenes of the first
act.]


SECTION 10. Envy is natural to man; and still, it is at
once a vice and a source of misery."#note23">23 We should treat it as the enemy of our
happiness, and stifle it like an evil thought. This is the advice
given by Seneca; as he well puts it, we shall be pleased with what
we have, if we avoid the self-torture of comparing our own lot with
some other and happier one—nostra nos sine comparatione
delectent; nunquam erit felix quem torquebit felicior."#note24">24
And again, quum adspexeris
quot te antecedent, cogita quot sequantur
"#note25">25—if a great many people appear to
be better off than yourself, think how many there are in a worse
position. It is a fact that if real calamity comes upon us, the
most effective consolation—though it springs from the same
source as envy—is just the thought of greater misfortunes
than ours; and the next best is the society of those who are in the
same luck as we—the partners of our sorrows.



23 Envy shows how unhappy
people are; and their constant attention to what others do and
leave undone, how much they are bored.]


24 De Ira: iii.,
30.]


25 Epist. xv.]


So much for the envy which we may feel towards others. As
regards the envy which we may excite in them, it should always be
remembered that no form of hatred is so implacable as the hatred
that comes from envy; and therefore we should always carefully
refrain from doing anything to rouse it; nay, as with many another
form of vice, it is better altogether to renounce any pleasure
there may be in it, because of the serious nature of its
consequences.


Aristocracies are of three kinds: (1) of birth and rank; (2) of
wealth; and (3) of intellect. The last is really the most
distinguished of the three, and its claim to occupy the first
position comes to be recognized, if it is only allowed time to
work. So eminent a king as Frederick the Great admitted
it—les âmes privilegiées rangent à l’égal des
souverains
, as he said to his chamberlain, when the latter
expressed his surprise that Voltaire should have a seat at the
table reserved for kings and princes, whilst ministers and generals
were relegated to the chamberlain’s.



Every one of these aristocracies is surrounded by a host of
envious persons. If you belong to one of them, they will be
secretly embittered against you; and unless they are restrained by
fear, they will always be anxious to let you understand that
you are no better than they. It is by their anxiety to let
you know this, that they betray how greatly they are conscious that
the opposite is the truth.


The line of conduct to be pursued if you are exposed to envy, is
to keep the envious persons at a distance, and, as far as possible,
avoid all contact with them, so that there may be a wide gulf fixed
between you and them; if this cannot be done, to bear their attacks
with the greatest composure. In the latter case, the very thing
that provokes the attack will also neutralize it. This is what
appears to be generally done.


The members of one of these aristocracies usually get on very
well with those of another, and there is no call for envy between
them, because their several privileges effect an equipoise.


SECTION 11. Give mature and repeated consideration to any plan
before you proceed to carry it out; and even after you have
thoroughly turned it over in your mind, make some concession to the
incompetency of human judgment; for it may always happen that
circumstances which cannot be investigated or foreseen, will come
in and upset the whole of your calculation. This is a reflection
that will always influence the negative side of the balance—a
kind of warning to refrain from unnecessary action in matters of
importance—quieta non movere. But having once made
up your mind and begun your work, you must let it run its course
and abide the result—not worry yourself by fresh reflections
on what is already accomplished, or by a renewal of your scruples
on the score of possible danger: free your mind from the subject
altogether, and refuse to go into it again, secure in the thought
that you gave it mature attention at the proper time. This is the
same advice as is given by an Italian proverb—legala bene
e poi lascia la andare
—which Goethe has translated thus:
See well to your girths, and then ride on boldly."#note26">26



26 It may be observed, in
passing, that a great many of the maxims which Goethe puts under
the head of Proverbial, are translations from the
Italian.]


And if, notwithstanding that, you fail, it is because human
affairs are the sport of chance and error. Socrates, the wisest of
men, needed the warning voice of his good genius, or [Greek:
daimonion], to enable him to do what was right in regard to his own
personal affairs, or at any rate, to avoid mistakes; which argues
that the human intellect is incompetent for the purpose. There is a
saying—which is reported to have originated with one of the
Popes—that when misfortune happens to us, the blame of it, at
least in some degree, attaches to ourselves. If this is not true
absolutely and in every instance, it is certainly true in the great
majority of cases. It even looks as if this truth had a great deal
to do with the effort people make as far as possible to conceal
their misfortunes, and to put the best face they can upon them, for
fear lest their misfortunes may show how much they are to
blame.


SECTION 12.


In the case of a misfortune which has already happened and
therefore cannot be altered, you should not allow yourself to think
that it might have been otherwise; still less, that it might have
been avoided by such and such means; for reflections of this kind
will only add to your distress and make it intolerable, so that you
will become a tormentor to yourself—[Greek:
heautontimoroumeaeos]. It is better to follow the example of King
David; who, as long as his son lay on the bed of sickness, assailed
Jehovah with unceasing supplications and entreaties for his
recovery; but when he was dead, snapped his fingers and thought no
more of it. If you are not light-hearted enough for that, you can
take refuge in fatalism, and have the great truth revealed to you
that everything which happens is the result of necessity, and
therefore inevitable.


However good this advice may be, it is one-sided and partial. In
relieving and quieting us for the moment, it is no doubt effective
enough; but when our misfortunes have resulted—as is usually
the case—from our own carelessness or folly, or, at any rate,
partly by our own fault, it is a good thing to consider how they
might have been avoided, and to consider it often in spite of its
being a tender subject—a salutary form of self-discipline,
which will make us wiser and better men for the future. If we have
made obvious mistakes, we should not try, as we generally do, to
gloss them over, or to find something to excuse or extenuate them;
we should admit to ourselves that we have committed faults, and
open our eyes wide to all their enormity, in order that we may
firmly resolve to avoid them in time to come. To be sure, that
means a great deal of self-inflicted pain, in the shape of
discontent, but it should be remembered that to spare the rod is to
spoil the child—[Greek: ho mae dareis anthropos ou
paideuetai].27



27 Menander. Monost:
422.]


SECTION 13. In all matters affecting our weal or woe, we should
be careful not to let our imagination run away with us, and build
no castles in the air. In the first place, they are expensive to
build, because we have to pull them down again immediately, and
that is a source of grief. We should be still more on our guard
against distressing our hearts by depicting possible misfortunes.
If these were misfortunes of a purely imaginary kind, or very
remote and unlikely, we should at once see, on awaking from our
dream, that the whole thing was mere illusion; we should rejoice
all the more in a reality better than our dreams, or at most, be
warned against misfortunes which, though very remote, were still
possible. These, however, are not the sort of playthings in which
imagination delights; it is only in idle hours that we build
castles in the air, and they are always of a pleasing description.
The matter which goes to form gloomy dreams are mischances which to
some extent really threaten us, though it be from some distance;
imagination makes us look larger and nearer and more terrible than
they are in reality. This is a kind of dream which cannot be so
readily shaken off on awaking as a pleasant one; for a pleasant
dream is soon dispelled by reality, leaving, at most, a feeble hope
lying in the lap of possibility. Once we have abandoned ourselves
to a fit of the blues, visions are conjured up which do not so
easily vanish again; for it is always just possible that the
visions may be realized. But we are not always able to estimate the
exact degree of possibility: possibility may easily pass into
probability; and thus we deliver ourselves up to torture. Therefore
we should be careful not to be over-anxious on any matter affecting
our weal or our woe, not to carry our anxiety to unreasonable or
injudicious limits; but coolly and dispassionately to deliberate
upon the matter, as though it were an abstract question which did
not touch us in particular. We should give no play to imagination
here; for imagination is not judgment—it only conjures up
visions, inducing an unprofitable and often very painful mood.


The rule on which I am here insisting should be most carefully
observed towards evening. For as darkness makes us timid and apt to
see terrifying shapes everywhere, there is something similar in the
effect of indistinct thought; and uncertainty always brings with it
a sense of danger. Hence, towards evening, when our powers of
thought and judgment are relaxed,—at the hour, as it were, of
subjective darkness,—the intellect becomes tired, easily
confused, and unable to get at the bottom of things; and if, in
that state, we meditate on matters of personal interest to
ourselves, they soon assume a dangerous and terrifying aspect. This
is mostly the case at night, when we are in bed; for then the mind
is fully relaxed, and the power of judgment quite unequal to its
duties; but imagination is still awake. Night gives a black look to
everything, whatever it may be. This is why our thoughts, just
before we go to sleep, or as we lie awake through the hours of the
night, are usually such confusions and perversions of facts as
dreams themselves; and when our thoughts at that time are
concentrated upon our own concerns, they are generally as black and
monstrous as possible. In the morning all such nightmares vanish
like dreams: as the Spanish proverb has it, noche tinta, bianco
el dia
—the night is colored, the day is white. But even
towards nightfall, as soon as the candles are lit, the mind, like
the eye, no longer sees things so clearly as by day: it is a time
unsuited to serious meditation, especially on unpleasant subjects.
The morning is the proper time for that—as indeed for all
efforts without exception, whether mental or bodily. For the
morning is the youth of the day, when everything is bright, fresh,
and easy of attainment; we feel strong then, and all our faculties
are completely at our disposal. Do not shorten the morning by
getting up late, or waste it in unworthy occupations or in talk;
look upon it as the quintessence of life, as to a certain extent
sacred. Evening is like old age: we are languid, talkative, silly.
Each day is a little life: every waking and rising a little birth,
every fresh morning a little youth, every going to rest and sleep a
little death.


But condition of health, sleep, nourishment, temperature,
weather, surroundings, and much else that is purely external, have,
in general, an important influence upon our mood and therefore upon
our thoughts. Hence both our view of any matter and our capacity
for any work are very much subject to time and place. So it is best
to profit by a good mood—for how seldom it comes!—




Nehmt die gute Stimmung wahr,

Denn sie kommt so selten
."#note28">28



28 Goethe.]


We are not always able to form new ideas about; our
surroundings, or to command original thoughts: they come if they
will, and when they will. And so, too, we cannot always succeed in
completely considering some personal matter at the precise time at
which we have determined beforehand to consider it, and just when
we set ourselves to do so. For the peculiar train of thought which
is favorable to it may suddenly become active without any special
call being made upon it, and we may then follow it up with keen
interest. In this way reflection, too, chooses its own time.


This reining-in of the imagination which I am recommending, will
also forbid us to summon up the memory of the past misfortune, to
paint a dark picture of the injustice or harm that has been done
us, the losses we have sustained, the insults, slights and
annoyances to which we have been exposed: for to do that is to
rouse into fresh life all those hateful passions long laid
asleep—the anger and resentment which disturb and pollute our
nature. In an excellent parable, Proclus, the Neoplatonist, points
out how in every town the mob dwells side by side with those who
are rich and distinguished: so, too, in every man, be he never so
noble and dignified, there is, in the depth of his nature, a mob of
low and vulgar desires which constitute him an animal. It will not
do to let this mob revolt or even so much as peep forth from its
hiding-place; it is hideous of mien, and its rebel leaders are
those flights of imagination which I have been describing. The
smallest annoyance, whether it comes from our fellow-men or from
the things around us, may swell up into a monster of dreadful
aspect, putting us at our wits’ end—and all because we
go on brooding over our troubles and painting them in the most
glaring colors and on the largest scale. It is much better to take
a very calm and prosaic view of what is disagreeable; for that is
the easiest way of bearing it.



If you hold small objects close to your eyes, you limit your
field of vision and shut out the world. And, in the same way, the
people or the things which stand nearest, even though they are of
the very smallest consequence, are apt to claim an amount of
attention much beyond their due, occupying us disagreeably, and
leaving no room for serious thoughts and affairs of importance. We
ought to work against this tendency.


SECTION 14. The sight of things which do not belong to us is
very apt to raise the thought: Ah, if that were only mine!
making us sensible of our privation. Instead of that we should do
better by more frequently putting to ourselves the opposite case:
Ah, if that were not mine. What I mean is that we should
sometimes try to look upon our possessions in the light in which
they would appear if we had lost them; whatever they may be,
property, health, friends, a wife or child or someone else we love,
our horse or our dog—it is usually only when we have lost
them that we begin to find out their value. But if we come to look
at things in the way I recommend, we shall be doubly the gainers;
we shall at once get more pleasure out of them than we did before,
and we shall do everything in our power to prevent the loss of
them; for instance, by not risking our property, or angering our
friends, or exposing our wives to temptation, or being careless
about our children’s health, and so on.


We often try to banish the gloom and despondency of the present
by speculating upon our chances of success in the future; a process
which leads us to invent a great many chimerical hopes. Every one
of them contains the germ of illusion, and disappointment is
inevitable when our hopes are shattered by the hard facts of
life.


It is less hurtful to take the chances of misfortune as a theme
for speculation; because, in doing so, we provide ourselves at once
with measures of precaution against it, and a pleasant surprise
when it fails to make its appearance. Is it not a fact that we
always feel a marked improvement in our spirits when we begin to
get over a period of anxiety? I may go further and say that there
is some use in occasionally looking upon terrible
misfortunes—such as might happen to us—as though they
had actually happened, for then the trivial reverses which
subsequently come in reality, are much easier to bear. It is a
source of consolation to look back upon those great misfortunes
which never happened. But in following out this rule, care must be
taken not to neglect what I have said in the preceding section.


SECTION 15. The things which engage our attention—whether
they are matters of business or ordinary events—are of such
diverse kinds, that, if taken quite separately and in no fixed
order or relation, they present a medley of the most glaring
contrasts, with nothing in common, except that they one and all
affect us in particular. There must be a corresponding abruptness
in the thoughts and anxieties which these various matters arouse in
us, if our thoughts are to be in keeping with their various
subjects. Therefore, in setting about anything, the first step is
to withdraw our attention from everything else: this will enable us
to attend to each matter at its own time, and to enjoy or put up
with it, quite apart from any thought of our remaining interests.
Our thoughts must be arranged, as it were, in little drawers, so
that we may open one without disturbing any of the others.



In this way we can keep the heavy burden of anxiety from
weighing upon us so much as to spoil the little pleasures of the
present, or from robbing us of our rest; otherwise the
consideration of one matter will interfere with every other, and
attention to some important business may lead us to neglect many
affairs which happen to be of less moment. It is most important for
everyone who is capable of higher and nobler thoughts to keep their
mind from being so completely engrossed with private affairs and
vulgar troubles as to let them take up all his attention and crowd
out worthier matter; for that is, in a very real sense, to lose
sight of the true end of life—propter vitam vivendi
perdere causas
.


Of course for this—as for so much else—self-control
is necessary; without it, we cannot manage ourselves in the way I
have described. And self-control may not appear so very difficult,
if we consider that every man has to submit to a great deal of very
severe control on the part of his surroundings, and that without it
no form of existence is possible. Further, a little self-control at
the right moment may prevent much subsequent compulsion at the
hands of others; just as a very small section of a circle close to
the centre may correspond to a part near the circumference a
hundred times as large. Nothing will protect us from external
compulsion so much as the control of ourselves; and, as Seneca
says, to submit yourself to reason is the way to make everything
else submit to you—si tibi vis omnia subjicere, te
subjice rationi
. Self-control, too, is something which we have
in our own power; and if the worst comes to the worst, and it
touches us in a very sensitive part, we can always relax its
severity. But other people will pay no regard to our feelings, if
they have to use compulsion, and we shall be treated without pity
or mercy. Therefore it will be prudent to anticipate compulsion by
self-control.


SECTION 16. We must set limits to our wishes, curb our desires,
moderate our anger, always remembering that an individual can
attain only an infinitesimal share in anything that is worth
having; and that, on the other hand, everyone must incur many of
the ills of life; in a word, we must bear and
forbear—abstinere et sustinere; and if we fail to
observe this rule, no position of wealth or power will prevent us
from feeling wretched. This is what Horace means when he recommends
us to study carefully and inquire diligently what will best promote
a tranquil life—not to be always agitated by fruitless
desires and fears and hopes for things, which, after all, are not
worth very much:—



Inter cuncta leges et percontabere doctos


Qua ratione queas traducere leniter aevum;

Ne te semper inops agitet vexetque cupido,

Ne pavor, et rerum mediocriter utilium spes."#note29">29



29 Epist. I. xviii. 97.]


SECTION 17. Life consists in movement, says Aristotle; and he is
obviously right. We exist, physically, because our organism is the
seat of constant motion; and if we are to exist intellectually, it
can only be by means of continual occupation—no matter with
what so long as it is some form of practical or mental activity.
You may see that this is so by the way in which people who have no
work or nothing to think about, immediately begin to beat the
devil’s tattoo with their knuckles or a stick or anything
that comes handy. The truth is, that our nature is essentially
restless in its character: we very soon get tired of
having nothing to do; it is intolerable boredom. This impulse to
activity should be regulated, and some sort of method introduced
into it, which of itself will enhance the satisfaction we obtain.
Activity!—doing something, if possible creating something, at
any rate learning something—how fortunate it is that men
cannot exist without that! A man wants to use his strength, to see,
if he can, what effect it will produce; and he will get the most
complete satisfaction of this desire if he can make or construct
something—be it a book or a basket. There is a direct
pleasure in seeing work grow under one’s hands day by day,
until at last it is finished. This is the pleasure attaching to a
work of art or a manuscript, or even mere manual labor; and, of
course, the higher the work, the greater pleasure it will give.



From this point of view, those are happiest of all who are
conscious of the power to produce great works animated by some
significant purpose: it gives a higher kind of interest—a
sort of rare flavor—to the whole of their life, which, by its
absence from the life of the ordinary man, makes it, in comparison,
something very insipid. For richly endowed natures, life and the
world have a special interest beyond the mere everyday personal
interest which so many others share; and something higher than
that—a formal interest. It is from life and the world that
they get the material for their works; and as soon as they are
freed from the pressure of personal needs, it is to the diligent
collection of material that they devote their whole existence. So
with their intellect: it is to some extent of a two-fold character,
and devoted partly to the ordinary affairs of every day—those
matters of will which are common to them and the rest of mankind,
and partly to their peculiar work—the pure and objective
contemplation of existence. And while, on the stage of the world,
most men play their little part and then pass away, the genius
lives a double life, at once an actor and a spectator.


Let everyone, then, do something, according to the measure of
his capacities. To have no regular work, no set sphere of
activity—what a miserable thing it is! How often long travels
undertaken for pleasure make a man downright unhappy; because the
absence of anything that can be called occupation forces him, as it
were, out of his right element. Effort, struggles with
difficulties! that is as natural to a man as grubbing in the ground
is to a mole. To have all his wants satisfied is something
intolerable—the feeling of stagnation which comes from
pleasures that last too long. To overcome difficulties is to
experience the full delight of existence, no matter where the
obstacles are encountered; whether in the affairs of life, in
commerce or business; or in mental effort—the spirit of
inquiry that tries to master its subject. There is always something
pleasurable in the struggle and the victory. And if a man has no
opportunity to excite himself, he will do what he can to create
one, and according to his individual bent, he will hunt or play Cup
and Ball: or led on by this unsuspected element in his nature, he
will pick a quarrel with some one, or hatch a plot or intrigue, or
take to swindling and rascally courses generally—all to put
an end to a state of repose which is intolerable. As I have
remarked, difficilis in otio quies—it is difficult
to keep quiet if you have nothing to do.


SECTION 18. A man should avoid being led on by the phantoms of
his imagination. This is not the same thing as to submit to the
guidance of ideas clearly thought out: and yet these are rules of
life which most people pervert. If you examine closely into the
circumstances which, in any deliberation, ultimately turn the scale
in favor of some particular course, you will generally find that
the decision is influenced, not by any clear arrangement of ideas
leading to a formal judgment, but by some fanciful picture which
seems to stand for one of the alternatives in question.



In one of Voltaire’s or Diderot’s romances,—I
forget the precise reference,—the hero, standing like a young
Hercules at the parting of ways, can see no other representation of
Virtue than his old tutor holding a snuff-box in his left hand,
from which he takes a pinch and moralizes; whilst Vice appears in
the shape of his mother’s chambermaid. It is in youth, more
especially, that the goal of our efforts comes to be a fanciful
picture of happiness, which continues to hover before our eyes
sometimes for half and even for the whole of our life—a sort
of mocking spirit; for when we think our dream is to be realized,
the picture fades away, leaving us the knowledge that nothing of
what it promised is actually accomplished. How often this is so
with the visions of domesticity—the detailed picture of what
our home will be like; or, of life among our fellow-citizens or in
society; or, again, of living in the country—the kind of
house we shall have, its surroundings, the marks of honor and
respect that will be paid to us, and so on,—whatever our
hobby may be; chaque fou a sa marotte. It is often the
same, too, with our dreams about one we love. And this is all quite
natural; for the visions we conjure up affect us directly, as
though they were real objects; and so they exercise a more
immediate influence upon our will than an abstract idea, which
gives merely a vague, general outline, devoid of details; and the
details are just the real part of it. We can be only indirectly
affected by an abstract idea, and yet it is the abstract idea alone
which will do as much as it promises; and it is the function of
education to teach us to put our trust in it. Of course the
abstract idea must be occasionally explained—paraphrased, as
it were—by the aid of pictures; but discreetly, cum grano
salis
.



SECTION 19. The preceding rule may be taken as a special case of
the more general maxim, that a man should never let himself be
mastered by the impressions of the moment, or indeed by outward
appearances at all, which are incomparably more powerful in their
effects than the mere play of thought or a train of ideas; not
because these momentary impressions are rich in virtue of the data
they supply,—it is often just the contrary,—but because
they are something palpable to the senses and direct in their
working; they forcibly invade our mind, disturbing our repose and
shattering our resolutions.


It is easy to understand that the thing which lies before our
very eyes will produce the whole of its effect at once, but that
time and leisure are necessary for the working of thought and the
appreciation of argument, as it is impossible to think of
everything at one and the same moment. This is why we are so
allured by pleasure, in spite of all our determination to resist
it; or so much annoyed by a criticism, even though we know that its
author it totally incompetent to judge; or so irritated by an
insult, though it comes from some very contemptible quarter. In the
same way, to mention no other instances, ten reasons for thinking
that there is no danger may be outweighed by one mistaken notion
that it is actually at hand. All this shows the radical unreason of
human nature. Women frequently succumb altogether to this
predominating influence of present impressions, and there are few
men so overweighted with reason as to escape suffering from a
similar cause.


If it is impossible to resist the effects of some external
influence by the mere play of thought, the best thing to do is to
neutralize it by some contrary influence; for example, the effect
of an insult may be overcome by seeking the society of those who
have a good opinion of us; and the unpleasant sensation of imminent
danger may be avoided by fixing our attention on the means of
warding it off.


Leibnitz30 tells of an Italian
who managed to bear up under the tortures of the rack by never for
a moment ceasing to think of the gallows which would have awaited
him, had he revealed his secret; he kept on crying out: I see
it! I see it
!—afterwards explaining that this was part
of his plan.


30 Nouveaux Essais.
Liv. I. ch. 2. Sec. 11.]



It is from some such reason as this, that we find it so
difficult to stand alone in a matter of opinion,—not to be
made irresolute by the fact that everyone else disagrees with us
and acts accordingly, even though we are quite sure that they are
in the wrong. Take the case of a fugitive king who is trying to
avoid capture; how much consolation he must find in the ceremonious
and submissive attitude of a faithful follower, exhibited secretly
so as not to betray his master’s strict incognito;
it must be almost necessary to prevent him doubting his own
existence.


SECTION 20. In the first part of this work I have insisted upon
the great value of health as the chief and most important
element in happiness. Let me emphasize and confirm what I have
there said by giving a few general rules as to its
preservation.


The way to harden the body is to impose a great deal of labor
and effort upon it in the days of good health,—to exercise
it, both as a whole and in its several parts, and to habituate it
to withstand all kinds of noxious influences. But on the appearance
of an illness or disorder, either in the body as a whole or in many
of its parts, a contrary course should be taken, and every means
used to nurse the body, or the part of it which is affected, and to
spare it any effort; for what is ailing and debilitated cannot be
hardened.


The muscles may be strengthened by a vigorous use of them; but
not so the nerves; they are weakened by it. Therefore, while
exercising the muscles in every way that is suitable, care should
be taken to spare the nerves as much as possible. The eyes, for
instance, should be protected from too strong a
light,—especially when it is reflected light,—from any
straining of them in the dark, or from the long-continued
examination of minute objects; and the ears from too loud sounds.
Above all, the brain should never be forced, or used too much, or
at the wrong time; let it have a rest during digestion; for then
the same vital energy which forms thoughts in the brain has a great
deal of work to do elsewhere,—I mean in the digestive organs,
where it prepares chyme and chyle. For similar reasons, the brain
should never be used during, or immediately after, violent muscular
exercise. For the motor nerves are in this respect on a par with
the sensory nerves; the pain felt when a limb is wounded has its
seat in the brain; and, in the same way, it is not really our legs
and arms which work and move,—it is the brain, or, more
strictly, that part of it which, through the medium of the spine,
excites the nerves in the limbs and sets them in motion.
Accordingly, when our arms and legs feel tired, the true seat of
this feeling is in the brain. This is why it is only in connection
with those muscles which are set in motion consciously and
voluntarily,—in other words, depend for their action upon the
brain,—that any feeling of fatigue can arise; this is not the
case with those muscles which work involuntarily, like the heart.
It is obvious, then, that injury is done to the brain if violent
muscular exercise and intellectual exertion are forced upon it at
the same moment, or at very short intervals.



What I say stands in no contradiction with the fact that at the
beginning of a walk, or at any period of a short stroll, there
often comes a feeling of enhanced intellectual vigor. The parts of
the brain that come into play have had no time to become tired; and
besides, slight muscular exercise conduces to activity of the
respiratory organs, and causes a purer and more oxydated supply of
arterial blood to mount to the brain.


It is most important to allow the brain the full measure of
sleep which is required to restore it; for sleep is to a
man’s whole nature what winding up is to a clock."#note31">31 This measure will vary directly with
the development and activity of the brain; to overstep the measure
is mere waste of time, because if that is done, sleep gains only so
much in length as it loses in depth."#note32">32


31 Of. Welt als Wille
und Vorstellung
, 4th Edition. Bk. II. pp. 236–40.]


32 Cf. loc: cit: p.
275. Sleep is a morsel of death borrowed to keep up and renew the
part of life which is exhausted by the day—le sommeil est
un emprunt fait à la mort
. Or it might be said that sleep is
the interest we have to pay on the capital which is called in at
death; and the higher the rate of interest and the more regularly
it is paid, the further the date of redemption is postponed.]



It should be clearly understood that thought is nothing but the
organic function of the brain; and it has to obey the same laws in
regard to exertion and repose as any other organic function. The
brain can be ruined by overstrain, just like the eyes. As the
function of the stomach is to digest, so it is that of the brain to
think. The notion of a soul,—as something elementary
and immaterial, merely lodging in the brain and needing nothing at
all for the performance of its essential function, which consists
in always and unweariedly thinking—has undoubtedly
driven many people to foolish practices, leading to a deadening of
the intellectual powers; Frederick the Great, even, once tried to
form the habit of doing without sleep altogether. It would be well
if professors of philosophy refrained from giving currency to a
notion which is attended by practical results of a pernicious
character; but then this is just what professorial philosophy does,
in its old-womanish endeavor to keep on good terms with the
catechism. A man should accustom himself to view his intellectual
capacities in no other light than that of physiological functions,
and to manage them accordingly—nursing or exercising them as
the case may be; remembering that every kind of physical suffering,
malady or disorder, in whatever part of the body it occurs, has its
effect upon the mind. The best advice that I know on this subject
is given by Cabanis in his Rapports du physique et du moral de
l’homme
.33


33 Translator’s
Note
. The work to which Schopenhauer here refers is a series
of essays by Cabanis, a French philosopher (1757–1808),
treating of mental and moral phenomena on a physiological basis. In
his later days, Cabanis completely abandoned his materialistic
standpoint.]



Through neglect of this rule, many men of genius and great
scholars have become weak-minded and childish, or even gone quite
mad, as they grew old. To take no other instances, there can be no
doubt that the celebrated English poets of the early part of this
century, Scott, Wordsworth, Southey, became intellectually dull and
incapable towards the end of their days, nay, soon after passing
their sixtieth year; and that their imbecility can be traced to the
fact that, at that period of life, they were all led on? by the
promise of high pay, to treat literature as a trade and to write
for money. This seduced them into an unnatural abuse of their
intellectual powers; and a man who puts his Pegasus into harness,
and urges on his Muse with the whip, will have to pay a penalty
similar to that which is exacted by the abuse of other kinds of
power.


And even in the case of Kant, I suspect that the second
childhood of his last four years was due to overwork in later life,
and after he had succeeded in becoming a famous man.


Every month of the year has its own peculiar and direct
influence upon health and bodily condition generally; nay, even
upon the state of the mind. It is an influence dependent upon the
weather.




CHAPTER III.


OUR RELATION TO OTHERS.—SECTION 21.


In making his way through life, a man will find it useful to be
ready and able to do two things: to look ahead and to overlook: the
one will protect him from loss and injury, the other from disputes
and squabbles.


No one who has to live amongst men should absolutely discard any
person who has his due place in the order of nature, even though he
is very wicked or contemptible or ridiculous. He must accept him as
an unalterable fact—unalterable, because the necessary
outcome of an eternal, fundamental principle; and in bad cases he
should remember the words of Mephistopheles: es muss auch
solche Käuze geben"#note34">34
—there must be fools and
rogues in the world. If he acts otherwise, he will be committing an
injustice, and giving a challenge of life and death to the man he
discards. No one can alter his own peculiar individuality, his
moral character, his intellectual capacity, his temperament or
physique; and if we go so far as to condemn a man from every point
of view, there will be nothing left him but to engage us in deadly
conflict; for we are practically allowing him the right to exist
only on condition that he becomes another man—which is
impossible; his nature forbids it.



34 Goethe’s
Faust, Part I.]


So if you have to live amongst men, you must allow everyone the
right to exist in accordance with the character he has, whatever it
turns out to be: and all you should strive to do is to make use of
this character in such a way as its kind and nature permit, rather
than to hope for any alteration in it, or to condemn it off-hand
for what it is. This is the true sense of the maxim—Live and
let live. That, however, is a task which is difficult in proportion
as it is right; and he is a happy man who can once for all avoid
having to do with a great many of his fellow creatures.


The art of putting up with people may be learned by practicing
patience on inanimate objects, which, in virtue of some mechanical
or general physical necessity, oppose a stubborn resistance to our
freedom of action—a form of patience which is required every
day. The patience thus gained may be applied to our dealings with
men, by accustoming ourselves to regard their opposition, wherever
we encounter it, as the inevitable outcome of their nature, which
sets itself up against us in virtue of the same rigid law of
necessity as governs the resistance of inanimate objects. To become
indignant at their conduct is as foolish as to be angry with a
stone because it rolls into your path. And with many people the
wisest thing you can do, is to resolve to make use of those whom
you cannot alter.


SECTION 22. It is astonishing how easily and how quickly
similarity, or difference of mind and disposition, makes itself
felt between one man and another as soon as they begin to talk:
every little trifle shows it. When two people of totally different
natures are conversing, almost everything said by the one will, in
a greater or less degree, displease the other, and in many cases
produce positive annoyance; even though the conversation turn upon
the most out-of-the-way subject, or one in which neither of the
parties has any real interest. People of similar nature, on the
other hand, immediately come to feel a kind of general agreement;
and if they are cast very much in the same mould, complete harmony
or even unison will flow from their intercourse.


This explain two circumstances. First of all, it shows why it is
that common, ordinary people are so sociable and find good company
wherever they go. Ah! those good, dear, brave people. It is just
the contrary with those who are not of the common run; and the less
they are so, the more unsociable they become; so that if, in their
isolation, they chance to come across some one in whose nature they
can find even a single sympathetic chord, be it never so minute,
they show extraordinary pleasure in his society. For one man can be
to another only so much as the other is to him. Great minds are
like eagles, and build their nest in some lofty solitude.



Secondly, we are enabled to understand how it is that people of
like disposition so quickly get on with one another, as though they
were drawn together by magnetic force—kindred souls greeting
each other from afar. Of course the most frequent opportunity of
observing this is afforded by people of vulgar tastes and inferior
intellect, but only because their name is legion; while those who
are better off in this respect and of a rarer nature, are not often
to be met with: they are called rare because you can seldom find
them.


Take the case of a large number of people who have formed
themselves into a league for the purpose of carrying out some
practical object; if there be two rascals among them, they will
recognize each other as readily as if they bore a similar badge,
and will at once conspire for some misfeasance or treachery. In the
same way, if you can imagine—per impossible—a
large company of very intelligent and clever people, amongst whom
there are only two blockheads, these two will be sure to be drawn
together by a feeling of sympathy, and each of them will very soon
secretly rejoice at having found at least one intelligent person in
the whole company. It is really quite curious to see how two such
men, especially if they are morally and intellectually of an
inferior type, will recognize each other at first sight; with what
zeal they will strive to become intimate; how affably and cheerily
they will run to greet each other, just as though they were old
friends;—it is all so striking that one is tempted to embrace
the Buddhist doctrine of metempsychosis and presume that they were
on familiar terms in some former state of existence.


Still, in spite of all this general agreement, men are kept
apart who might come together; or, in some cases, a passing discord
springs up between them. This is due to diversity of mood. You will
hardly ever see two people exactly in the same frame of mind; for
that is something which varies with their condition of life,
occupation, surroundings, health, the train of thought they are in
at the moment, and so on. These differences give rise to discord
between persons of the most harmonious disposition. To correct the
balance properly, so as to remove the disturbance—to
introduce, as it were, a uniform temperature,—is a work
demanding a very high degree of culture. The extent to which
uniformity of mood is productive of good-fellowship may be measured
by its effects upon a large company. When, for instance, a great
many people are gathered together and presented with some objective
interest which works upon all alike and influences them in a
similar way, no matter what it be—a common danger or hope,
some great news, a spectacle, a play, a piece of music, or anything
of that kind—you will find them roused to a mutual expression
of thought, and a display of sincere interest. There will be a
general feeling of pleasure amongst them; for that which attracts
their attention produces a unity of mood by overpowering all
private and personal interests.


And in default of some objective interest of the kind I have
mentioned, recourse is usually had to something subjective. A
bottle of wine is not an uncommon means of introducing a mutual
feeling of fellowship; and even tea and coffee are used for a like
end.


The discord which so easily finds its way into all society as an
effect of the different moods in which people happen to be for the
moment, also in part explains why it is that memory always
idealizes, and sometimes almost transfigures, the attitude we have
taken up at any period of the past—a change due to our
inability to remember all the fleeting influences which disturbed
us on any given occasion. Memory is in this respect like the lens
of a camera obscura: it contracts everything within its
range, and so produces a much finer picture than the actual
landscape affords. And, in the case of a man, absence always goes
some way towards securing this advantageous light; for though the
idealizing tendency of the memory requires times to complete its
work, it begins it at once. Hence it is a prudent thing to see your
friends and acquaintances only at considerable intervals of time;
and on meeting them again, you will observe that memory has been at
work.



SECTION 23. No man can see over his own height. Let me
explain what I mean.


You cannot see in another man any more than you have in
yourself; and your own intelligence strictly determines the extent
to which he comes within its grasp. If your intelligence is of a
very low order, mental qualities in another, even though they be of
the highest kind, will have no effect at all upon you; you will see
nothing in their possessor except the meanest side of his
individuality—in other words, just those parts of his
character and disposition which are weak and defective. Your whole
estimate of the man will be confined to his defects, and his higher
mental qualities will no more exist for you than colors exist for
those who cannot see.


Intellect is invisible to the man who has none. In any attempt
to criticise another’s work, the range of knowledge possessed
by the critic is as essential a part of his verdict as the claims
of the work itself.


Hence intercourse with others involves a process of leveling
down. The qualities which are present in one man, and absent in
another, cannot come into play when they meet; and the
self-sacrifice which this entails upon one of the parties, calls
forth no recognition from the other.


Consider how sordid, how stupid, in a word, how vulgar
most men are, and you will see that it is impossible to talk to
them without becoming vulgar yourself for the time being. Vulgarity
is in this respect like electricity; it is easily distributed. You
will then fully appreciate the truth and propriety of the
expression, to make yourself cheap; and you will be glad
to avoid the society of people whose only possible point of contact
with you is just that part of your nature of which you have least
reason to be proud. So you will see that, in dealing with fools and
blockheads, there is only one way of showing your
intelligence—by having nothing to do with them. That means,
of course, that when you go into society, you may now and then feel
like a good dancer who gets an invitation to a ball, and on
arriving, finds that everyone is lame:—with whom is he to
dance?



SECTION 24. I feel respect for the man—and he is one in a
hundred—who, when he is waiting or sitting unoccupied,
refrains from rattling or beating time with anything that happens
to be handy,—his stick, or knife and fork, or whatever else
it may be. The probability is that he is thinking of something.


With a large number of people, it is quite evident that their
power of sight completely dominates over their power of thought;
they seem to be conscious of existence only when they are making a
noise; unless indeed they happen to be smoking, for this serves a
similar end. It is for the same reason that they never fail to be
all eyes and ears for what is going on around them.


SECTION 25. La Rochefoucauld makes the striking remark that it
is difficult to feel deep veneration and great affection for one
and the same person. If this is so, we shall have to choose whether
it is veneration or love that we want from our fellow-men.


Their love is always selfish, though in very different ways; and
the means used to gain it are not always of a kind to make us
proud. A man is loved by others mainly in the degree in which he
moderates his claim on their good feeling and intelligence: but he
must act genuinely in the matter and without
dissimulation—not merely out of forbearance, which is at
bottom a kind of contempt. This calls to mind a very true
observation of Helvetius35:
the amount of intellect necessary to please us, is a most
accurate measure of the amount of intellect we have ourselves
.
With these remarks as premises, it is easy to draw the
conclusion.


35 Translator’s
Note
. Helvetius, Claude–Adrien (1715–71), a French
philosophical writer much esteemed by Schopenhauer. His chief work,

De l’Esprit, excited great interest and opposition
at the time of its publication, on account of the author’s
pronounced materialism.]


Now with veneration the case is just the opposite; it is wrung
from men reluctantly, and for that very reason mostly concealed.
Hence, as compared with love, veneration gives more real
satisfaction; for it is connected with personal value, and the same
is not directly true of love, which is subjective in its nature,
whilst veneration is objective. To be sure, it is more useful to be
loved than to be venerated.


SECTION 26. Most men are so thoroughly subjective that nothing
really interests them but themselves. They always think of their
own case as soon as ever any remark is made, and their whole
attention is engrossed and absorbed by the merest chance reference
to anything which affects them personally, be it never so remote:
with the result that they have no power left for forming an
objective view of things, should the conversation take that turn;
neither can they admit any validity in arguments which tell against
their interest or their vanity. Hence their attention is easily
distracted. They are so readily offended, insulted or annoyed, that
in discussing any impersonal matter with them, no care is too great
to avoid letting your remarks bear the slightest possible reference
to the very worthy and sensitive individuals whom you have before
you; for anything you may say will perhaps hurt their feelings.
People really care about nothing that does not affect them
personally. True and striking observations, fine, subtle and witty
things are lost upon them: they cannot understand or feel them. But
anything that disturbs their petty vanity in the most remote and
indirect way, or reflects prejudicially upon their exceedingly
precious selves—to that, they are most tenderly sensitive. In
this respect they are like the little dog whose toes you are so apt
to tread upon inadvertently—you know it by the shrill bark it
sets up: or, again, they resemble a sick man covered with sores and
boils, with whom the greatest care must be taken to avoid
unnecessary handling. And in some people this feeling reaches such
a pass that, if they are talking with anyone, and he exhibits, or
does not sufficiently conceal, his intelligence and discernment,
they look upon it as a downright insult; although for the moment
they hide their ill will, and the unsuspecting author of it
afterwards ruminates in vain upon their conduct, and racks his
brain to discover what he could possibly have done to excite their
malice and hatred.


But it is just as easy to flatter and win them over; and this is
why their judgment is usually corrupt, and why their opinions are
swayed, not by what is really true and right, but by the favor of
the party or class to which they belong. And the ultimate reason of
it all is, that in such people force of will greatly predominates
over knowledge; and hence their meagre intellect is wholly given up
to the service of the will, and can never free itself from that
service for a moment.


Astrology furnishes a magnificent proof of this miserable
subjective tendency in men, which leads them to see everything only
as bearing upon themselves, and to think of nothing that is not
straightway made into a personal matter. The aim of astrology is to
bring the motions of the celestial bodies into relation with the
wretched Ego and to establish a connection between a comet
in the sky and squabbles and rascalities on earth."#note36">36



36 See, for instance,
Stobasus, Eclog. I. xxii. 9.]


SECTION 27. When any wrong statement is made, whether in public
or in society, or in books, and well received—or, at any
rate, not refuted—that that is no reason why you should
despair or think there the matter will rest. You should comfort
yourself with the reflection that the question will be afterwards
gradually subjected to examination; light will be thrown upon it;
it will be thought over, considered, discussed, and generally in
the end the correct view will be reached; so that, after a
time—the length of which will depend upon the difficulty of
the subject—everyone will come to understand that which a
clear head saw at once.


In the meantime, of course, you must have patience. He who can
see truly in the midst of general infatuation is like a man whose
watch keeps good time, when all clocks in the town in which he
lives are wrong. He alone knows the right time; but what use is
that to him? for everyone goes by the clocks which speak false, not
even excepting those who know that his watch is the only one that
is right.


SECTION 28. Men are like children, in that, if you spoil them,
they become naughty.


Therefore it is well not to be too indulgent or charitable with
anyone. You may take it as a general rule that you will not lose a
friend by refusing him a loan, but that you are very likely to do
so by granting it; and, for similar reasons, you will not readily
alienate people by being somewhat proud and careless in your
behaviour; but if you are very kind and complaisant towards them,
you will often make them arrogant and intolerable, and so a breach
will ensue.



There is one thing that, more than any other, throws people
absolutely off their balance—the thought that you are
dependent upon them. This is sure to produce an insolent and
domineering manner towards you. There are some people, indeed, who
become rude if you enter into any kind of relation with them; for
instance, if you have occasion to converse with them frequently
upon confidential matters, they soon come to fancy that they can
take liberties with you, and so they try and transgress the laws of
politeness. This is why there are so few with whom you care to
become more intimate, and why you should avoid familiarity with
vulgar people. If a man comes to think that I am more dependent
upon him than he is upon me, he at once feels as though I had
stolen something from him; and his endeavor will be to have his
vengeance and get it back. The only way to attain superiority in
dealing with men, is to let it be seen that you are independent of
them.


And in this view it is advisable to let everyone of your
acquaintance—whether man or woman—feel now and then
that you could very well dispense with their company. This will
consolidate friendship. Nay, with most people there will be no harm
in occasionally mixing a grain of disdain with your treatment of
them; that will make them value your friendship all the more.
Chi non istima vien stimato, as a subtle Italian proverb
has it—to disregard is to win regard. But if we really think
very highly of a person, we should conceal it from him like a
crime. This is not a very gratifying thing to do, but it is right.
Why, a dog will not bear being treated too kindly, let alone a
man!


SECTION 29. It is often the case that people of noble character
and great mental gifts betray a strange lack of worldly wisdom and
a deficiency in the knowledge of men, more especially when they are
young; with the result that it is easy to deceive or mislead them;
and that, on the other hand, natures of the commoner sort are more
ready and successful in making their way in the world.


The reason of this is that, when a man has little or no
experience, he must judge by his own antecedent notions; and in
matters demanding judgment, an antecedent notion is never on the
same level as experience. For, with the commoner sort of people, an
antecedent notion means just their own selfish point of view. This
is not the case with those whose mind and character are above the
ordinary; for it is precisely in this respect—their
unselfishness—that they differ from the rest of mankind; and
as they judge other people’s thoughts and actions by their
own high standard, the result does not always tally with their
calculation.



But if, in the end, a man of noble character comes to see, as
the effect of his own experience, or by the lessons he learns from
others, what it is that may be expected of men in
general,—namely, that five-sixths of them are morally and
intellectually so constituted that, if circumstances do not place
you in relation with them, you had better get out of their way and
keep as far as possible from having anything to do with
them,—still, he will scarcely ever attain an adequate notion
of their wretchedly mean and shabby nature: all his life long he
will have to be extending and adding to the inferior estimate he
forms of them; and in the meantime he will commit a great many
mistakes and do himself harm.


Then, again, after he has really taken to heart the lessons that
have been taught him, it will occasionally happen that, when he is
in the society of people whom he does not know, he will be
surprised to find how thoroughly reasonable they all appear to be,
both in their conversation and in their demeanor—in fact,
quite honest, sincere, virtuous and trustworthy people, and at the
same time shrewd and clever.


But that ought not to perplex him. Nature is not like those bad
poets, who, in setting a fool or a knave before us, do their work
so clumsily, and with such evident design, that you might almost
fancy you saw the poet standing behind each of his characters, and
continually disavowing their sentiments, and telling you in a tone
of warning: This is a knave; that is a fool; do not mind what
he says
. But Nature goes to work like Shakespeare and Goethe,
poets who make every one of their characters—even if it is
the devil himself!—appear to be quite in the right for the
moment that they come before us in their several parts; the
characters are described so objectively that they excite our
interest and compel us to sympathize with their point of view; for,
like the works of Nature, every one of these characters is evolved
as the result of some hidden law or principle, which makes all they
say and do appear natural and therefore necessary. And you will
always be the prey or the plaything of the devils and fools in this
world, if you expect to see them going about with horns or jangling
their bells.


And it should be borne in mind that, in their intercourse with
others, people are like the moon, or like hunchbacks; they show you
only one of their sides. Every man has an innate talent for
mimicry,—for making a mask out of his physiognomy, so that he
can always look as if he really were what he pretends to be; and
since he makes his calculations always within the lines of his
individual nature, the appearance he puts on suits him to a nicety,
and its effect is extremely deceptive. He dons his mask whenever
his object is to flatter himself into some one’s good
opinion; and you may pay just as much attention to it as if it were
made of wax or cardboard, never forgetting that excellent Italian
proverb: non é si tristo cane che non meni la
coda
,—there is no dog so bad but that he will wag his
tail.



In any case it is well to take care not to form a highly
favorable opinion of a person whose acquaintance you have only
recently made, for otherwise you are very likely to be
disappointed; and then you will be ashamed of yourself and perhaps
even suffer some injury. And while I am on the subject, there is
another fact that deserves mention. It is this. A man shows his
character just in the way in which he deals with trifles,—for
then he is off his guard. This will often afford a good opportunity
of observing the boundless egoism of man’s nature, and his
total lack of consideration for others; and if these defects show
themselves in small things, or merely in his general demeanor, you
will find that they also underlie his action in matters of
importance, although he may disguise the fact. This is an
opportunity which should not be missed. If in the little affairs of
every day,—the trifles of life, those matters to which the
rule de minimis non applies,—a man is inconsiderate
and seeks only what is advantageous or convenient to himself, to
the prejudice of others’ rights; if he appropriates to
himself that which belongs to all alike, you may be sure there is
no justice in his heart, and that he would be a scoundrel on a
wholesale scale, only that law and compulsion bind his hands. Do
not trust him beyond your door. He who is not afraid to break the
laws of his own private circle, will break those of the State when
he can do so with impunity.


If the average man were so constituted that the good in him
outweighed the bad, it would be more advisable to rely upon his
sense of justice, fairness, gratitude, fidelity, love or
compassion, than to work upon his fears; but as the contrary is the
case, and it is the bad that outweighs the good, the opposite
course is the more prudent one.


If any person with whom we are associated or have to do,
exhibits unpleasant or annoying qualities, we have only to ask
ourselves whether or not this person is of so much value to us that
we can put up with frequent and repeated exhibitions of the same
qualities in a somewhat aggravated form."#note37">37 In case of an affirmative answer to
this question, there will not be much to be said, because talking
is very little use. We must let the matter pass, with or without
some notice; but we should nevertheless remember that we are
thereby exposing ourselves to a repetition of the offence. If the
answer is in the negative, we must break with our worthy friend at
once and forever; or in the case of a servant, dismiss him. For he
will inevitably repeat the offence, or do something tantamount to
it, should the occasion return, even though for the moment he is
deep and sincere in his assurances of the contrary. There is
nothing, absolutely nothing, that a man cannot forget,—but
not himself, his own character. For character is
incorrigible; because all a man’s actions emanate from an
inward principle, in virtue of which he must always do the same
thing under like circumstances; and he cannot do otherwise. Let me
refer to my prize essay on the so-called Freedom of the
Will
, the perusal of which will dissipate any delusions the
reader may have on this subject.



37 To forgive and
forget
means to throw away dearly bought experience.]


To become reconciled to a friend with whom you have broken, is a
form of weakness; and you pay the penalty of it when he takes the
first opportunity of doing precisely the very thing which brought
about the breach; nay, he does it the more boldly, because he is
secretly conscious that you cannot get on without him. This is also
applicable to servants whom you have dismissed, and then taken into
your service again.


For the same reason, you should just as little expect people to
continue to act in a similar way under altered circumstances. The
truth is that men alter their demeanor and sentiments just as fast
as their interest changes; and their resign in this respect is a
bill drawn for short payment that the man must be still more
short-sighted who accepts the bill without protesting it.
Accordingly, suppose you want to know how a man will behave in an
office into which you think of putting him; you should not build
upon expectations, on his promises or assurances. For, even
allowing that he is quite sincere, he is speaking about a matter of
which he has no knowledge. The only way to calculate how he will
behave, is to consider the circumstances in which he will be
placed, and the extent to which they will conflict with his
character.


If you wish to get a clear and profound insight—and it is
very needful—into the true but melancholy elements of which
most men are made, you will find in a very instructive thing to
take the way they behave in the pages of literature as a commentary
to their doings in practical life, and vice versa. The
experience thus gained will be very useful in avoiding wrong ideas,
whether about yourself or about others. But if you come across any
special trait of meanness or stupidity—in life or in
literature,—you must be careful not to let it annoy or
distress you, but to look upon it merely as an addition to your
knowledge—a new fact to be considered in studying the
character of humanity. Your attitude towards it will be that of the
mineralogist who stumbles upon a very characteristic specimen of a
mineral.



Of course there are some facts which are very exceptional, and
it is difficult to understand how they arise, and how it is that
there come to be such enormous differences between man and man;
but, in general, what was said long ago is quite true, and the
world is in a very bad way. In savage countries they eat one
another, in civilized they deceive one another; and that is what
people call the way of the world! What are States and all the
elaborate systems of political machinery, and the rule of force,
whether in home or in foreign affairs,—what are they but
barriers against the boundless iniquity of mankind? Does not all
history show that whenever a king is firmly planted on a throne,
and his people reach some degree of prosperity, he uses it to lead
his army, like a band of robbers, against adjoining countries? Are
not almost all wars ultimately undertaken for purposes of plunder?
In the most remote antiquity, and to some extent also in the Middle
Ages, the conquered became slaves,—in other words, they had
to work for those who conquered them; and where is the difference
between that and paying war-taxes, which represent the product of
our previous work?


All war, says Voltaire, is a matter of robbery; and the Germans
should take that as a warning.


SECTION 30. No man is so formed that he can be left entirely to
himself, to go his own ways; everyone needs to be guided by a
preconceived plan, and to follow certain general rules. But if this
is carried too far, and a man tries to take on a character which is
not natural or innate in him, but it artificially acquired and
evolved merely by a process of reasoning, he will very soon
discover that Nature cannot be forced, and that if you drive it
out, it will return despite your efforts:—


Naturam expelles furca, tamen usque recurret.


To understand a rule governing conduct towards others, even to
discover it for oneself and to express it neatly, is easy enough;
and still, very soon afterwards, the rule may be broken in
practice. But that is no reason for despair; and you need not fancy
that as it is impossible to regulate your life in accordance with
abstract ideas and maxims, it is better to live just as you please.
Here, as in all theoretical instruction that aims at a practical
result, the first thing to do is to understand the rule; the second
thing is to learn the practice of it. The theory may be understand
at once by an effort of reason, and yet the practice of it acquired
only in course of time.


A pupil may lean the various notes on an instrument of music, or
the different position in fencing; and when he makes a mistake, as
he is sure to do, however hard he tries, he is apt to think it will
be impossible to observe the rules, when he is set to read music at
sight or challenged to a furious duel. But for all that, gradual
practice makes him perfect, through a long series of slips,
blunders and fresh efforts. It is just the same in other things; in
learning to write and speak Latin, a man will forget the
grammatical rules; it is only by long practice that a blockhead
turns into a courtier, that a passionate man becomes shrewd and
worldly-wise, or a frank person reserved, or a noble person
ironical. But though self-discipline of this kind is the result of
long habit, it always works by a sort of external compulsion, which
Nature never ceases to resist and sometimes unexpectedly overcomes.
The difference between action in accordance with abstract
principles, and action as the result of original, innate tendency,
is the same as that between a work of art, say a watch—where
form and movement are impressed upon shapeless and inert
matter—and a living organism, where form and matter are one,
and each is inseparable from the other.



There is a maxim attributed to the Emperor Napoleon, which
expresses this relation between acquired and innate character, and
confirms what I have said: everything that is unnatural is
imperfect
;—a rule of universal application, whether in
the physical or in the moral sphere. The only exception I can think
of to this rule is aventurine,38 a
substance known to mineralogists, which in its natural state cannot
compare with the artificial preparation of it.


38 Translator’s
Note
. Aventurine is a rare kind of quartz; and the same name
is given to a brownish-colored glass much resembling it, which is
manufactured at Murano. It is so called from the fact that the
glass was discovered by chance (arventura).]


And in this connection let me utter a word of protest against
any and every form of affectation. It always arouses
contempt; in the first place, because it argues deception, and the
deception is cowardly, for it is based on fear; and, secondly, it
argues self-condemnation, because it means that a man is trying to
appear what he is not, and therefore something which he things
better than he actually is. To affect a quality, and to plume
yourself upon it, is just to confess that you have not got it.
Whether it is courage, or learning, or intellect, or wit, or
success with women, or riches, or social position, or whatever else
it may be that a man boasts of, you may conclude by his boasting
about it that that is precisely the direction in which he is rather
weak; for if a man really possesses any faculty to the full, it
will not occur to him to make a great show of affecting it; he is
quite content to know that he has it. That is the application of
the Spanish proverb: herradura que chacolotea clavo le
falta
—a clattering hoof means a nail gone. To be sure,
as I said at first, no man ought to let the reins go quite loose,
and show himself just as he is; for there are many evil and bestial
sides to our nature which require to be hidden away out of sight;
and this justifies the negative attitude of dissimulation, but it
does not justify a positive feigning of qualities which are not
there. It should also be remembered that affectation is recognized
at once, even before it is clear what it is that is being affected.
And, finally, affectation cannot last very long, and one day the
mask will fall off. Nemo potest personam diu ferre fictam,
says Seneca;39 ficta cito in
naturam suam recidunt
—no one can persevere long in a
fictitious character; for nature will soon reassert itself.



39 De Clementia, I.
1.]


SECTION 31. A man bears the weight of his own body without
knowing it, but he soon feels the weight of any other, if he tries
to move it; in the same way, a man can see other people’s
shortcoming’s and vices, but he is blind to his own. This
arrangement has one advantage: it turns other people into a kind of
mirror, in which a man can see clearly everything that is vicious,
faulty, ill-bred and loathsome in his own nature; only, it is
generally the old story of the dog barking at is own image; it is
himself that he sees and not another dog, as he fancies.


He who criticises others, works at the reformation of himself.
Those who form the secret habit of scrutinizing other
people’s general behavior, and passing severe judgment upon
what they do and leave undone, thereby improve themselves, and work
out their own perfection: for they will have sufficient sense of
justice, or at any rate enough pride and vanity, to avoid in their
own case that which they condemn so harshly elsewhere. But tolerant
people are just the opposite, and claim for themselves the same
indulgence that they extend to others—hanc veniam damus
petimusque vicissim
. It is all very well for the Bible to talk
about the mote in another’s eye and the beam in one’s
own. The nature of the eye is to look not at itself but at other
things; and therefore to observe and blame faults in another is a
very suitable way of becoming conscious of one’s own. We
require a looking-glass for the due dressing of our morals.



The same rule applies in the case of style and fine writing. If,
instead of condemning, you applaud some new folly in these matters,
you will imitate it. That is just why literary follies have such
vogue in Germany. The Germans are a very tolerant
people—everybody can see that! Their maxim is—Hanc
veniam damns petimusque vicissim.


SECTION 32. When he is young, a man of noble character fancies
that the relations prevailing amongst mankind, and the alliances to
which these relations lead, are at bottom and essentially,
ideal in their nature; that is to say, that they rest upon
similarity of disposition or sentiment, or taste, or intellectual
power, and so on.


But, later on, he finds out that it is a real
foundation which underlies these alliances; that they are based
upon some material interest. This is the true foundation
of almost all alliances: nay, most men have no notion of an
alliance resting upon any other basis. Accordingly we find that a
man is always measured by the office he holds, or by his
occupation, nationality, or family relations—in a word, by
the position and character which have been assigned him in the
conventional arrangements of life, where he is ticketed and treated
as so much goods. Reference to what he is in himself, as a
man—to the measure of his own personal qualities—is
never made unless for convenience’ sake: and so that view of
a man is something exceptional, to be set aside and ignored, the
moment that anyone finds it disagreeable; and this is what usually
happens. But the more of personal worth a man has, the less
pleasure he will take in these conventional arrangements; and he
will try to withdraw from the sphere in which they apply. The
reason why these arrangements exist at all, is simply that in this
world of ours misery and need are the chief features: therefore it
is everywhere the essential and paramount business of life to
devise the means of alleviating them.



SECTION 33. As paper-money circulates in the world instead of
real coin, so, is the place of true esteem and genuine friendship,
you have the outward appearance of it—a mimic show made to
look as much like the real thing as possible.


On the other hand, it may be asked whether there are any people
who really deserve the true coin. For my own part, I should
certainly pay more respect to an honest dog wagging his tail than
to a hundred such demonstrations of human regard.


True and genuine friendship presupposes a strong sympathy with
the weal and woe of another—purely objective in its character
and quite disinterested; and this in its turn means an absolute
identification of self with the object of friendship. The egoism of
human nature is so strongly antagonistic to any such sympathy, that
true friendship belongs to that class of things—the
sea-serpent, for instance,—with regard to which no one knows
whether they are fabulous or really exist somewhere or other.


Still, in many cases, there is a grain of true and genuine
friendship in the relation of man to man, though generally, of
course, some secret personal interest is at the bottom of
them—some one among the many forms that selfishness can take.
But in a world where all is imperfect, this grain of true feeling
is such an ennobling influence that it gives some warrant for
calling those relations by the name of friendship, for they stand
far above the ordinary friendships that prevail amongst mankind.
The latter are so constituted that, were you to hear how your dear
friends speak of you behind your back, you would never say another
word to them.


Apart from the case where it would be a real help to you if your
friend were to make some great sacrifice to serve you, there is no
better means of testing the genuineness of his feelings than the
way in which he receives the news of a misfortune that has just
happened to you. At that moment the expression of his features will
either show that his one thought is that of true and sincere
sympathy for you; or else the absolute composure of his
countenance, or the passing trace of something other than sympathy,
will confirm the well-known maxim of La Rochefoucauld: Dans
l’adversite de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours
quelque chose qui ne nous deplait pas
. Indeed, at such a
moment, the ordinary so-called friend will find it hard to suppress
the signs of a slight smile of pleasure. There are few ways by
which you can make more certain of putting people into a good humor
than by telling them of some trouble that has recently befallen
you, or by unreservedly disclosing some personal weakness of yours.
How characteristic this is of humanity!



Distance and long absence are always prejudicial to friendship,
however disinclined a man may be to admit. Our regard for people
whom we do not see—even though they be our dearest
friends—gradually dries up in the course of years, and they
become abstract notions; so that our interest in them grows to be
more and more intellectual,—nay, it is kept up only as a kind
of tradition; whilst we retain a lively and deep interest in those
who are constantly before our eyes, even if they be only pet
animals. This shows how much men are limited by their senses, and
how true is the remark that Goethe makes in Tasso about
the dominant influence of the present moment:—



Die Gegenwart ist eine mächtige Göttin"#note40">40



40 Act iv., se. 4.]



Friends of the house are very rightly so called;
because they are friends of the house rather than of its master; in
other words, they are more like cats than dogs.


Your friends will tell you that they are sincere; your enemies
are really so. Let your enemies’ censure be like a bitter
medicine, to be used as a means of self-knowledge.


A friend in need, as the saying goes, is rare. Nay, it is just
the contrary; no sooner have you made a friend than he is in need,
and asks for a loan.


SECTION 34. A man must be still a greenhorn in the ways of the
world, if he imagines that he can make himself popular in society
by exhibiting intelligence and discernment. With the immense
majority of people, such qualities excite hatred and resentment,
which are rendered all the harder to bear by the fact that people
are obliged to suppress—even from themselves—the real
reason of their anger.


What actually takes place is this. A man feels and perceives
that the person with whom he is conversing is intellectually very
much his superior.41



41 Cf. Welt als Wills
und Vorstellung
, Bk. II. p. 256 (4th Edit.), where I quote
from Dr. Johnson, and from Merck, the friend of Goethe’s
youth. The former says: There is nothing by which a man
exasperates most people more, than by displaying a superior ability
of brilliancy in conversation. They seem pleased at the time, but
their envy makes them curse him at their hearts.
(Boswells
Life of Johnson aetat: 74).]


He thereupon secretly and half unconsciously concludes that his
interlocutor must form a proportionately low and limited estimate
of his abilities. That is a method of reasoning—an
enthymeme—which rouses the bitterest feelings of sullen and
rancorous hatred. And so Gracian is quite right in saying that the
only way to win affection from people is to show the most
animal-like simplicity of demeanor—para ser bien quisto,
el unico medio vestirse la piel del mas simple de los
brutos
.42



42 Translator’s
Note
.—Balthazar Graeian, Oraculo manual, y arte de
prudencia
, 240. Gracian (1584–1658) was a Spanish prose
writer and Jesuit, whose works deal chiefly with the observation of
character in the various phenomena of life. Schopenhauer, among
others, had a great admiration for his worldly philosophy, and
translated his Oraculo manual—a system of rules for
the conduct of life—into German. The same book was translated
into English towards the close of the seventeenth century.]


To show your intelligence and discernment is only an indirect
way of reproaching other people for being dull and incapable. And
besides, it is natural for a vulgar man to be violently agitated by
the sight of opposition in any form; and in this case envy comes in
as the secret cause of his hostility. For it is a matter of daily
observation that people take the greatest pleasure in that which
satisfies their vanity; and vanity cannot be satisfied without
comparison with others. Now, there is nothing of which a man is
prouder than of intellectual ability, for it is this that gives him
his commanding place in the animal world. It is an exceedingly rash
thing to let any one see that you are decidedly superior to him in
this respect, and to let other people see it too; because he will
then thirst for vengeance, and generally look about for an
opportunity of taking it by means of insult, because this is to
pass from the sphere of intellect to that of

will—and there, all are on an equal footing as
regards the feeling of hostility. Hence, while rank and riches may
always reckon upon deferential treatment in society, that is
something which intellectual ability can never expect; to be
ignored is the greatest favor shown to it; and if people notice it
at all, it is because they regard it as a piece of impertinence, or
else as something to which its possessor has no legitimate right,
and upon which he dares to pride himself; and in retaliation and
revenge for his conduct, people secretly try and humiliate him in
some other way; and if they wait to do this, it is only for a
fitting opportunity. A man may be as humble as possible in his
demeanor, and yet hardly ever get people to overlook his crime in
standing intellectually above them. In the Garden of
Roses
, Sadi makes the remark:—You should know that
foolish people are a hundredfold more averse to meeting the wise
than the wise are indisposed for the company of the
foolish
.


On the other hand, it is a real recommendation to be stupid. For
just as warmth is agreeable to the body, so it does the mind good
to feel its superiority; and a man will seek company likely to give
him this feeling, as instinctively as he will approach the
fireplace or walk in the sun if he wants to get warm. But this
means that he will be disliked on account of his superiority; and
if a man is to be liked, he must really be inferior in point of
intellect; and the same thing holds good of a woman in point of
beauty. To give proof of real and unfeigned inferiority to some of
the people you meet—that is a very difficult business
indeed!


Consider how kindly and heartily a girl who is passably pretty
will welcome one who is downright ugly. Physical advantages are not
thought so much of in the case of man, though I suppose you would
rather a little man sat next to you than one who was bigger than
yourself. This is why, amongst men, it is the dull and ignorant,
and amongst women, the ugly, who are always popular and in
request.43 It is likely to be said
of such people that they are extremely good-natured, because every
one wants to find a pretext for caring about them—a pretext
which will blind both himself and other people to the real reason
why he likes them. This is also why mental superiority of any sort
always tends to isolate its possessor; people run away from him out
of pure hatred, and say all manner of bad things about him by way
of justifying their action. Beauty, in the case of women, has a
similar effect: very pretty girls have no friends of their own sex,
and they even find it hard to get another girl to keep them
company. A handsome woman should always avoid applying for a
position as companion, because the moment she enters the room, her
prospective mistress will scowl at her beauty, as a piece of folly
with which, both for her own and for her daughter’s sake, she
can very well dispense. But if the girl has advantages of rank, the
case is very different; because rank, unlike personal qualities
which work by the force of mere contrast, produces its effect by a
process of reflection; much in the same way as the particular hue
of a person’s complexion depends upon the prevailing tone of
his immediate surroundings.



43 If you desire to get on
in the world, friends and acquaintances are by far the best
passport to fortune. The possession of a great deal of ability
makes a man proud, and therefore not apt to flatter those who have
very little, and from whom, on that account, the possession of
great ability should be carefully concealed. The consciousness of
small intellectual power has just the opposite effect, and is very
compatible with a humble, affable and companionable nature, and
with respect for what is mean and wretched. This is why an inferior
sort of man has so many friends to befriend and encourage him.


These remarks are applicable not only to advancement in
political life, but to all competition for places of honor and
dignity, nay, even for reputation in the world of science,
literature and art. In learned societies, for example,
mediocrity—that very acceptable quality—is always to
the fore, whilst merit meets with tardy recognition, or with none
at all. So it is in everything.]


SECTION 35. Our trust in other people often consists in great
measure of pure laziness, selfishness and vanity on our own part: I
say laziness, because, instead of making inquiries
ourselves, and exercising an active care, we prefer to trust
others; selfishness, because we are led to confide in
people by the pressure of our own affairs; and vanity,
when we ask confidence for a matter on which we rather pride
ourselves. And yet, for all that, we expect people to be true to
the trust we repose in them.


But we ought not to become angry if people put no trust in us:
because that really means that they pay honesty the sincere
compliment of regarding it as a very rare thing,—so rare,
indeed, as to leave us in doubt whether its existence is not merely
fabulous.



SECTION 36. Politeness,—which the Chinese hold to
be a cardinal virtue,—is based upon two considerations of
policy. I have explained one of these considerations in my
Ethics; the other is as follows:—Politeness is a
tacit agreement that people’s miserable defects, whether
moral or intellectual, shall on either side be ignored and not made
the subject of reproach; and since these defects are thus rendered
somewhat less obtrusive, the result is mutually
advantageous.44


44 Translator’s
Note
.—In the passage referred to (Grundlage der Moral,
collected works, Vol. IV., pp. 187 and 198), Schopenhauer explains
politeness as a conventional and systematic attempt to mask the
egoism of human nature in the small affairs of life,—an
egoism so repulsive that some such device is necessary for the
purpose of concealing its ugliness. The relation which politeness
bears to the true love of one’s neighbor is analogous to that
existing between justice as an affair of legality, and justice as
the real integrity of the heart.]



It is a wise thing to be polite; consequently, it is a stupid
thing to be rude. To make enemies by unnecessary and willful
incivility, is just as insane a proceeding as to set your house on
fire. For politeness is like a counter—an avowedly false
coin, with which it is foolish to be stingy. A sensible man will be
generous in the use of it. It is customary in every country to end
a letter with the words:—your most obedient
servant
votre très-humble
serviteur
suo devotissimo servo. (The Germans
are the only people who suppress the word
servantDiener—because, of course, it
is not true!) However, to carry politeness to such an extent as to
damage your prospects, is like giving money where only counters are
expected.


Wax, a substance naturally hard and brittle, can be made soft by
the application of a little warmth, so that it will take any shape
you please. In the same way, by being polite and friendly, you can
make people pliable and obliging, even though they are apt to be
crabbed and malevolent. Hence politeness is to human nature what
warmth is to wax.


Of course, it is no easy matter to be polite; in so far, I mean,
as it requires us to show great respect for everybody, whereas most
people deserve none at all; and again in so far as it demands that
we should feign the most lively interest in people, when we must be
very glad that we have nothing to do with them. To combine
politeness with pride is a masterpiece of wisdom.


We should be much less ready to lose our temper over an
insult,—which, in the strict sense of the word, means that we
have not been treated with respect,—if, on the one hand, we
have not such an exaggerated estimate of our value and
dignity—that is to say, if we were not so immensely proud of
ourselves; and, on the other hand, if we had arrived at any clear
notion of the judgment which, in his heart, one man generally
passes upon another. If most people resent the slightest hint that
any blame attaches to them, you may imagine their feelings if they
were to overhear what their acquaintance say about them. You should
never lose sight of the fact that ordinary politeness is only a
grinning mask: if it shifts its place a little, or is removed for a
moment, there is no use raising a hue and cry. When a man is
downright rude, it is as though he had taken off all his clothes,
and stood before you in puris naturalibus. Like most men
in this condition, he does not present a very attractive
appearance.



SECTION 37. You ought never to take any man as a model for what
you should do or leave undone; because position and circumstances
are in no two cases alike, and difference of character gives a
peculiar, individual tone to what a man does. Hence duo cum
faciunt idem, non est idem
—two persons may do the same
thing with a different result. A man should act in accordance with
his own character, as soon as he has carefully deliberated on what
he is about to do.


The outcome of this is that originality cannot be
dispensed with in practical matters: otherwise, what a man does
will not accord with what he is.


SECTION 38. Never combat any man’s opinion; for though you
reached the age of Methuselah, you would never have done setting
him right upon all the absurd things that he believes.


It is also well to avoid correcting people’s mistakes in
conversation, however good your intentions may be; for it is easy
to offend people, and difficult, if not impossible, to mend
them.


If you feel irritated by the absurd remarks of two people whose
conversation you happen to overhear, you should imagine that you
are listening to a dialogue of two fools in a comedy. Probatum
est.



The man who comes into the world with the notion that he is
really going to instruct in matters of the highest importance, may
thank his stars if he escapes with a whole skin.


SECTION 39. If you want your judgment to be accepted, express it
coolly and without passion. All violence has its seat in the
will; and so, if your judgment is expressed with
vehemence, people will consider it an effort of will, and not the
outcome of knowledge, which is in its nature cold and
unimpassioned. Since the will is the primary and radical element in
human nature, and intellect merely supervenes as something
secondary, people are more likely to believe that the opinion you
express with so much vehemence is due to the excited state of your
will, rather than that the excitement of the will comes only from
the ardent nature of your opinion.


SECTION 40. Even when you are fully justified in praising
yourself, you should never be seduced into doing so. For vanity is
so very common, and merit so very uncommon, that even if a man
appears to be praising himself, though very indirectly, people will
be ready to lay a hundred to one that he is talking out of pure
vanity, and that he has not sense enough to see what a fool he is
making of himself.


Still, for all that, there may be some truth in Bacon’s
remark that, as in the case of calumny, if you throw enough dirt,
some of it will stick, so it it also in regard to self-praise; with
the conclusion that self-praise, in small doses, is to be
recommended.45


45 Translator’s
Note
.—Schopenhauer alludes to the following passage in
Bacon’s De Augmentis Scientiarum, Bk. viii., ch. 2:

Sicut enim dici solet de calumnia, audacter calumniare,
semper aliquid haeret; sic dici potest de jactantia, (nisi
plane deformis fuerit et ridicula
), audacter te vendita,
semper aliquid haeret. Haerebit certe apud populum, licet
prudentiores subrideant. Itaque existimatio parta apud plurimos
paucorum fastidium abunde compensabit.
]


SECTION 41. If you have reason to suspect that a person is
telling you a lie, look as though you believed every word he said.
This will give him courage to go on; he will become more vehement
in his assertions, and in the end betray himself.


Again, if you perceive that a person is trying to conceal
something from you, but with only partial success, look as though
you did not believe him, This opposition on your part will provoke
him into leading out his reserve of truth and bringing the whole
force of it to bear upon your incredulity.


SECTION 42. You should regard all your private affairs as
secrets, and, in respect of them, treat your acquaintances, even
though you are on good terms with them, as perfect strangers,
letting them know nothing more than they can see for themselves.
For in course of time, and under altered circumstances, you may
find it a disadvantage that they know even the most harmless things
about you.


And, as a general rule, it is more advisable to show your
intelligence by saying nothing than by speaking out; for silence is
a matter of prudence, whilst speech has something in it of vanity.
The opportunities for displaying the one or the other quality occur
equally often; but the fleeting satisfaction afforded by speech is
often preferred to the permanent advantage secured by silence.


The feeling of relief which lively people experience in speaking
aloud when no one is listening, should not be indulged, lest it
grow into a habit; for in this way thought establishes such very
friendly terms with speech, that conversation is apt to become a
process of thinking aloud. Prudence exacts that a wide gulf should
be fixed between what we think and what we say.



At times we fancy that people are utterly unable to believe in
the truth of some statement affecting us personally, whereas it
never occurs to them to doubt it; but if we give them the slightest
opportunity of doubting it, they find it absolutely impossible to
believe it any more. We often betray ourselves into revealing
something, simply because we suppose that people cannot help
noticing it,—just as a man will throw himself down from a
great height because he loses his head, in other words, because he
fancies that he cannot retain a firm footing any longer; the
torment of his position is so great, that he thinks it better to
put an end to it at once. This is the kind of insanity which is
called acrophobia.


But it should not be forgotten how clever people are in regard
to affairs which do not concern them, even though they show no
particularly sign of acuteness in other matters. This is a kind of
algebra in which people are very proficient: give them a single
fact to go upon, and they will solve the most complicated problems.
So, if you wish to relate some event that happened long ago,
without mentioning any names, or otherwise indicating the persons
to whom you refer, you should be very careful not to introduce into
your narrative anything that might point, however distantly, to
some definite fact, whether it is a particular locality, or a date,
or the name of some one who was only to a small extent implicated,
or anything else that was even remotely connected with the event;
for that at once gives people something positive to go upon, and by
the aid of their talent for this sort of algebra, they will
discover all the rest. Their curiosity in these matters becomes a
kind of enthusiasm: their will spurs on their intellect, and drives
it forward to the attainment of the most remote results. For
however unsusceptible and different people may be to general and
universal truths, they are very ardent in the matter of particular
details.


In keeping with what I have said, it will be found that all
those who profess to give instructions in the wisdom of life are
specially urgent in commending the practice of silence, and assign
manifold reasons why it should be observed; so it is not necessary
for me to enlarge upon the subject any further. However, I may just
add one or two little known Arabian proverbs, which occur to me as
peculiarly appropriate:—


Do not tell a friend anything that you would conceal from an
enemy
.


A secret is in my custody, if I keep it; but should it
escape me, it is I who am the prisoner
.


The tree of silence bears the fruit of peace.



SECTION 43. Money is never spent to so much advantage as when
you have been cheated out of it; for at one stroke you have
purchased prudence.


SECTION 44. If possible, no animosity should be felt for anyone.
But carefully observe and remember the manner in which a man
conducts himself, so that you may take the measure of his
value,—at any rate in regard to yourself,—and regulate
your bearing towards him accordingly; never losing sight of the
fact that character is unalterable, and that to forget the bad
features in a man’s disposition is like throwing away
hard-won money. Thus you will protect yourself against the results
of unwise intimacy and foolish friendship.


Give way neither to love nor to hate, is one-half of
worldly wisdom: say nothing and believe nothing, the other
half. Truly, a world where there is need of such rules as this and
the following, is one upon which a man may well turn his back.


SECTION 45. To speak angrily to a person, to show your hatred by
what you say or by the way you look, is an unnecessary
proceeding—dangerous, foolish, ridiculous, and vulgar.


Anger and hatred should never be shown otherwise than in what
you do; and feelings will be all the more effective in action, in
so far as you avoid the exhibition of them in any other way. It is
only cold-blooded animals whose bite is poisonous.



SECTION 46. To speak without emphasizing your
words—parler sans accent—is an old rule with
those who are wise in the world’s ways. It means that you
should leave other people to discover what it is that you have
said; and as their minds are slow, you can make your escape in
time. On the other hand, to emphasize your meaning—parler
avec accent
—is to address their feelings; and the result
is always the opposite of what you expect. If you are polite enough
in your manner and courteous in your tone there are many people
whom you may abuse outright, and yet run no immediate risk of
offending them.




CHAPTER IV,


WORLDLY FORTUNE.—SECTION 47.


However varied the forms that human destiny may take, the same
elements are always present; and so life is everywhere much of a
piece, whether it passed in the cottage or in the palace, in the
barrack or in the cloister. Alter the circumstance as much as you
please! point to strange adventures, successes, failures! life is
like a sweet-shop, where there is a great variety of things, odd in
shape and diverse in color—one and all made from the same
paste. And when men speak of some one’s success, the lot of
the man who has failed is not so very different as it seems. The
inequalities in the world are like the combinations in a
kaleidoscope; at every turn a fresh picture strikes the eye; and
yet, in reality, you see only the same bits of glass as you saw
before.



SECTION 48. An ancient writer says, very truly, that there are
three great powers in the world; Sagacity, Strength, and
Luck,—[Greek: sunetos, kratos, tuchu.] I think the
last is the most efficacious.


A man’s life is like the voyage of a ship, where
luck—secunda aut adversa fortuna—acts the part
of the wind, and speeds the vessel on its way or drives it far out
of its course. All that the man can do for himself is of little
avail; like the rudder, which, if worked hard and continuously, may
help in the navigation of the ship; and yet all may be lost again
by a sudden squall. But if the wind is only in the right quarter,
the ship will sail on so as not to need any steering. The power of
luck is nowhere better expressed than in a certain Spanish proverb:
Da Ventura a tu hijo, y echa lo en el mar—give your
son luck and throw him into the sea.


Still, chance, it may be said, is a malignant power, and as
little as possible should be left to its agency. And yet where is
there any giver who, in dispensing gifts, tells us quite clearly
that we have no right to them, and that we owe them not to any
merit on our part, but wholly to the goodness and grace of the
giver—at the same time allowing us to cherish the joyful hope
of receiving, in all humility, further undeserved gifts from the
same hands—where is there any giver like that, unless it be

Chance? who understands the kingly art of showing the
recipient that all merit is powerless and unavailing against the
royal grace and favor.


On looking back over the course of his life,—that
labyrinthine way of error,—a man must see many
points where luck failed him and misfortune came; and then it is
easy to carry self-reproach to an unjust excess. For the course of
a man’s life is in no wise entirely of his own making; it is
the product of two factors—the series of things that
happened, and his own resolves in regard to them, and these two are
constantly interacting upon and modifying each other. And besides
these, another influence is at work in the very limited extent of a
man’s horizon, whether it is that he cannot see very far
ahead in respect of the plans he will adopt, or that he is still
less able to predict the course of future events: his knowledge is
strictly confined to present plans and present events. Hence, as
long as a man’s goal is far off, he cannot steer straight for
it; he must be content to make a course that is approximately
right; and in following the direction in which he thinks he ought
to go, he will often have occasion to tack.


All that a man can do is to form such resolves as from time to
time accord with the circumstances in which he is placed, in the
hope of thus managing to advance a step nearer towards the final
goal. It is usually the case that the position in which we stand,
and the object at which we aim, resemble two tendencies working
with dissimilar strength in different directions; and the course of
our life is represented by their diagonal, or resultant force.


Terence makes the remark that life is like a game at dice, where
if the number that turns up is not precisely the one you want, you
can still contrive to use it equally:—in vita est hominum
quasi cum ludas tesseris; si illud quod maxime opus est jactu non
cadit, illud quod cecidit forte, id arte ut corrigas
."#note46">46 Or, to put the matter more shortly,
life is a game of cards, when the cards are shuffled and dealt by
fate. But for my present purpose, the most suitable simile would be
that of a game of chess, where the plan we determined to follow is
conditioned by the play of our rival,—in life, by the caprice
of fate. We are compelled to modify our tactics, often to such an
extent that, as we carry them out, hardly a single feature of the
original plan can be recognized.



46 He seems to have been
referring to a game something like backgammon.]


But above and beyond all this, there is another influence that
makes itself felt in our lives. It is a trite saying—only too
frequently true—that we are often more foolish than we think.
On the other hand, we are often wiser than we fancy ourselves to
be. This, however, is a discovery which only those can make, of
whom it is really true; and it takes them a long time to make it.
Our brains are not the wisest part of us. In the great moments of
life, when a man decides upon an important step, his action is
directed not so much by any clear knowledge of the right thing to
do, as by an inner impulse—you may almost call it an
instinct—proceeding from the deepest foundations of his
being. If, later on, he attempts to criticise his action by the
light of hard and fast ideas of what is right in the
abstract—those unprofitable ideas which are learnt by rote,
or, it may be, borrowed from other people; if he begins to apply
general rules, the principles which have guided others, to his own
case, without sufficiently weighing the maxim that one man’s
meat is another’s poison, then he will run great risk of
doing himself an injustice. The result will show where the right
course lay. It is only when a man has reached the happy age of
wisdom that he is capable of just judgment in regard either to his
own actions or to those of others.


It may be that this impulse or instinct is the unconscious
effect of a kind of prophetic dream which is forgotten when we
awake—lending our life a uniformity of tone, a dramatic
unity, such as could never result from the unstable moments of
consciousness, when we are so easily led into error, so liable to
strike a false note. It is in virtue of some such prophetic dream
that a man feels himself called to great achievements in a special
sphere, and works in that direction from his youth up out of an
inner and secret feeling that that is his true path, just as by a
similar instinct the bee is led to build up its cells in the comb.
This is the impulse which Balthazar Gracian calls la gran
sindéresis
47—the great
power of moral discernment: it is something that a man
instinctively feels to be his salvation without which he were
lost.



47 Translator’s
Note
.—This obscure word appears to be derived from the
Greek sugtaereo (N.T. and Polyb.) meaning “to
observe strictly.” It occurs in The Doctor and
Student
, a series of dialogues between a doctor of divinity
and a student on the laws of England, first published in 1518; and
is there (Dialog. I. ch. 13) explained as “a natural power of
the soule, set in the highest part thereof, moving and stirring it
to good, and abhoring evil.” This passage is copied into
Milton’s Commonplace Book, edit. Horwood, § 79. The
word is also found in the Dictionary of the Spanish Academy (vol.
vi. of the year 1739) in the sense of an innate discernment of
moral principles, where a quotation is given from Madre Maria de
Jesus, abbess of the convent of the Conception at Agreda, a
mystical writer of the seventeenth century, frequently consulted by
Philip IV.,—and again in the Bolognese Dictionary of 1824,
with a similar meaning, illustrated from the writings of Salvini
(1653–1729). For these references I am indebted to the
kindness of Mr. Norman Maccoll.]



To act in accordance with abstract principles is a difficult
matter, and a great deal of practice will be required before you
can be even occasionally successful; it of tens happens that the
principles do not fit in with your particular case. But every man
has certain innate concrete principles—a part, as it
were, of the very blood that flows in his veins, the sum or result,
in fact, of all his thoughts, feelings and volitions. Usually he
has no knowledge of them in any abstract form; it is only when he
looks back upon the course his life has taken, that he becomes
aware of having been always led on by them—as though they
formed an invisible clue which he had followed unawares.


SECTION 49. That Time works great changes, and that all things
are in their nature fleeting—these are truths that should
never be forgotten. Hence, in whatever case you may be, it is well
to picture to yourself the opposite: in prosperity, to be mindful
of misfortune; in friendship, of enmity; in good weather, of days
when the sky is overcast; in love, of hatred; in moments of trust,
to imagine the betrayal that will make you regret your confidence;
and so, too, when you are in evil plight, to have a lively sense of
happier times—what a lasting source of true worldly wisdom
were there! We should then always reflect, and not be so very
easily deceived; because, in general, we should anticipate the very
changes that the years will bring.


Perhaps in no form of knowledge is personal experience so
indispensable as in learning to see that all things are unstable
and transitory in this world. There is nothing that, in its own
place and for the time it lasts, is not a product of necessity, and
therefore capable of being fully justified; and it is this fact
that makes circumstances of every year, every month, even of every
day, seem as though they might maintain their right to last to all
eternity. But we know that this can never be the case, and that in
a world where all is fleeting, change alone endures. He is a
prudent man who is not only undeceived by apparent stability, but
is able to forecast the lines upon which movement will take
place.48


48 Chance plays so
great a part in all human affairs that when a man tries to ward off
a remote danger by present sacrifice, the danger often vanishes
under some new and unforeseen development of events; and then the
sacrifice, in addition to being a complete loss, brings about such
an altered state of things as to be in itself a source of positive
danger in the face of this new development. In taking measures of
precaution, then, it is well not to look too far ahead, but to
reckon with chance; and often to oppose a courageous front to a
danger, in the hope that, like many a dark thunder-cloud, it may
pass away without breaking.]



But people generally think that present circumstances will last,
and that matters will go on in the future as they have clone in the
past. Their mistakes arises from the fact that they do not
understand the cause of the things they see—causes which,
unlike the effects they produce, contain in themselves the germ of
future change. The effects are all that people know, and they hold
fast to them on the supposition that those unknown causes, which
were sufficient to bring them about, will also be able to maintain
them as they are. This is a very common error; and the fact that it
is common is not without its advantage, for it means that people
always err in unison; and hence the calamity which results from the
error affects all alike, and is therefore easy to bear; whereas, if
a philosopher makes a mistake, he is alone in his error, and so at
a double disadvantage.49


49 I may remark,
parenthetically, that all this is a confirmation of the principle
laid down in Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung (Bk. I. p.
94: 4th edit.), that error always consists in making a wrong
inference
, that is, in ascribing a given effect to something
that did not cause it.]


But in saying that we should anticipate the effects of time, I
mean that we should mentally forecast what they are likely to be; I
do not mean that we should practically forestall them, by demanding
the immediate performance of promises which time alone can fulfill.
The man who makes his demand will find out that there is no worse
or more exacting usurer than Time; and that, if you compel Time to
give money in advance, you will have to pay a rate of interest more
ruinous than any Jew would require. It is possible, for instance,
to make a tree burst forth into leaf, blossom, or even bear fruit
within a few days, by the application of unslaked lime and
artificial heat; but after that the tree will wither away. So a
young man may abuse his strength—it may be only for a few
weeks—by trying to do at nineteen what he could easily manage
at thirty, and Time may give him the loan for which he asks; but
the interest he will have to pay comes out of the strength of his
later years; nay, it is part of his very life itself.



There are some kinds of illness in which entire restoration to
health is possible only by letting the complaint run its natural
course; after which it disappears without leaving any trace of its
existence. But if the sufferer is very impatient, and, while he is
still affected, insists that he is completely well, in this case,
too, Time will grant the loan, and the complaint may be shaken off;
but life-long weakness and chronic mischief will be the interest
paid upon it.


Again, in time of war or general disturbance, a man may require
ready money at once, and have to sell out his investments in land
or consols for a third or even a still smaller fraction of the sum
he would have received from them, if he could have waited for the
market to right itself, which would have happened in due course;
but he compels Time to grant him a loan, and his loss is the
interest he has to pay. Or perhaps he wants to go on a long journey
and requires the money: in one or two years he could lay by a
sufficient sum out of his income, but he cannot afford to wait; and
so he either borrows it or deducts it from his capital; in other
words, he gets Time to lend him the money in advance. The interest
he pays is a disordered state of his accounts, and permanent and
increasing deficits, which he can never make good.


Such is Time’s usury; and all who cannot wait are its
victims. There is no more thriftless proceeding than to try and
mend the measured pace of Time. Be careful, then, not to become its
debtor.


SECTION 50. In the daily affairs of life, you will have very
many opportunities of recognizing a characteristic difference
between ordinary people of prudence and discretion. In estimating
the possibility of danger in connection with any undertaking, an
ordinary man will confine his inquiries to the kind of risk that
has already attended such undertakings in the past; whereas a
prudent person will look ahead, and consider everything that might
possibly happen in the future, having regard to a certain Spanish
maxim: lo que no acaece en un ano, acaece en un
rato
—a thing may not happen in a year, and yet may
happen within two minutes.


The difference in question is, of course, quite natural; for it
requires some amount of discernment to calculate possibilities; but
a man need only have his senses about him to see what has already
happened.


Do not omit to sacrifice to evil spirits. What I mean is, that a
man should not hesitate about spending time, trouble, and money, or
giving up his comfort, or restricting his aims and denying himself,
if he can thereby shut the door on the possibility of misfortune.
The most terrible misfortunes are also the most improbable and
remote—the least likely to occur. The rule I am giving is
best exemplified in the practice of insurance,—a public
sacrifice made on the altar of anxiety. Therefore take out your
policy of insurance!



SECTION 51. Whatever fate befalls you, do not give way to great
rejoicings or great lamentations; partly because all things are
full of change, and your fortune may turn at any moment; partly
because men are so apt to be deceived in their judgment as to what
is good or bad for them.


Almost every one in his turn has lamented over something which
afterwards turned out to be the very best thing for him that could
have happened—or rejoiced at an event which became the source
of his greatest sufferings. The right state of mind has been finely
portrayed by Shakespeare:


I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief That the first
face of neither, on the start, Can woman me
unto’t
.50


50 All’s Well that
Ends Well, Act. ii. Sc. 2
.]


And, in general, it may be said that, if a man takes misfortunes
quietly, it is because he knows that very many dreadful things may
happen in the course of life; and so he looks upon the trouble of
the moment as only a very small part of that which might come. This
is the Stoic temper—never to be unmindful of the sad fate of
humanity—condicionis humanoe oblitus; but always to
remember that our existence is full of woe and misery: and that the
ills to which we are exposed are innumerable. Wherever he be, a man
need only cast a look around, to revive the sense of human misery:
there before his eyes he can see mankind struggling and floundering
in torment,—all for the sake of a wretched existence, barren
and unprofitable!



If he remembers this, a man will not expect very much from life,
but learn to accommodate himself to a world where all is relative
and no perfect state exists;—always looking misfortune in the
face, and if he cannot avoid it, meeting it with courage.


It should never be forgotten that misfortune, be it great or
small, is the element in which we live. But that is no reason why a
man should indulge in fretful complaints, and, like
Beresford,51 pull a long face over
the Miseries of Human Life,—and not a single hour is
free from them; or still less, call upon the Deity at every
flea-bite—in pulicis morsu Deum invocare. Our aim
should be to look well about us, to ward off misfortune by going to
meet it, to attain such perfection and refinement in averting the
disagreeable things of life,—whether they come from our
fellow-men or from the physical world,—that, like a clever
fox, we may slip out of the way of every mishap, great or small;
remembering that a mishap is generally only our own awkwardness in
disguise.


51 Translator’s
Note
.—Rev. James Beresford (1764–1840),
miscellaneous writer. The full title of this, his chief work, is

“The Miseries of Human Life; or the last groans of Timothy
Testy and Samuel Sensitive, with a few supplementary sighs from
Mrs. Testy.”]


The main reason why misfortune falls less heavily upon us, if we
have looked upon its occurrence as not impossible, and, as the
saying is, prepared ourselves for it, may be this: if, before this
misfortune comes, we have quietly thought over it as something
which may or may not happen, the whole of its extent and range is
known to us, and we can, at least, determine how far it will affect
us; so that, if it really arrives, it does not depress us
unduly—its weight is not felt to be greater than it actually
is. But if no preparation has been made to meet it, and it comes
unexpectedly, the mind is in a state of terror for the moment and
unable to measure the full extent of the calamity; it seems so
far-reaching in its effects that the victim might well think there
was no limit to them; in any case, its range is exaggerated. In the
same way, darkness and uncertainty always increase the sense of
danger. And, of course, if we have thought over the possibility of
misfortune, we have also at the same time considered the sources to
which we shall look for help and consolation; or, at any rate, we
have accustomed ourselves to the idea of it.


There is nothing that better fits us to endure the misfortunes
of life with composure, than to know for certain that
everything that happens—from the smallest up to the
greatest facts of existence—happens of
necessity.
52 A man soon
accommodates himself to the inevitable—to something that must
be; and if he knows that nothing can happen except of necessity, he
will see that things cannot be other that they are, and that even
the strangest chances in the world are just as much a product of
necessity as phenomena which obey well-known rules and turn out
exactly in accordance with expectation. Let me here refer to what I
have said elsewhere on the soothing effect of the knowledge that
all things are inevitable and a product of necessity."#note53">53


52 This is a truth which I
have firmly established in my prize-essay on the Freedom of the
Will
, where the reader will find a detailed explanation of the
grounds on which it rests. Cf. especially p. 60.
[Schopenhauer’s Works, 4th Edit., vol.
iv.—Tr.]]



53 Cf. Welt als Wille
und Vorstellung
, Bk. I. p. 361 (4th edit.).]


If a man is steeped in the knowledge of this truth, he will,
first of all, do what he can, and then readily endure what he
must.


We may regard the petty vexations of life that are constantly
happening, as designed to keep us in practice for bearing great
misfortunes, so that we may not become completely enervated by a
career of prosperity. A man should be as Siegfried, armed
cap-à-pie, towards the small troubles of every
day—those little differences we have with our fellow-men,
insignificant disputes, unbecoming conduct in other people, petty
gossip, and many other similar annoyances of life; he should not
feel them at all, much less take them to heart and brood over them,
but hold them at arm’s length and push them out of his way,
like stones that lie in the road, and upon no account think about
them and give them a place in his reflections.


SECTION 52. What people commonly call Fate is, as a
general rule, nothing but their own stupid and foolish conduct.
There is a fine passage in Homer,"#note54">54 illustrating the truth of this remark,
where the poet praises [GREEK: maetis]—shrewd council; and
his advice is worthy of all attention. For if wickedness is atoned
for only in another world, stupidity gets its reward
here—although, now and then, mercy may be shown to the
offender.



54 Iliad, xxiii.
313, sqq.]


It is not ferocity but cunning that strikes fear into the heart
and forebodes danger; so true it is that the human brain is a more
terrible weapon than the lion’s paw.


The most finished man of the world would be one who was never
irresolute and never in a hurry.


SECTION 53. Courage comes next to prudence as a quality
of mind very essential to happiness. It is quite true that no one
can endow himself with either, since a man inherits prudence from
his mother and courage from his father; still, if he has these
qualities, he can do much to develop them by means of resolute
exercise.


In this world, where the game is played with loaded
dice
, a man must have a temper of iron, with armor proof to
the blows of fate, and weapons to make his way against men. Life is
one long battle; we have to fight at every step; and Voltaire very
rightly says that if we succeed, it is at the point of the sword,
and that we die with the weapon in our hand—on ne réussit
dans ce monde qua la pointe de l’épee, et on meurt les armes
à la main
. It is a cowardly soul that shrinks or grows faint
and despondent as soon as the storm begins to gather, or even when
the first cloud appears on the horizon. Our motto should be No
Surrender
; and far from yielding to the ills of life, let us
take fresh courage from misfortune:—



Tu ne cede malis sed contra audentior ito."#note55">55


55 Virgil, Aeneid,
vi. 95.]


As long as the issue of any matter fraught with peril is still
in doubt, and there is yet some possibility left that all may come
right, no one should ever tremble or think of anything but
resistance,—just as a man should not despair of the weather
if he can see a bit of blue sky anywhere. Let our attitude be such
that we should not quake even if the world fell in ruins about
us:—



Si fractus illabatur orbis

Impavidum ferient ruinae
."#note56">56




56 Horace, Odes iii. 3.]


Our whole life itself—let alone its blessings—would
not be worth such a cowardly trembling and shrinking of the heart.
Therefore, let us face life courageously and show a firm front to
every ill:—


Quocirca vivite fortes Fortiaque adversis opponite pectora
rebus
.


Still, it is possible for courage to be carried to an excess and
to degenerate into rashness. It may even be said that some amount
of fear is necessary, if we are to exist at all in the world, and
cowardice is only the exaggerated form of it. This truth has been
very well expressed by Bacon, in his account of Terror
Panicus
; and the etymological account which he gives of its
meaning, is very superior to the ancient explanation preserved for
us by Plutarch.57 He connects the
expression with Pan the personification of Nature;"#note58">58 and observes that fear is innate in
every living thing, and, in fact, tends to its preservation, but
that it is apt to come into play without due cause, and that man is
especially exposed to it. The chief feature of this Panie
Terror
is that there is no clear notion of any definite danger
bound up with it; that it presumes rather than knows that danger
exists; and that, in case of need, it pleads fright itself as the
reason for being afraid.



57 De Iside et
Osiride
ch. 14.]


58 De Sapientia
Veterum
, C. 6. Natura enim rerum omnibus viventibus
indidit mentum ac formidinem, vitae atque essentiae suae
conservatricem, ac mala ingruentia vitantem et depellentem.
Verumtamen eaden natura modum tenere nescia est: sed timoribus
salutaribus semper vanos et innanes admiscet; adeo ut omnia (si
intus conspici darentur) Panicis terroribus plenissima sint
praesertim humana
.]




CHAPTER V.



THE AGES OF LIFE.


There is a very fine saying of Voltaire’s to the effect
that every age of life has its own peculiar mental character, and
that a man will feel completely unhappy if his mind is not in
accordance with his years:—



Qui n’a pas l’esprit de son âge,

De son âge atout le malheur
.



It will, therefore, be a fitting close to our speculations upon
the nature of happiness, if we glance at the chances which the
various periods of life produce in us.


Our whole life long it is the present, and the present
alone, that we actually possess: the only difference is that at the
beginning of life we look forward to a long future, and that
towards the end we look back upon a long past; also that our
temperament, but not our character, undergoes certain well-known
changes, which make the present wear a different color at
each period of life.



I have elsewhere stated that in childhood we are more given to
using our intellect than our will; and I have
explained why this is so.59 It is
just for this reason that the first quarter of life is so happy: as
we look back upon it in after years, it seems a sort of lost
paradise. In childhood our relations with others are limited, our
wants are few,—in a word, there is little stimulus for the
will; and so our chief concern is the extension of our knowledge.
The intellect—like the brain, which attains its full size in
the seventh year,60 is developed
early, though it takes time to mature; and it explores the whole
world of its surroundings in its constant search for nutriment: it
is then that existence is in itself an ever fresh delight, and all
things sparkle with the charm of novelty.


59 Translator’s
Note
.—Schopenhauer refers to Die Welt als Wille und
Vorstellung
, Bk. II. c, 31, p. 451 (4th edit.), where he
explains that this is due to the fact that at that period of life
the brain and nervous system are much more developed than any other
part of the organism.]



60 Translator’s
Note
.—This statement is not quite correct. The weight of
the brain increases rapidly up to the seventh year, more slowly
between the sixteenth and the twentieth year, still more slowly
till between thirty and forty years of age, when it attains its
maximum. At each decennial period after this, it is supposed to
decrease in weight on the average, an ounce for every ten
years.]


This is why the years of childhood are like a long poem. For the
function of poetry, as of all art, is to grasp the
Idea—in the Platonic sense; in other words, to
apprehend a particular object in such a way as to perceive its
essential nature, the characteristics it has in common with all
other objects of the same kind; so that a single object appears as
the representative of a class, and the results of one experience
hold good for a thousand.


It may be thought that my remarks are opposed to fact, and that
the child is never occupied with anything beyond the individual
objects or events which are presented to it from time to time, and
then only in so far as they interest and excite its will for the
moment; but this is not really the case. In those early years,
life—in the full meaning of the word, is something so new and
fresh, and its sensations are so keen and unblunted by repetition,
that, in the midst of all its pursuits and without any clear
consciousness of what it is doing, the child is always silently
occupied in grasping the nature of life itself,—in arriving
at its fundamental character and general outline by means of
separate scenes and experiences; or, to use Spinoza’s
phraseology, the child is learning to see the things and persons
about it sub specie aeternitatis,—as particular
manifestations of universal law.



The younger we are, then, the more does every individual object
represent for us the whole class to which it belongs; but as the
years increase, this becomes less and less the case. That is the
reason why youthful impressions are so different from those of old
age. And that it also why the slight knowledge and experience
gained in childhood and youth afterwards come to stand as the
permanent rubric, or heading, for all the knowledge acquired in
later life,—those early forms of knowledge passing into
categories, as it were, under which the results of subsequent
experience are classified; though a clear consciousness of what is
being done, does not always attend upon the process.


In this way the earliest years of a man’s life lay the
foundation of his view of the world, whether it be shallow or deep;
and although this view may be extended and perfected later on, it
is not materially altered. It is an effect of this purely objective
and therefore poetical view of the world,—essential to the
period of childhood and promoted by the as yet undeveloped state of
the volitional energy—that, as children, we are concerned
much more with the acquisition of pure knowledge than with
exercising the power of will. Hence that grave, fixed look
observable in so many children, of which Raphael makes such a happy
use in his depiction of cherubs, especially in the picture of the
Sistine Madonna. The years of childhood are thus rendered
so full of bliss that the memory of them is always coupled with
longing and regret.


While we thus eagerly apply ourselves to learning the outward
aspect of things, as the primitive method of understanding the
objects about us, education aims at instilling into us
ideas. But ideas furnish no information as to the real and
essential nature of objects, which, as the foundation and true
content of all knowledge, can be reached only by the process called
intuition. This is a kind of knowledge which can in no
wise be instilled into us from without; we must arrive at it by and
for ourselves.


Hence a man’s intellectual as well as his moral qualities
proceed from the depths of his own nature, and are not the result
of external influences; and no educational scheme—of
Pestalozzi, or of any one else—can turn a born simpleton into
a man of sense. The thing is impossible! He was born a simpleton,
and a simpleton he will die.



It is the depth and intensity of this early intuitive knowledge
of the external world that explain why the experiences of childhood
take such a firm hold on the memory. When we were young, we were
completely absorbed in our immediate surroundings; there was
nothing to distract our attention from them; we looked upon the
objects about us as though they were the only ones of their kind,
as though, indeed, nothing else existed at all. Later on, when we
come to find out how many things there are in the world, this
primitive state of mind vanishes, and with it our patience.


I have said elsewhere61 that
the world, considered as object,—in other words, as
it is presented to us objectively,—wears in general
a pleasing aspect; but that in the world, considered as
subject,—that is, in regard to its inner nature,
which is will,—pain and trouble predominate. I may
be allowed to express the matter, briefly, thus: the world is
glorious to look at, but dreadful in reality
.



61 Die Welt als Wille
und Vorstellung
, Bk. II. c. 31, p. 426–7 (4th Edit.), to
which the reader is referred for a detailed explanation of my
meaning.]


Accordingly, we find that, in the years of childhood, the world
is much better known to us on its outer or objective side, namely,
as the presentation of will, than on the side of its inner nature,
namely, as the will itself. Since the objective side wears a
pleasing aspect, and the inner or subjective side, with its tale of
horror, remains as yet unknown, the youth, as his intelligence
develops, takes all the forms of beauty that he sees, in nature and
in art, for so many objects of blissful existence; they are so
beautiful to the outward eye that, on their inner side, they must,
he thinks, be much more beautiful still. So the world lies before
him like another Eden; and this is the Arcadia in which we are all
born.


A little later, this state of mind gives birth to a thirst for
real life—the impulse to do and suffer—which drives a
man forth into the hurly-burly of the world. There he learns the
other side of existence—the inner side, the will, which is
thwarted at every step. Then comes the great period of disillusion,
a period of very gradual growth; but once it has fairly begun, a
man will tell you that he has got over all his false
notions—l’âge des illusions est passé; and yet
the process is only beginning, and it goes on extending its sway
and applying more and more to the whole of life.


So it may be said that in childhood, life looks like the scenery
in a theatre, as you view it from a distance; and that in old age
it is like the same scenery when you come up quite close to it.



And, lastly, there is another circumstance that contributes to
the happiness of childhood. As spring commences, the young leaves
on the trees are similar in color and much the same in shape; and
in the first years of life we all resemble one another and
harmonize very well. But with puberty divergence begins; and, like
the radii of a circle, we go further and further apart.


The period of youth, which forms the remainder of this earlier
half of our existence—and how many advantages it has over the
later half!—is troubled and made miserable by the pursuit of
happiness, as though there were no doubt that it can be met with
somewhere in life,—a hope that always ends in failure and
leads to discontent. An illusory image of some vague future
bliss—born of a dream and shaped by fancy—floats before
our eyes; and we search for the reality in vain. So it is that the
young man is generally dissatisfied with the position in which he
finds himself, whatever it may be; he ascribes his disappointment
solely to the state of things that meets him on his first
introduction to life, when he had expected something very
different; whereas it is only the vanity and wretchedness of human
life everywhere that he is now for the first time experiencing.


It would be a great advantage to a young man if his early
training could eradicate the idea that the world has a great deal
to offer him. But the usual result of education is to strengthen
this delusion; and our first ideas of life are generally taken from
fiction rather than from fact.


In the bright dawn of our youthful days, the poetry of life
spreads out a gorgeous vision before us, and we torture ourselves
by longing to see it realized. We might as well wish to grasp the
rainbow! The youth expects his career to be like an interesting
romance; and there lies the germ of that disappointment which I
have been describing.62 What lends
a charm to all these visions is just the fact that they are
visionary and not real, and that in contemplating them we are in
the sphere of pure knowledge, which is sufficient in itself and
free from the noise and struggle of life. To try and realize those
visions is to make them an object of will—a process
which always involves pain.63



62 Cf. loc. cit., p.
428.]


63 Let me refer the reader,
if he is interested in the subject, to the volume already cited,
chapter 37.]


If the chief feature of the earlier half of life is a
never-satisfied longing after happiness, the later half is
characterized by the dread of misfortune. For, as we advance in
years, it becomes in a greater or less degree clear that all
happiness is chimerical in its nature, and that pain alone is real.
Accordingly, in later years, we, or, at least, the more prudent
amongst us, are more intent upon eliminating what is painful from
our lives and making our position secure, than on the pursuit of
positive pleasure. I may observe, by the way, that in old age, we
are better able to prevent misfortunes from coming, and in youth
better able to bear them when they come.


In my young days, I was always pleased to hear a ring at my
door: ah! thought I, now for something pleasant. But in later life
my feelings on such occasions were rather akin to dismay than to
pleasure: heaven help me! thought I, what am I to do? A similar
revulsion of feeling in regard to the world of men takes place in
all persons of any talent or distinction. For that very reason they
cannot be said properly to belong to the world; in a greater or
less degree, according to the extent of their superiority, they
stand alone. In their youth they have a sense of being abandoned by
the world; but later on, they feel as though they had escaped it.
The earlier feeling is an unpleasant one, and rests upon ignorance;
the second is pleasurable—for in the meantime they have come
to know what the world is.


The consequence of this is that, as compared with the earlier,
the later half of life, like the second part of a musical period,
has less of passionate longing and more restfulness about it. And
why is this the case Simply because, in youth, a man fancies that
there is a prodigious amount of happiness and pleasure to be had in
the world, only that it is difficult to come by it; whereas, when
he becomes old, he knows that there is nothing of the kind; he
makes his mind completely at ease on the matter, enjoys the present
hour as well as he can, and even takes a pleasure in trifles.


The chief result gained by experience of life is clearness
of view
. This is what distinguishes the man of mature age, and
makes the world wear such a different aspect from that which it
presented in his youth or boyhood. It is only then that he sees
things quite plain, and takes them for that which they really are:
while in earlier years he saw a phantom-world, put together out of
the whims and crotchets of his own mind, inherited prejudice and
strange delusion: the real world was hidden from him, or the vision
of it distorted. The first thing that experience finds to do is to
free us from the phantoms of the brain—those false notions
that have been put into us in youth.



To prevent their entrance at all would, of course, be the best
form of education, even though it were only negative in aim: but it
would be a task full of difficulty. At first the child’s
horizon would have to be limited as much as possible, and yet
within that limited sphere none but clear and correct notions would
have to be given; only after the child had properly appreciated
everything within it, might the sphere be gradually enlarged; care
being always taken that nothing was left obscure, or half or
wrongly understood. The consequence of this training would be that
the child’s notions of men and things would always be limited
and simple in their character; but, on the other hand, they would
be clear and correct, and only need to be extended, not to be
rectified. The same line might be pursued on into the period of
youth. This method of education would lay special stress upon the
prohibition of novel reading; and the place of novels would be
taken by suitable biographical literature—the life of
Franklin, for instance, or Moritz’ Anton
Reiser
.64


64 Translator’s
Note
.—Moritz was a miscellaneous writer of the last
century (1757–93). His Anton Reiser, composed in the
form of a novel, is practically an autobiography.]



In our early days we fancy that the leading events in our life,
and the persons who are going to play an important part in it, will
make their entrance to the sound of drums and trumpets; but when,
in old age, we look back, we find that they all came in quite
quietly, slipped in, as it were, by the side-door, almost
unnoticed.


From the point of view we have been taking up until now, life
may be compared to a piece of embroidery, of which, during the
first half of his time, a man gets a sight of the right side, and
during the second half, of the wrong. The wrong side is not so
pretty as the right, but it is more instructive; it shows the way
in which the threads have been worked together.


Intellectual superiority, even if it is of the highest kind,
will not secure for a man a preponderating place in conversation
until after he is forty years of age. For age and experience,
though they can never be a substitute for intellectual talent, may
far outweigh it; and even in a person of the meanest capacity, they
give a certain counterpoise to the power of an extremely
intellectual man, so long as the latter is young. Of course I
allude here to personal superiority, not to the place a man may
gain by his works.


And on passing his fortieth year, any man of the slightest power
of mind—any man, that is, who has more than the sorry share
of intellect with which Nature has endowed five-sixths of
mankind—will hardly fail to show some trace of misanthropy.
For, as is natural, he has by that time inferred other
people’s character from an examination of his own; with the
result that he has been gradually disappointed to find that in the
qualities of the head or in those of the heart—and usually in
both—he reaches a level to which they do not attain; so he
gladly avoids having anything more to do with them. For it may be
said, in general, that every man will love or hate
solitude—in other Words, his own society—just in
proportion as he is worth anything in himself. Kant has some
remarks upon this kind of misanthropy in his Critique of the
Faculty of Judgment
.65



65 Kritik der
Urtheilskraft
, Part I, §29, Note ad fin.]


In a young man, it is a bad sign, as well from an intellectual
as from a moral point of view, if he is precocious in understanding
the ways of the world, and in adapting himself to its pursuits; if
he at once knows how to deal with men, and enters upon life, as it
were, fully prepared. It argues a vulgar nature. On the other hand,
to be surprised and astonished at the way people act, and to be
clumsy and cross-grained in having to do with them, indicates a
character of the nobler sort.


The cheerfulness and vivacity of youth are partly due to the
fact that, when we are ascending the hill of life, death is not
visible: it lies down at the bottom of the other side. But once we
have crossed the top of the hill, death comes in
view—death—which, until then, was known to us only by
hearsay. This makes our spirits droop, for at the same time we
begin to feel that our vital powers are on the ebb. A grave
seriousness now takes the place of that early extravagance of
spirit; and the change is noticeable even in the expression of a
man’s face. As long as we are young, people may tell us what
they please! we look upon life as endless and use our time
recklessly; but the older we become, the more we practice economy.
For towards the close of life, every day we live gives us the same
kind of sensation as the criminal experiences at every step on his
way to be tried.


From the standpoint of youth, life seems to stretch away into an
endless future; from the standpoint of old age, to go back but a
little way into the past; so that, at the beginning, life presents
us with a picture in which the objects appear a great way off, as
though we had reversed our telescope; while in the end everything
seems so close. To see how short life is, a man must have grown
old, that is to say, he must have lived long.


On the other hand, as the years increase, things look smaller,
one and all; and Life, which had so firm and stable a base in the
days of our youth, now seems nothing but a rapid flight of moments,
every one of them illusory: we have come to see that the whole
world is vanity!


Time itself seems to go at a much slower pace when we are young;
so that not only is the first quarter of life the happiest, it is
also the longest of all; it leaves more memories behind it. If a
man were put to it, he could tell you more out of the first quarter
of his life than out of two of the remaining periods. Nay, in the
spring of life, as in the spring of the year, the days reach a
length that is positively tiresome; but in the autumn, whether of
the year or of life, though they are short, they are more genial
and uniform.



But why is it that to an old man his past life appears so short?
For this reason: his memory is short; and so he fancies that his
life has been short too. He no longer remembers the insignificant
parts of it, and much that was unpleasant is now forgotten; how
little, then, there is left! For, in general, a man’s memory
is as imperfect as his intellect; and he must make a practice of
reflecting upon the lessons he has learned and the events he has
experienced, if he does not want them both to sink gradually into
the gulf of oblivion. Now, we are unaccustomed to reflect upon
matters of no importance, or, as a rule, upon things that we have
found disagreeable, and yet that is necessary if the memory of them
is to be preserved. But the class of things that may be called
insignificant is continually receiving fresh additions: much that
wears an air of importance at first, gradually becomes of no
consequence at all from the fact of its frequent repetition; so
that in the end we actually lose count of the number of times it
happens. Hence we are better able to remember the events of our
early than of our later years. The longer we live, the fewer are
the things that we can call important or significant enough to
deserve further consideration, and by this alone can they be fixed
in the memory; in other words, they are forgotten as soon as they
are past. Thus it is that time runs on, leaving always fewer traces
of its passage.


Further, if disagreeable things have happened to us, we do not
care to ruminate upon them, least of all when they touch our
vanity, as is usually the case; for few misfortunes fall upon us
for which we can be held entirely blameless. So people are very
ready to forget many things that are disagreeable, as well as many
that are unimportant.


It is from this double cause that our memory is so short; and a
man’s recollection of what has happened always becomes
proportionately shorter, the more things that have occupied him in
life. The things we did in years gone by, the events that happened
long ago, are like those objects on the coast which, to the
seafarer on his outward voyage, become smaller every minute, more
unrecognizable and harder to distinguish.


Again, it sometimes happens that memory and imagination will
call up some long past scene as vividly as if it had occurred only
yesterday; so that the event in question seems to stand very near
to the present time. The reason of this is that it is impossible to
call up all the intervening period in the same vivid way, as there
is no one figure pervading it which can be taken in at a glance;
and besides, most of the things that happened in that period are
forgotten, and all that remains of it is the general knowledge that
we have lived through it—a mere notion of abstract existence,
not a direct vision of some particular experience. It is this that
causes some single event of long ago to appear as though it took
place but yesterday: the intervening time vanishes, and the whole
of life looks incredibly short. Nay, there are occasional moments
in old age when we can scarcely believe that we are so advanced in
years, or that the long past lying behind us has had any real
existence—a feeling which is mainly due to the circumstance
that the present always seems fixed and immovable as we look at it.
These and similar mental phenomena are ultimately to be traced to
the fact that it is not our nature in itself, but only the outward
presentation of it, that lies in time, and that the present is the
point of contact between the world as subject and the world as
object.66


66 Translator’s
Note
.—By this remark Schopenhauer means that

will, which, as he argues, forms the inner reality
underlying all the phenomena of life and nature, is not in itself
affected by time; but that, on the other hand, time is necessary
for the objectification of the will, for the will as presented in
the passing phenomena of the world. Time is thus definable as the
condition of change, and the present time as the only point of
contact between reality and appearance.]


Again, why is it that in youth we can see no end to the years
that seem to lie before us? Because we are obliged to find room for
all the things we hope to attain in life. We cram the years so full
of projects that if we were to try and carry them all out, death
would come prematurely though we reached the age of Methuselah.


Another reason why life looks so long when we are young, is that
we are apt to measure its length by the few years we have already
lived. In those early years things are new to us, and so they
appear important; we dwell upon them after they have happened and
often call them to mind; and thus in youth life seems replete with
incident, and therefore of long duration.


Sometimes we credit ourselves with a longing to be in some
distant spot, whereas, in truth, we are only longing to have the
time back again which we spent there—days when we were
younger and fresher than we are now. In those moments Time mocks us
by wearing the mask of space; and if we travel to the spot, we can
see how much we have been deceived.


There are two ways of reaching a great age, both of which
presuppose a sound constitution as a conditio sine quâ
non
. They may be illustrated by two lamps, one of which burns
a long time with very little oil, because it has a very thin wick;
and the other just as long, though it has a very thick one, because
there is plenty of oil to feed it. Here, the oil is the vital
energy, and the difference in the wick is the manifold way in which
the vital energy is used.


Up to our thirty-sixth year, we may be compared, in respect of
the way in which we use our vital energy, to people who live on the
interest of their money: what they spend to-day, they have again
to-morrow. But from the age of thirty-six onwards, our position is
like that of the investor who begins to entrench upon his capital.
At first he hardly notices any difference at all, as the greater
part of his expenses is covered by the interest of his securities;
and if the deficit is but slight, he pays no attention to it. But
the deficit goes on increasing, until he awakes to the fact that it
is becoming more serious every day: his position becomes less and
less secure, and he feels himself growing poorer and poorer, while
he has no expectation of this drain upon his resources coming to an
end. His fall from wealth to poverty becomes faster every
moment—like the fall of a solid body in space, until at last
he has absolutely nothing left. A man is truly in a woeful plight
if both the terms of this comparison—his vital energy and his
wealth—really begin to melt away at one and the same time. It
is the dread of this calamity that makes love of possession
increase with age.



On the other hand, at the beginning of life, in the years before
we attain majority, and for some little time afterwards—the
state of our vital energy puts us on a level with those who each
year lay by a part of their interest and add it to their capital:
in other words, not only does their interest come in regularly, but
the capital is constantly receiving additions. This happy condition
of affairs is sometimes brought about—with health as with
money—under the watchful care of some honest guardian. O
happy youth, and sad old age!


Nevertheless, a man should economize his strength even when he
is young. Aristotle67 observes
that amongst those who were victors at Olympia only two or three
gained a prize at two different periods, once in boyhood and then
again when they came to be men; and the reason of this was that the
premature efforts which the training involved, so completely
exhausted their powers that they failed to last on into manhood. As
this is true of muscular, so it is still more true of nervous
energy, of which all intellectual achievements are the
manifestation. Hence, those infant prodigies—ingenia
praecoda
—the fruit of a hot-house education, who
surprise us by their cleverness as children, afterwards turn out
very ordinary folk. Nay, the manner in which boys are forced into
an early acquaintance with the ancient tongues may, perhaps, be to
blame for the dullness and lack of judgment which distinguish so
many learned persons.


67 Politics.]



I have said that almost every man’s character seems to be
specially suited to some one period of life, so that on reaching it
the man is at his best. Some people are charming so long as they
are young, and afterwards there is nothing attractive about them;
others are vigorous and active in manhood, and then lose all the
value they possess as they advance in years; many appear to best
advantage in old age, when their character assumes a gentler tone,
as becomes men who have seen the world and take life easily. This
is often the case with the French.


This peculiarity must be due to the fact that the man’s
character has something in it akin to the qualities of youth or
manhood or old age—something which accords with one or
another of these periods of life, or perhaps acts as a corrective
to its special failings.


The mariner observes the progress he makes only by the way in
which objects on the coast fade away into the distance and
apparently decrease in size. In the same way a man becomes
conscious that he is advancing in years when he finds that people
older than himself begin to seem young to him.


It has already been remarked that the older a man becomes, the
fewer are the traces left in his mind by all that he sees, does or
experiences, and the cause of this has been explained. There is
thus a sense in which it may be said that it is only in youth that
a man lives with a full degree of consciousness, and that he is
only half alive when he is old. As the years advance, his
consciousness of what goes on about him dwindles, and the things of
life hurry by without making any impression upon him, just as none
is made by a work of art seen for the thousandth time. A man does
what his hand finds to do, and afterwards he does not know whether
he has done it or not.


As life becomes more and more unconscious, the nearer it
approaches the point at which all consciousness ceases, the course
of time itself seems to increase in rapidity. In childhood all the
things and circumstances of life are novel; and that is sufficient
to awake us to the full consciousness of existence: hence, at that
age, the day seems of such immense length. The same thing happens
when we are traveling: one month seems longer then than four spent
at home. Still, though time seems to last longer when we are young
or on a journey, the sense of novelty does not prevent it from now
and then in reality hanging heavily upon our hands under both these
circumstances, at any rate more than is the case when we are old or
staying at home. But the intellect gradually becomes so rubbed down
and blunted by long habituation to such impressions that things
have a constant tendency to produce less and less impression upon
us as they pass by; and this makes time seem increasingly less
important, and therefore shorter in duration: the hours of the boy
are longer than the days of the old man. Accordingly, time goes
faster and faster the longer we live, like a ball rolling down a
hill. Or, to take another example: as in a revolving disc, the
further a point lies from the centre, the more rapid is its rate of
progression, so it is in the wheel of life; the further you stand
from the beginning, the faster time moves for you. Hence it may be
said that as far as concerns the immediate sensation that time
makes upon our minds, the length of any given year is in direct
proportion to the number of times it will divide our whole life:
for instance, at the age of fifty the year appears to us only
one-tenth as long as it did at the age of five.


This variation in the rate at which time appears to move,
exercises a most decided influence upon the whole nature of our
existence at every period of it. First of all, it causes
childhood—even though it embrace only a span of fifteen
years—to seem the longest period of life, and therefore the
richest in reminiscences. Next, it brings it about that a man is
apt to be bored just in proportion as he is young. Consider, for
instance, that constant need of occupation—whether it is work
or play—that is shown by children: if they come to an end of
both work and play, a terrible feeling of boredom ensues. Even in
youth people are by no means free from this tendency, and dread the
hours when they have nothing to do. As manhood approaches, boredom
disappears; and old men find the time too short when their days fly
past them like arrows from a bow. Of course, I must be understood
to speak of men, not of decrepit brutes. With
this increased rapidity of time, boredom mostly passes away as we
advance in life; and as the passions with all their attendant pain
are then laid asleep, the burden of life is, on the whole,
appreciably lighter in later years than in youth, provided, of
course, that health remains. So it is that the period immediately
preceding the weakness and troubles of old age, receives the name
of a man’s best years.



That may be a true appellation, in view of the comfortable
feeling which those years bring; but for all that the years of
youth, when our consciousness is lively and open to every sort of
impression, have this privilege—that then the seeds are sown
and the buds come forth; it is the springtime of the mind. Deep
truths may be perceived, but can never be excogitated—that is
to say, the first knowledge of them is immediate, called forth by
some momentary impression. This knowledge is of such a kind as to
be attainable only when the impressions are strong, lively and
deep; and if we are to be acquainted with deep truths, everything
depends upon a proper use of our early years. In later life, we may
be better able to work upon other people,—upon the world,
because our natures are then finished and rounded off, and no more
a prey to fresh views; but then the world is less able to work upon
us. These are the years of action and achievement; while youth is
the time for forming fundamental conceptions, and laying down the
ground-work of thought.


In youth it is the outward aspect of things that most engages
us; while in age, thought or reflection is the predominating
quality of the mind. Hence, youth is the time for poetry, and age
is more inclined to philosophy. In practical affairs it is the
same: a man shapes his resolutions in youth more by the impression
that the outward world makes upon him; whereas, when he is old, it
is thought that determines his actions. This is partly to be
explained by the fact that it is only when a man is old that the
results of outward observation are present in sufficient numbers to
allow of their being classified according to the ideas they
represent,—a process which in its turn causes those ideas to
be more fully understood in all their bearings, and the exact value
and amount of trust to be placed in them, fixed and determined;
while at the same time he has grown accustomed to the impressions
produced by the various phenomena of life, and their effects on him
are no longer what they were. Contrarily, in youth, the impressions
that things make, that is to say, the outward aspects of life, are
so overpoweringly strong, especially in the case of people of
lively and imaginative disposition, that they view the world like a
picture; and their chief concern is the figure they cut in it, the
appearance they present; nay, they are unaware of the extent to
which this is the case. It is a quality of mind that shows
itself—if in no other way—in that personal vanity, and
that love of fine clothes, which distinguish young people.


There can be no doubt that the intellectual powers are most
capable of enduring great and sustained efforts in youth, up to the
age of thirty-five at latest; from which period their strength
begins to decline, though very gradually. Still, the later years of
life, and even old age itself, are not without their intellectual
compensation. It is only then that a man can be said to be really
rich in experience or in learning; he has then had time and
opportunity enough to enable him to see and think over life from
all its sides; he has been able to compare one thing with another,
and to discover points of contact and connecting links, so that
only then are the true relations of things rightly understood.
Further, in old age there comes an increased depth in the knowledge
that was acquired in youth; a man has now many more illustrations
of any ideas he may have attained; things which he thought he knew
when he was young, he now knows in reality. And besides, his range
of knowledge is wider; and in whatever direction it extends, it is
thorough, and therefore formed into a consistent and connected
whole; whereas in youth knowledge is always defective and
fragmentary.


A complete and adequate notion of life can never be attained by
any one who does not reach old age; for it is only the old man who
sees life whole and knows its natural course; it is only he who is
acquainted—and this is most important—not only with its
entrance, like the rest of mankind, but with its exit too; so that
he alone has a full sense of its utter vanity; whilst the others
never cease to labor under the false notion that everything will
come right in the end.


On the other hand, there is more conceptive power in youth, and
at that time of life a man can make more out of the little that he
knows. In age, judgment, penetration and thoroughness predominate.
Youth is the time for amassing the material for a knowledge of the
world that shall be distinctive and peculiar,—for an original
view of life, in other words, the legacy that a man of genius
leaves to his fellow-men; it is, however, only in later years that
he becomes master of his material. Accordingly it will be found
that, as a rule, a great writer gives his best work to the world
when he is about fifty years of age. But though the tree of
knowledge must reach its full height before it can bear fruit, the
roots of it lie in youth.



Every generation, no matter how paltry its character, thinks
itself much wiser than the one immediately preceding it, let alone
those that are more remote. It is just the same with the different
periods in a man’s life; and yet often, in the one case no
less than in the other, it is a mistaken opinion. In the years of
physical growth, when our powers of mind and our stores of
knowledge are receiving daily additions, it becomes a habit for
to-day to look down with contempt upon yesterday. The habit strikes
root, and remains even after the intellectual powers have begun to
decline,—when to-day should rather look up with respect to
yesterday. So it is that we often unduly depreciate the
achievements as well as the judgments of our youth. This seems the
place for making the general observation, that, although in its
main qualities a man’s intellect or head,
as well as his character or heart, is innate, yet
the former is by no means so unalterable in its nature as the
latter. The fact is that the intellect is subject to very many
transformations, which, as a rule, do not fail to make their actual
appearance; and this is so, partly because the intellect has a deep
foundation in the physique, and partly because the material with
which it deals is given in experience. And so, from a physical
point of view, we find that if a man has any peculiar power, it
first gradually increases in strength until it reaches its acme,
after which it enters upon a path of slow decadence, until it ends
in imbecility. But, on the other hand, we must not lose sight of
the fact that the material which gives employment to a man’s
powers and keeps them in activity,—the subject-matter of
thought and knowledge, experience, intellectual attainments, the
practice of seeing to the bottom of things, and so a perfect mental
vision, form in themselves a mass which continues to increase in
size, until the time comes when weakness shows itself, and the
man’s powers suddenly fail. The way in which these two
distinguishable elements combine in the same nature,—the one
absolutely unalterable, and the other subject to change in two
directions opposed to each other—explains the variety of
mental attitude and the dissimilarity of value which attach to a
man at different periods of life.



The same truth may be more broadly expressed by saying that the
first forty years of life furnish the text, while the remaining
thirty supply the commentary; and that without the commentary we
are unable to understand aright the true sense and coherence of the
text, together with the moral it contains and all the subtle
application of which it admits.


Towards the close of life, much the same thing happens as at the
end of a bal masqué—the masks are taken off. Then
you can see who the people really are, with whom you have come into
contact in your passage through the world. For by the end of life
characters have come out in their true light, actions have borne
fruit, achievements have been rightly appreciated, and all shams
have fallen to pieces. For this, Time was in every case
requisite.


But the most curious fact is that it is also only towards the
close of life than a man really recognizes and understands his own
true self,—the aims and objects he has followed in life, more
especially the kind of relation in which he has stood to other
people and to the world. It will often happen that as a result of
this knowledge, a man will have to assign himself a lower place
than he formerly thought was his due. But there are exceptions to
this rule; and it will occasionally be the case that he will take a
higher position than he had before. This will be owing to the fact
that he had no adequate notion of the baseness of the
world, and that he set up a higher aim for himself than was
followed by the rest of mankind.


The progress of life shows a man the stuff of which he is
made.


It is customary to call youth the happy, and age the sad part of
life. This would be true if it were the passions that made a man
happy. Youth is swayed to and fro by them; and they give a great
deal of pain and little pleasure. In age the passions cool and
leave a man at rest, and then forthwith his mind takes a
contemplative tone; the intellect is set free and attains the upper
hand. And since, in itself, intellect is beyond the range of pain,
and man feels happy just in so far as his intellect is the
predominating part of him.


It need only be remembered that all pleasure is negative, and
that pain is positive in its nature, in order to see that the
passions can never be a source of happiness, and that age is not
the less to be envied on the ground that many pleasures are denied
it. For every sort of pleasure is never anything more than the
quietive of some need or longing; and that pleasure should come to
an end as soon as the need ceases, is no more a subject of
complaint than that a man cannot go on eating after he has had his
dinner, or fall asleep again after a good night’s rest.



So far from youth being the happiest period of life, there is
much more truth in the remark made by Plato, at the beginning of
the Republic, that the prize should rather be given to old
age, because then at last a man is freed from the animal passion
which has hitherto never ceased to disquiet him. Nay, it may even
be said that the countless and manifold humors which have their
source in this passion, and the emotions that spring from it,
produce a mild state of madness; and this lasts as long as the man
is subject to the spell of the impulse—this evil spirit, as
it were, of which there is no riddance—so that he never
really becomes a reasonable being until the passion is
extinguished.


There is no doubt that, in general, and apart from individual
circumstances and particular dispositions, youth is marked by a
certain melancholy and sadness, while genial sentiments attach to
old age; and the reason for this is nothing but the fact that the
young man is still under the service, nay, the forced labor,
imposed by that evil spirit, which scarcely ever leaves him a
moment to himself. To this source may be traced, directly or
indirectly, almost all and every ill that befalls or menaces
mankind. The old man is genial and cheerful because, after long
lying in the bonds of passion, he can now move about in
freedom.


Still, it should not be forgotten that, when this passion is
extinguished, the true kernel of life is gone, and nothing remains
but the hollow shell; or, from another point of view, life then
becomes like a comedy, which, begun by real actors, is continued
and brought to an end by automata dressed in their clothes.


However that may be, youth is the period of unrest, and age of
repose; and from that very circumstance, the relative degree of
pleasure belonging to each may be inferred. The child stretches out
its little hands in the eager desire to seize all the pretty things
that meet its sight, charmed by the world because all its senses
are still so young and fresh. Much the same thing happens with the
youth, and he displays greater energy in his quest. He, too, is
charmed by all the pretty things and the many pleasing shapes that
surround him; and forthwith his imagination conjures up pleasures
which the world can never realize. So he is filled with an ardent
desire for he knows not what delights—robbing him of all rest
and making happiness impossible. But when old age is reached, all
this is over and done with, partly because the blood runs cooler
and the senses are no longer so easily allured; partly because
experience has shown the true value of things and the futility of
pleasure, whereby illusion has been gradually dispelled, and the
strange fancies and prejudices which previously concealed or
distorted a free and true view of the world, have been dissipated
and put to flight; with the result that a man can now get a juster
and clearer view, and see things as they are, and also in a measure
attain more or less insight into the nullity of all things on this
earth.


It is this that gives almost every old man, no matter how
ordinary his faculties may be, a certain tincture of wisdom, which
distinguishes him from the young. But the chief result of all this
change is the peace of mind that ensues—a great element in
happiness, and, in fact, the condition and essence of it. While the
young man fancies that there is a vast amount of good things in the
world, if he could only come at them, the old man is steeped in the
truth of the Preacher’s words, that all things are
vanity
—knowing that, however gilded the shell, the nut
is hollow.



In these later years, and not before, a man comes to a true
appreciation of Horace’s maxim: Nil admirari. He is
directly and sincerely convinced of the vanity of everything and
that all the glories of the world are as nothing: his illusions are
gone. He is no more beset with the idea that there is any
particular amount of happiness anywhere, in the palace or in the
cottage, any more than he himself enjoys when he is free from
bodily or mental pain. The worldly distinctions of great and small,
high and low, exist for him no longer; and in this blissful state
of mind the old man may look down with a smile upon all false
notions. He is completely undeceived, and knows that whatever may
be done to adorn human life and deck it out in finery, its paltry
character will soon show through the glitter of its surroundings;
and that, paint and be jewel it as one may, it remains everywhere
much the same,—an existence which has no true value except in
freedom from pain, and is never to be estimated by the presence of
pleasure, let alone, then, of display."#note68">68


68 Cf. Horace,
Epist. I. 12, I-4.]


Disillusion is the chief characteristic of old age; for by that
time the fictions are gone which gave life its charm and spurred on
the mind to activity; the splendors of the world have been proved
null and vain; its pomp, grandeur and magnificence are faded. A man
has then found out that behind most of the things he wants, and
most of the pleasures he longs for, there is very little after all;
and so he comes by degrees to see that our existence is all empty
and void. It is only when he is seventy years old that he quite
understands the first words of the Preacher; and this again
explains why it is that old men are sometimes fretful and
morose.


It is often said that the common lot of old age is disease and
weariness of life. Disease is by no means essential to old age;
especially where a really long span of years is to be attained; for
as life goes on, the conditions of health and disorder tend to
increase—crescente vita, crescit sanitas et morbus.
And as far as weariness or boredom is concerned, I have stated
above why old age is even less exposed to that form of evil than
youth. Nor is boredom by any means to be taken as a necessary
accompaniment of that solitude, which, for reasons that do not
require to be explained, old age certainly cannot escape; it is
rather the fate that awaits those who have never known any other
pleasures but the gratification of the senses and the delights of
society—who have left their minds unenlightened and their
faculties unused. It is quite true that the intellectual faculties
decline with the approach of old age; but where they were
originally strong, there will always be enough left to combat the
onslaught of boredom. And then again, as I have said, experience,
knowledge, reflection, and skill in dealing with men, combine to
give an old man an increasingly accurate insight into the ways of
the world; his judgment becomes keen and he attains a coherent view
of life: his mental vision embraces a wider range. Constantly
finding new uses for his stores of knowledge and adding to them at
every opportunity, he maintains uninterrupted that inward process
of self-education, which gives employment and satisfaction to the
mind, and thus forms the due reward of all its efforts.



All this serves in some measure as a compensation for decreased
intellectual power. And besides, Time, as I have remarked, seems to
go much more quickly when we are advanced in years; and this is in
itself a preventive of boredom. There is no great harm in the fact
that a man’s bodily strength decreases in old age, unless,
indeed, he requires it to make a living. To be poor when one is
old, is a great misfortune. If a man is secure from that, and
retains his health, old age may be a very passable time of life.
Its chief necessity is to be comfortable and well off; and, in
consequence, money is then prized more than ever, because it is a
substitute for failing strength. Deserted by Venus, the old man
likes to turn to Bacchus to make him merry. In the place of wanting
to see things, to travel and learn, comes the desire to speak and
teach. It is a piece of good fortune if the old man retains some of
his love of study or of music or of the theatre,—if, in
general, he is still somewhat susceptible to the things about him;
as is, indeed, the case with some people to a very late age. At
that time of life, what a man has in himself is of greater
advantage to him that ever it was before.


There can be no doubt that most people who have never been
anything but dull and stupid, become more and more of automata as
they grow old. They have always thought, said and done the same
things as their neighbors; and nothing that happens now can change
their disposition, or make them act otherwise. To talk to old
people of this kind is like writing on the sand; if you produce any
impression at all, it is gone almost immediately; old age is here
nothing but the caput mortuum of life—all that is
essential to manhood is gone. There are cases in which nature
supplies a third set of teeth in old age, thereby apparently
demonstrating the fact that that period of life is a second
childhood.


It is certainly a very melancholy thing that all a man’s
faculties tend to waste away as he grows old, and at a rate that
increases in rapidity: but still, this is a necessary, nay, a
beneficial arrangement, as otherwise death, for which it is a
preparation, would be too hard to bear. So the greatest boon that
follows the attainment of extreme old age is
euthanasia,—an easy death, not ushered in by
disease, and free from all pain and struggle."#note69">69 For let a man live as long as he may,
he is never conscious of any moment but the present, one and
indivisible; and in those late years the mind loses more every day
by sheer forgetfulness than ever it gains anew.



69 See Die Welt als
Wille und Vorstellung
, Bk. II. ch. 41, for a further
description of this happy end to life.]


The main difference between youth and age will always be that
youth looks forward to life, and old age to death; and that while
the one has a short past and a long future before it, the case is
just the opposite with the other. It is quite true that when a man
is old, to die is the only thing that awaits him; while if he is
young, he may expect to live; and the question arises which of the
two fates is the more hazardous, and if life is not a matter which,
on the whole, it is better to have behind one than before? Does not
the Preacher say: the day of death [is better] than the day of
one’s birth
.70 It is
certainly a rash thing to wish for long life;"#note71">71 for as the Spanish proverb has it, it
means to see much evil,—Quien larga vida vive mucho mal
vide
.



70 Ecclesiastes vii. 1.]


71 The life of man cannot,
strictly speaking, be called either long or
short, since it is the ultimate standard by which duration
of time in regard to all other things is measured.


In one of the Vedic Upanishads (Oupnekhat, II.) the
natural length
of human life is put down at one hundred years.
And I believe this to be right. I have observed, as a matter of
fact, that it is only people who exceed the age of ninety who
attain euthanasia,—who die, that is to say, of no
disease, apoplexy or convulsion, and pass away without agony of any
sort; nay, who sometimes even show no pallor, but expire generally
in a sitting attitude, and often after a meal,—or, I may say,
simply cease to live rather than die. To come to one’s end
before the age of ninety, means to die of disease, in other words,
prematurely.



Now the Old Testament (Psalms xc. 10) puts the limit of human
life at seventy, and if it is very long, at eighty years; and what
is more noticeable still, Herodotus (i. 32 and iii. 22) says the
same thing. But this is wrong; and the error is due simply to a
rough and superficial estimate of the results of daily experience.
For if the natural length of life were from seventy to eighty
years, people would die, about that time, of mere old age. Now this
is certainly not the case. If they die then, they die, like younger
people, of disease; and disease is something abnormal.
Therefore it is not natural to die at that age. It is only when
they are between ninety and a hundred that people die of old age;
die, I mean, without suffering from any disease, or showing any
special signs of their condition, such as a struggle, death-rattle,
convulsion, pallor,—the absence of all which constitutes
euthanasia. The natural length of human life is a hundred
years; and in assigning that limit the Upanishads are right once
more.]


A man’s individual career is not, as Astrology wishes to
make out, to be predicted from observation of the planets; but the
course of human life in general, as far as the various periods of
it are concerned, may be likened to the succession of the planets:
so that we may be said to pass under the influence of each one of
them in turn.


At ten, Mercury is in the ascendant; and at that age, a
youth, like this planet, is characterized by extreme mobility
within a narrow sphere, where trifles have a great effect upon him;
but under the guidance of so crafty and eloquent a god, he easily
makes great progress. Venus begins her sway during his
twentieth year, and then a man is wholly given up to the love of
women. At thirty, Mars comes to the front, and he is now
all energy and strength,—daring, pugnacious and arrogant.



When a man reaches the age of forty, he is under the rule of the
four Asteroids; that is to say, his life has gained
something in extension. He is frugal; in other words, by the help
of Ceres, he favors what is useful; he has his own hearth,
by the influence of Vesta; Pallas has taught him
that which is necessary for him to know; and his wife—his
Juno—rules as the mistress of his house.


But at the age of fifty, Jupiter is the dominant
influence. At that period a man has outlived most of his
contemporaries, and he can feel himself superior to the generation
about him. He is still in the full enjoyment of his strength, and
rich in experience and knowledge; and if he has any power and
position of his own, he is endowed with authority over all who
stand in his immediate surroundings. He is no more inclined to
receive orders from others; he wants to take command himself. The
work most suitable to him now is to guide and rule within his own
sphere. This is the point where Jupiter culminates, and where the
man of fifty years is at his best.



Then comes Saturn, at about the age of sixty, a weight
as of lead, dull and slow:—



But old folks, many feign as they were dead;

Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead
.

Last of all, Uranus; or, as the saying is, a man goes to
heaven.




I cannot find a place for Neptune, as this planet has
been very thoughtlessly named; because I may not call it as it
should be called—Eros. Otherwise I should point out
how Beginning and End meet together, and how closely and intimately
Eros is connected with Death: how Orcus, or Amenthes, as the
Egyptians called him, is not only the receiver but the giver of all
things—[Greek: lambanon kai didous]. Death is the great
reservoir of Life. Everything comes from Orcus; everything that is
alive now was once there. Could we but understand the great trick
by which that is done, all would be clear!