Aphorismen zur Lebensweisheit

by Arthur Schopenhauer

Translated by an AI Model

Published 1913

Introduction.

I take the term "wisdom of life" here entirely in an immanent sense, namely, as the art of living life as pleasantly and happily as possible, the guidance for which could also be called Eudaimonology: it would therefore be the instruction for a happy existence. This, in turn, could at best be defined as one which, viewed purely objectively, or rather (since it depends on a subjective judgment here) upon cold and mature reflection, would be decidedly preferable to non-existence. From this concept of it, it follows that we would cling to it for its own sake, and not merely out of fear of death; and from this, in turn, that we would wish to see it of endless duration. Whether human life corresponds to the concept of such an existence, or can even correspond to it, is a question which, as is well known, my philosophy answers in the negative; while Eudaimonology presupposes its affirmation. The latter, namely, is based precisely on the innate error, the critique of which opens the 49th chapter in the 2nd volume of my main work. In order to nevertheless elaborate on such a subject, I have therefore had to completely depart from the higher, metaphysical-ethical standpoint to which my actual philosophy leads. Consequently, the entire discussion to be given here is based, in a sense, on an accommodation, insofar as it remains at the usual, empirical standpoint and adheres to its error. Therefore, its value can only be a conditional one, since even the word Eudaimonology is merely a euphemism. – Furthermore, it also makes no claim to completeness; partly because the topic is inexhaustible; partly because I would otherwise have had to repeat what has already been said by others.

The only book I recall written with a similar intention to these aphorisms is the very readable work by Cardanus, de utilitate ex adversis capienda, which can thus serve to complement what is provided here. It is true that Aristotle also wove a brief eudaemonology into the 5th chapter of the 1st book of his Rhetoric; however, it turned out to be very sober. I have not used these predecessors, as compilation is not my way; and even less so, as it would lead to a loss of the unity of perspective, which is the soul of works of this kind. – Generally speaking, the wise of all ages have indeed always said the same thing, and fools, i.e., the immense majority of all ages, have always done the opposite, namely the contrary: and so it will continue to be. Therefore, Voltaire says: nous laisserons ce monde-ci aussi sot et aussi méchant que nous l'avons trouvé en y arrivant.

Chapter I.
Fundamental Division.

Aristotle (Eth. Nicom. I, 8) divided the goods of human life into three classes – external goods, goods of the soul, and goods of the body. Retaining nothing but the number three from this, I say that what constitutes the difference in the lot of mortals can be traced back to three fundamental determinations. They are:

1. What a person is: thus, personality, in the widest sense. This includes health, strength, beauty, temperament, moral character, intelligence, and their cultivation.

2. What a person has: thus, property and possessions in every sense.

3. What a person represents: this expression is commonly understood to mean what he is in the minds of others, or rather, how he is represented by them. It therefore consists in their opinion of him, and divides into honor, rank, and fame.

The differences to be considered under the first heading are those that nature itself has established between human beings; from this, it can already be inferred that their influence on their happiness or unhappiness will be much more substantial and pervasive than what the differences arising merely from human determinations, specified under the two following headings, can bring about. Compared to genuine personal merits, such as a great mind or a great heart, all advantages of rank, birth, even royal lineage, wealth, and the like, are like stage kings compared to real ones. Already Metrodorus, the first disciple of Epicurus, titled a chapter: περι του μειζονα εἰναι την παρ’ ἡμας αἰτιαν προς εὐδαιμονιαν της ἐκ των πραγματων. (The cause of happiness that comes from within us is greater than that which arises from external things. – Cf. Clemens Alex. Strom. II, 21, p. 362 of the Würzburg edition of opp. polem.) And indeed, for a person's well-being, and even for the entire manner of their existence, the main thing is obviously what exists or perishes within them. For here lies directly their inner comfort or discomfort, which is primarily the result of their feeling, willing, and thinking; while everything external only indirectly influences it. Therefore, the same external events or circumstances affect everyone quite differently, and with the same surroundings, everyone lives in a different world. For they have immediate dealings only with their own ideas, feelings, and volitions: external things influence them only insofar as they cause these. The world in which everyone lives depends primarily on their perception of it, and therefore varies according to the diversity of minds: according to this, it will turn out to be poor, stale, and flat, or rich, interesting, and meaningful. While, for example, some envy others for the interesting events that have happened to them in their lives, they should rather envy them for the power of perception that lent those events the significance they have in their description: for the same event, which presents itself so interestingly in a brilliant mind, would, if perceived by a dull, everyday mind, be only a stale scene from the everyday world. This is shown to the highest degree in some poems by Goethe and Byron, which are clearly based on real events: a foolish reader is capable of envying the poet for the delightful event, instead of for the powerful imagination that was capable of making something so great and beautiful out of a rather ordinary incident. Likewise, the melancholic sees a tragedy, where the sanguine sees only an interesting conflict, and the phlegmatic sees something insignificant. All this is based on the fact that every reality, i.e., every fulfilled present, consists of two halves, the subject and the object, although in such a necessary and close connection as oxygen and hydrogen in water. With a completely identical objective half, but a different subjective half, the present reality is therefore completely different, just as in the reverse case: the most beautiful and best objective half with a dull, bad subjective half still yields only a bad reality and present; like a beautiful landscape in bad weather, or in the reflection of a bad Camera obscura. Or, to speak more plainly: Everyone is stuck in their consciousness as if in their own skin, and lives directly only within it: therefore, not much help can come from outside. On stage, one plays the prince, another the counselor, a third the servant or the soldier, or the general, and so on. But these differences exist only externally; internally, as the core of such an appearance, the same thing lies within everyone: a poor comedian, with his toil and trouble. It is the same in life. The differences in rank and wealth give everyone their role to play; but by no means does this correspond to an inner difference in happiness and comfort; rather, here too, the same poor wretch lies within everyone, with their distress and toil, which may be different in substance for each, but in form, i.e., in its true essence, is pretty much the same for all; albeit with differences in degree, which, however, by no means depend on status and wealth, i.e., on the role. For since everything that exists and happens for a person always exists and happens immediately only in their consciousness; it is clear that the nature of consciousness itself is primarily essential, and in most cases, it matters more than the forms that present themselves within it. All splendor and pleasures, reflected in the dull consciousness of a simpleton, are very poor compared to the consciousness of Cervantes when he wrote Don Quixote in an uncomfortable prison. – The objective half of the present and reality is in the hands of fate and is therefore changeable: the subjective half is ourselves; therefore, it is essentially unchangeable. Accordingly, every person's life, despite all external changes, consistently bears the same character and can be compared to a series of variations on one theme. No one can escape their individuality. And just as an animal, under all circumstances in which it is placed, remains confined to the narrow circle that nature has irrevocably drawn for its being, which is why, for example, our efforts to make a beloved animal happy must always remain within narrow limits precisely because of those limits of its being and consciousness; – so it is with humans: the measure of their possible happiness is determined in advance by their individuality. In particular, the limits of their intellectual faculties have once and for all established their capacity for heightened enjoyment. If they are narrow, all external efforts, everything that people, everything that fortune does for them, will not be able to lead them beyond the measure of ordinary, half-animal human happiness and comfort: they remain dependent on sensual pleasure, cozy and cheerful family life, low-level sociability, and vulgar pastimes: even education, on the whole, cannot do very much, if anything, to expand that circle. For the highest, most varied, and most lasting pleasures are intellectual; however much we may deceive ourselves about this in youth; but these depend mainly on intellectual power. – From this, it is clear how much our happiness depends on what we are, on our individuality; while mostly only our fate, only what we have, or what we represent, is taken into account. But fate can improve: moreover, with inner richness, one will not demand much from it: on the other hand, a simpleton remains a simpleton, a dull block a dull block, until their end, even if they were in paradise surrounded by houris. Therefore, Goethe says:

That the subjective is incomparably more essential to our happiness and enjoyment than the objective is confirmed in everything: from the fact that hunger is the best cook and an old man looks indifferently at the goddess of a youth, up to the life of a genius and a saint. Health, in particular, so greatly outweighs all external goods that, truly, a healthy beggar is happier than a sick king. A calm and cheerful temperament, arising from perfect health and a happy constitution; a clear, lively, penetrating, and sound understanding; a moderate, gentle will, and consequently a good conscience—these are advantages that no rank or wealth can replace. For what a person is in themselves, what accompanies them into solitude, and what no one can give or take away, is clearly more essential to them than anything they may possess, or even what they may be in the eyes of others. A witty person, in complete solitude, finds excellent entertainment in their own thoughts and fantasies, while for a dull person, the constant change of company, spectacles, outings, and amusements cannot ward off tormenting boredom. A good, moderate, gentle character can be content in meager circumstances, whereas a covetous, envious, or malicious one is not, even with all riches. Moreover, for someone who constantly enjoys an extraordinary, intellectually eminent individuality, most of the commonly sought pleasures are entirely superfluous, indeed, only disturbing and bothersome. Hence, Horace says of himself:

And Socrates, upon seeing luxury goods displayed for sale, said: "How many things there are that I do not need." Thus, for our happiness in life, what we are, our personality, is certainly the first and most essential thing; – not only because it is constantly effective under all circumstances, but also because, unlike the goods in the other two categories, it is not subject to fate and cannot be taken from us. Its value can therefore be called absolute, in contrast to the merely relative value of the other two. From this, it follows that a person is much less affected by external factors than one might think. Only all-powerful time exercises its right here as well: physical and mental advantages gradually succumb to it; only moral character remains inaccessible to it. In this respect, the goods of the latter two categories, which time does not directly steal, would indeed have an advantage over those of the first. A second advantage could be found in the fact that, being objective, they are by nature attainable, and everyone at least has the possibility of acquiring them; whereas, on the other hand, the subjective is not at all within our power, but rather entered jure divino, fixed unchangeably for the entire life; so that here the saying applies inexorably:

The only thing within our power in this regard is to utilize our given personality to the greatest possible advantage, pursuing only the endeavors that suit it and striving for the kind of education that is precisely appropriate for it, while avoiding all others. Consequently, we should choose the status, occupation, and lifestyle that align with it.

A Herculean individual endowed with unusual muscular strength, who is compelled by external circumstances to engage in a sedentary occupation, a petty, painstaking manual labor, or even to pursue studies and intellectual work that demand entirely different, less prominent faculties within him, thus leaving his exceptional strengths unused, will feel unhappy throughout his life. Even more so will the person in whom intellectual faculties are highly predominant, and who must leave them undeveloped and unused to pursue a common trade that does not require them, or even physical labor for which his strength is not quite sufficient. However, here, especially in youth, the pitfall of presumption must be avoided: that one does not attribute to oneself an excess of strength that one does not possess.

The decided preponderance of our first category over the other two also indicates that it is wiser to strive for the preservation of one's health and the development of one's abilities than to work for the acquisition of wealth; however, this should not be misinterpreted as neglecting to acquire what is necessary and appropriate. But true wealth, i.e., great abundance, can do little for our happiness; hence many rich people feel unhappy because they lack genuine intellectual cultivation, knowledge, and therefore any objective interest that could enable them to engage in intellectual pursuits. For what wealth can achieve beyond satisfying real and natural needs has little influence on our true well-being: rather, this is disturbed by the many unavoidable worries that the preservation of great possessions brings. Nevertheless, people are a thousand times more eager to acquire wealth than intellectual cultivation; while it is quite certain that what one is contributes much more to our happiness than what one has. We therefore see many, in restless activity, diligently like ants, striving from morning till evening to increase their already existing wealth. Beyond the narrow horizon of the means to this end, he knows nothing: his mind is empty, and therefore impervious to everything else. The highest pleasures, the intellectual ones, are inaccessible to him: he tries in vain to replace them with fleeting, sensual ones, which cost little time but much money, and which he allows himself in between. At the end of his life, if fortune has been kind, he truly has a very large pile of money before him as a result of it, which he now leaves to his heirs to either increase further or squander. Such a life, though carried out with a very serious and important demeanor, is therefore just as foolish as many others that directly had the jester's cap as their symbol.

What a person has within himself is the most essential thing for his happiness in life. It is precisely because this is usually so very little that most people who are beyond the struggle with hardship feel, at bottom, just as unhappy as those who are still grappling with it. The emptiness of their inner being, the blandness of their consciousness, the poverty of their spirit drives them to seek society, which, however, consists of people just like themselves; because similis simili gaudet (like rejoices in like). Then they jointly hunt for amusement and entertainment, which they first seek in sensual pleasures, in amusements of every kind, and finally in excesses. The source of the ruinous extravagance by which many a family son, entering life wealthy, squanders his great inheritance, often in an incredibly short time, is truly none other than boredom, which springs from the poverty and emptiness of spirit just described. Such a youth was sent into the world outwardly rich but inwardly poor, and now strove in vain to replace inner wealth with outer wealth, by wanting to receive everything from outside – analogous to old men who try to strengthen themselves through the exhalation of young girls. As a result, in the end, inner poverty also brought about outer poverty.

I don't need to emphasize the importance of the other two categories of human life's goods, because the value of possessions is so universally acknowledged nowadays that it requires no recommendation. In fact, the third category, compared to the second, has a very ethereal nature, as it consists solely of the opinions of others. However, everyone should strive for honor, i.e., a good reputation; only those who serve the state should strive for rank; and only a very select few should strive for glory. Nevertheless, honor is considered an invaluable good, and glory the most precious thing a person can attain, the golden fleece of the chosen: whereas only fools would prefer rank to possessions. The second and third categories also stand in a so-called reciprocal relationship, insofar as Petronius's habes, habeberis holds true, and, conversely, the favorable opinion of others, in all its forms, often helps one acquire possessions.

Chapter II.
On what one is.

That this contributes far more to his happiness than what he has, or what he represents, we have already generally recognized. It always depends on what a person is and what he has in himself: for his individuality accompanies him always and everywhere, and everything he experiences is tinged by it. In everything and with everything, he primarily enjoys only himself: This applies even to physical pleasures; how much more so to spiritual ones. Hence the English to enjoy one's self is a very apt expression, with which one says, for example, he enjoys himself at Paris, thus not "he enjoys Paris," but "he enjoys himself in Paris." – But if the individuality is of poor quality, then all pleasures are like fine wines in a mouth tainted with gall. Therefore, for better or worse, setting aside severe misfortunes, it matters less what one encounters and experiences in life than how one perceives it, that is, the nature and degree of one's receptivity in every respect. What one is in oneself and has in oneself, in short, the personality and its worth, is the sole immediate factor for one's happiness and well-being. Everything else is mediate; therefore its effect can be thwarted, but that of the personality never. For this very reason, envy directed at personal merits is the most irreconcilable, just as it is the most carefully concealed. Furthermore, only the quality of consciousness is enduring and persistent, and individuality acts continuously, constantly, more or less at every moment: everything else, however, acts only at times, occasionally, transiently, and is moreover itself subject to change and alteration: therefore Aristotle says: ἡ γαρ φυσις βεβαια, ου τα χρηματα (for nature is permanent, not possessions). Eth. Eud. VII, 2. It is on this that it rests that we bear a misfortune that has come upon us entirely from outside with more composure than one that is self-inflicted: for fate can change; but one's own nature never. Therefore, the subjective goods, such as a noble character, a capable mind, a happy temperament, a cheerful disposition, and a well-formed, perfectly healthy body, in short, mens sana in corpore sano (Juvenal. Sat. X, 356), are the first and most important for our happiness; which is why we should be much more concerned with promoting and preserving them than with the possession of external goods and external honor.

What, of all these, brings us the most immediate happiness is cheerfulness of mind: for this good quality instantly rewards itself. Whoever is cheerful always has a reason to be so: namely, the very fact that he is. Nothing can so completely replace every other good as this quality; while it itself cannot be replaced by anything. Let a person be young, beautiful, rich, and honored; if one wants to judge his happiness, the question is whether he is cheerful: if, on the other hand, he is cheerful, it matters not whether he is young or old, straight or hunchbacked, poor or rich; he is happy. In my early youth, I once opened an old book, and it said: 'He who laughs much is happy, and he who cries much is unhappy' – a very simple observation, which I have not been able to forget due to its simple truth, however much it may be the superlative of a truism's. For this reason, we should open our doors wide to cheerfulness whenever it appears: for it never comes at the wrong time; whereas we often hesitate to allow it entry, wanting first to know if we really have cause to be content in every respect; or also because we fear being disturbed in our serious deliberations and important concerns: however, what we improve by these is very uncertain; cheerfulness, on the other hand, is immediate gain. It alone is, as it were, the ready cash of happiness and not, like everything else, merely the banknote; because only it brings immediate happiness in the present; which is why it is the highest good for beings whose reality has the form of an indivisible present between two infinite times. Therefore, we should prioritize the acquisition and promotion of this good over every other endeavor. Now, it is certain that nothing contributes less to cheerfulness than wealth, and nothing more than health: in the lower, working classes, especially those who cultivate the land, cheerful and contented faces are found; in the rich and noble, vexed faces are at home. Consequently, we should above all strive to maintain a high degree of perfect health, as cheerfulness appears as its bloom. The means to this are, as is well known, avoidance of all excesses and debauchery, all violent or unpleasant emotions, also all too great or too prolonged mental exertion, at least two hours of brisk movement daily in the open air, much cold bathing, and similar dietary measures. Without daily proper exercise, one cannot remain healthy; all life processes require, to be properly executed, movement both of the parts in which they occur and of the whole. Hence Aristotle rightly says: ὁ βιος ἐν τη κινησει εστι. Life consists in movement and has its essence in it. Throughout the entire interior of the organism, there is unceasing, rapid movement: the heart, in its complicated double systole and diastole, beats violently and tirelessly; with 28 of its beats, it has driven the entire mass of blood through the whole greater and lesser circulation; the lungs pump incessantly like a steam engine; the intestines constantly twist in the motus peristalticus; all glands absorb and secrete constantly, even the brain has a double movement with every heartbeat and every breath. If now, as is the case with the entirely sedentary lifestyle of countless people, external movement is almost entirely absent, a glaring and destructive disproportion arises between external rest and internal tumult. For even the constant internal movement wants to be somewhat supported by the external: that disproportion, however, becomes analogous to when, as a result of some emotion, it boils within us, but we are not allowed to show anything of it outwardly. Even trees need movement by the wind to thrive. Here, a rule applies that can be most briefly expressed in Latin: omnis motus, quo celerior, eo magis motus. – How much our happiness depends on cheerfulness of mood and this on the state of health is taught by comparing the impression that the same external circumstances or incidents make on us on a healthy and vigorous day with that which they produce when illness has made us vexed and anxious. Not what things are objectively and really, but what they are for us, in our perception, makes us happy or unhappy: this is precisely what Epictetus's ταρασσει τους ανθρωπους ου τα pragmata, αλλα τα περι των pragmatôn δογματα (commovent homines non res, sed de rebus opiniones) means. In general, however, ⁹/₁₀ of our happiness depends solely on health. With it, everything becomes a source of enjoyment: without it, however, no external good, of whatever kind, is enjoyable, and even the other subjective goods, the qualities of mind, disposition, temperament, are diminished and greatly impaired by illness. Therefore, it is not without reason that people inquire about each other's state of health above all things and wish each other well: for truly, this is by far the main thing for human happiness. From this, however, it follows that the greatest of all follies is to sacrifice one's health for anything whatsoever, for gain, for promotion, for scholarship, for fame, let alone for lust and fleeting pleasures: rather, one should put everything after it.

However much health contributes to the cheerfulness that is so essential to our happiness, the latter does not depend solely on the former: for even with perfect health, a melancholic temperament and a predominantly gloomy mood can persist. The ultimate reason for this undoubtedly lies in the original and therefore unalterable nature of the organism, primarily in the more or less normal ratio of sensibility to irritability and reproductive power. Abnormal preponderance of sensibility will lead to mood swings, periodic excessive cheerfulness, and prevailing melancholy. Since genius is also conditioned by an excess of nervous energy, i.e., sensibility, Aristotle rightly observed that all distinguished and superior people are melancholic: πάντες ὅσοι περιττοὶ γεγόνασιν ἄνδρες, ἢ κατὰ φιλοσοφίαν, ἢ πολιτικὴν, ἢ ποίησιν ἢ τέχνας, φαίνονται μελαγχολικοὶ ὄντες (Probl. 30, 1). Undoubtedly, this is the passage Cicero had in mind in his often-cited report: Aristoteles ait, omnes ingeniosos melancholicos esse (Tusc. I, 33). The great innate diversity of fundamental mood, which is considered here, was very nicely described by Shakespeare:

It is precisely this difference that Plato designates with the terms δυσκολος and ευκολος. This can be traced back to the widely varying susceptibility to pleasant and unpleasant impressions among different people, as a result of which one person still laughs at what almost drives another to despair: and indeed, the susceptibility to pleasant impressions tends to be weaker the stronger the susceptibility to unpleasant ones, and vice versa. Given an equal chance of a happy or unhappy outcome in a matter, the δυσκολος will be annoyed or grieved by an unhappy outcome but not rejoice in a happy one; the ευκολος, on the other hand, will not be annoyed or grieved by an unhappy outcome but will rejoice in a happy one. If nine out of ten endeavors succeed for the δυσκολος, he does not rejoice in these but is annoyed by the one that failed: the εὐκολος, in the opposite case, knows how to console and cheer himself with the one that succeeded. – However, just as hardly any evil is without some compensation, it also turns out here that the δυσκολοι, i.e., the gloomy and anxious characters, will, on the whole, have to endure more imaginary but fewer real misfortunes and sufferings than the cheerful and carefree: for whoever sees everything in black, always fears the worst, and therefore takes precautions, will not have miscalculated as often as whoever always lends a cheerful color and outlook to things. – However, when a pathological affection of the nervous system or the digestive organs contributes to congenital δυσκολια, this can reach such a high degree that continuous malaise produces weariness of life and consequently a tendency to suicide. Even the slightest inconveniences can then cause this; indeed, in the highest degrees of the affliction, they are not even necessary; rather, merely as a result of persistent malaise, suicide is decided upon and then carried out with such cool deliberation and firm resolve that the patient, usually already under supervision, constantly focused on it, seizes the first unguarded moment to, without hesitation, struggle, or recoil, grasp that means of relief which is now natural and welcome to him. Detailed descriptions of this state are given by Esquirol, des maladies mentales. However, under certain circumstances, even the healthiest and perhaps even the most cheerful person can decide on suicide if the magnitude of suffering or of unavoidably approaching misfortune overwhelms the terrors of death. The difference lies solely in the varying magnitude of the cause required for it, which is inversely proportional to δυσκολια. The greater the latter, the smaller the former can be, indeed, it can eventually sink to zero: the greater, on the other hand, ευκολια and the health supporting it, the more must be contained in the cause. Accordingly, there are countless gradations of cases, between the two extremes of suicide, namely that arising purely from a pathological intensification of congenital δυσκολia, and that of the healthy and cheerful person, entirely for objective reasons.

Beauty is partly related to health. Although this subjective advantage does not directly contribute to our happiness, but only indirectly, through the impression it makes on others, it is nevertheless of great importance, even for a man. Beauty is an open letter of recommendation that wins hearts in advance for us: therefore, the Homeric verse particularly applies to it:

A general overview shows us that the two enemies of human happiness are pain and boredom. It can also be noted that, to the extent that we succeed in moving away from one of them, we approach the other, and vice versa; so that our life truly represents a stronger or weaker oscillation between them. This arises from the fact that both stand in a double antagonism to each other, an external or objective, and an internal or subjective. Externally, need and deprivation give birth to pain; whereas security and abundance give rise to boredom. Accordingly, we see the lower classes of people in a constant struggle against need, and thus pain; the rich and noble world, on the other hand, in a continuous, often truly desperate struggle against boredom. The internal or subjective antagonism of the same, however, rests on the fact that, in the individual human, the susceptibility to one stands in an opposite relationship to that for the other, as it is determined by the measure of his mental faculties. Namely, dullness of mind is consistently associated with dullness of sensation and lack of irritability, a quality that makes one less susceptible to pains and sorrows of every kind and magnitude: but from this very dullness of mind, on the other hand, arises that inner emptiness, evident on countless faces, as well as betraying itself through constant active attention to all, even the smallest occurrences in the external world, which is the true source of boredom and constantly craves external stimulation to set mind and spirit in motion through something. In its choice of this, it is therefore not squeamish; as evidenced by the wretchedness of the pastimes to which people are seen to resort, likewise the nature of their sociability and conversation, no less the many doormen and window-gazers. Principally from this inner emptiness arises the craving for company, distraction, pleasure, and luxury of every kind, which leads many to extravagance and then to misery. Nothing protects so surely from this misery as inner wealth, the wealth of the mind: for the more it approaches eminence, the less room it leaves for boredom. The inexhaustible activity of thoughts, their constantly renewed play with the manifold phenomena of the inner and outer world, the power and urge for ever new combinations of the same, place the eminent mind, apart from moments of relaxation, entirely beyond the reach of boredom. On the other hand, however, heightened intelligence has increased sensibility as an immediate condition, and greater vehemence of will, i.e., passion, as its root: from its union with these now grows a much greater strength of all affections and an increased sensitivity to mental and even physical pains, even greater impatience with all obstacles or even mere disturbances; all of which is powerfully contributed to by the vividness of all conceptions, including unpleasant ones, arising from the strength of imagination. What has been said now applies proportionately to all the intermediate stages that fill the wide space from the dullest simpleton to the greatest genius. Consequently, everyone, objectively as well as subjectively, is closer to one source of human suffering the further he is from the other. Accordingly, his natural inclination will guide him to adapt the objective to the subjective as much as possible in this regard, and thus to take greater precautions against the source of suffering for which he has the greater susceptibility. The intelligent person will above all strive for painlessness, freedom from annoyance, peace, and leisure, consequently seeking a quiet, modest, but as undisturbed as possible life and accordingly, after some acquaintance with so-called people, choosing seclusion and, with great intellect, even solitude. For the more one has in oneself, the less one needs from outside and the less others can be to him. Therefore, eminence of mind leads to unsociability. Indeed, if the quality of society could be replaced by quantity; then it would be worth living even in the great world: but unfortunately, a hundred fools in a heap do not make one clever man. – The one from the other extreme, as soon as necessity allows him to catch his breath, will seek diversion and company at any price and easily settle for anything, fleeing nothing so much as himself. For in solitude, where everyone is thrown back on himself, what he has in himself is revealed: there the fool in purple sighs under the unshakeable burden of his miserable individuality; while the highly gifted person populates and enlivens the most desolate surroundings with his thoughts. Therefore, what Seneca says is very true: omnes stultitia laborat fastidio sui (ep. 9); as is also the saying of Jesus Sirach: “The life of a fool is worse than death.” Accordingly, one will, on the whole, find that everyone is sociable to the extent that he is intellectually poor and generally common. For in the world one has little more than the choice between solitude and commonness. The most sociable of all people are said to be the Negroes, as they are also decidedly intellectually backward: according to reports from North America, in French newspapers (le Commerce, Octbr. 19, 1837), blacks, free and slave mixed together, in large numbers, crowd into the narrowest space because they cannot see their black, snub-nosed faces repeated often enough.

Accordingly, just as the brain acts as the parasite or pensioner of the entire organism, the free leisure each person attains, by granting them the unhindered enjoyment of their consciousness and individuality, is the fruit and reward of their entire existence, which is otherwise nothing but toil and labor. But what, then, does the free leisure of most people yield? Boredom and dullness, unless sensual pleasures or follies are present to fill it. How utterly worthless it is is shown by the way they spend it: it is precisely Ariosto’s ozio lungo d'uomini ignoranti. Ordinary people are merely concerned with passing the time; anyone with any talent – with using it. – The reason why limited minds are so susceptible to boredom is that their intellect is nothing more than the medium of motives for their will. If, for the moment, there are no motives to grasp, then the will rests and the intellect idles; the latter, because it becomes active no more than the former on its own initiative: the result is a dreadful stagnation of all faculties within the entire person – boredom. To counteract this, one now presents the will with small, merely temporary, and arbitrarily adopted motives to excite it, and thereby also to activate the intellect, which must grasp them: these, therefore, relate to real and natural motives as paper money to silver; since their validity is arbitrarily assumed. Such motives are games, with cards, etc., which have been invented for this purpose. If these are lacking, the limited person helps themselves by rattling or drumming with anything they can get their hands on. Even a cigar is a welcome substitute for thoughts. – Therefore, in all countries, card-playing has become the main occupation of all society: it is the measure of its worth and the declared bankruptcy of all thought. Because they have no thoughts to exchange, they exchange cards and try to take guilders from each other. Oh, pitiable species! And yet, not to be unjust here, I will not suppress the thought that, in excuse of card-playing, one might perhaps argue that it is a preliminary exercise for worldly and business life, insofar as one learns thereby to cleverly utilize circumstances (cards) unalterably given by chance, to make whatever one can out of them, for which purpose one also gets used to maintaining composure by putting on a cheerful face for a bad hand. But precisely for this reason, on the other hand, card-playing has a demoralizing influence. For the spirit of the game is to win what belongs to another in every way, by every trick and every stratagem. But the habit of acting this way in a game takes root, spills over into practical life, and one gradually comes to do the same in matters of mine and yours, and to consider every advantage one holds in hand as permissible, as long as it is legally allowed. Proof of this is provided daily by civil life. – Therefore, since, as said, free leisure is the blossom, or rather the fruit, of each person's existence, in that only it places them in possession of their own self, those are to be praised as happy who then also have something worthwhile within themselves; while for most people, free leisure yields nothing but a fellow with whom nothing can be done, who is terribly bored, a burden to himself. Therefore, let us rejoice, “dear brothers, that we are not children of the slave woman but of the free woman.” (Gal. 4:31).

Furthermore, just as the happiest country is one that requires little or no imports, so too is the person who is content with their inner wealth and needs little or nothing from external sources for their sustenance. Such external supply is costly, creates dependency, brings danger, causes vexation, and in the end, is merely a poor substitute for the produce of one's own soil. For from others, from outside in general, one should not expect much in any respect. What one person can be to another has very narrow limits: in the end, everyone remains alone, and then it depends on who is alone. Here, too, what Goethe (Dicht. u. Wahrh. Vol. 3, p. 474) expressed in general holds true: that, in all things, everyone is ultimately thrown back on themselves, or, as Oliver Goldsmith says:

Therefore, each person must be and achieve the best and most for themselves. The more this is the case, and the more they consequently find the sources of their pleasures within themselves, the happier they will be. Thus, Aristotle rightly says: ἡ ευδαιμονια των αυταρκων εστι (Eth. Eud. VII, 2), which means: happiness belongs to those who are self-sufficient. For all external sources of happiness and pleasure are, by their nature, highly uncertain, precarious, fleeting, and subject to chance; they are therefore likely to falter, even under the most favorable circumstances; indeed, this is unavoidable, as they cannot always be at hand. In old age, almost all of them inevitably dry up: for then love, humor, wanderlust, passion for horses, and suitability for society desert us; even friends and relatives are carried off by death. Then, more than ever, it depends on what one has within oneself. For this will last the longest. But even at every age, it is and remains the genuine and only enduring source of happiness. There is not much to be gained in the world anyway: hardship and pain fill it, and boredom lurks in every corner for those who have escaped these. Moreover, wickedness generally holds sway, and foolishness has the last word. Fate is cruel, and people are miserable. In a world so constituted, he who has much within himself resembles the bright, warm, cheerful Christmas room, in the midst of the snow and ice of a December night. Accordingly, possessing an excellent, rich individuality, and especially a great deal of intellect, is undoubtedly the happiest lot on earth, however different it may have turned out from the most brilliant. Hence, it was a wise remark of the then only 19-year-old Queen Christina of Sweden, regarding Descartes, who was known to her only through one essay and oral reports, and who at that time had lived in the deepest solitude in Holland for 20 years: Mr. Descartes est le plus heureux de tous les hommes, et sa condition me semble d'igne d'envie. (Vie de Descartes par Baillet, Liv. VII, ch. 10.) Only, as was the case with Descartes, external circumstances must favor one to the extent that one can possess oneself and rejoice in oneself; which is why Koheleth (7, 12) already says: "Wisdom is good with an inheritance, and it helps one to enjoy the sun." Whoever is blessed with this lot, through the favor of nature and fate, will watch with anxious care that the inner source of their happiness remains accessible to them; for which independence and leisure are the conditions. These they will therefore gladly purchase through moderation and frugality; all the more so, as they are not, like others, referred to external sources of pleasure. Therefore, the prospect of offices, money, favor, and the world's approval will not tempt them to give up themselves to conform to the base intentions or bad taste of others. In such a case, they will do as Horace in the Epistle to Maecenas (Lib. I, ep. 7). It is a great folly to lose inwardly in order to gain outwardly, i.e., to give up one's peace, leisure, and independence entirely or largely for splendor, rank, pomp, titles, and honor. But Goethe did this. My genius has decidedly drawn me to the other side.

The truth discussed here, that the main source of human happiness springs from within oneself, is also confirmed by the very accurate observation of Aristotle, in the Nicomachean Ethics (I, 7; et VII, 13, 14), that every enjoyment presupposes some activity, and thus the application of some power, and cannot exist without it. This Aristotelian doctrine, that a person's happiness consists in the unimpeded exercise of their prominent ability, is also reiterated by Stobaeus in his presentation of Peripatetic ethics (Ecl. eth. II, c. 7, p. 268-278), e.g., ἐνεργειαν εἰναι την εὐδαιμονιαν κατ’ ἀρετην, ἐν πραξεσι προηγουμεναις κατ’ εὐχην (felicitatem esse functionem secundum virtutem, per actiones successus compotes); also with the explanation that ἀρετη is any virtuosity. Now, the original purpose of the powers with which nature has equipped man is the struggle against the necessity that assails him from all sides. But if this struggle ever rests, the unemployed powers become a burden to him: he must therefore now play with them, i.e., use them aimlessly: for otherwise, he immediately falls prey to the other source of human suffering, boredom. From this, therefore, the great and the rich are primarily tormented, and Lucretius has already given a description of their misery, the accuracy of which one still finds daily opportunity to recognize, in every large city:

In their youth, these gentlemen must rely on physical strength and procreative power. But later, only mental faculties remain: if these are then lacking, or their training and the accumulated material for their activity, then the misery is great. Since will is the only inexhaustible force, it is now stimulated by the arousal of passions, e.g., by high-stakes gambling, this truly degrading vice. – In general, however, every unoccupied individual, depending on the kind of prevailing forces within them, will choose a game to occupy them: perhaps skittles or chess; hunting or painting; racing or music; card games or poetry; heraldry or philosophy, etc. We can even examine the matter methodically by going back to the root of all human expressions of power, i.e., to the three fundamental physiological forces, which we must then consider here in their aimless play, in which they appear as the sources of three kinds of possible pleasures, from which each person, depending on which of these forces predominates in them, will choose those appropriate to them. So first, the pleasures of the reproductive force: they consist of eating, drinking, digesting, resting, and sleeping. These are therefore even praised by others as national amusements for entire peoples. Second, the pleasures of irritability: they consist of walking, jumping, wrestling, dancing, fencing, riding, and athletic games of all kinds, as well as hunting and even combat and war. Third, the pleasures of sensibility: they consist of contemplating, thinking, feeling, composing, creating, making music, learning, reading, meditating, inventing, philosophizing, etc. – Various considerations can be made about the value, degree, and duration of each of these kinds of pleasures, which are left to the reader. However, it will be clear to everyone that our enjoyment, always conditioned by the use of our own faculties, and therefore our happiness, consisting in its frequent recurrence, will be greater the nobler the kind of force that conditions it. No one will deny the superiority that sensibility, whose decided predominance is what distinguishes man from other animal species, has over the other two fundamental physiological forces, which dwell in animals to an equal and even higher degree. Our cognitive faculties belong to sensibility: therefore, the predominance of these enables us to enjoy pleasures consisting in knowing, i.e., the so-called intellectual pleasures, and indeed to greater ones, the more decided that predominance is. For the normal, ordinary person, a thing can only gain lively participation if it stimulates their will, i.e., has a personal interest for them. However, every sustained arousal of the will is at least of a mixed kind, and thus linked with pain. An intentional means of stimulating it, and indeed by means of such small interests that they can only cause momentary and slight, not lasting and serious pains, and are thus to be regarded as a mere tickling of the will, is card playing, this pervasive occupation of "good society" everywhere. – The person with predominant mental faculties, on the other hand, is capable, indeed in need, of the liveliest participation through mere knowledge, without any interference of the will. But this participation then transports him into a region to which pain is essentially foreign, as it were, into the atmosphere of the easily living gods, θεαων ῥεια ζωοντων. While the life of others thus passes in dullness, as their thoughts and aspirations are entirely directed towards the petty interests of personal well-being and thereby to miseries of all kinds, which is why unbearable boredom seizes them as soon as their occupation with these ends ceases and they are thrown back upon themselves, since only the wild fire of passion can bring some movement into the stagnant mass; in contrast, the person endowed with predominant mental faculties has a rich, thoroughly animated and meaningful existence: worthy and interesting objects occupy him as soon as he can surrender to them, and within himself he carries a source of the noblest pleasures. External stimulation is provided by the works of nature and the sight of human activity, and then the diverse achievements of the highly gifted of all times and countries, which are actually only fully enjoyable to him, because only to him are they fully understandable and perceptible. For him, therefore, they have truly lived, to him they have actually addressed themselves; while the others only half grasp one thing or another as accidental listeners. Of course, through all this he has one more need than others, the need to learn, to see, to study, to meditate, to practice, consequently also the need for free leisure: but precisely because, as Voltaire rightly remarked, il n'est de vrais plaisirs qu'avec de vrais besoins, this need is the condition for pleasures to be open to him which are denied to others, for whom natural and artistic beauties and works of art of all kinds, even if they accumulate them around themselves, are fundamentally no more than courtesans to an old man. Such a privileged person consequently leads, in addition to his personal life, a second, namely an intellectual one, which gradually becomes his actual purpose, for which he regards the former only as a means: while for the others this insipid, empty and sad existence must itself serve as an end. This intellectual life will therefore primarily occupy him and, through the continuous increase in insight and knowledge, it gains a coherence, a constant elevation, an ever more rounded completeness and perfection, like a developing work of art; whereas the merely practical life, merely directed towards personal well-being, merely capable of an increase in length, not in depth, of others contrasts sadly, yet, as said, must serve them as an end in itself; while for him it is merely a means.

Our practical, real life, if not moved by passions, is boring and dull; but if it is moved by them, it soon becomes painful: therefore, only those are happy who have been granted some surplus of intellect beyond what is required for the service of their will. For with this, they lead, in addition to their real life, an intellectual life, which continuously occupies and entertains them in a painless and yet lively manner. Mere leisure, i.e., intellect unoccupied by the service of the will, is not enough; rather, a real surplus of power is required: for only this enables a purely spiritual occupation that does not serve the will: whereas otium sine litteris mors est et hominis vivi sepultura (Sen. ep. 82). Depending on whether this surplus is small or large, there are countless gradations of that intellectual life to be led alongside the real one, from merely collecting and describing insects, birds, minerals, or coins, to the highest achievements of poetry and philosophy. Such an intellectual life not only protects against boredom but also against its destructive consequences. For it becomes a safeguard against bad company and against the many dangers, misfortunes, losses, and extravagances one falls into when seeking one's happiness entirely in the real world. For example, my philosophy never brought me anything; but it saved me a great deal.

The average person, on the other hand, is directed towards things outside of themselves for the enjoyment of their life: possessions, status, wife and children, friends, society, etc. Their happiness in life rests on these; therefore, it collapses if they lose them or are disillusioned by them. To express this relationship, we can say that their center of gravity falls outside of them. Precisely for this reason, they also have constantly changing desires and whims: if their means allow, they will soon buy country houses, then horses, then give parties, then travel, but generally lead a life of great luxury, because they seek satisfaction from outside in all sorts of things; like the enervated hoping to gain health and strength from consommé and apothecary drugs, whose true source is their own vital force. Now, so as not to immediately go to the other extreme, let us place beside them a person of not exactly eminent, but still exceeding the usual meager measure of intellectual capacity, and we see them perhaps practicing some beautiful art as an amateur, or pursuing a real science, such as botany, mineralogy, physics, astronomy, history, etc., and immediately finding a large part of their enjoyment in it, recuperating when those external sources falter or no longer satisfy them. In this respect, we can say that their center of gravity already falls partly within themselves. However, because mere dilettantism in art is still very far from productive ability, and because mere real sciences remain at the level of the relationships of phenomena to each other, the whole person cannot be absorbed in them, their whole being cannot be filled to the core by them, and therefore their existence cannot be so intertwined with them that they would lose all interest in everything else. This, however, remains reserved solely for the highest intellectual eminence, which is usually designated by the name of genius: for only they take the existence and essence of things as a whole and absolutely as their subject, after which they will then strive to express their deep understanding of it, according to their individual direction, through art, poetry, or philosophy. Therefore, only for a person of this kind is undisturbed occupation with themselves, with their thoughts and works, an urgent need, solitude welcome, free leisure the highest good, everything else dispensable, indeed, if present, often only a burden. Only of such a person can we therefore say that their center of gravity falls entirely within them. From this it even becomes understandable that the extremely rare people of this kind, even with the best character, do not show that intimate and boundless participation in friends, family, and community of which some others are capable: for they can ultimately console themselves over everything; if only they have themselves. Consequently, there is an additional isolating element in them, which is all the more effective as others never really completely satisfy them, which is why they cannot see their absolute equals in them, indeed, as the heterogeneous in everything and everyone always becomes palpable to them, they gradually become accustomed to moving among people as different kinds of beings and, in their thoughts about them, to use the third, not the first, person plural. –

From this perspective, the individual whom nature has endowed with great intellectual wealth now appears to be the happiest; as surely as the subjective is closer to us than the objective, whose effect, whatever its nature, is always mediated by the former, and thus only secondary. This is also attested to by the beautiful verse:

Such an inwardly rich person needs nothing from outside but a negative gift, namely, free leisure, to cultivate and develop his spiritual faculties and enjoy his inner wealth; in other words, he needs only the permission to be completely himself throughout his life, every day and every hour. If someone is destined to impress the mark of his spirit upon the whole human race, there is for him only one happiness or unhappiness: to be able to fully develop his talents and complete his works – or to be hindered from doing so. Everything else is insignificant to him. Accordingly, we see the great minds of all ages place the highest value on free leisure. For the free leisure of each person is worth as much as he himself is worth. Δοκει δε ἡ ευδαιμονια εν τῃ σχολῃ ειναι (it seems that happiness consists in leisure) says Aristotle (Eth. Nic. X, 7), and Diogenes Laertius (II, 5, 31) reports that Σωκρατης επῃνει σχολην, ὡς καλλιστον κτηματων (Socrates praised leisure as the most beautiful of all possessions). This also corresponds to Aristotle's (Eth. Nic. X, 7, 8, 9) declaration that the philosophical life is the happiest. Even what he says in Politics (IV, 11) belongs here: τον ευδαιμονα βιον ειναι τον κατ’ αρετην ανεμποδιστον, which, thoroughly translated, means: “to be able to exercise one's excellence, of whatever kind it may be, without hindrance, is true happiness,” and thus coincides with Goethe's saying in Wilhelm Meister: “He who is born with a talent, for a talent, finds in it his most beautiful existence.” – But to possess free leisure is alien not only to common fate but also to the common nature of man; for his natural destiny is to spend his time acquiring what is necessary for his and his family's existence. He is a child of necessity, not a free intelligence. Accordingly, free leisure soon becomes a burden to the ordinary person, indeed finally a torment, if he cannot fill it, by means of all sorts of artificial and fictitious purposes, through games, pastimes, and hobbies of every kind: it also brings him danger for the same reason, as it is rightly said difficilis in otio quies (rest is difficult in leisure). On the other hand, however, an intellect far exceeding the normal measure is also abnormal, thus unnatural. If it is nevertheless present, then for the happiness of the gifted person, precisely that free leisure, which is sometimes burdensome, sometimes ruinous to others, is needed; for without it, he will be a Pegasus in harness, and thus unhappy. If, however, both unnaturalnesses, the external and the internal, coincide, it is a great stroke of luck: for now the favored person will lead a life of a higher kind, namely, that of one exempt from the two opposing sources of human suffering, necessity and boredom, or the anxious striving for existence and the inability to endure leisure (i.e., free existence itself), which two evils man otherwise escapes only by their mutual neutralization and cancellation.

Against all this, however, it must be considered, on the other hand, that great intellectual gifts, due to predominant nervous activity, bring about an exceedingly heightened sensitivity to pain in every form; furthermore, that the passionate temperament conditioning them, and at the same time the greater vividness and perfection of all conceptions inseparable from them, bring about an incomparably greater intensity of the emotions aroused by these, while there are, after all, more painful than pleasant emotions; finally, also, that great intellectual gifts alienate their possessor from other people and their doings, since the more he has in himself, the less he can find in them. A hundred things in which they find great satisfaction are insipid and unpalatable to him, whereby the law of compensation, which asserts itself everywhere, perhaps remains in force here too; indeed, it has often enough, and not without semblance of truth, been asserted that the most intellectually limited person is fundamentally the happiest, even if no one would envy him this happiness. In the definitive decision of the matter, I am all the less inclined to anticipate the reader, as even Sophocles himself made two diametrically opposite statements on this matter:

and again:

The philosophers of the Old Testament are just as divided among themselves,

and

Meanwhile, I must not fail to mention that the individual who, due to the strictly and barely normal measure of their intellectual faculties, lacks intellectual needs, is precisely the one designated by a term exclusively peculiar to the German language, originating from student life, but later used in a higher, albeit still analogous to the original sense—through contrast with the "son of the Muses"—namely, the Philistine. This person is and remains the ἀμουσος ἀνηρ. Now, from a higher standpoint, I would define Philistines as people who are perpetually and earnestly occupied with a reality that is not real. However, such an already transcendental definition would not be appropriate for the popular standpoint I have adopted in this treatise, and thus perhaps not entirely comprehensible to every reader. The former definition, on the other hand, more easily allows for a specific elucidation and sufficiently describes the essence of the matter, the root of all the characteristics that define the Philistine. He is, therefore, a person without intellectual needs. From this, much follows: first, regarding himself, that he remains without intellectual pleasures; according to the already mentioned principle: il n'est de vrais plaisirs qu'avec de vrais besoins. No urge for knowledge and insight, for their own sake, enlivens his existence, nor any for genuinely aesthetic pleasures, which are entirely akin to the former. Whatever pleasures of this kind fashion or authority might impose upon him, he will dismiss as quickly as possible, like a form of forced labor. Real pleasures for him are solely the sensual ones; through these, he compensates himself. Thus, oysters and champagne are the pinnacle of his existence, and procuring everything that contributes to physical well-being is the purpose of his life. Fortunate enough if this gives him much to do! For if these goods are already bestowed upon him in advance, he inevitably falls prey to boredom, against which everything imaginable is attempted: balls, theater, society, card games, gambling, horses, women, drinking, travel, etc. And yet, all this is insufficient against boredom when a lack of intellectual needs makes intellectual pleasures impossible. Therefore, a dull, dry seriousness, bordering on the animalistic, is peculiar and characteristic of the Philistine. Nothing delights him, nothing excites him, nothing engages his interest. For sensual pleasures are soon exhausted; society, consisting of similar Philistines, quickly becomes boring, and card games eventually tiring. At best, he is left with the pleasures of vanity, in his own way, which consist in surpassing others in wealth or rank, or influence and power, for which he is then honored; or else in having dealings, at least, with those who excel in such things, and thus basking in the reflection of their glory (a snob). – From the fundamental characteristic of the Philistine established, it follows secondly, regarding others, that since he has no intellectual but only physical needs, he will seek out whoever is able to satisfy these, not those. Least of all, therefore, among the demands he makes on others will be that of any predominant intellectual abilities; rather, these, if they confront him, will arouse his aversion, indeed, his hatred; because he feels only an irksome sense of inferiority and, in addition, a dull, secret envy, which he conceals most carefully, even trying to hide it from himself, but which precisely thereby sometimes grows into a silent resentment. Never, therefore, will it occur to him to measure his esteem or respect by such qualities; instead, these will remain exclusively reserved for rank and wealth, power and influence, which in his eyes are the only true advantages, in which to excel would also be his wish. – All this, however, follows from the fact that he is a person without intellectual needs. The great suffering of all Philistines is that idealities provide them with no entertainment, but rather, to escape boredom, they always require realities. For these are partly soon exhausted, where, instead of entertaining, they tire; partly they bring about misfortune of every kind; whereas, in contrast, idealities are inexhaustible and in themselves innocent and harmless.

In this entire consideration of the personal qualities that contribute to our happiness, I have primarily focused on intellectual attributes, next to physical ones. How moral excellence directly brings happiness, I have already explained in my essay on the Foundation of Morality, § 22, p. 275 (2nd ed. 272), to which I therefore refer you from here.

Chapter III.
On what one has.

The great teacher of happiness, Epicurus, rightly and beautifully divided human needs into three classes. Firstly, the natural and necessary ones: these are the ones which, if not satisfied, cause pain. Consequently, only victus et amictus (food and clothing) belong here. They are easy to satisfy. Secondly, the natural but not necessary ones: this is the need for sexual gratification; although Epicurus does not explicitly state this in Laertius's account; (as I am generally presenting his doctrine here somewhat adjusted and refined). Satisfying this need is already more difficult. Thirdly, those that are neither natural nor necessary: these are the needs of luxury, extravagance, pomp, and splendor: they are endless and their satisfaction is very difficult. (See Diog. Laert. L. X, c. 27, § 149, also § 127. – Cic. de fin. I, 13.)

It is difficult, if not impossible, to determine the boundary of our reasonable desires regarding possessions. For everyone's satisfaction in this respect is based not on an absolute but on a merely relative quantity, namely, on the ratio between his claims and his possessions: hence the latter, considered by itself, is as meaningless as the numerator of a fraction without the denominator. A man never misses the goods he has never thought of claiming; he is quite content even without them, while another, who possesses a hundred times more than he, feels unhappy because he lacks something he claims. Everyone, in this respect too, has his own horizon of what is possibly attainable for him: his claims extend as far as this. When any object within it presents itself to him in such a way that he can trust in its attainment, he feels happy; on the other hand, unhappy when difficulties arising deprive him of the prospect of it. What lies outside this horizon does not affect him at all. Therefore, the great possessions of the rich do not disturb the poor, and conversely, the rich, when their intentions fail, are not consoled by the much they already possess. (Wealth is like seawater: the more one drinks of it, the thirstier one becomes. – The same applies to fame.) – That after lost wealth or prosperity, once the initial pain is over, our habitual mood does not differ much from the former, is because, after fate has reduced the factor of our possessions, we ourselves now reduce the factor of our claims equally. This operation, however, is the truly painful thing in a misfortune: after it has been completed, the pain is felt less and less, finally not at all: the wound scars over. Conversely, in a stroke of luck, the compressor of our claims is pushed up, and they expand: therein lies the joy. But it too lasts no longer than until this operation is completely completed: we get used to the expanded measure of claims and become indifferent to the corresponding possession. This is already stated in the Homeric passage, Od. XVIII, 130-137, which concludes:

The source of our dissatisfaction lies in our constantly renewed attempts to push up the factor of demands, while the immobility of the other factor prevents it. –

Among a species so needy and composed of needs as the human race, it is not surprising that wealth is esteemed, indeed revered, more and more genuinely than anything else, and even power is seen only as a means to wealth; nor is it surprising that for the purpose of acquisition, everything else is set aside or overthrown, e.g., philosophy by philosophy professors. – That people's desires are primarily directed towards money and that they love it above all else is often held against them. However, it is natural, perhaps even inevitable, to love that which, like a tireless Proteus, is ready at any moment to transform itself into the current object of our ever-changing desires and manifold needs. Every other good, namely, can only satisfy one wish, one need: food is only good for the hungry, wine for the healthy, medicine for the sick, a fur coat for winter, women for youth, etc. They are consequently all merely αγαθα προς τι, i.e., only relatively good. Money alone is the absolute good: because it not only meets one need in concreto but the need in general, in abstracto. –

Existing wealth should be seen as a protective wall against the many possible evils and misfortunes, not as a permission or even an obligation to procure the pleasures of the world. – People who have no inherited wealth but eventually manage to earn a lot through their talents, of whatever kind, almost always fall into the delusion that their talent is the permanent capital and the profit derived from it is the interest. Accordingly, they do not put aside a portion of what they earn to build up lasting capital, but spend as much as they earn. Afterwards, however, they usually fall into poverty, because their earnings stagnate or cease, either because the talent itself is exhausted, being of a perishable nature, as is the case for almost all fine arts, or because it could only be exercised under particular circumstances and conjunctures which have ceased. Craftsmen may well conduct themselves in the aforementioned manner, because the skills for their services are not easily lost, can also be replaced by the efforts of journeymen, and because their products are necessities, thus always finding a market, which is why the proverb “a trade has a golden bottom” is correct. But this is not the case for artists and virtuosos of all kinds. Precisely for this reason they are well paid. Therefore, what they earn should become their capital; while they presumptuously consider it mere interest and thereby head towards their ruin. – People, on the other hand, who possess inherited wealth, at least know immediately and correctly what is capital and what is interest. Most will therefore seek to secure the former, by no means touching it, and if possible, at least put aside an eighth of the interest to meet future fluctuations. They therefore usually remain prosperous. – This entire observation is not applicable to merchants: for them, money itself is a means for further acquisition, like a tool of their trade; therefore, even if it is entirely self-acquired, they seek to preserve and increase it through use. Accordingly, wealth is truly at home in no other profession as it is in this one.

In general, however, it will be found, as a rule, that those who have been intimately acquainted with actual distress and want fear it much less and are therefore more inclined to extravagance than those who know it only by hearsay. To the former belong all those who, through some stroke of luck or through special talents, no matter of what kind, have risen fairly quickly from poverty to prosperity: the latter, on the other hand, are those who were born and remained in prosperity. These are consistently more concerned about the future and therefore more economical than the former. One might conclude from this that want is not as bad a thing as it appears from a distance. Yet the true reason might rather be that for someone born into inherited wealth, it appears as something indispensable, as the element of the only possible life, just like air; therefore, he guards it like his life, consequently being mostly orderly, cautious, and frugal. For someone born into inherited poverty, on the other hand, this appears as the natural state; any wealth that then somehow comes to him, however, appears as something superfluous, merely suitable for enjoyment and squandering; for when it is gone again, one manages just as well as before without it and is rid of another worry. It is as Shakespeare says:

(The proverb must be proven true, that a beggar on horseback rides his horse to death.)

Then, of course, there's the added factor that such individuals possess a deep and boundless trust, not so much in their minds as in their hearts, partly in fate and partly in their own resourcefulness, which has already helped them overcome hardship and poverty. Consequently, they don't perceive the depths of these challenges as bottomless, as those born into wealth might, but rather believe that by hitting rock bottom, one will be lifted back up. – This human peculiarity also explains why women who were once poor girls are often more demanding and extravagant than those who brought a rich dowry. This is because, for the most part, wealthy girls not only bring assets but also possess a greater zeal, even an inherited drive, to preserve them than poor girls. However, whoever wishes to argue the opposite will find an authority in Ariosto, in his first satire; conversely, Dr. Johnson agrees with my opinion: A woman of fortune being used to the handling of money, spends it judiciously: but a woman who gets the command of money for the first time upon her marriage, has such a gust in spending it, that she throws it away with great profusion. (See Boswell, Life of Johnson, ann. 1776, aetat. 67.) In any case, I would advise anyone marrying a poor girl not to let her inherit the capital but merely an annuity, and especially to ensure that the children's inheritance does not fall into her hands.

I do not believe I am doing anything unworthy of my pen by recommending here the care for the preservation of acquired and inherited wealth. For to possess so much from birth that one can live comfortably, even if only for oneself and without a family, in true independence, i.e., without working, is an inestimable advantage: for it is the exemption and immunity from the need and toil inherent in human life, thus emancipation from the general corvée, this natural lot of the son of earth. Only under this favor of fate is one born as a true free man: for only then is one truly sui juris, master of one's time and strength, and may say every morning: "The day is mine." Also, for this very reason, the difference between one who has a thousand and one who has a hundred thousand thalers in rent is infinitely smaller than between the former and one who has nothing. However, inherited wealth attains its highest value when it has fallen to one who, endowed with higher intellectual powers, pursues endeavors that do not well tolerate acquisition: for then he is doubly endowed by fate and can now live for his genius: but he will repay his debt to humanity a hundredfold by accomplishing what no one else could and producing something that benefits humanity as a whole, and perhaps even redounds to its honor. Another, in such a privileged position, will render service to humanity through philanthropic endeavors. Whoever, on the other hand, accomplishes nothing of all this, even to some extent, or experimentally, indeed, does not even open up the possibility of promoting it by thoroughly learning some science - such a person, with inherited wealth, is a mere idler and contemptible. Nor will he be happy: for exemption from need delivers him into the hands of the other pole of human misery, boredom, which torments him so much that he would be much happier if need had given him occupation. But precisely this boredom will easily lead him to extravagances, which will deprive him of that advantage of which he was not worthy. Indeed, countless people are in want simply because, when they had money, they spent it merely to obtain momentary relief from the boredom that afflicted them.

The situation is quite different, however, when the goal is to rise in the civil service, where favor, friends, and connections must be acquired to gain promotion, perhaps even to the highest posts, step by step: in this case, it is fundamentally better to have been born into the world without any fortune. Especially for someone who is not of noble birth but is endowed with some talent, it will be a true advantage and recommendation if he is a complete pauper. For what everyone seeks and loves most, even in mere conversation, and much more in service, is the inferiority of the other. Now, only a poor devil is convinced and permeated to the required degree by his complete, profound, decisive, and all-sided inferiority and his utter insignificance and worthlessness. Only he, therefore, bows often and persistently enough, and only his bows reach a full 90 degrees: only he lets everything happen to him and smiles at it; only he recognizes the complete worthlessness of merits; only he publicly praises, with a loud voice, or even in large print, the literary blunders of those above him, or otherwise influential people, as masterpieces; only he knows how to beg: consequently, only he, in time, that is, in youth, can even become an epopt of that hidden truth that Goethe revealed to us in the words:

On the other hand, he who has a living from birth will usually act unruly: he is used to walking tête levée, has not learned any of those arts, and perhaps even prides himself on certain talents, the inadequacy of which he should rather understand, compared to the médiocre et rampant; he is at last even capable of noticing the inferiority of those placed above him; and if it finally comes to indignities, he becomes stubborn or skittish. That's not how you get ahead in the world: rather, it can ultimately come to the point where he says with the audacious Voltaire: nous n'avons que deux jours à vivre: ce n'est pas la peine de les passer à ramper sous des coquins méprisables: – unfortunately, by the way, this coquin méprisable is a predicate for which there are an awful lot of subjects in the world. So one sees that Juvenal's

is more valid for the career of virtuosos than for that of men of the world.

I haven't included wife and children in what someone possesses, as he is more possessed by them. Friends could rather be counted: yet, the possessor must also be the possession of the other to the same extent.

Chapter IV.
Of what one represents.

This—our existence in the opinion of others—is, owing to a particular weakness of our nature, generally rated far too highly; although the slightest reflection could teach us that, in itself, it is inessential to our happiness. It is therefore scarcely explicable how much every person inwardly rejoices whenever they notice signs of others' favorable opinion and their vanity is somehow flattered. As inevitably as a cat purrs when stroked, sweet bliss paints itself on the face of the person who is praised, and that, in the field of their pretension, even if the praise is palpably false. Often, signs of external approval comfort them over real misfortune or over the scarcity with which the two main sources of our happiness, discussed thus far, flow for them: and, conversely, it is astonishing how much every injury to their ambition, in any sense, degree, or relation, every slight, rejection, disregard, infallibly offends them and often deeply hurts. Insofar as the feeling of honor rests on this characteristic, it may be of beneficial consequences for the good conduct of many, as a surrogate for their morality; but on a person's own happiness, primarily on the peace of mind and independence so essential to it, it has a more disturbing and detrimental than conducive effect. Therefore, from our point of view, it is advisable to set limits to it and, by means of proper reflection and correct assessment of the value of goods, to moderate as much as possible that great sensitivity to foreign opinion, both where it is flattered and where it is hurt: for both hang by the same thread. Moreover, one remains a slave to foreign opinion and foreign fancy:

Therefore, a proper estimation of the value of what one is in and for oneself, as opposed to what one is merely in the eyes of others, will contribute greatly to our happiness. The former includes the entire fulfillment of one's own existence, its inner content, and thus all the goods that we have considered under the headings "what one is" and "what one has." For the sphere of influence of all this is one's own consciousness. On the other hand, the place of what we are for others is the consciousness of others: it is the idea under which we appear there, along with the concepts applied to it . . This, then, is something that is not directly present for us, but only indirectly, namely insofar as the behavior of others towards us is determined by it. And even this itself is only relevant insofar as it has an influence on something that can modify what we are in and for ourselves. Otherwise, what goes on in another's consciousness, as such, is indifferent to us, and we too will gradually become indifferent to it if we gain sufficient knowledge of the superficiality and futility of thoughts, the narrowness of concepts, the pettiness of disposition, the perversity of opinions, and the number of errors in most minds, and in addition learn from our own experience with what contempt everyone is occasionally spoken of as soon as one does not have to fear them or believes they will not hear of it; but especially after we have once heard how half a dozen blockheads speak disparagingly of the greatest man. We will then realize that whoever places great value on the opinion of people shows them too much honor.

In any case, whoever does not find happiness in the two classes of goods already discussed, but must seek it in this third, is referred to a meager resource: not in what he truly is, but in what he is in the estimation of others. For, fundamentally, the basis of our being and consequently of our happiness is our animal nature. Therefore, for our well-being, health is the most essential, and next to that, the means for our sustenance, meaning a carefree livelihood. Honor, splendor, rank, fame, however much value some may place on them, cannot compete with or replace those essential goods; rather, they would, if necessary, be unhesitatingly sacrificed for them. For this reason, it will contribute to our happiness if we gain the simple insight early on that everyone primarily and truly lives in their own skin, not in the opinion of others, and that therefore our real and personal condition, as determined by health, temperament, abilities, income, spouse, children, friends, place of residence, etc., is a hundred times more important for our happiness than what others choose to make of us. The opposite delusion makes one unhappy. If it is emphatically exclaimed, "Honor is above life," this actually means: "Existence and well-being are nothing; rather, what others think of us, that is the matter." At most, the saying can be considered a hyperbole, with the prosaic truth as its basis that honor, i.e., the opinion of others about us, is often indispensable for our advancement and survival among people; a point I will return to later. When, on the other hand, one sees how almost everything that people strive for tirelessly throughout their lives, with restless effort and under a thousand dangers and hardships, has as its ultimate goal to elevate themselves in the opinion of others—for not only offices, titles, and honors, but also wealth, and even science and art, are fundamentally and primarily pursued for this reason, and the greater respect of others is the ultimate goal one works towards—this unfortunately only proves the extent of human folly. To place too much value on the opinion of others is a universally prevalent delusion: whether it originates in our nature itself or has arisen as a consequence of society and civilization; in any case, it exerts an entirely excessive influence on all our actions and omissions, an influence hostile to our happiness, which we can trace from where it manifests itself in the anxious and slavish regard for the qu'en dira-t-on, to where it drives Virginius's dagger into his daughter's heart, or tempts a person to sacrifice peace, wealth, and health, indeed, life itself, for posthumous fame. This delusion certainly offers a convenient handle to anyone who has to govern or otherwise guide people; which is why in every kind of human training art, the instruction to keep the sense of honor alive and sharp occupies a main place: but with regard to a person's own happiness, which is our aim here, the matter is quite different, and it is rather to be warned against placing too much value on the opinion of others. If, as daily experience teaches, it nevertheless happens, if most people place the highest value precisely on the opinion others have of them and care more about it than about what, because it goes on in their own consciousness, is immediately present for them; if therefore, by reversing the natural order, the former seems to them to be the real, the latter the merely ideal part of their existence, if they thus make the derived and secondary into the main thing and are more concerned with the image of their being in the minds of others than with this being itself; then this immediate valuation of what is not immediately present for us at all is that folly which has been called vanity, vanitas, thereby to designate the emptiness and hollowness of this striving. It is also easy to see from the above that it belongs to forgetting the purpose over the means, just as avarice does.

Indeed, the value we place on the opinions of others, and our constant concern regarding them, generally exceeds almost any rational purpose, so much so that it can be considered a kind of widespread, or rather innate, mania. In almost everything we do or don't do, the opinion of others is considered almost above all else, and upon closer examination, we will find that almost half of all the worries and anxieties we have ever experienced have arisen from this concern. For it underlies all our self-esteem, so often wounded because it is so morbidly sensitive, all our vanities and pretensions, as well as our ostentation and grandstanding. Without this concern and craving, luxury would barely be a tenth of what it is. All and every pride, point d'honneur and puntiglio, however varied in type and sphere, rests upon it – and what sacrifices it often demands! It is already evident in children, then at every age, but strongest in old age; because then, with the decline of the capacity for sensual pleasures, vanity and arrogance only have to share dominion with avarice. It can be observed most clearly in the French, among whom it is quite endemic and often vents itself in the most tasteless ambition, ridiculous national vanity, and shameless bragging; whereby their striving then frustrates itself, by making them the laughingstock of other nations and the grande nation has become a nickname. Now, to further illustrate the aforementioned perversity of excessive concern for the opinions of others, a truly superlative example of that folly rooted in human nature, uniquely favored by the illuminating effect of circumstances coinciding with an appropriate character, may find its place here, as the strength of this most peculiar motive can be fully gauged from it. It is the following passage, taken from the Times of March 31, 1846, from the detailed report of the recently executed Thomas Wix, a journeyman who had murdered his master out of revenge: "On the morning set for the execution, the Reverend Prison Chaplain found him early. But Wix, though behaving calmly, showed no interest in his admonitions; rather, the only thing he cared about was that he might succeed in behaving with great bravado before the spectators of his disgraceful end. – – – This he also succeeded in doing. In the courtyard he had to cross to the gallows erected close to the prison, he said: >Well then, as Doctor Dodd said, soon I shall know the great secret!< He ascended the ladder to the scaffold without the slightest assistance, though his arms were bound; having arrived there, he bowed to the spectators, right and left, which was then answered and rewarded with the thundering applause of the assembled crowd, etc." – This is a magnificent example of ambition: with death, in its most terrifying form, and eternity beyond, before one's eyes, to have no other concern than the impression made on the gathered crowd of onlookers and the opinion one will leave in their minds! – And yet, Lecomte, who was executed in France in the same year for attempted regicide, was primarily annoyed during his trial that he could not appear before the Chamber of Peers in proper attire, and even at his execution, it was a major annoyance to him that he had not been allowed to shave beforehand. That it was no different in former times, we see from what Mateo Aleman states in the introduction (declaracion) prefixed to his famous novel, Guzman de Alfarache, namely, that many deluded criminals withhold the last hours, which they should exclusively dedicate to their salvation, from this purpose in order to prepare and memorize a short sermon they intend to deliver on the gallows ladder. – In such traits, however, we can see ourselves mirrored: for colossal cases always provide the clearest explanation. All our worries, vexations, torments, annoyances, anxieties, efforts, etc., in perhaps most cases, actually concern the opinion of others and are just as absurd as those of those poor sinners. No less do our envy and hatred largely spring from the aforementioned root.

Apparently, then, for our happiness, which largely depends on peace of mind and contentment, hardly anything could contribute so much as the restriction and reduction of this impulse to its rationally justifiable measure, which will perhaps be one-fiftieth of the present, thus pulling this perpetually tormenting thorn from our flesh. However, this is very difficult: for we are dealing with a natural and innate perversity. Etiam sapientibus cupido gloriae novissima exuitur says Tacitus (hist. VI, 6). To get rid of that general folly, the only means would be to clearly recognize it as such and for this purpose to make clear to oneself how utterly false, perverse, erroneous, and absurd most opinions in people's minds tend to be, hence they, in themselves, are not worth considering; then, how little real influence the opinion of others can have on us in most things and cases; furthermore, how unfavorable it generally is for the most part, so that almost everyone would be terribly annoyed if they heard all that was said about them and in what tone they were spoken of; finally, that even honor itself is actually only of indirect and not immediate value, and so on. If such a conversion from general folly were to succeed for us, the result would be an unbelievably great increase in peace of mind and cheerfulness, and also a firmer and more confident demeanor, a thoroughly more uninhibited and natural behavior. The exceedingly beneficial influence that a secluded lifestyle has on our peace of mind is largely based on the fact that it withdraws us from constantly living in the eyes of others, consequently from constantly considering their possible opinion, and thereby returns us to ourselves. Likewise, we would escape a great deal of real misfortune into which only that purely ideal striving, or more accurately, that ruinous folly, draws us; we would also have much more care left for solid goods and then enjoy them more undisturbed. But, as I said, χαλεπα τα καλα.

The folly of our nature described here primarily gives rise to three offshoots: ambition, vanity, and pride. The difference between the latter two lies in this: Pride is the already established conviction of one's own predominant worth in some respect; vanity, on the other hand, is the desire to awaken such a conviction in others, usually accompanied by the silent hope of being able to make it one's own in consequence. Accordingly, pride is self-esteem originating from within, and thus direct; whereas vanity is the endeavor to obtain such from without, and thus indirectly. Consequently, vanity makes one talkative, pride silent. But the vain person should know that the high opinion of others, which they strive for, is much more easily and surely obtained through persistent silence than through speaking, even if one had the most beautiful things to say. – Pride is not for those who wish for it, but at most for those who can. One who wishes to affect pride will soon fall out of this, as out of any assumed role. For only a firm, inner, unshakeable conviction of superior advantages and special worth truly makes one proud. This conviction may be erroneous, or even based on merely external and conventional advantages – that does not harm pride, if only it is genuinely and earnestly present. Since pride thus has its root in conviction, it is, like all knowledge, not within our arbitrary will. Its worst enemy, I mean its greatest obstacle, is vanity, which courts the approval of others in order to base its own high opinion of itself upon it, whereas pride presupposes that this opinion is already quite firm.

Now, however much pride may be generally condemned and decried, I suspect that this has mainly originated from those who have nothing to be proud of. In the face of the impudence and brazen stupidity of most people, anyone who possesses any advantages does well to keep them in mind, so as not to let them fall entirely into oblivion: for whoever, good-naturedly ignoring them, treats others as if they were entirely their equals, will be naively taken for such immediately. Most of all, however, I would recommend this to those whose advantages are of the highest kind, i.e., real, and thus purely personal, as these are not, like orders and titles, brought to mind every moment by sensory impression: for otherwise, they will often enough see the sus Minervam exemplified. "Joke with the slave; soon he will show you his backside" – is an excellent Arabic proverb, and the Horatian sume superbiam, quaesitam meritis is not to be rejected. However, the virtue of modesty is a considerable invention for scoundrels; for according to it, everyone must speak of themselves as if they were also such, which levels splendidly, as it then turns out as if there were nothing but scoundrels at all.

The cheapest kind of pride, however, is national pride. For it betrays in the person afflicted with it a lack of individual qualities of which he could be proud, as he would otherwise not resort to something he shares with so many millions. On the contrary, whoever possesses significant personal merits will most clearly recognize the flaws of his own nation, as he constantly has them before his eyes. But every pathetic wretch who has nothing in the world to be proud of seizes the last resort of being proud of the nation to which he happens to belong: in this he finds solace and is now gratefully ready to defend all the flaws and follies peculiar to it πυξ και λαξ. Therefore, for example, among fifty Englishmen, one will hardly find more than one who agrees when one speaks with due contempt of the stupid and degrading bigotry of his nation: that one, however, is usually a man of intellect. – The Germans are free from national pride and thereby furnish proof of the honesty for which they are praised; but the opposite is true of those among them who feign such pride and ridiculously affect it; as do mostly the “German brothers” and democrats who flatter the people to seduce them. It is said that the Germans invented gunpowder: however, I cannot agree with this opinion. And Lichtenberg asks: “Why does hardly anyone who is not German pass himself off as one, but usually, if he wants to pass himself off as something, as a Frenchman or an Englishman?” Moreover, individuality far outweighs nationality, and in a given person, the former deserves a thousand times more consideration than the latter. The national character, since it speaks of the multitude, will never honestly be able to boast of much good. Rather, only human limitation, perversity, and wickedness appear in each country in a different form, and this is called the national character. Disgusted by one of them, we praise another, until we have fared the same with it. – Every nation ridicules the other, and all are right.

The subject of this chapter, that is, what we represent in the world, i.e., what we are in the eyes of others, can now, as already noted above, be divided into honor, rank, and fame.

Rank, as important as it may seem in the eyes of the masses and philistines, and as useful as it may be in the machinery of the state, can, for our purposes, be dismissed in a few words. It is a conventional, i.e., essentially a simulated value: its effect is a simulated respect, and the whole thing is a comedy for the masses. – Orders are bills of exchange drawn on public opinion: their value rests on the credit of the issuer. Meanwhile, quite apart from the large sums of money they save the state as a substitute for pecuniary rewards, they are a very expedient institution; provided that their distribution is done with insight and justice. For the masses have eyes and ears, but not much more, especially very little judgment and even little memory. Some merits lie entirely outside the sphere of their understanding; others they understand and applaud upon their appearance but soon forget afterwards. Therefore, I find it quite appropriate to proclaim to the crowd, always and everywhere, through a cross or star: “This man is not one of you: he has merits!” However, through unjust, injudicious, or excessive distribution, orders lose this value, which is why a prince should be as cautious in bestowing them as a merchant is in signing bills of exchange. The inscription pour le mérite on a cross is a pleonasm: every order should be pour le mérite – ça va sans dire.

Much more difficult and extensive than the discussion of rank is the discussion of honor. First and foremost, we would have to define it. If, with this in mind, I were to say: honor is external conscience, and conscience is internal honor; – this might perhaps please some; however, it would be more a brilliant than a clear and thorough explanation. Therefore, I say: honor is, objectively, the opinion of others about our worth, and subjectively, our fear of this opinion. In the latter capacity, it often has a very salutary, though by no means purely moral, effect – in the man of honor.

The root and origin of the feeling of honor and shame inherent in every not entirely depraved person, as well as the high value attributed to the former, lies in the following: Man, by himself, can do very little and is a solitary Robinson; only in community with others is he and can he do much. He becomes aware of this relationship as soon as his consciousness begins to develop, and immediately there arises in him the endeavor to be considered a useful member of human society, that is, one who is capable of contributing pro parte virili and is thereby entitled to partake in the advantages of human community. He is such a member by, firstly, performing what is universally demanded of everyone everywhere, and secondly, what is demanded and expected of him in the particular position he has taken. Just as quickly, however, he recognizes that what matters here is not that he is such in his own opinion, but that he is such in the opinion of others. From this, therefore, springs his eager striving for the favorable opinion of others and the high value he places on it: both manifest with the originality of an innate feeling, which is called the sense of honor and, depending on circumstances, the feeling of shame (verecundia). This is what makes his cheeks flush as soon as he believes he must suddenly lose standing in the opinion of others, even when he knows himself innocent; even when the revealed defect concerns only a relative, namely, arbitrarily assumed obligation: and on the other hand, nothing strengthens his spirits more than the acquired or renewed certainty of the favorable opinion of others; because it promises him the protection and help of the united forces of all, which are an infinitely greater bulwark against the evils of life than his own.

From the various relationships in which a person can stand to others, and with respect to which others are to have confidence in him, that is, a certain good opinion of him, several types of honor arise. These relationships are primarily mine and yours, then the services of those who have pledged themselves, and finally the sexual relationship: to these correspond civil honor, official honor, and sexual honor, each of which again has sub-types.

The broadest sphere is civil honor: it consists in the presumption that we will unconditionally respect everyone's rights and therefore will never use unjust or legally impermissible means to our advantage. It is the condition for participation in all peaceful interaction. It is lost through a single, clearly and strongly contrary action, consequently also through any criminal punishment; though only under the presumption of its justice. However, honor, in its ultimate essence, always rests on the conviction of the immutability of moral character, by virtue of which a single bad action guarantees the same moral quality of all subsequent actions, as soon as similar circumstances arise: this is also attested by the English term character for reputation, honor. Therefore, lost honor cannot be restored; unless the loss was based on deception, such as slander, or false appearance. Accordingly, there are laws against slander, lampoons, and even insults; for insult, mere scolding, is a summary slander, without stating the reasons: this could be well expressed in Greek: εστι ἡ λοιδορια διαβολη συντομος, – which, however, does not occur anywhere. Of course, he who scolds thereby reveals that he has nothing real and true to bring against the other; for otherwise, he would give this as the premises and confidently leave the conclusion to the listeners; instead, he gives the conclusion and omits the premises: but he relies on the presumption that this is done only for the sake of popular brevity. – Civil honor indeed takes its name from the citizen class; but its validity extends to all classes, without distinction, not even excluding the highest: no one can do without it, and it is a very serious matter that everyone should be careful not to take lightly. Whoever breaks faith and trust has lost faith and trust, forever, whatever he may do and whoever he may be; the bitter fruits that this loss brings will not fail to appear.

In a certain sense, honor has a negative character, in contrast to fame, which has a positive character. For honor is not the opinion of particular qualities belonging solely to this subject, but only of those that are, as a rule, to be presupposed, and which should not be lacking in him. It therefore only states that this subject makes no exception; while fame states that he does. Fame must therefore first be acquired: honor, on the other hand, merely needs not to be lost. Accordingly, lack of fame is obscurity, a negative; lack of honor is shame, a positive. – This negativity, however, must not be confused with passivity: rather, honor has a thoroughly active character. It proceeds solely from its subject, rests on his doing and not doing, and not on what others do and what happens to him: it is therefore των εφ’ ἡμιν. This, as we shall soon see, is a distinguishing feature of true honor from chivalrous, or false, honor. An attack from outside on honor is possible only through slander: the only remedy is refutation of the same, with appropriate publicity and exposure of the slanderer.

Respect for age seems to be based on the idea that while the honor of young people is assumed, it hasn't been tested yet, and therefore essentially exists on credit. For the elderly, however, it has had to prove itself over the course of life, whether they could maintain their honor through their conduct. For neither years themselves, which animals also attain, and some in much greater numbers, nor experience, as a mere, closer knowledge of the ways of the world, are sufficient reason for the respect of the younger for the older, which is nevertheless demanded everywhere: the mere weakness of advanced age would claim more indulgence than respect. It is remarkable, however, that a certain respect for white hair is innate in humans and therefore truly instinctive. Wrinkles, a far more certain sign of age, by no means evoke this respect: one never speaks of venerable wrinkles, but always of venerable white hair.

The value of honor is only an indirect one. For, as already explained at the beginning of this chapter, the opinion of others about us can only be valuable to us insofar as it determines, or occasionally can determine, their actions towards us. This, however, is the case as long as we live with or among people. For, since we, in a civilized state, owe security and possessions only to society, and also need others in all undertakings and they must have confidence in us to engage with us; their opinion of us is of high, though always only indirect, value to us; I cannot attribute any direct value to it. In agreement with this, Cicero also says: de bona autem fama Chrysippus quidem et Diogenes, detracta utilitate, ne digitum quidem, ejus causa, porrigendum esse dicebant. Quibus ego vehementer assentior. (fin. III, 17.) Likewise, Helvetius, in his masterpiece, de l'esprit (Disc. III, ch. 13), provides an extensive exposition of this truth, the result of which is: nous n'aimons pas l'estime pour l'estime, mais uniquement pour les avantages qu'elle procure. Since the means cannot be worth more than the end, the maxim "honor before life" is, as stated, a hyperbole.

So much for civic honor. Official honor is the general opinion of others that a man holding office truly possesses all the necessary qualities for it and punctually fulfills his official duties in all cases. The more important and extensive a man's sphere of influence in the state, that is, the higher and more influential the position he holds, the greater must be the opinion of the intellectual abilities and moral qualities that make him suitable: consequently, he possesses a higher degree of honor, the expression of which are his titles, orders, etc., as well as the submissive behavior of others towards him. By the same standard, one's standing universally determines the particular degree of honor, although this is modified by the public's ability to judge the importance of that standing. However, more honor is always accorded to one who has and fulfills special obligations than to the common citizen, whose honor is primarily based on negative qualities.

Furthermore, the honor of office requires that whoever holds an office maintain respect for the office itself, for the sake of their colleagues and successors, precisely through the punctual fulfillment of their duties and also by not leaving unpunished attacks on the office itself and on themselves, insofar as they hold it, i.e., statements that they do not perform the office punctually, or that the office itself does not serve the common good, but rather proves through legal punishment that those attacks were unjust.

Subcategories of official honor include those of the civil servant, the physician, the advocate, every public teacher, indeed every graduate—in short, everyone who has been publicly declared qualified for a certain intellectual service and has, for that very reason, committed themselves to it; thus, in a word, the honor of all publicly committed individuals as such. Therefore, the true soldier's honor also belongs here: it consists in the fact that whoever has committed themselves to the defense of the common homeland truly possesses the necessary qualities, especially courage, bravery, and strength, and is earnestly prepared to defend their homeland unto death, and generally, to never abandon the flag to which they have sworn allegiance for anything in the world. – I have used the term official honor here in a broader sense than usual, where it signifies the respect owed by citizens to the office itself.

The doctrine of sexual honor seems to me to require closer examination and a reduction of its principles to their root, which will also confirm that all honor ultimately rests on considerations of utility. Sexual honor, by its nature, divides into female and male honor, and is from both sides a well-understood esprit de corps. The former is by far the more important of the two, because in a woman's life, the sexual relationship is the main thing. – Female honor, then, is the general opinion that a girl has given herself to no man at all, and a woman has given herself only to her wedded husband. The importance of this opinion rests on the following: The female sex demands and expects everything from the male sex, namely, everything it desires and needs; the male sex demands primarily and directly only one thing from the female. Therefore, the arrangement had to be made that the male sex can obtain that one thing from the female only by taking on the care for everything, and additionally for the children resulting from the union. The well-being of the entire female sex rests on this arrangement. To enforce it, the female sex must necessarily stick together and show esprit de corps. Then, as a whole and in a closed rank, it stands opposite the entire male sex, which, by the superiority of its physical and mental powers, is naturally in possession of all earthly goods, as the common enemy that must be defeated and conquered in order to gain possession of earthly goods through its possessions. To this end, the maxim of honor for the entire female sex is that every illegitimate cohabitation must be absolutely denied to the male; so that each individual is forced into marriage, which is a kind of capitulation, and thereby the entire female sex is provided for. However, this purpose can only be perfectly achieved through strict observance of the above maxim: therefore, the entire female sex, with true esprit de corps, watches over its maintenance among all its members. Accordingly, every girl who has committed a betrayal against the entire female sex through illegitimate cohabitation, because the welfare of the latter would be undermined by the generalization of this conduct, is cast out by it and branded with shame: she has lost her honor. No woman may associate with her anymore: she is shunned like a plague victim. The same fate befalls the adulteress; because she has not kept the capitulation entered into by the man, and by such an example, men are deterred from entering into it; while upon it rests the salvation of the entire female sex. But furthermore, the adulteress, because of the gross breach of word and the deceit in her act, loses her civil honor along with her sexual honor. Therefore, one often says, with an excusing expression, "a fallen girl," but not "a fallen woman," and the seducer can make the former honest again through marriage; not so the adulterer, the latter, after she has been divorced. – If, in consequence of this clear insight, one recognizes a salutary, indeed necessary, but well-calculated and interest-based esprit de corps as the basis of the principle of female honor, then one will be able to attribute to it the greatest importance for female existence and therefore a great relative, but no absolute, value extending beyond life and its purposes, and therefore to be bought with life itself. Accordingly, one will not be able to applaud the exaggerated actions of Lucretia and Virginius, which degenerated into tragic farces. For this very reason, the ending of Emilia Galotti is so revolting that one leaves the theater in complete disarray. On the other hand, one cannot help but sympathize with Egmont's Klärchen, despite sexual honor. This pushing of the female principle of honor to an extreme belongs, like so many things, to the forgetting of the purpose over the means: for by such exaggeration, sexual honor is attributed an absolute value; while it, even more than all other honor, has only a relative value; indeed, one might say, a merely conventional one, if one sees from Thomasius de concubinatu how in almost all countries and times, until the Lutheran Reformation, concubinage was a legally permitted and recognized relationship, in which the concubine remained honest; not to mention the Mylitta in Babylon (Herodotus I, 199), etc. There are also, of course, civil circumstances that make the external form of marriage impossible, especially in Catholic countries where no divorce takes place; but everywhere for ruling lords, who, in my opinion, act much more morally if they keep a mistress than if they enter into a morganatic marriage, whose descendants, in the event of the extinction of the legitimate line, could someday raise claims; which is why, however remote, such a marriage brings about the possibility of civil war. Moreover, such a morganatic marriage, i.e., a marriage actually concluded despite all external circumstances, is, in the final analysis, a concession made to women and priests, two classes to whom one should be as careful as possible not to concede anything. Furthermore, it must be considered that everyone in the country can marry the woman of their choice, except for one, to whom this natural right is denied: this poor man is the prince. His hand belongs to the country and is given according to reasons of state, i.e., for the good of the country. But he is still a human being and also wants to follow the inclination of his heart sometimes. Therefore, it is as unjust and ungrateful as it is philistine to want to forbid or reproach the prince for keeping a mistress; provided, of course, that she is not allowed any influence on the government. On her part, such a mistress is, with regard to sexual honor, in a way an exceptional person, exempt from the general rule: for she has given herself only to a man whom she loves and who loves her, but could never marry. – In general, however, the many bloody sacrifices made to the female principle of honor testify to its not purely natural origin – in infanticide and suicide of mothers. Certainly, a girl who gives herself up unlawfully thereby commits a breach of loyalty against her entire sex: however, this loyalty is only tacitly assumed and not sworn. And since, in the usual case, her own advantage suffers most directly from it, her folly in this is infinitely greater than her wickedness.

Men's sexual honor is evoked by that of women, as the opposing esprit de corps, which demands that anyone who has entered into the capitulation so favorable to the other party, marriage, now ensure that it is upheld for him; lest this very pact, through the erosion of a lax observance of it, lose its firmness, and men, by giving up everything, are not even assured of the one thing they bargain for in return: the exclusive possession of the woman. Accordingly, a man's honor demands that he punish his wife's adultery and, at least by separating from her, chastise her. If he knowingly tolerates it, he is shamed by the male community: however, this is by no means as far-reaching as the disgrace that befalls the woman through the loss of her sexual honor, but rather only a levioris notae macula; because for a man, the sexual relationship is a subordinate one, as he stands in many other and more important relationships. The two great dramatic poets of modern times have, each twice, taken this male honor as their theme: Shakespeare, in Othello and The Winter's Tale, and Calderón, in el medico de su honra (The Physician of His Honor) and a secreto agravio secreta venganza (Secret Vengeance for Secret Insult). Moreover, this honor only demands the punishment of the wife, not that of her paramour; which is merely an opus supererogationis: this confirms its stated origin from the esprit de corps of men. –

The honor, as I have considered it thus far, in its types and principles, is found to be universally valid among all peoples and at all times; even if female honor can show some local and temporary modifications to its principles. However, there is yet another type of honor, entirely different from that universally and everywhere valid one, of which neither Greeks nor Romans had any concept, just as Chinese, Hindus, and Mohammedans, to this day, know nothing of it. For it only arose in the Middle Ages and became indigenous only in Christian Europe, indeed, even here only among an extremely small fraction of the population, namely among the higher strata of society and those who emulate them. It is chivalric honor, or the point d'honneur. Since its principles are entirely different from those of the honor discussed so far, even partly opposite to them, in that the former makes the man of honor, while the latter makes the honorable man; I will set out its principles here separately, as a code or mirror of chivalric honor.

1. Honor consists not in others' opinion of our worth, but solely in the expressions of such an opinion; regardless of whether the expressed opinion actually exists or not; let alone whether it has any basis. Accordingly, others may hold ever so poor an opinion of us, despise us ever so much, as a result of our conduct; as long as no one dares to express it aloud, it does not harm honor at all. Conversely, however, even if our qualities and actions compel everyone else to hold us in very high esteem (for that does not depend on their arbitrary will); yet, if only someone – were it even the worst and most foolish – expresses his contempt for us, our honor is immediately violated, indeed, it is lost forever; if it is not restored. – A superfluous proof that it is by no means about the opinion of others, but solely about the expression of such an opinion, is that slanders can be retracted, if necessary apologized for, whereby it is then as if they had never happened: whether the opinion from which they originated has also changed and why this should have happened, is irrelevant: only the expression is annulled, and then all is well. Here, therefore, the aim is not to earn respect, but to extort it.

2. A man's honor does not rest on what he does, but on what he suffers, what happens to him. If, according to the principles of the universally valid honor first discussed, this depends solely on what he himself says or does; then chivalric honor, on the other hand, depends on what any other person says or does. It thus lies in the hand, indeed, hangs on the tip of anyone's tongue, and can, if he takes hold, be lost forever at any moment, unless the offended party, through a restorative process soon to be mentioned, reclaims it, which, however, can only happen at the risk of his life, health, freedom, property, and peace of mind. Consequently, a man's actions and omissions may be the most upright and noble, his spirit the purest, and his mind the most eminent; yet his honor can be lost at any moment, namely, as soon as anyone—who has not yet violated these laws of honor, but who may otherwise be the most worthless scoundrel, the most stupid brute, a idler, gambler, debtor, in short, a person not worth looking at—chooses to insult him. Indeed, it will mostly be precisely such a subject who chooses to do so; because, as Seneca rightly observes, ut quisque contemtissimus et ludibrio est, ita solutissimae linguae est (de constantia, 11): also, such a person will be most easily provoked precisely against someone like the one first described; because opposites hate each other and because the sight of superior advantages tends to generate the silent rage of worthlessness; hence Goethe says:

One sees how much precisely the people of the last-described kind have to thank the principle of honor; as it levels them with those who would otherwise be unattainable to them in every respect. – If such a person has now insulted someone, i.e., attributed a bad quality to another; this is, for the time being, considered an objectively true and well-founded judgment, a legally valid decree, indeed, it remains true and valid for all future unless it is immediately erased with blood: i.e., the insulted person remains (in the eyes of all "people of honor") what the insulter (even if the latter were the last of all sons of earth) has called him: for he has (this is the terminus technicus) "let it sit." Accordingly, the "people of honor" will now utterly despise him, flee him like one infected, e.g., loudly and publicly refuse to go into a society where he has access, etc. – I believe I can confidently trace the origin of this wise fundamental view to the fact that (according to C. G. von Wächter's "Contributions to German History, especially German Criminal Law" 1845) in the Middle Ages, up to the 15th century, in criminal trials, it was not the accuser who had to prove guilt, but the accused who had to prove his innocence. This could be done by an oath of purification, for which, however, he still needed oath-helpers (consacramentales), who swore they were convinced that he was incapable of perjury. If he did not have these, or if the accuser did not accept them; then divine judgment occurred, and this usually consisted of a duel. For the accused was now an "impeached" person and had to cleanse himself. We see here the origin of the concept of being impeached and the whole course of things, as it still takes place today among "people of honor," only with the omission of the oath. Precisely here also arises the explanation of the obligatory, high indignation with which "people of honor" receive the accusation of lying and demand bloody revenge for it, which, given the everyday nature of lies, seems very strange, but has grown into a deeply rooted superstition, especially in England. (Indeed, anyone who threatens to punish the accusation of lying with death must not have lied in his life.) Namely, in those criminal trials of the Middle Ages, the shorter form was that the accused replied to the accuser: "you lie"; whereupon divine judgment was immediately pronounced: hence it is that, according to the chivalric code of honor, an appeal to arms must immediately follow the accusation of lying. – So much for insulting. But now there is even something worse than insulting, something so terrifying that I have to ask the "people of honor" for forgiveness for merely mentioning it in this code of chivalric honor, as I know that at the mere thought of it their skin shudders and their hair stands on end, as it is the summum malum, the greatest of evils in the world, and worse than death and damnation. For it can happen, horribile dictu, that one person gives another a slap or a blow. This is a dreadful event and brings about such a complete death of honor that, while all other injuries to honor can be healed by bloodletting, this one requires a complete homicide for its thorough healing.

3. Honor has absolutely nothing to do with what a person may be in and of themselves, or with the question of whether their moral character can ever change, and all such pedantic quibbles; rather, when it is violated or temporarily lost, it can be restored quickly and completely, if one acts promptly, through a single universal remedy: the duel. However, if the offender is not from the ranks that adhere to the code of chivalric honor, or if they have already acted contrary to it, one can, especially if the offense to honor was a physical one, but also if it was merely verbal, perform a sure operation by, if armed, stabbing them on the spot, or even an hour later, thereby restoring one's honor. Furthermore, or if one wishes to avoid this step due to fear of resulting inconveniences, or if one is simply uncertain whether the offender submits to the laws of chivalric honor or not, there is a palliative in the "Avantage." This consists of being noticeably ruder if they have been rude: if mere insults are no longer sufficient, one resorts to blows, and here too there is a climax of honor restoration: slaps are cured by cane blows, these by horsewhip lashes; even against the latter, spitting is recommended by some as a proven method. Only when these means are no longer timely must bloody operations be resorted to. This palliative method is actually based on the following maxim.

4. As being sworn at is a disgrace, so swearing is an honor. For example, let truth, right, and reason be on my opponent's side; but I swear; then all these must pack up, and right and honor are on my side: he, on the other hand, has temporarily lost his honor - until he restores it, not by right and reason, but by shooting and stabbing. Therefore, rudeness is a quality which, in terms of honor, replaces or outweighs any other: the rudest is always right: quid multa? Whatever stupidity, impudence, wickedness one may have committed; - through rudeness it is extinguished as such and immediately legitimized. If, for example, in a discussion or otherwise in conversation, another shows more accurate knowledge, stricter love of truth, sounder judgment, more understanding than we, or generally, reveals intellectual advantages that overshadow us; then we can immediately cancel all such superiorities and our own inadequacy revealed by them and now, conversely, be superior ourselves by becoming offensive and rude. For rudeness defeats every argument and eclipses all spirit: if, therefore, the opponent does not engage in it and responds with a greater one, whereby we enter into the noble competition of advantage; then we remain victorious and honor is on our side: truth, knowledge, understanding, spirit, wit must pack up and are defeated by divine rudeness. Therefore, "people of honor," as soon as someone expresses an opinion that deviates from theirs, or even only shows more understanding than they can muster, will immediately prepare to mount that warhorse; and if, for example, in a controversy, they lack a counter-argument, they look for a rudeness, which serves the same purpose and is easier to find: thereupon they depart victoriously. One can already see here how rightly the honor principle is praised for refining the tone in society. - This maxim, in turn, rests on the following, which is the actual basic maxim and the soul of the entire code.

5. The supreme court of law, to which one can appeal, in all differences, from every other, as far as honor is concerned, is that of physical force, i.e., animality. For every act of rudeness is essentially an appeal to animality, in that it declares the struggle of spiritual forces, or moral right, to be incompetent, and replaces it with the struggle of physical forces, which, in the species Homo sapiens, defined by Franklin as a tool-making animal, is carried out with weapons peculiar to it, in a duel, and brings about an irrevocable decision. – This fundamental maxim is known, in a word, by the expression Faustrecht (fist-right), which is analogous to the expression Aberwitz (madness) and therefore, like the latter, ironic: accordingly, chivalric honor should, in accordance with it, be called fist-honor. –

6. While we found bourgeois honor, above, to be very scrupulous regarding mine and thine, assumed obligations, and given word, the code considered here, on the other hand, displays the noblest liberality in these matters. Specifically, only one word must not be broken: the word of honor, i.e., the word for which one has said “on my honor!” – from which the presumption arises that every other word may be broken. Even when breaking this word of honor, one’s honor can still be saved if need be, through the universal remedy, the duel, here with those who claim we gave our word of honor. – Furthermore: there is only one debt that must absolutely be paid – the gambling debt, which accordingly bears the name “debt of honor.” All other debts may be defrauded from Jews and Christians: this does not harm knightly honor in the least. –

That this strange, barbaric, and ridiculous code of honor did not originate from the essence of human nature, or a sound view of human relations, is immediately evident to any unbiased observer. Moreover, it is confirmed by the extremely limited scope of its validity: it is exclusively Europe, and only since the Middle Ages, and even there, only among the nobility, military, and those who emulate them. For neither Greeks, nor Romans, nor the highly cultured Asian peoples, ancient and modern, know anything of this honor and its principles. They all know no other honor than the one first analyzed. Among them all, therefore, a man is considered to be what his actions and inactions reveal him to be, and not what any loose tongue chooses to say about him. Among them all, what one says or does can indeed destroy one's own honor, but never that of another. A blow, among them all, is merely a blow, just as any horse or donkey can deliver a more dangerous one: it will, depending on circumstances, provoke anger, and perhaps even be avenged on the spot; but it has nothing to do with honor, and no account is kept of blows and insults, along with the

That the ancients were completely unfamiliar with such prejudice is attested by many preserved accounts. For example, when a Teutonic chieftain challenged Marius to a duel, this hero had him answered: “if he was tired of his life, he should hang himself,” but offered him a retired gladiator with whom he could fight (Freinsh. suppl. in Liv. lib. LXVIII, c. 12). In Plutarch (Them. 11) we read that the fleet commander Eurybiades, quarreling with Themistocles, raised his stick to strike him; yet not that Themistocles then drew his sword, but rather that he said: παταξον μεν ουν, ακουσον δε: “strike me, but hear me.” With what indignation must the reader “of honor” here miss the news that the Athenian officer corps immediately declared that they would no longer serve under such a Themistocles! – A modern French writer therefore rightly says: si quelqu'un s'avisait de dire que Démosthène fut un homme d'honneur, on sourirait de pitié; – – – Cicéron n'était pas un homme d'honneur non plus. (Soirées littéraires, par C. Durand. Rouen 1828. Vol. 2. p. 300.) Furthermore, the passage in Plato (de leg. IX, the last 6 pages, likewise XI p. 131 Bip.) concerning αικια, i.e., mistreatment, sufficiently shows that the ancients had no idea of the chivalrous point of honor in such matters. Socrates, as a result of his frequent disputations, was often physically abused, which he calmly endured: when he once received a kick, he patiently accepted it and said to the one who wondered about it: “would I sue a donkey if it had kicked me?” – (Diog. Laert. II, 21.) Another time, when someone said to him: “does that man not insult and revile you?” his answer was: “no: for what he says does not apply to me” (ibid. 36.) – Stobaeus (Florileg., ed. Gaisford, Vol. I, p. 327-330) has preserved a long passage from Musonius, from which it can be seen how the ancients regarded injuries: they knew no other satisfaction than legal action; and wise men disdained even that. That the ancients knew no other satisfaction for a received slap than a legal one is clearly to be seen from Plato's Gorgias (p. 86 Bip.); where also (p. 133) Socrates' opinion on the matter is stated. The same is evident from Gillius's account (XX, 1) of a certain Lucius Veratius, who made it his amusement to slap Roman citizens he met on the street without provocation, for which purpose, to avoid any complications, he had himself accompanied by a slave with a bag of copper coins, who immediately paid the legally stipulated compensation of 25 asses to those thus surprised. Crates, the famous Cynic, had received such a strong slap from the musician Nicodromus that his face was swollen and bloody: thereupon he attached a small board to his forehead, with the inscription Νικοδρομος εποιει (Nicodromus fecit), which brought great shame upon the flutist, who had committed such brutality against a man whom all Athens revered like a household god (Apul. Flor. p. 126 bip.). (Diog. Laert. VI, 89.) – From Diogenes of Sinope, concerning the Athenian youths who had beaten him while drunk, we have a letter to Melesippus, in which he indicates that it was of no consequence. (Nota Casaub. ad Diog. Laert. VI, 33.) – Seneca, in the book de constantia sapientis, from C. 10 to the end, extensively considered the insult, contumelia, to demonstrate that the wise man does not heed it. In Chapter 14 he says: “at sapiens colaphis percussus, quid faciet? quod Cato, cum illi os percussum esset: non excanduit, non vindicavit injuriam: nec remisit quidem, sed factam negavit.” “Yes,” you exclaim, “those were wise men!” – But you are fools? Agreed. –

We see then that the ancients were entirely unfamiliar with the chivalric principle of honor, precisely because they remained true in all respects to an unconstrained, natural view of things, and therefore did not allow themselves to be persuaded by such sinister and unholy absurdities. Consequently, they could regard a blow to the face as nothing more than what it is: a minor physical impairment. For moderns, however, it has become a catastrophe and a subject for tragedies, as, for example, in Corneille’s Le Cid, and also in a more recent German bourgeois tragedy titled “The Power of Circumstances,” which ought to be called “The Power of Prejudice.” When a slap once fell in the Parisian National Assembly, all of Europe echoed with the sound. To the people “of honor” who must be displeased by the classical recollections and examples from antiquity cited above, I recommend, as an antidote, reading the story of Monsieur Desglands in Diderot’s masterpiece, Jacques le fataliste, as an exquisite model of modern chivalric honor, by which they may refresh and edify themselves.

From what has been stated, it is abundantly clear that the principle of knightly honor cannot possibly be an original one, founded in human nature itself. It is, therefore, an artificial construct, and its origin is not difficult to trace. It is obviously a child of that era when fists were more practiced than minds, and priests kept reason in chains—that is, the lauded Middle Ages and its chivalry. For at that time, people not only let dear God provide for them but also judge for them. Consequently, difficult legal cases were decided by ordeals or divine judgments; these, with few exceptions, consisted of duels, not merely among knights but also among citizens—as a charming example in Shakespeare's Henry VI (Part 2, Act 2, Scene 3) attests. Furthermore, any judicial verdict could always be appealed to the duel, as the higher authority, namely God's judgment. This essentially placed physical strength and dexterity, that is, animal nature, on the judgment seat instead of reason, and right or wrong was decided not by what one had done, but by what befell them—entirely in accordance with the knightly code of honor still in effect today. Whoever still doubts this origin of dueling should read the excellent book by J. G. Mellingen, the history of duelling, 1849. Indeed, even today, among those who adhere to the principle of knightly honor—who, as is well known, are not exactly the most educated and thoughtful individuals—one still finds some who truly consider the outcome of a duel to be a divine resolution of the underlying dispute; certainly, this is based on a traditionally inherited belief.

Aside from this origin of the chivalric principle of honor, its tendency is initially to enforce outward expressions of respect through the threat of physical violence, a respect that one considers either too burdensome or unnecessary to genuinely earn. This is roughly akin to someone warming a thermometer bulb with their hand and then demonstrating, by the rising mercury, that their room is well-heated. Upon closer examination, the core of the matter is this: just as civic honor, which aims at peaceful interaction with others, consists in their opinion of us as deserving complete trust because we unconditionally respect everyone's rights; so too, chivalric honor consists in their opinion of us as being to be feared, because we are determined to unconditionally defend our own rights. The principle that it is more essential to be feared than to enjoy trust would not be entirely false, given that there is little reliance on human justice, if we lived in a state of nature where everyone had to protect themselves and directly defend their rights. But in a state of civilization, where the state has undertaken the protection of our person and property, it finds no application, and stands there, like castles and watchtowers from the times of feuds, useless and abandoned, between well-cultivated fields and lively roads, or even railways. Accordingly, the chivalric honor that upholds it has focused on such infringements of the person that the state punishes only lightly, or, according to the principle de minimis lex non curat, not at all, as they are minor insults and partly mere teasing. However, in regard to these, it has inflated itself to a completely inappropriate overestimation of the value of one's own person, one that is entirely unsuited to human nature, constitution, and fate, elevating it to a kind of sanctity and therefore finding the state's punishment for minor offenses utterly inadequate, thus taking it upon itself to punish such offenses, always on the body and life of the offender. Obviously, the most excessive arrogance and outrageous pride underlie this, completely forgetting what man truly is, claiming an absolute inviolability, as well as blamelessness, for him. However, anyone who is determined to enforce this by force and consequently proclaims the maxim: “whoever insults me, or even strikes me, shall die,” – actually deserves to be banished from the land for this very reason. Then, to excuse that presumptuous hubris, all sorts of things are put forward. Of two intrepid people, it is said, neither ever gives in, which would lead from the slightest provocation to insults, then to blows, and finally to homicide; therefore, it is better, for the sake of propriety, to skip the intermediate stages and go straight to arms. The more specific procedure for this has then been cast into a rigid, pedantic system, with laws and rules, which is the most serious farce in the world and stands as a true temple of folly. But now the principle itself is false: in matters of minor importance (those of great importance always remain subject to the courts), of two intrepid people, one does indeed give in, namely the wiser one, and mere opinions are left to stand. The people, or rather all the numerous classes who do not subscribe to the chivalric principle of honor, provide proof of this, for among them disputes take their natural course: among these classes, homicide is a hundred times rarer than among the fraction, perhaps only ¹/₁₀₀₀ of the total population, who adhere to that principle; and even a brawl is a rarity. – Furthermore, it is asserted that good manners and refined social customs have that principle of honor, with its duels, as their ultimate cornerstone, serving as a bulwark against outbursts of rudeness and ill-breeding. However, in Athens, Corinth, and Rome, there was certainly good, indeed very good, society, as well as refined customs and good manners; without that scarecrow of chivalric honor lurking behind them. Of course, however, women did not preside over society there, as they do with us, which, while it initially gives entertainment a frivolous and trivial character and banishes any substantial conversation, certainly also contributes greatly to the fact that in our good society, personal courage maintains its rank above every other quality; whereas it is actually a very subordinate, a mere non-commissioned officer's virtue, indeed, one in which even animals surpass us, which is why we say, for example: “brave as a lion.” But even, contrary to the above assertion, the chivalric principle of honor is often the sure asylum, just as in the large scale it is for dishonesty and wickedness, so in the small scale it is for ill-breeding, inconsiderateness, and boorishness, as a multitude of very annoying bad habits are tacitly tolerated, precisely because no one is willing to risk their neck in reproving them. – Corresponding to all this, we see dueling in full bloom and pursued with bloodthirsty earnestness, precisely among the nation that has shown a lack of true honor in political and financial matters: how things stand with them in private dealings can be inquired from those who have experience in it. As for their urbanity and social cultivation, it has long been famous as a negative example.

All those stipulations, therefore, do not hold water. It can be more rightly urged that, just as a growling dog will growl again, and a flattered dog will flatter again, it is also in human nature to respond to every hostile encounter with hostility and to be embittered and provoked by signs of contempt or hatred; hence Cicero already says: habet quendam aculeum contumelia, quem pati prudentes ac viri boni difficillime possunt; as indeed nowhere in the world (some pious sects excepted) are insults or even blows calmly accepted. However, nature by no means leads to anything further than a retaliation appropriate to the matter, but not to punishing the accusation of lying, stupidity, or cowardice with death, and the old German principle "a dagger belongs to a slap in the face" is an outrageous chivalric superstition. In any case, the response or retaliation for insults is a matter of anger, but by no means of honor and duty, to which the chivalric principle of honor stamps it. Rather, it is quite certain that every reproach can only hurt to the extent that it hits; which is also evident from the fact that the slightest hint that hits wounds much deeper than the heaviest accusation that has no basis at all. Therefore, whoever is truly aware of not deserving a reproach may and will confidently despise it. On the other hand, however, the principle of honor demands from him that he show a sensitivity that he does not have at all, and avenge with blood insults that do not hurt him. But he must himself have a weak opinion of his own worth who hastens to press his thumb over every utterance that challenges it, so that it does not become loud. Consequently, in the case of injuries, true self-esteem will confer real indifference, and where this is not the case due to a lack thereof, prudence and education will guide one to save the appearance of it and to hide one's anger. If, therefore, one were only rid of the superstition of the chivalric principle of honor, so that no one would any longer presume to be able to take anything from another's honor or restore his own by insulting, nor could every injustice, every rudeness or coarseness be immediately legitimized by the readiness to give satisfaction, i.e., to fight for it; then the insight would soon become general that, when it comes to reviling and insulting, the vanquished in this struggle is the victor, and that, as Vincenzo Monti says, injuries are like church processions, which always return to where they started. Furthermore, it would then no longer be sufficient, as it is now, for someone to bring a rudeness to market to be in the right; consequently, insight and understanding would then be expressed quite differently than now, where they always first have to consider whether they might not somehow offend the opinions of narrow-mindedness and stupidity, which their mere appearance has already alarmed and embittered, and thereby bring about that the head in which they reside must be gambled against the flat skull in which those reside. Thus, intellectual superiority would then attain its due primacy in society, which now, albeit covertly, physical superiority and hussar courage possess, and as a result, the most excellent people would have one less reason than now to withdraw from society. A change of this kind would therefore bring about true good manners and pave the way for truly good society, in the form in which it undoubtedly existed in Athens, Corinth, and Rome. Whoever wishes to see a sample of this, I recommend reading Xenophon's Symposium.

The last defense of the chivalric code, however, will undoubtedly be: "Oh, good heavens! Someone might actually strike another!"—to which I could briefly retort that this has happened often enough among ⁹⁹⁹/₁₀₀₀ of society, who do not recognize that code, without anyone ever dying from it, while among its adherents, as a rule, every blow becomes fatal. But I will elaborate. I have often enough tried to find some tenable or at least plausible reason, not consisting merely of empty phrases but reducible to clear concepts, for the conviction, so firmly held by a part of human society, of the horror of a blow, either in the animal or in the rational nature of man, but in vain. A blow is and remains a small physical evil that any person can inflict upon another, but thereby proves nothing more than that he is stronger or more agile, or that the other was not on his guard. Further analysis yields nothing. Then I see the same knight, to whom a blow from a human hand seems the greatest of evils, receive a tenfold stronger blow from his horse and, limping away with suppressed pain, assure that it means nothing. I then thought it was due to the human hand. But I see our knight receive sword thrusts and saber cuts from this in combat and assure that it is a trifle, not worth mentioning. Then I hear that even blows with the flat of the blade are by no means as bad as those with a stick, which is why, not long ago, cadets were exposed to the former but not the latter: and now, the accolade, with the blade, is the greatest honor. I am thus at the end of my psychological and moral reasons, and nothing remains for me but to consider the matter an old, deep-rooted superstition, one more example, among so many, of what can be instilled in people. This is also confirmed by the well-known fact that in China, blows with a bamboo cane are a very common civil punishment, even for officials of all classes; showing us that human nature, and even highly civilized nature, does not say the same there. Moreover, an unbiased look at human nature teaches that beating is as natural to man as biting is to predatory animals and goring is to horned cattle: he is simply a beating animal. Therefore, we are outraged when, in rare cases, we hear that one person has bitten another; on the other hand, giving and receiving blows is such a natural and easily occurring event. That higher education gladly avoids this, through mutual self-control, is easily explainable. But to impose on a nation, or even just a class, that a given blow is a terrible misfortune that must result in murder and manslaughter, is cruelty. There are too many true evils in the world to allow oneself to increase them with imaginary ones that attract the true ones: but that is what that stupid and malicious superstition does. I must therefore even disapprove of governments and legislative bodies promoting it by eagerly insisting on the abolition of all corporal punishment, in civil and military life. They believe they are acting in the interest of humanity; while precisely the opposite is the case, as they are thereby working to strengthen that unnatural and disastrous delusion, to which so many victims have already fallen. For all offenses, with the exception of the most serious, beatings are the first, and therefore the natural, punishment that comes to mind for man: whoever was not receptive to reasons will be to beatings: and that he who cannot be punished in property, because he has none, and whom one cannot punish in freedom, because one needs his services, should be punished by moderate beatings, is as fair as it is natural. Also, no reasons are brought against it, but mere phrases about the "dignity of man," which are not based on clear concepts, but precisely again on the above pernicious superstition. That this underlies the matter is confirmed in an almost ridiculous way by the fact that, until recently, in some countries in the military, corporal punishment was replaced by the "Lattenstrafe" (lath punishment), which, entirely like the former, is the infliction of physical pain, but is now not supposed to be dishonorable and degrading.

By such promotion of the said superstition, one plays into the hands of the chivalric principle of honor, and thus the duel, while on the other hand, one endeavors to abolish it by law, or at least claims to. Consequently, that fragment of vigilantism, blown down from the times of the crudest Middle Ages into the 19th century, still persists there, to public scandal: it is high time it was thrown out with shame and disgrace. After all, nowadays it is not even permitted to methodically incite dogs or roosters against each other (at least in England such incitement is punished); but people are, against their will, incited to deadly combat by the ridiculous superstition of the absurd principle of chivalric honor and by its narrow-minded representatives and administrators, who impose on them the obligation to fight each other like gladiators over some trifle. Therefore, I propose to our German purists, for the word duel, which probably does not come from the Latin duellum, but from the Spanish duelo, grief, lament, complaint, – the designation "Ritterhetze" (knight-baiting). The pedantry with which this folly is pursued certainly provides material for laughter. However, it is outrageous that this principle and its absurd code establish a state within a state, which, recognizing no law but vigilantism, tyrannizes the classes subject to it by maintaining an open holy Vehmic court, before which anyone can summon anyone, by means of very easily brought about occasions as henchmen, to let a judgment of life and death pass over him and himself. Of course, this now becomes the lurking place from which every most depraved person, if only he belongs to those classes, can threaten, indeed, eliminate the noblest and best, who must necessarily be hateful to him as such. After justice and police have nowadays pretty much reached the point where no scoundrel can call out to us on the highway "your money or your life," sound reason should finally bring it about that no scoundrel can call out to us "your honor or your life" in the midst of peaceful intercourse. And the oppression should be lifted from the breasts of the higher classes, which arises from the fact that everyone can, at any moment, become responsible with life and limb for the crudeness, rudeness, stupidity, or malice of some other person who chooses to unleash such against him. That when two young, inexperienced hotheads verbally clash, they should atone for this with their blood, their health, or their lives, is an outrage, is disgraceful. How severe the tyranny of that state within a state and how great the power of that superstition is, can be measured by the fact that people, to whom the restoration of their wounded chivalric honor was impossible due to too high or too low a social standing, or otherwise inappropriate nature of the offender, have often taken their own lives out of despair and thus found a tragicomic end. – Since what is false and absurd usually reveals itself in the end by producing contradiction as its blossom at its peak; this finally emerges here too in the form of the most blatant antinomy: namely, the officer is forbidden to duel: but he is punished by dismissal if he omits it, should the case arise.

But since I'm on the subject, I want to go further in parrhesia. Viewed in the light of reason and without prejudice, the much-vaunted and highly-regarded distinction between killing one's enemy in open combat with equal weapons or from an ambush, rests solely on the fact that, as I said, that state within a state recognizes no other right than that of the stronger, i.e., the law of the fist, and has made this, elevated to a divine judgment, the basis of its code. For by the former, one has proven nothing more than that one is the stronger or the more skillful. The justification sought in enduring open combat thus presupposes that the right of the stronger is truly a right. In truth, however, the fact that the other is bad at defending himself gives me the possibility, but by no means the right, to kill him; rather, this latter, i.e., my moral justification, can only rest on the motives I have for taking his life. Now, let us assume these motives are indeed present or sufficient; there is absolutely no reason to make it dependent on whether he or I can shoot or fight better, but then it is all the same how I take his life, whether from behind or from the front. For morally, the right of the stronger has no more weight than the right of the cleverer, which is applied in treacherous murder: here, therefore, the law of the fist is equal to the law of the head; to which it should also be noted that in a duel, both are asserted, as every feint in fencing is already treachery. If I consider myself morally justified in taking someone's life, then it is foolish to let it depend on whether he can shoot and fight better than I; in which case he would then, conversely, take my life, whom he has already wronged. That insults should be avenged not by dueling but by assassination is Rousseau's view, which he cautiously hints at in the mysteriously kept 21st note to the 4th book of Emile (p. 173, Bip.). But in this, he is so strongly caught up in knightly superstition that he already considers the endured reproach of lying as a justification for assassination; while he must have known that every human being has deserved this reproach countless times, indeed, he himself to the highest degree. The prejudice, however, which makes the right to kill the aggressor conditional on open combat with equal weapons, obviously considers the law of the fist a real right and the duel a divine judgment. The Italian, on the other hand, who, inflamed with anger, attacks his aggressor with a knife wherever he finds him, acts at least consistently and naturally: he is cleverer, but not worse, than the duelist. If one were to say that I am justified in killing my enemy in a duel by the fact that he was trying to kill me, this is contradicted by the fact that I, by the challenge, put him in a state of self-defense. This intentionally putting each other in a state of self-defense is fundamentally only seeking a plausible pretext for murder. The justification through the principle volenti non fit injuria would be more plausible; insofar as one has, by mutual agreement, put one's life at stake in this game: but this is contradicted by the fact that the volenti is not entirely accurate; as the tyranny of the knightly principle of honor and its absurd code is the henchman who has dragged both, or at least one of the two combatants, before this bloody secret tribunal.

I have expatiated on chivalric honor, but with good intentions and because, against the moral and intellectual monsters of this world, philosophy is the sole Hercules. There are two main things that distinguish the social condition of the modern age from that of antiquity, to the detriment of the former, by giving it a serious, dark, sinister tinge, from which antiquity stands free, cheerful and unburdened, like the morning of life. They are: the chivalric principle of honor and venereal disease – par nobile fratrum! Together they have poisoned the νεικος και φιλια of life. Venereal disease, in fact, extends its influence much further than it might seem at first glance, as it is by no means merely physical, but also moral. Since Cupid's quiver also carries poisoned arrows, a strange, hostile, even devilish element has entered the relationship between the sexes, as a result of which a dark and fearful mistrust pervades it, and the immediate influence of such a change in the very foundation of all human community extends, more or less, to other social relations; to elaborate on which would lead me too far afield here. – Analogous, though entirely different, is the influence of the chivalric principle of honor, this serious farce, which was alien to the ancients, but which makes modern society stiff, serious, and anxious, precisely because every fleeting utterance is scrutinized and ruminated upon. But more than this! That principle is a general Minotaur, to whom not, like the ancient one, from one, but from every country in Europe, a number of sons of noble houses must be brought annually as tribute. Therefore, it is time that this bogeyman be boldly tackled, as has been done here. May both monsters of the modern age find their end in the 19th century! We will not give up hope that doctors, by means of prophylactics, will finally succeed with the former. But to abolish the bogeyman is the philosopher's task, by means of correcting concepts, since governments, by means of enforcing laws, have not yet succeeded, and moreover, only by the former path is the evil attacked at its root. Should governments in the meantime be truly serious about abolishing dueling and the meager success of their efforts truly be due only to their inability, then I will propose a law to them, for whose success I vouch, and indeed without resorting to bloody operations, without scaffold or gallows or lifelong incarcerations. Rather, it is a small, very simple homeopathic remedy: whoever challenges another or presents himself, receives, à la Chinoise, in broad daylight, in front of the main guardhouse, 12 strokes of a stick from the corporal, the cartel-bearers and seconds each 6. For the possible consequences of actually carried out duels, the usual criminal procedure would remain. Perhaps a chivalrous person would object that after the execution of such a punishment many a "man of honor" might be able to shoot himself; to which I reply: it is better that such a fool shoots himself than others. – In essence, however, I know very well that governments are not serious about abolishing duels. The salaries of civil servants, but even more so those of officers, are (apart from the highest positions) far below the value of their services. For the other half, they are therefore paid with honor. This is represented first by titles and orders, in a broader sense by professional honor in general. For this professional honor, the duel is a useful hobbyhorse; hence it already has its preparatory school at universities. Its victims therefore pay with their blood the deficit of salaries. –

For completeness, let's also mention national honor here. It's the honor of an entire people as part of the community of nations. Since there's no other forum in this community than that of force, and therefore each member must protect its own rights, the honor of a nation consists not only in the acquired opinion that it can be trusted (credit), but also in the opinion that it is to be feared. Therefore, it must never leave infringements on its rights unpunished. It thus combines the point of honor of civil honor with that of chivalric honor. –

Regarding what one represents, i.e., what one is in the eyes of the world, fame was listed last among the elements discussed above; we must therefore examine it. – Fame and honor are twin siblings; however, like the Dioscuri, of whom Pollux was immortal and Castor mortal: fame is the immortal brother of mortal honor. Of course, this applies only to fame of the highest kind, true and genuine fame, for there is indeed much ephemeral fame. – Honor, furthermore, concerns only those qualities that are demanded of everyone in the same circumstances; fame concerns only those that no one may demand; honor, those that everyone may publicly claim for themselves; fame, those that no one may claim for themselves. While our honor extends as far as the knowledge of us, fame, conversely, precedes the knowledge of us and carries it as far as it reaches. Everyone has a claim to honor; only exceptions have a claim to fame: for fame is attained only through extraordinary achievements. These, in turn, are either deeds or works, opening two paths to fame. The path of deeds is primarily enabled by a great heart; that of works by a great mind. Each path has its own advantages and disadvantages. The main difference is that deeds pass, while works remain. The noblest deed has only a temporary influence; the work of genius, however, lives and acts, beneficently and upliftingly, through all ages. Of deeds, only memory remains, which becomes ever weaker, more distorted, and more indifferent, gradually even fading away, unless history records it and thus transmits it in a petrified state to posterity. Works, on the other hand, are themselves immortal and can, especially written ones, endure through all times. The name and memory of Alexander the Great live on: but Plato and Aristotle, Homer and Horace are still present themselves, living and working directly. The Vedas, with their Upanishads, are present: but no knowledge of any of the deeds that occurred in their time has reached us. – Another disadvantage of deeds is their dependence on opportunity, which must first provide the possibility for them; connected with this is that their fame depends not only on their intrinsic value but also on the circumstances that give them importance and luster. Moreover, if, as in war, the deeds are purely personal, their fame depends on the testimony of a few eyewitnesses: these are not always present and then not always just and unbiased. On the other hand, deeds have the advantage that, as something practical, they lie within the scope of general human judgment; therefore, if the data are correctly transmitted to it, justice is immediately done to them; unless their motives are only later correctly recognized or justly assessed: for understanding any action requires knowledge of its motive. The opposite is true for works: their creation does not depend on opportunity but solely on their author, and what they are in and of themselves, they remain as long as they last. With them, however, the difficulty lies in judgment, and it is greater the higher their genre: often there is a lack of competent, often of unbiased and honest judges. On the other hand, their fame is not decided by one instance; instead, an appeal takes place. For while, as said, only the memory of deeds comes down to posterity, and indeed as contemporaries transmit it, works themselves come down, and, apart from any missing fragments, as they are: thus there is no distortion of the data, and any potentially detrimental influence of the environment at their origin later falls away. Rather, time often brings, gradually, the few truly competent judges, who, themselves already exceptions, sit in judgment over even greater exceptions: they successively cast their weighty votes, and thus, sometimes indeed only after centuries, a perfectly just judgment stands, which no subsequent age can overturn. So certain, indeed, inevitable is the fame of works. However, whether their author experiences it depends on external circumstances and chance: it is rarer the higher and more difficult their genre. According to this, Seneca (ep. 79.) says incomparably beautifully that fame follows merit as infallibly as a body follows its shadow, but of course, just like the latter, sometimes preceding, sometimes following it, and adds, after explaining this: etiamsi omnibus tecum viventibus silentium livor indixerit, venient qui sine offensa, sine gratia judicent; from which we incidentally see that the art of suppressing merits through malicious silence and ignoring, in order to conceal the good from the public in favor of the bad, was already common among the scoundrels of Seneca's time, as well as among those of our own, and that to them, as to these, envy sealed their lips. – As a rule, the longer fame is to last, the later it will appear; as all excellence ripens slowly. Fame that aims to be posthumous fame resembles an oak that grows very slowly from its seed; light, ephemeral fame resembles annual, fast-growing plants, and false fame even resembles rapidly sprouting weeds that are quickly eradicated. This process is actually based on the fact that the more one belongs to posterity, i.e., actually to humanity in general and as a whole, the more alien one is to one's own age; because what one produces is not specifically dedicated to it, thus not to it as such, but only insofar as it is a part of humanity, and therefore is not tinged with its local color: as a result, it can easily happen that it allows it to pass by as something alien. Instead, it values those who serve the affairs of its short day, or the whim of the moment, and therefore belong entirely to it, live with it, and die with it. Accordingly, art and literary history consistently teach that the highest achievements of the human spirit have generally been received unfavorably and remained so until higher spirits came along who were appealed to by them and brought them to the esteem in which they have since maintained themselves through the authority thus gained. All this, however, ultimately rests on the fact that everyone can actually only understand and appreciate what is homogeneous to them. But to the shallow, the shallow is homogeneous, to the common, the common, to the unclear, the confused, to the brainless, the nonsensical, and everyone likes their own works best of all, as they are entirely homogeneous to them. Hence the old fabulous Epicharmus already sang:

which I will translate into German, so that no one loses it:

Just as even the strongest arm, when it throws a light object, cannot impart a motion that would make it fly far and strike hard, but instead it falls weakly nearby because it lacked the inherent material substance to absorb the external force – so it is with beautiful and great thoughts, indeed, with the masterpieces of genius, if there are only small, weak, or crooked minds to receive them. The voices of the wise throughout all ages have united in a chorus to lament this. For example, Jesus Sirach says, “Whoever speaks with a fool, speaks with one who is asleep. When it is over, he says, 'What is it?'” – And Hamlet: a knavish speech sleeps in a fool's ear. And Goethe:

and again:

And Lichtenberg: “If a head and a book collide and it sounds hollow; is it always the book?” – and again: “Such works are mirrors; if an ape looks into them, no apostle can look out.” Indeed, Father Gellert’s truly beautiful and touching lament on this subject well deserves to be remembered once more:

To this intellectual incapacity of people, which, as Goethe says, makes excellence even rarer to recognize and appreciate than to discover, is now added, here as everywhere, their moral depravity, manifesting itself as envy. For the fame one acquires elevates that person above all others of their kind, thereby diminishing the rest. Thus, every outstanding merit gains its renown at the expense of those who have none.

This explains why, no matter what form excellence takes, the entire, numerous mediocrity immediately bands together and conspires to deny its validity, and even, if possible, to suppress it. Their secret motto is: à bas le mérite. But even those who themselves possess merits and have already achieved fame are reluctant to see the emergence of new renown, whose brilliance dims their own. Hence, even Goethe says:

While honor, as a rule, finds just judges and no envy assails it, indeed, it is even granted to everyone in advance, on credit, fame must be fought for, despite envy, and the laurel is awarded by a tribunal of decidedly unfavorable judges. For we can and want to share honor with everyone: fame is diminished or made more difficult by everyone who achieves it. – Furthermore, the difficulty of achieving fame through works is inversely proportional to the number of people who constitute the audience for such works; for easily understandable reasons. Therefore, it is much greater for works that promise instruction than for those that promise entertainment. It is greatest for philosophical works; because the instruction they promise is, on the one hand, uncertain, and on the other hand, without material benefit; consequently, such works first appear before an audience consisting entirely of competitors. – From the difficulties explained that stand in the way of achieving fame, it is clear that if those who complete famous works did not do so out of love for these works themselves and their own joy in them, but needed the encouragement of fame, humanity would have received few, or no, immortal works. Indeed, whoever is to produce what is good and right and avoid what is bad must defy the judgment of the multitude and their spokesmen, and therefore despise them. On this rests the correctness of the remark, which Osorius (de gloria) particularly emphasizes, that fame flees from those who seek it and follows those who neglect it: for the former conform to the taste of their contemporaries, while the latter defy it.

As difficult as it is, therefore, to attain fame, it is just as easy to retain it. In this, too, it stands in contrast to honor. Honor is bestowed upon everyone, even on credit: one merely has to preserve it. But here lies the challenge: for by a single, worthless act, it is irretrievably lost. Fame, on the other hand, can never truly be lost: for the deed, or the work, by which it was attained, stands forever firm, and its fame remains with its creator, even if he adds no new one. If, however, fame truly fades, if it is outlived; then it was spurious, i.e., undeserved, arisen from momentary overestimation, if not even a fame like Hegel had and Lichtenberg describes, "trumpeted by a friendly junta of candidates and echoed by empty heads; – – but posterity, how it will smile when it one day knocks on the colorful word-casings, the beautiful nests of flown-out fashion and the dwellings of agreements that have died away, and finds everything, everything empty, not even the smallest thought that could confidently say: come in!" –

Fame, in essence, is based on what one is in comparison to others. Therefore, it is essentially relative and can only have relative value. It would vanish entirely if others became what the celebrated individual is. Absolute value can only be possessed by that which retains it under all circumstances, meaning here, what one is directly and for oneself: consequently, the value and happiness of a great heart and a great mind must lie herein. Thus, it is not fame, but that by which one earns it, that is valuable. For it is, so to speak, the substance, and fame is merely the accidental quality of the matter: indeed, fame acts upon the celebrated individual primarily as an external symptom, through which he receives confirmation of his own high opinion of himself; one might therefore say that, just as light is not visible at all unless it is reflected by a body, similarly, every excellence only becomes truly certain of itself through fame. However, it is not even an infallible symptom; since there is also fame without merit and merit without fame; which is why an expression of Lessing's comes out so neatly: “some people are famous, and others deserve to be.” Furthermore, it would be a miserable existence whose value or worthlessness depended on how it appeared in the eyes of others: such, however, would be the life of the hero and the genius if their value consisted in fame, i.e., in the applause of others. Rather, every being lives and exists for its own sake, and therefore primarily within itself and for itself. – What one is, in whatever way, that one is first and foremost and primarily for oneself: and if it is not worth much here, then it is not worth much at all. Conversely, the image of one's being in the minds of others is secondary, derivative, and subject to chance, which relates back to the former only very indirectly. Moreover, the minds of the multitude are too wretched a stage for true happiness to find its place there. Rather, only a chimerical happiness is to be found there. What a mixed company gathers in that temple of universal fame! Generals, ministers, quacks, jugglers, dancers, singers, millionaires, and Jews: indeed, the advantages of all these are valued much more sincerely there, find much more estime sentie, than intellectual ones, especially of the high kind, which for the vast majority only attain estime sur parole. From a eudaimonological perspective, therefore, fame is nothing more than the rarest and most precious morsel for our pride and vanity. These, however, are excessively present in most people, although they conceal it, perhaps even strongest in those who are somehow suited to acquire fame and therefore usually have to carry around the uncertain consciousness of their overwhelming worth for a long time before the opportunity comes to test it and then experience its recognition: until then, they felt as if they were suffering a secret injustice. In general, however, as discussed at the beginning of this chapter, the value that man places on the opinion of others concerning him is entirely disproportionate and unreasonable; so that Hobbes expressed the matter very strongly, but perhaps correctly, in the words: omnis animi voluptas, omnisque alacritas in eo sita est, quod quis habeat quibuscum conferens se, possit magnifice sentire de se ipso (de cive. I, 5). From this, the high value universally placed on fame, and the sacrifices made in the mere hope of one day attaining it, are explicable:

as well as:

This finally explains why the vainest of all nations constantly speaks of la gloire and unhesitatingly considers it the main driving force for great deeds and great works. – However, since fame is undoubtedly only secondary, a mere echo, reflection, shadow, or symptom of merit, and since what is admired must in any case be more valuable than the admiration itself, true happiness cannot lie in fame, but in that by which one achieves it, i.e., in merit itself, or, more precisely, in the disposition and abilities from which it arose, whether moral or intellectual. For the best that anyone is, they must necessarily be for themselves: what is reflected in the minds of others and what they are considered to be in their opinion is secondary and can only be of subordinate interest to them. Therefore, whoever merely deserves fame, even without receiving it, possesses by far the main thing, and what they lack is something with which they can console themselves. For it is not that one is considered a great man by the uncritical, often deluded multitude, but that one is, that makes him enviable; nor is it that posterity learns of him, but that thoughts are generated within him that deserve to be preserved and pondered for centuries, that is a great happiness. Moreover, this cannot be taken from him: it is των εφ’ ἡμιν, the other των ουκ εφ’ ἡμιν. If, on the other hand, admiration itself were the main thing, then what is admired would not be worthy of it. This is truly the case with false, i.e., undeserved, fame. Its possessor must live off of it without actually having that of which it is supposed to be the symptom, the mere reflection. But even this fame itself must often be spoiled for him when, despite all self-deception arising from self-love, he sometimes feels dizzy at the height for which he is not suited, or feels as if he were a copper ducat; where then the fear of exposure and deserved humiliation seizes him, especially when he already reads the judgment of posterity on the foreheads of the wiser. He thus resembles the owner by a false will. – The most genuine fame, posthumous fame, is never heard by its subject, and yet he is considered happy. So his happiness consisted in the great qualities themselves that earned him fame, and in the fact that he found opportunity to develop them, i.e., that he was allowed to act as was appropriate for him, or to pursue what he pursued with pleasure and love: for only works born of this attain posthumous fame. His happiness thus consisted in his great heart, or also in the richness of a spirit whose imprint, in his works, receives the admiration of coming centuries; it consisted in the thoughts themselves, to ponder which became the occupation and enjoyment of the noblest spirits of an immeasurable future. The value of posthumous fame lies therefore in deserving it, and this is its own reward. Whether the works that earned it also had the fame of contemporaries depended on accidental circumstances and was not of great importance. For since people generally lack their own judgment and are completely incapable of appreciating high and difficult achievements, they always follow external authority here, and fame, in a high genre, rests, in 99 out of 100 cases, merely on trust and belief. Therefore, even the most unanimous applause of contemporaries can have little value for thinking minds, as they always hear in it only the echo of a few voices, which moreover are themselves only as the day brought them. Would a virtuoso feel flattered by the loud applause of his audience if he knew that, with the exception of one or two, it consisted entirely of completely deaf people who, in order to conceal their defect from each other, eagerly applaud as soon as they see the hands of that one moving? And what if the knowledge were added that those pre-applauders often allowed themselves to be bribed to procure the loudest applause for the most miserable violinist! – From this it is understandable why the fame of contemporaries so rarely experiences the metamorphosis into posthumous fame; why d'Alembert, in his exceedingly beautiful description of the temple of literary fame, says: “The interior of the temple is inhabited by dead people who were not in it during their lives, and by a few living people, almost all of whom, when they die, are thrown out.” And incidentally, it should be noted here that erecting a monument to someone during their lifetime means declaring that posterity cannot be trusted regarding them. – If, nevertheless, someone experiences the fame that is to become posthumous fame, it will rarely happen earlier than in old age: at most there are exceptions to this rule among artists and poets, least of all among philosophers. A confirmation of this is given by the portraits of men famous for their works, as these were mostly made only after the onset of their celebrity: as a rule they are depicted as old and gray, especially philosophers. Meanwhile, eudaimonologically speaking, the matter is quite right. Fame and youth at once is too much for a mortal. Our life is so poor that its goods must be distributed more economically. Youth has more than enough of its own wealth and can be content with it. But in old age, when all pleasures and joys, like trees in winter, have died, then the tree of fame sprouts most opportunely, like a true evergreen: it can also be compared to winter pears, which grow in summer but are enjoyed in winter. In old age there is no greater comfort than that one has incorporated the full strength of one's youth into works that do not age with one.

If we now want to look more closely at the ways in which one achieves fame in the sciences, which are closest to us, the following rule can be established. The intellectual superiority indicated by such fame is always revealed through a new combination of certain data. These can be of very different kinds; however, the greater and more widespread the fame to be gained from their combination, the more generally known and accessible they themselves are. If, for example, the data consist of a few numbers or curves, or some special physical, zoological, botanical, or anatomical fact, or some corrupted passages of ancient authors, or half-erased inscriptions, or those whose alphabet we lack, or obscure points in history; then the fame to be gained from their correct combination will not extend much further than the knowledge of the data itself, i.e., to a small number of mostly reclusive people who are envious of fame in their field. On the other hand, if the data are such that the entire human race knows them, for example, essential, common properties of the human intellect or mind, or natural forces whose entire mode of action we constantly observe, or the well-known course of nature in general; then the fame of having shed light on them through a new, important, and evident combination will in time extend almost over the entire civilized world. For, if the data are accessible to everyone, their combination will usually be as well. Nevertheless, in this case, fame will always correspond only to the difficulty overcome. For, the more generally known the data are, the harder it is to combine them in a new and yet correct way; since an exceedingly large number of minds have already tried their hand at them and exhausted the impossible combinations. On the other hand, data that are inaccessible to the general public and can only be reached through laborious and difficult paths will almost always still allow for new combinations: if one approaches such data with a straightforward understanding and sound judgment, i.e., a moderate intellectual superiority; then it is easily possible that one will have the good fortune to make a new and correct combination of them. However, the fame acquired thereby will have approximately the same limits as the knowledge of the data. For, although the solution of problems of this kind requires great study and work, just to gain knowledge of the data; whereas in that other kind, in which the greatest and most widespread fame is to be acquired, the data are given free of charge: but to the extent that this latter kind requires less work, it requires more talent, indeed genius, and with these, in terms of value and appreciation, no work or study can compare.

From this, it follows that those who feel a sound intellect and correct judgment within themselves, without, however, aspiring to the highest mental gifts, must not shy away from extensive study and tiring work. Through these efforts, they can distinguish themselves from the vast majority of people who only have access to common data, and reach more remote areas accessible only through diligent scholarship. For here, where the number of competitors is infinitely reduced, even a moderately superior mind will soon find opportunities for new and accurate combinations of data. Furthermore, the merit of their discovery will also rest on the difficulty of obtaining the data. However, the applause thus gained from their peers, who are the only experts in this field, will only be heard from afar by the general public. – If one were to pursue the path indicated here to its extreme, one could identify the point where the data, due to the great difficulty of its acquisition, suffices to establish fame on its own, without requiring any combination of it. This is achieved through travels to very remote and rarely visited countries: one becomes famous for what one has seen, not for what one has thought. This path also has a great advantage in that it is much easier to communicate what one has seen than what one has thought to others, and understanding is similarly facilitated: accordingly, one will find many more readers for the former than for the latter. For, as Asmus already says:

All this also means that, when personally acquainted with famous people of this kind, one often recalls Horace's remark:

On the other hand, as for the highly gifted mind, which alone dares to tackle the great problems concerning the general and the whole, and therefore the most difficult ones; it would do well to expand its horizon as much as possible, but always evenly, in all directions, and without ever losing itself too far into any of the particular regions known only to a few, i.e., without delving deeply into the specialties of any single science, let alone concerning itself with micrologies. For it does not need to tackle difficult-to-access subjects to escape the crowd of competitors; instead, precisely what is accessible to all will provide it with material for new, important, and true combinations. Accordingly, its merit will be appreciated by all those to whom the data are known, i.e., by a large part of the human race. This is the basis for the significant difference between the fame achieved by poets and philosophers and that attainable by physicists, chemists, anatomists, mineralogists, zoologists, philologists, historians, etc.

Chapter V.
Precepts and Maxims.

Here, less than anywhere else, do I aim for completeness; otherwise, I would have to repeat the many, partly excellent rules for living established by thinkers of all ages, from Theognis and Pseudo-Solomon down to La Rochefoucauld; in doing so, I would also be unable to avoid many well-trodden commonplaces. With completeness, however, systematic arrangement largely falls away. One should console oneself with the thought that, in matters of this kind, both almost inevitably bring boredom in their wake. I have merely given what occurred to me, seemed worth communicating, and, as far as I can recall, has not yet been said, at least not entirely and in precisely the same way; thus, it is merely a gleaning from what others have already accomplished in this immeasurable field.

However, to bring some order into the great diversity of views and advice pertinent here, I will divide them into general ones, those concerning our conduct towards ourselves, then towards others, and finally towards the course of the world and fate.

A. General.

1. As the supreme rule of all life wisdom, I consider a sentence that Aristotle incidentally uttered in the Nicomachean Ethics (VII, 12): ὁ φρονιμος το αλυπον διωκει, ου το ἡδυ (quod dolore vacat, non quod suave est, persequitur vir prudens). This sentence could be rendered even better in German as: “The reasonable person pursues painlessness, not pleasure”; or: “The reasonable person aims for painlessness, not enjoyment.” The truth of this lies in the fact that all pleasure and all happiness are negative in nature, whereas pain is positive. The elaboration and justification of this latter statement can be found in my main work, Vol. I, § 58. However, I want to illustrate it here with a fact observable daily. If the entire body is healthy and sound, except for some small wound or other painful spot, then the health of the whole does not enter consciousness; instead, attention is constantly focused on the pain of the injured spot, and the well-being of the entire sensation of life is nullified. – Similarly, if all our affairs go our way, except for one that goes against our intention, this one, even if it is of minor importance, keeps coming back to our mind: we think about it frequently and little about all those other more important things that go our way. – In both cases, what is impaired is the will, once as it objectifies itself in the organism, the other as it objectifies itself in human striving, and in both, we see that its satisfaction always has only a negative effect and therefore is not directly felt, but at most comes into consciousness through reflection. Its hindrance, on the other hand, is positive and therefore self-announcing. Every pleasure consists merely in the removal of this hindrance, in liberation from it, and is therefore short-lived.

This, then, is the basis of the Aristotelian rule, praised above, which advises us not to focus on the pleasures and comforts of life, but rather on escaping its countless evils as far as possible. If this path were not the right one, then Voltaire's saying, le bonheur n'est qu'un rève, et la douleur est réelle, would be as false as it is, in fact, true. Accordingly, whoever wishes to draw the balance of their life, from an eudaemonological perspective, should not calculate it based on the joys they have experienced, but on the evils they have avoided. Indeed, eudaemonology must begin with the understanding that its very name is a euphemism, and that "living happily" merely means "less unhappily," i.e., living tolerably. Life, in truth, is not meant to be enjoyed, but to be endured, to be gotten through; this is also indicated by certain expressions, such as degere vitam, vita defungi, the Italian si scampa così, and the German "man muß suchen durchzukommen" (one must try to get by), "er wird schon durch die Welt kommen" (he'll get through the world), and so on. Indeed, it is a comfort in old age to have the work of life behind one. Thus, the happiest lot belongs to him who passes his life without excessive pain, both mental and physical; not to him who has been granted the most vivid joys or the greatest pleasures. Whoever attempts to measure the happiness of a life's course by these latter standards has adopted a false measure. For pleasures are and remain negative: that they bring happiness is an illusion that envy, to its own punishment, harbors. Pains, on the other hand, are felt positively: therefore, their absence is the measure of life's happiness. If to a painless state is added the absence of boredom, then earthly happiness is essentially achieved: for everything else is a chimera. From this, it follows that one should never purchase pleasures with pains, or even with the risk of them; because otherwise, one is paying for a negative and therefore chimerical thing with something positive and real. Conversely, one remains in profit if one sacrifices pleasures to avoid pains. In both cases, it is irrelevant whether the pains follow or precede the pleasures. It is truly the greatest perversity to want to transform this scene of misery into a place of delight and, instead of the greatest possible painlessness, to set pleasures and joys as one's goal, as so many do. Far less mistaken is he who, with too somber a gaze, views this world as a kind of hell and is therefore only concerned with securing a fireproof room for himself within it. The fool chases after the pleasures of life and finds himself deceived: the wise person avoids evils. Should even this fail him, then it is the fault of fate, not of his folly. But to the extent that he succeeds, he is not deceived: for the evils he avoided are most real. Even if he should have gone too far out of their way and unnecessarily sacrificed pleasures, nothing is actually lost: for all pleasures are chimerical, and to grieve over their omission would be petty, indeed ridiculous.

The failure to recognize this truth, favored by optimism, is the source of much unhappiness. For while we are free from suffering, restless desires present to us the chimeras of a happiness that does not exist at all, and tempt us to pursue them: thereby we bring down upon ourselves the pain, which is undeniably real. Then we lament the lost painless state, which, like a squandered paradise, lies behind us, and wish in vain to undo what has been done. Thus it seems as if an evil demon constantly entices us out of the painless state, which is the highest real happiness, through the illusory images of desires. – Unthinkingly, the youth believes the world is there to be enjoyed, that it is the abode of a positive happiness, which only those miss who lack the skill to master it. Novels and poems reinforce this belief, as does the hypocrisy that the world, universally and everywhere, maintains with its outward appearance, and to which I will soon return. From now on, his life is a hunt, conducted with more or less deliberation, for positive happiness, which, as such, is supposed to consist of positive pleasures. The dangers to which one exposes oneself must be risked. This hunt for game that does not exist at all, as a rule, leads to very real, positive unhappiness. This manifests as pain, suffering, illness, loss, worry, poverty, shame, and a thousand hardships. Disappointment comes too late. – If, on the other hand, by following the rule considered here, the plan of life is directed at avoiding suffering, i.e., at removing want, illness, and every hardship; then the goal is real: something can be achieved, and the more so, the less this plan is disturbed by the striving for the chimera of positive happiness. This also agrees with what Goethe, in Elective Affinities, has the Mediator, who is always active for the happiness of others, say: “Whoever wants to be rid of an evil always knows what he wants: whoever wants something better than he has, is quite blind.” And this recalls the beautiful French saying: le mieux est l'ennemi du bien. Indeed, from this can even be derived the fundamental idea of Cynicism, as I have presented it in my main work, Vol. 2, Chap. 16. For, what moved the Cynics to reject all pleasures, if not precisely the thought of the pains, nearer or farther, connected with them, which seemed to them much more important to avoid than to attain the former. They were deeply moved by the recognition of the negativity of pleasure and the positivity of pain; hence, they consistently did everything to avoid evils, but deemed the complete and intentional rejection of pleasures necessary for this; because they saw in these only snares that deliver us to pain.

Born in Arcadia, as Schiller says, we are all indeed: that is, we enter the world full of claims to happiness and enjoyment, and harbor the foolish hope of enforcing them. As a rule, however, fate soon comes, seizes us roughly, and teaches us that nothing is ours, but everything its, as it has an undisputed right not only to all our possessions and acquisitions and to wife and child, but even to arm and leg, eye and ear, yes, to the nose in the middle of the face. In any case, after some time, experience comes and brings the insight that happiness and enjoyment are a Fata Morgana, which, visible only from afar, disappears when one approaches; that, on the other hand, suffering and pain are real, directly represent themselves, and need no illusion or expectation. If the lesson is fruitful, we stop chasing happiness and enjoyment, and are instead intent on blocking access to pain and suffering as much as possible. We then recognize that the best thing the world has to offer is a painless, calm, tolerable existence, and limit our demands to this, in order to achieve it more surely. For, in order not to become very unhappy, the surest way is not to demand to be very happy. Goethe's youthful friend Merck had also recognized this, when he wrote: "The nasty pretension to happiness, and indeed to the measure we dream of, spoils everything in this world. Whoever can free himself from it and desires nothing but what he has before him can get by" (Letters to and from Merck, p. 100). Accordingly, it is advisable to reduce one's demands for enjoyment, possessions, rank, honor, etc., to a very moderate level; because it is precisely the striving and struggling for happiness, splendor, and enjoyment that attracts great misfortunes. But already for this reason, that is wise and advisable, because it is very easy to be very unhappy; very happy, on the other hand, is not difficult, but quite impossible. With great right, therefore, the poet of life's wisdom sings:

However, he who has fully absorbed the teachings of my philosophy and therefore knows that our entire existence is something that would be better off not being, and that to deny and reject it is the greatest wisdom, will also harbor no great expectations for any thing or state, strive passionately for nothing in the world, nor raise great complaints about failing in any matter; instead, he will be imbued with Plato's "οὐτε τι των ἀνθρωπινων ἀξιον μεγαλης σπουδης" (rep. X, 604), as well as this:

(See the motto to Sadi's Gulistan, trans. by Graf.)

What makes it particularly difficult to acquire these salutary insights, however, is the hypocrisy of the world, already mentioned above, which should therefore be revealed to the youth early on. Most splendors are mere appearance, like theater sets, and the essence of the matter is missing. For example, ships adorned with flags and garlands, cannon shots, illuminations, drums and trumpets, cheering and shouting, etc., all this is the signboard, the hint, the hieroglyph of joy: but joy is usually not to be found there; it alone has declined the invitation to the feast. Where it truly appears, it usually comes uninvited and unannounced, on its own and sans façon, indeed, quietly creeping in, often on the most insignificant, trivial occasions, under the most commonplace circumstances, even on occasions far from splendid or glorious: it is, like gold in Australia, scattered here and there, according to the whim of chance, without any rule or law, mostly only in very small grains, very rarely in large masses. In all those things mentioned above, however, the sole purpose is to make others believe that joy has arrived: this appearance, in the minds of others, is the intention. It is no different with sorrow than with joy. How mournfully that long and slow funeral procession approaches! There is no end to the line of carriages. But just look inside: they are all empty, and the deceased is actually only escorted to the grave by all the coachmen of the entire city. A speaking image of the friendship and esteem of this world! This, then, is the falseness, hollowness, and hypocrisy of human endeavors. – Another example is given by many invited guests in festive attire, at a celebratory reception; they are the signboard of noble, elevated sociability: but instead of it, usually only constraint, pain, and boredom have come: for where there are many guests, there is much riff-raff – even if they all had stars on their chests. Truly good company, in fact, is, everywhere and necessarily, very small. In general, however, brilliant, boisterous feasts and amusements always carry an emptiness, perhaps even a dissonance within; precisely because they loudly contradict the misery and destitution of our existence, and the contrast heightens the truth. However, seen from the outside, all that has an effect: and that was the purpose. Chamfort therefore says quite charmingly: la société, les cercles, les salons, ce qu'on appelle le monde, est une pièce misérable, un mauvais opéra, sans intérêt, qui se soutient un peu par les machines, les costumes, et les décorations. – Likewise, academies and philosophical chairs are now the signboard, the outward appearance of wisdom: but it too has mostly declined and is to be found somewhere else entirely. – The ringing of bells, priestly costumes, pious gestures, and grotesque actions are the signboard, the false appearance of devotion, etc. – Thus, almost everything in the world can be called hollow nuts: the kernel itself is rare, and even rarer is it found in the shell. It is to be sought somewhere else entirely and is usually found only by chance.

2. If you want to assess a person's state of happiness, you shouldn't ask what makes them happy, but what makes them sad: because, the more insignificant this is in itself, the happier the person is; because a state of well-being is necessary to be sensitive to trifles: in misfortune, we don't even notice them.

3. One should beware of building the happiness of one's life on a broad foundation by having many requirements for it: for standing on such a foundation, it collapses most easily, because it offers opportunity for many more misfortunes, and these do not fail to occur. The edifice of our happiness therefore behaves, in this respect, inversely to all others, which stand most firmly on a broad foundation. To set one's demands, in proportion to one's means of all kinds, as low as possible, is therefore the surest way to avoid great unhappiness.

In general, it is one of the greatest and most common follies to make extensive preparations for life, no matter how it is done. For such plans are, first and foremost, calculated for a full and complete human life; which, however, very few attain. Then, even if they do live that long, it still falls short of the plans made; as their execution always requires much more time than was assumed: furthermore, such plans, like all human endeavors, are subject to so many failures and obstacles that they very rarely reach their goal. Finally, even if everything is eventually achieved, the transformations that time brings about in ourselves have been disregarded and not accounted for; thus, it was not considered that our abilities, whether for achievement or enjoyment, do not last throughout our entire lives. Hence it is that we often work towards things which, when finally attained, are no longer suitable for us; just as we spend years on the preparatory work for a project, during which time, imperceptibly, our strength for its execution is stolen from us. Thus it often happens that wealth acquired with such long effort and much danger is no longer enjoyable for us, and we have worked for others; or that we are no longer able to fill the position finally attained through many years of striving and endeavor: things have come too late for us. Or, conversely, we come too late with things; namely, where it concerns achievements or productions: the taste of the times has changed; a new generation has grown up which takes no interest in the matters; others have, by shorter paths, preceded us, etc. Everything listed under this heading is what Horace had in mind when he said:

The cause of this frequent blunder is the unavoidable optical illusion of the mind's eye, by virtue of which life, when viewed from the entrance, appears endless, but when one looks back from the end of the path, appears very short. Of course, it has its good side: for without it, hardly anything great would come to fruition.

In life, we are like a traveler who, as he walks forward, finds that objects take on different forms than they did from afar, and seem to transform as he approaches. This is especially true of our desires. Often, we find something entirely different, even better, than what we sought; often, too, we find what we were looking for on a completely different path than the one we initially took in vain. Moreover, where we sought pleasure, happiness, and joy, we often find instead instruction, insight, and knowledge—a lasting, true good, instead of a fleeting and apparent one. This is also the underlying theme that runs through Wilhelm Meister, as it is an intellectual novel and thereby of a higher kind than all others, even those by Walter Scott, which are all merely ethical, i.e., they only grasp human nature from the volitional side. Similarly, in The Magic Flute, this grotesque but significant and ambiguous hieroglyph, the same fundamental idea is symbolized in broad and crude strokes, like those of theatrical backdrops; it would even be perfectly so if, at the end, Tamino, brought back by the desire to possess Tamina, instead sought and received only initiation in the Temple of Wisdom, while his necessary counterpart, Papageno, rightly gained his Papagena. Excellent and noble people soon become aware of this education by fate and adapt themselves to it pliably and gratefully: they realize that in the world, instruction is to be found, but not happiness, and so they become accustomed and content to exchange hopes for insights, finally saying with Petrarch:

It can even get to the point where they only pursue their wishes and aspirations in a somewhat feigned and playful manner, but in reality and in the seriousness of their inner being, they merely expect enlightenment; which then gives them a contemplative, brilliant, sublime touch. – In this sense, one can also say that we are like the alchemists who, while only seeking gold, discovered gunpowder, porcelain, medicines, and even laws of nature.

B. Regarding our conduct towards ourselves.

4. Just as a worker helping to erect a building either doesn't know the overall plan or doesn't always keep it in mind, so too does a person, in spinning out the individual days and hours of their life, relate to the entirety of their life's course and its character. The more worthy, significant, purposeful, and individualistic this course is, the more necessary and beneficial it is that its miniature blueprint, the plan, occasionally comes before their eyes. Of course, this also requires that they have made a small start in the γνωθι σαυτον, meaning they know what they truly, primarily, and above all else desire, what is therefore most essential for their happiness, and then what takes the second and third place after this; as well as recognizing what, on the whole, their calling, role, and relationship to the world is. If this is of a more significant and grander nature, then the sight of their life's plan, on a reduced scale, will, more than anything else, strengthen, uplift, elevate, encourage them to action, and keep them from straying.

Just as a hiker, only upon reaching a summit, can survey and understand the entire path they've traversed, with all its twists and turns, so too do we only recognize the true coherence of our actions, achievements, and works—their precise consequence and interconnectedness, and even their value—at the end of a period of our lives, or indeed, at the very end of life itself. For, as long as we are immersed in them, we act solely according to the fixed traits of our character, under the influence of motives, and to the extent of our abilities, thus always with necessity, doing at every moment only what seems right and appropriate to us at that very instant. Only the outcome reveals what has resulted, and a retrospective look at the entire context reveals the how and the why. It is precisely for this reason that while we are accomplishing the greatest deeds or creating immortal works, we are not conscious of them as such, but merely as what is appropriate for our current purposes, what corresponds to our present intentions, and thus what is currently right: but only from the whole in its context does our character and our abilities shine forth afterwards: and in individual instances, we then see how, as if by inspiration, we have chosen the only right path among a thousand detours—guided by our genius. All of this applies to the theoretical as well as the practical, and in the inverse sense to what is bad and what has failed.

5. An important point of wisdom is the right proportion in which we devote our attention partly to the present and partly to the future, so that neither may spoil the other. Many live too much in the present: the careless; others too much in the future: the anxious and worried. Rarely does one keep the exact right measure. Those who, through striving and hoping, live only in the future, always looking forward and impatiently rushing towards coming things, which they believe will bring true happiness, while neglecting and not enjoying the present, are, despite their precocious demeanor, comparable to those donkeys in Italy whose pace is accelerated by a bundle of hay hanging from a stick attached to their heads, which they therefore always see close in front of them and hope to reach. For they cheat themselves out of their entire existence by always living only ad interim – until they are dead. – Instead of being exclusively and perpetually occupied with plans and worries for the future, or giving ourselves over to longing for the past, we should never forget that the present alone is real and alone certain; whereas the future almost always turns out differently than we imagine; indeed, even the past was different; and so much so that, on the whole, both are less significant than they seem to us. For distance, which diminishes objects to the eye, magnifies them to thought. The present alone is true and real: it is the really fulfilled time, and our existence lies exclusively within it. Therefore, we should always greet it cheerfully, consequently consciously enjoy every tolerable hour free from immediate adversities or pains, i.e., not cloud it with vexed faces over failed hopes in the past, or anxieties for the future. For it is utterly foolish to push away a good present hour or willfully spoil it out of vexation over the past, or anxiety about the coming. Let worry, yes, even regret, be allotted its specific time: but after that, one should think about what has happened:

and about the future:

whereas about the present: singulas dies singulas vitas puta (Sen.) and to make this the only real time as pleasant as possible.

Only those future evils are justified in disturbing us which are certain and whose time of occurrence is also certain. But these will be very few: for evils are either merely possible, or at most probable; or they are indeed certain, but their time of occurrence is completely uncertain. If one allows oneself to be affected by both types, one will have no calm moment left. Therefore, in order not to lose the tranquility of our lives through uncertain or indefinite evils, we must accustom ourselves to regard the former as if they would never come; the latter, as if they would certainly not come soon.

The more fear allows a person peace, the more they are troubled by desires, cravings, and demands. Goethe's popular song, "I have based my affairs on nothing," essentially means that only after a person has been driven out of all possible claims and reduced to bare, naked existence, do they partake in that tranquility of mind which forms the foundation of human happiness, as it is necessary to find the present and thus one's whole life enjoyable. For this very purpose, we should always bear in mind that today comes only once and never again. But we imagine it will come again tomorrow: tomorrow, however, is another day, which also comes only once. We forget that each day is an integral and therefore irreplaceable part of life, and instead regard it as contained within life as individuals are contained within a general concept. – Likewise, we would appreciate and enjoy the present more if, in good and healthy days, we were always aware of how, in times of illness or sorrow, memory presents every pain-free and deprivation-free hour to us as infinitely enviable, as a lost paradise, as an unappreciated friend. But we live through our good days without noticing them: only when the bad ones come do we wish for the former to return. We let a thousand cheerful, pleasant hours pass by unenjoyed, with a sullen face, only to sigh for them later, in gloomy times, with vain longing. Instead, we should hold every tolerable present, even the everyday one, which we now let pass by so indifferently, and perhaps even impatiently push along – in honor, always remembering that it is now passing into that apotheosis of the past, where it will henceforth be preserved by memory, bathed in the light of imperishability, to present itself as an object of our heartfelt longing when memory, especially in a bad hour, lifts the curtain.

6. All limitation makes us happy. The narrower our circle of vision, activity, and contact, the happier we are: the wider it is, the more often we feel tormented or anxious. For with it, worries, desires, and terrors multiply and grow. That is why even blind people are not as unhappy as it must seem to us a priori; this is attested by the gentle, almost serene calm in their facial features. It is also partly due to this rule that the second half of life turns out to be sadder than the first. For in the course of life, the horizon of our aims and relationships constantly widens. In childhood, it is limited to the immediate surroundings and the closest relationships; in youth, it already extends considerably further; in adulthood, it encompasses our entire life course, indeed, often extends to the most distant relationships, to states and peoples; in old age, it embraces our descendants. – Every limitation, however, even the intellectual, is conducive to our happiness. For the less excitation of the will, the less suffering: and we know that suffering is positive, happiness merely negative. Limitation of the sphere of activity deprives the will of external occasions for excitation; limitation of the mind, of internal ones. Only the latter has the disadvantage that it opens the door to boredom, which indirectly becomes the source of innumerable sufferings, as one, merely to banish it, grasps at everything, thus attempting distraction, society, luxury, gambling, drinking, etc., which, however, bring about harm, ruin, and misfortune of every kind. Difficilis in otio quies. How much, on the other hand, external limitation is conducive, indeed necessary, to human happiness, as far as it can go, is evident from the fact that the only genre of poetry that undertakes to depict happy people, the idyll, always and essentially portrays them in a highly limited situation and environment. The feeling of the matter also underlies our pleasure in so-called genre paintings. – Accordingly, the greatest possible simplicity of our circumstances and even the uniformity of our way of life, as long as it does not generate boredom, will make us happy; because it makes life itself, and consequently the burden essential to it, least felt: it flows along like a stream, without waves or eddies.

7. Ultimately, our well-being and woe depend on what fills and occupies our consciousness. In this regard, any purely intellectual pursuit will generally offer a mind capable of it far more than real life with its constant fluctuations of success and failure, along with its shocks and torments. However, this naturally requires predominant intellectual faculties. Furthermore, it should be noted that just as an outwardly active life distracts and diverts us from our studies and deprives the mind of the necessary peace and concentration, so too does sustained intellectual engagement, more or less, incapacitate us for the hustle and bustle of real life. Therefore, it is advisable to completely set it aside for a while when circumstances arise that demand vigorous practical activity of any kind.

8. To live with perfect prudence and to extract all the instruction it contains from one's own experience, it is necessary to frequently reflect and recapitulate what one has experienced, done, learned, and felt, and also to compare one's former judgment with one's present one, and one's intentions and aspirations with the outcome and satisfaction derived therefrom. This is the repetition of the private lesson that experience provided to everyone. One's own experience can also be seen as the text; reflection and knowledge as the commentary. Much reflection and knowledge, with little experience, resembles editions whose pages present two lines of text and forty lines of commentary. Much experience, with little reflection and limited knowledge, resembles the Bipontine editions, without notes, which leave much misunderstood.

Pythagoras' rule, which advises reviewing one's actions before sleep each night, aligns with the recommendation given here. Those who live amidst the hustle and bustle of business or pleasure, never reflecting on their past, but merely rushing through life, lose their clear-headedness. Their mind becomes a chaos, and a certain confusion permeates their thoughts, immediately evident in the abrupt, fragmented, almost chopped-up nature of their conversation. This is especially true the greater the external turmoil and the number of impressions, and the less the internal activity of their mind.

Related to this is the observation that, after a longer period and once the circumstances and surroundings that influenced us have passed, we are unable to recall and renew the mood and feelings they then evoked in us. However, we can remember our own expressions that were prompted by them at the time. These expressions are the result, the manifestation, and the measure of those feelings. Therefore, memory, or paper, should carefully preserve such expressions from significant moments. Diaries are very useful for this purpose.

9. To be self-sufficient, to be everything in all to oneself, and to be able to say omnia mea mecum porto, is certainly the most conducive quality for our happiness: hence the saying of Aristotle ἡ ευδαιμονια των αυταρκων εστι (felicitas sibi sufficientium est. Eth. Eud. 7, 2) cannot be repeated too often. (It is also essentially the same thought that Chamfort's maxim, which I have placed as the motto for this treatise, expresses in an exceedingly graceful turn of phrase.) For partly, one can count on no one with any certainty but oneself, and partly, the troubles and disadvantages, the danger and vexation, that society brings with it are innumerable and unavoidable.

There is no more misguided path to happiness than living the high life, indulging in revelry and extravagance: for it aims to transform our wretched existence into a succession of joy, pleasure, and amusement, an endeavor inevitably accompanied by disappointment, much like the obligatory mutual deception that comes with it.

First, every society necessarily requires mutual accommodation and temperance: therefore, the larger it is, the more insipid it becomes. Everyone can be truly themselves only as long as they are alone: thus, whoever does not love solitude also does not love freedom: for only when one is alone is one free. Constraint is the inseparable companion of every society, and each demands sacrifices, which become heavier the more significant one's individuality. Accordingly, everyone will flee, endure, or love solitude in precise proportion to the value of their own self. For in it, the miserable person feels their entire misery, the great spirit their entire greatness; in short, everyone feels what they are. Furthermore, the higher one stands on nature's hierarchy, the lonelier they stand, essentially and inevitably. It is then a blessing for them if physical solitude corresponds to spiritual solitude: otherwise, the frequent presence of heterogeneous beings intrudes, even hostilely, robbing them of their self and offering nothing in return. Moreover, while nature has established the widest diversity among people, morally and intellectually, society, disregarding this, treats them all as equal, or rather, it replaces these with artificial distinctions and levels of status and rank, which very often run diametrically counter to nature's hierarchy. In this arrangement, those whom nature has placed low fare very well; but the few whom she has placed high are short-changed; hence, they tend to withdraw from society, and in any society, as soon as it is numerous, the common prevails. What makes society distasteful to great minds is the equality of rights, and consequently of claims, despite the inequality of abilities, and consequently of (social) achievements, of others. So-called good society accepts advantages of all kinds, except intellectual ones; these are even contraband. It obliges us to show boundless patience towards every folly, foolishness, perversity, dullness; personal merits, however, must beg for forgiveness or hide; for intellectual superiority offends by its mere existence, without any deliberate action. Therefore, society, which is called good, not only has the disadvantage of presenting us with people we cannot praise or love, but it also does not allow us to be ourselves, as is appropriate to our nature; rather, it forces us, for the sake of harmony with others, to shrink, or even to disfigure ourselves. Witty speeches or ideas belong only in witty company: in ordinary company, they are downright detested; for to please in the latter, it is absolutely necessary to be dull and narrow-minded. In such company, we must therefore, with great self-denial, give up three-quarters of ourselves to assimilate with others. In return, we certainly have others: but the more intrinsic worth one has, the more one will find that here the gain does not cover the loss and the transaction turns out to one's disadvantage; because people, as a rule, are insolvent, i.e., in their company, they have nothing that would compensate for its tediousness, its burdens and inconveniences, and the self-denial it imposes: accordingly, most society is such that whoever exchanges it for solitude makes a good bargain. Added to this is the fact that society, to replace genuine, i.e., intellectual superiority, which it cannot tolerate and which is also difficult to find, has arbitrarily adopted a false, conventional superiority, based on arbitrary rules and traditionally perpetuated among the higher classes, also changeable like a password: this is what is called good taste, bon ton, fashionableness. However, when it comes into collision with the genuine, its weakness is revealed. – Moreover, quand le bon ton arrive, le bons sens se retire.

Above all, however, each person can only be in perfect harmony with themselves; not with their friend, not with their beloved: for the differences in individuality and mood always introduce a dissonance, however slight. Therefore, true, deep peace of mind and perfect tranquility, this highest earthly good next to health, can only be found in solitude and, as a lasting state, only in the deepest seclusion. If one's own self is then great and rich, one enjoys the happiest state that can be found on this poor earth. Yes, let it be said: however closely friendship, love, and marriage bind people, quite honestly, everyone ultimately cares only about themselves and, at most, about their child. – The less one needs to come into contact with people, due to objective or subjective conditions, the better off one is. Solitude and desolation allow all their evils to be seen, if not felt, at once: whereas society is insidious: it conceals great, often incurable evils behind the appearance of amusement, communication, social enjoyment, etc. A main study for youth should be to learn to endure solitude; because it is a source of happiness and tranquility. – From all this, it follows that the one who has relied only on themselves and can be everything to themselves is best off; as Cicero even says: Nemo potest non beatissimus esse, qui est totus aptus ex sese, quique in se uno ponit omnia. (Paradox. II.) Moreover, the more one has within oneself, the less others can be to them. It is a certain feeling of self-sufficiency that prevents people of inner worth and richness from making the significant sacrifices that community with others demands, let alone seeking it with noticeable self-denial. The opposite of this makes ordinary people so sociable and accommodating: they find it easier to tolerate others than themselves. Furthermore, what has real value in the world is not esteemed, and what is esteemed has no value. The seclusion of every worthy and distinguished person is the proof and consequence of this. According to all this, it will be genuine wisdom in life for one who has something truly good within themselves, if they, when necessary, limit their needs in order to preserve or expand their freedom, and therefore deal with their person, as it has unavoidable relations to the human world, as briefly as possible.

What, on the other hand, makes people gregarious is their inability to endure solitude, and in it, themselves. Inner emptiness and boredom are what drive them into society, as well as abroad and on travels. Their spirit lacks the spring to give itself movement: hence they seek to heighten it through wine and many become drunkards in this way. For the same reason, they need constant external stimulation, and indeed the strongest, i.e., that through beings of their own kind. Without this, their spirit collapses under its own weight and falls into a oppressive lethargy. Likewise, one could say that each of them is only a small fraction of the idea of humanity, therefore he needs much supplementation by others so that a somewhat full human consciousness emerges: whereas he who is a complete human being, a human being par excellence, represents a unity and not a fraction, therefore has enough in himself. In this sense, one can compare ordinary society to those Russian horn bands where each horn has only one note and only through the punctual coming together of all does music emerge. For monotonous, like such a monotonous horn, is the sense and spirit of most people: many of them even look as if they always had only one and the same thought, incapable of thinking any other. From this, then, it is explained not only why they are so boring, but also why they are so gregarious and prefer to go about in herds: the gregariousness of mankind. The monotony of his own being is what becomes unbearable to each of them: – omnis stultitia laborat fastidio sui: – only together and through union are they anything; – like those horn players. In contrast, the witty person is to be compared to a virtuoso who performs his concert alone; or also to the piano. For just as the latter, by itself, is a small orchestra, so he is a small world, and what all those others are only through cooperation, he represents in the unity of one consciousness. Like the piano, he is not a part of the symphony, but suitable for the solo and unity: if he is to cooperate with them; he can only be so as a principal voice with accompaniment, like the piano; or for setting the tone, in vocal music, like the piano. – Meanwhile, whoever loves society can abstract from this analogy the rule that what is lacking in quality in the persons of his acquaintance must be compensated for to some extent by quantity. With a single witty person, he can have enough company: but if nothing but the usual sort is to be found, it is good to have many of them, so that something emerges through variety and cooperation – by analogy with the said horn music: – and may heaven grant him patience for this.

To this inner emptiness and indigence of mankind is also to be attributed the fact that, when once, intending some noble, ideal purpose, people of a better sort unite in an association, the outcome is almost always that from that plebs of humanity, which, in countless numbers, like vermin, fills and covers everything everywhere, and is always ready to seize anything, indiscriminately, to help its boredom, as in other circumstances its lack, – some also sneak in, or force their way in, and then soon either destroy the whole undertaking, or change it so that it becomes quite the opposite of the original intention.

By the way, one can also view sociability as a spiritual warming of people to one another, similar to the physical warmth they generate by huddling together in extreme cold. However, anyone who possesses a great deal of spiritual warmth themselves does not require such grouping. A fable I devised in this vein can be found in the second volume of this work, in the final chapter. Consequently, everyone's sociability stands roughly in inverse proportion to their intellectual worth; and "he is very unsociable" almost implies "he is a man of great qualities."

For the intellectually superior person, solitude offers a dual advantage: firstly, being with oneself, and secondly, not being with others. This latter point will be highly valued when one considers how much constraint, burden, and even danger every interaction brings. Tout notre mal vient de ne pouvoir être seul, says La Bruyère. Sociability belongs to the dangerous, indeed, pernicious inclinations, as it brings us into contact with beings, the vast majority of whom are morally bad and intellectually dull or perverse. The unsociable person is one who does not need them. To have so much within oneself that one does not need society is already a great fortune, because almost all our suffering arises from society, and peace of mind, which, next to health, constitutes the most essential element of our happiness, is endangered by every society and therefore cannot exist without a significant degree of solitude. To partake in the happiness of peace of mind, the Cynics renounced all possessions: whoever renounces society for the same purpose has chosen the wisest means. For as apt as it is beautiful, is what Bernardin de St. Pierre says: la diète des alimens nous rend la santé du corps, et celle des hommes la tranquillité de l'âme. Thus, whoever befriends solitude early, indeed, comes to love it, has acquired a gold mine. But by no means can everyone do this. For, just as necessity originally drives people together, so, after its removal, does boredom. Without both, everyone would probably remain alone; simply because only in solitude does the environment correspond to the exclusive importance, indeed, uniqueness, that everyone has in their own eyes, and which is diminished by nothing in the hustle and bustle of the world; except where, at every step, it receives a painful démenti. In this sense, solitude is even the natural state of everyone: it reinstates him, as the first Adam, into the original happiness appropriate to his nature.

But Adam had neither father nor mother! Therefore, in another sense, solitude is not natural to man; for when he entered the world, he found himself not alone, but among parents and siblings, i.e., in community. Consequently, the love of solitude cannot be an original inclination, but can only arise as a result of experience and reflection; and this will happen in proportion to the development of one's own intellectual strength, but also with the increase in years; whereby, on the whole, everyone's social instinct will be in inverse proportion to their age. The small child raises a cry of anxiety and lamentation as soon as it is left alone for a few minutes. For the boy, being alone is a great penance. Young people easily associate with each other: only the nobler and high-minded among them sometimes seek solitude: yet to spend a whole day alone will still be difficult for them. For the man, on the other hand, this is easy: he can be alone a lot, and the more so the older he gets. The old man, who is left alone from vanished generations and has partly outgrown, partly become immune to the pleasures of life, finds his true element in solitude. However, in individuals, the increase in the inclination to seclusion and solitude will always be in proportion to their intellectual value. For, as has been said, it is not a purely natural inclination, directly caused by needs, but merely an effect of experience and reflection on such, especially of the insight gained into the morally and intellectually wretched nature of most people, the worst of which is that, in the individual, their moral and intellectual imperfections conspire and work into each other's hands, from which all sorts of highly repulsive phenomena arise, which make the company of most people unpalatable, indeed, unbearable. Thus it happens that, although much in this world is quite bad, the worst thing in it remains society; so that even Voltaire, the sociable Frenchman, had to say: la terre est couverte de gens qui ne méritent pas qu'on leur parle. The same reason is given by the gentle Petrarch, who loved solitude so strongly and persistently, for this inclination:

In the same vein, he elaborates on the matter in his beautiful book de vita solitaria, which seems to have been Zimmermann's model for his famous work on solitude. It is precisely this merely secondary and indirect origin of unsociability that Chamfort expresses in his sarcastic manner when he says: 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 prétexte qu'il ne se promène pas volontiers le soir dans la forêt de Bondy. But even the gentle and Christian Angelus Silesius says, in his own way and mythical language, exactly the same thing:

Jordanus Brunus expresses a similar sentiment: tanti uomini, che in terra hanno voluto gustare vita celeste, dissero con una voce: »ecce elongavi fugiens, et mansi in solitudine«. In the same vein, Sadi the Persian, in his Gulistan, recounts of himself: "Weary of my friends in Damascus, I withdrew into the desert near Jerusalem to seek the company of animals." In short, all those whom Prometheus had fashioned from finer clay have spoken in the same vein. What pleasure can they derive from associating with beings to whom they can only relate through the lowest and ignoblest parts of their own nature, namely the commonplace, trivial, and vulgar within them, which would form a community? And for whom, because they cannot rise to their level, nothing remains but to drag them down to theirs, which then becomes their endeavor? Thus, it is an aristocratic feeling that nourishes the inclination towards seclusion and solitude. All scoundrels are sociable, to their own detriment: whereas a person of nobler kind first shows it by having no pleasure in others, but more and more preferring solitude to their company, and then gradually, with the years, coming to the realization that, with rare exceptions, in the world there is only a choice between solitude and vulgarity. Even this, as harsh as it sounds, Angelus Silesius himself, despite his Christian mildness and love, could not leave unsaid:

As for the great minds, it is natural that these true educators of the entire human race feel as little inclination for frequent communion with others as a pedagogue feels to join in the games of the herd of children clamoring around him. For they, who have come into the world to guide it towards truth on the sea of its errors and to draw it upwards from the dark abyss of its crudeness and vulgarity towards the light, towards cultivation and refinement – they must indeed live among them, without truly belonging to them, and therefore feel, from youth onwards, as beings noticeably different from others. However, it is only gradually, with the years, that they come to a clear understanding of the matter, after which they take care that their physical distance from others also increases, and no one is allowed to approach them unless they themselves are already more or less exempt from the general commonness.

From all this, it follows that the love of solitude does not appear directly and as an original impulse, but rather develops indirectly, especially in nobler spirits and only gradually, not without overcoming the natural social instinct, and even under occasional opposition from Mephistophelian whispers:

Solitude is the lot of all outstanding minds: they will sometimes sigh over it, but always choose it as the lesser of two evils. With increasing age, however, sapere aude becomes easier and more natural in this respect, and in one's sixties, the urge for solitude is truly natural, indeed instinctive. For now, everything conspires to promote it. The strongest pull towards sociability, the love of women and sexual drive, no longer operates; indeed, the sexlessness of old age lays the foundation for a certain self-sufficiency that gradually absorbs the social drive altogether. One has returned from a thousand delusions and follies; active life is mostly done, one has nothing more to expect, no more plans or intentions; the generation to which one truly belongs no longer lives; surrounded by a foreign generation, one stands objectively and essentially alone. At the same time, the flight of time has accelerated, and one wants to use it intellectually. For if only the mind has retained its strength, then the many acquired knowledge and experiences, the gradually perfected working through of all thoughts, and the great practice of all faculties make the study of every kind more interesting and easier than ever. One sees clearly in a thousand things that were previously like in a fog: one reaches results and feels one's entire superiority. As a result of long experience, one has ceased to expect much from people; since, on the whole, they do not belong to the kind of people who improve on closer acquaintance: rather, one knows that, apart from rare strokes of luck, one will encounter nothing but very defective specimens of human nature, which it is better to leave untouched. One is therefore no longer exposed to common deceptions, soon recognizes what everyone is, and will rarely feel the desire to enter into a closer connection with them. Finally, especially if one recognizes a youthful friend in solitude, the habit of isolation and self-communion has been added and has become second nature. Accordingly, the love of solitude, which previously had to be wrung from the social drive, is now quite natural and simple: one is in solitude like a fish in water. Therefore, every excellent, consequently dissimilar to the others, and thus solitary individuality feels, through this essential isolation, oppressed in youth but relieved in old age.

Of course, everyone will partake of this real advantage of old age only in proportion to their intellectual capacities, thus the eminent mind above all; yet to a lesser degree, probably everyone. Only the most meager and common natures will still be as sociable in old age as before: they are burdensome to society, to which they no longer fit, and at most manage to be tolerated; whereas formerly they were sought after.

In the presented, opposite relationship between the number of our years of life and the degree of our sociability, a teleological aspect can also be found. The younger a person is, the more they still have to learn, in every respect: now nature has directed them to the reciprocal instruction which everyone receives in dealing with their peers, and in regard to which human society can be called a large Bell-Lancaster educational institution; since books and schools are artificial institutions, because they deviate from nature's plan. It is therefore very expedient for them to attend the natural educational institution more diligently, the younger they are.

Nihil est ab omni parte beatum, says Horace, and "No lotus without a stem" is an Indian proverb: so it is that solitude, alongside its many advantages, also has its minor drawbacks and hardships, which, however, are trifling compared to those of society; hence, whoever possesses true worth within themselves will always find it easier to get along without people than with them. Among those disadvantages, however, there is one not as readily brought to consciousness as the others, namely this: just as our body becomes so sensitive to external influences through prolonged staying at home that every cool breeze affects it morbidly, so too does our mind become so sensitive through prolonged seclusion and solitude that we feel disturbed, or offended, or hurt by the most insignificant occurrences, words, or even mere expressions; whereas one who constantly remains in the hustle and bustle pays no attention to such things.

However, for those, especially in their younger years, who, though often driven back into solitude by a just displeasure with people, cannot long endure its emptiness, I advise them to accustom themselves to bringing a part of their solitude into society. That is, they should learn to be, to a certain extent, alone even in company, not immediately sharing what they think with others, and on the other hand, not taking what others say too seriously. Rather, they should expect little from it, both morally and intellectually, and therefore, regarding others' opinions, cultivate that indifference which is the surest means to always practice commendable tolerance. He will then, though in their midst, not be entirely in their company, but will relate to them more purely objectively: this will protect him from too close contact with society, and thereby from any defilement or even injury. We even have a worthwhile dramatic portrayal of this restricted, or entrenched, sociability in the comedy “el Café o sea la comedia nueva” by Moratin, specifically in the character of Don Pedro, especially in the second and third scenes of the first act. In this sense, one can also compare society to a fire, by which the wise person warms himself at a proper distance, but does not thrust his hand into it, like the fool, who then, after burning himself, flees into the cold of solitude and laments that the fire burns.

10. Envy is natural to man; yet it is a vice and a misfortune at the same time. We should therefore regard it as the enemy of our happiness and seek to stifle it like an evil demon. To this, Seneca guides us with the beautiful words: nostra nos sine comparatione delectent: nunquam erit felix quem torquebit felicior (de ira III, 30), and again: quum adspexeris quot te antecedant, cogita quot sequantur (ep. 15): thus we should more often consider those who are worse off than ourselves, rather than those who seem to be better off. Even when real evils have occurred, the most effective comfort, though flowing from the same source as envy, will be provided by contemplating greater sufferings than our own, and next, by associating with those who are in the same situation as us, with the sociis malorum.

So much for the active side of envy. As for the passive side, it must be considered that no hatred is as irreconcilable as envy; therefore, we should not ceaselessly and eagerly strive to provoke it; rather, we would do better to deny ourselves this pleasure, like many others, due to its dangerous consequences. – There are three aristocracies: 1. that of birth and rank, 2. the aristocracy of money, 3. the intellectual aristocracy. The latter is actually the most distinguished, and is also recognized as such, if only given time: indeed, Frederick the Great already said: les âmes privilégiées rangent à l'égal des souverains (privileged souls rank as equals to sovereigns), and he said this to his court marshal, who was offended that, while ministers and generals ate at the marshal's table, Voltaire was to sit at a table where only reigning lords and their princes sat. – Each of these aristocracies is surrounded by an army of their envious, who are secretly embittered against each of their members and, if they do not have to fear him, strive to make him understand in manifold ways, “you are no more than we are!” But precisely these efforts betray their conviction of the opposite. The procedure to be applied by the envied, on the other hand, consists in keeping this whole crowd of members at a distance and in avoiding as much as possible any contact with them, so that they remain separated by a wide chasm; but where this is not possible, in enduring their efforts with the utmost composure, since their source neutralizes them: – and we see the same applied universally. On the other hand, members of one aristocracy will usually get along well and without envy with those of one of the other two; because each weighs his advantage against that of the others.

11. One should consider a project carefully and repeatedly before putting it into action, and even after thoroughly thinking everything through, one should still allow for the inadequacy of all human knowledge, as a result of which there may always be circumstances that are impossible to investigate or foresee, and which could invalidate the entire calculation. This consideration will always tip the scales towards the negative, advising us, in important matters, not to stir anything unnecessarily: quieta non movere. But once a decision has been made and the work has begun, so that everything must now take its course and only the outcome remains to be awaited; then one should not torment oneself with constantly renewed consideration of what has already been done and with repeated apprehension of possible danger; rather, one should now completely dismiss the matter, keeping the entire thought compartment of it closed, reassuring oneself with the conviction that everything was thoroughly considered in due time. This advice is also given by the Italian proverb legala bene, e poi lascia la andare, which Goethe translates as “you, saddle well and ride confidently”; – as, by the way, a large part of his maxims given under the heading “Proverbial” are translated Italian proverbs. – Should a bad outcome nevertheless occur; it is because all human affairs are subject to chance and error. That Socrates, the wisest of men, needed a warning daimonion merely to do the right thing in his own personal affairs, or at least to avoid missteps, proves that no human intellect is sufficient for this. Therefore, that saying, supposedly originating from a Pope, that we ourselves are to blame for every misfortune that befalls us, at least in some way, is not absolutely and in all cases true: although by far in most. It even seems that the feeling of this has much to do with people trying to conceal their misfortune as much as possible and, as far as they succeed, putting on a contented expression. They fear that suffering will lead to an inference of guilt.

12. When an unfortunate event has already occurred and cannot be changed, one should not even entertain the thought that it could have been otherwise, much less how it could have been averted. Such thoughts only intensify the pain to an unbearable degree, turning one into a ἑαυτοντιμωρουμενος (self-tormentor). Instead, one should act like King David, who incessantly implored and pleaded with Jehovah while his son lay ill. But once the child died, he snapped his fingers and thought no more of it. However, if one is not lighthearted enough for such an approach, they should seek refuge in a fatalistic viewpoint, by internalizing the profound truth that everything that happens occurs out of necessity and is therefore unpreventable.

Despite all this, this rule is one-sided. While it serves our immediate relief and reassurance in misfortunes, if, as is usually the case, our own negligence or recklessness is at least partly to blame, then the repeated, painful consideration of how it could have been prevented is a salutary self-discipline for our enlightenment and improvement, and thus for the future. And we should not, as we usually do, try to excuse, gloss over, or minimize clearly committed mistakes to ourselves, but rather admit them and clearly bring them before our eyes in their full magnitude, in order to firmly resolve to avoid them in the future. Of course, one has to inflict upon oneself the great pain of dissatisfaction with oneself: but he who is not flogged is not educated.

13. In everything that concerns our well-being and woe, we should keep our imagination in check: first, by not building castles in the air, because they are too costly, as we immediately have to tear them down again with sighs. But even more so, we should beware of tormenting our hearts by painting purely possible misfortunes. For if these were entirely plucked from the air, or very far-fetched, we would, upon waking from such a dream, immediately know that it was all mere illusion, and thus rejoice all the more in the better reality, and perhaps take a warning from it against very distant, though possible, misfortunes. However, our imagination does not easily play with such things; at most, it idly builds cheerful castles in the air. The material for its dark dreams are misfortunes that, even if from afar, threaten us somewhat realistically: it magnifies these, brings their possibility much closer than it truly is, and paints them in the most terrifying colors. We cannot immediately shake off such a dream upon waking, like a cheerful one: for reality immediately refutes the latter, leaving at most a faint hope in the lap of possibility. But if we have given ourselves over to black fantasies (blue devils), they have brought images close to us that do not easily recede: for the possibility of the matter, in general, is fixed, and we are not always able to apply the measure of its degree: it then easily turns into probability, and we have surrendered ourselves into the hands of anxiety. Therefore, we should view things that concern our well-being and woe solely with the eye of reason and judgment, consequently with dry and cold deliberation, with mere concepts and in abstracto. The imagination should remain out of play: for it cannot judge; it merely presents images that move the mind uselessly and often very painfully. This rule should be observed most strictly in the evening. For just as darkness makes us fearful and allows us to see frightening figures everywhere, so, analogously, does the indistinctness of thoughts; because every uncertainty begets insecurity: therefore, in the evening, when exhaustion has covered understanding and judgment with a subjective darkness, when the intellect is tired and θορυβουμενος and unable to get to the bottom of things, the objects of our meditation, if they concern our personal circumstances, easily take on a dangerous appearance and become terrifying images. This is most often the case at night, in bed, where the mind is completely relaxed and therefore judgment is no longer up to its task at all, but the imagination is still active. There, the night gives everything its black coating. Therefore, our thoughts before falling asleep, or even upon waking at night, are mostly almost as bad distortions and perversions of things as dreams are, and moreover, if they concern personal matters, usually pitch black, indeed, terrifying. In the morning, all such terrifying images, as well as dreams, have disappeared: this is what the Spanish proverb means: noche tinta, blanco el dia (the night is colored, the day is white). But even in the evening, as soon as the light is on, the understanding, like the eye, does not see as clearly as during the day: therefore, this time is not suitable for meditating on serious, especially unpleasant, matters. For this, the morning is the right time; as it is, in general, for all achievements, without exception, both mental and physical. For the morning is the youth of the day: everything is cheerful, fresh, and light: we feel strong and have all our faculties at our complete disposal. One should not shorten it by getting up late, nor waste it on unworthy occupations or conversations, but rather regard it as the quintessence of life and, in a sense, hold it sacred. In contrast, the evening is the old age of the day: in the evening, we are weary, talkative, and frivolous. – Every day is a small life, – every waking and getting up a small birth, every fresh morning a small youth, and every going to bed and falling asleep a small death.

In general, however, health, sleep, food, temperature, weather, environment, and many other external factors have a powerful influence on our mood, and this, in turn, on our thoughts. Therefore, just as our view of a matter, so too is our ability to perform a task so much subject to time and even place. That's why

It's not just a matter of waiting for objective conceptions and original thoughts to come as they please; even the thorough consideration of a personal matter doesn't always succeed at the time one has predetermined for it and when one has prepared for it; rather, it too chooses its own time; when the appropriate train of thought then spontaneously awakens and we pursue it with full engagement.

To the recommended curbing of imagination also belongs that we do not allow it to re-present and elaborate on past injustices, damages, losses, insults, setbacks, grievances, and the like; because by doing so, we reawaken long-dormant resentment, anger, and all hateful passions, which contaminates our mind. For, according to a beautiful simile provided by the Neoplatonist Proclus, just as in every city, alongside the noble and distinguished, there also resides rabble of all kinds (ochlos), so too in every human, even the noblest and most sublime, the entirely low and common aspects of human, indeed animal, nature are present by disposition. This rabble must not be incited to tumult, nor should it look out the windows; as it appears ugly: but the mentioned fantasies are its demagogues. This also includes that the smallest adversity, whether originating from people or things, can swell into a monster through continuous brooding over it and elaborating it with vivid colors and on an enlarged scale, causing one to lose oneself. All unpleasantness should rather be perceived in a highly prosaic and sober manner, so that one can take it as lightly as possible.

Just as small objects held close to the eye can block our field of vision and obscure the world, so too can the people and things in our immediate surroundings, no matter how insignificant or indifferent they may be, unduly occupy our attention and thoughts, often in an unpleasant way, and displace important thoughts and matters. This should be counteracted.

14. At the sight of what we do not possess, the thought easily arises in us: "what if that were mine?" and it makes us feel the deprivation. Instead, we should more often ask: "what if that were not mine?" I mean, we should sometimes endeavor to look at what we possess as it would appear to us after we had lost it; and indeed, everything, whatever it may be: property, health, friends, loved ones, wife, child, horse, and dog: for mostly, only loss teaches us the value of things. On the other hand, as a result of the recommended way of looking at them, firstly, their possession will directly make us happier than before, and secondly, we will prevent loss in every way, i.e., not endanger property, not anger friends, not expose the wife's fidelity to temptation, guard the children's health, etc. – Often we try to brighten the gloom of the present by speculating on favorable possibilities and devising many chimerical hopes, each pregnant with a disappointment that will not fail to occur when those shatter against harsh reality. It would be better to make the many bad possibilities the subject of our speculation, which would partly prompt precautions to avert them, and partly pleasant surprises if they do not materialize. After all, we are always noticeably cheerful after enduring some anxiety. Indeed, it is even good to occasionally visualize great misfortunes that might befall us; namely, to more easily endure the much smaller ones that actually do befall us afterward, by then comforting ourselves with the retrospect of those great, unfulfilled ones. However, the preceding rule should not be neglected over this one.

15. Because the matters and occurrences that concern us arise and intermingle in such isolated, disordered, and unrelated ways, in stark contrast, and with nothing in common except that they are our affairs, our thoughts and worries about them must be equally abrupt to match. – Therefore, when we undertake one thing, we must abstract from everything else and dismiss the matter, so as to attend to, enjoy, or endure each thing in its own time, entirely unconcerned with the rest. We must, as it were, have mental drawers, opening one while all others remain closed. This way, a heavy burden of worry doesn't diminish every small present pleasure and rob us of all peace; one consideration doesn't displace another; concern for an important matter doesn't lead to the neglect of many minor ones, and so on. Above all, however, whoever is capable of lofty and noble contemplation should never allow personal matters and base worries to so completely occupy and fill their mind that they block access to such thoughts: for that would truly be propter vitam vivendi perdere causas. – Of course, this self-direction and distraction, like so much else, requires self-control; but the reflection that every person must endure many and great external constraints, without which no life is free, should strengthen us for this. A small amount of self-control applied in the right place prevents much external constraint later on, just as a small segment of a circle near the center often corresponds to one a hundred times larger at the periphery. By nothing do we so much escape external constraint as by self-control: this is what Seneca's saying means: si tibi vis omnia subjicere, te subjice rationi (ep. 37). We also always have self-control in our power, and can, in the extreme case, or where it hits our most sensitive spot, relax it somewhat; whereas external constraint is inconsiderate, unsparing, and merciless. Therefore, it is wise to preempt the latter with the former.

16. To set a goal for our wishes, to rein in our desires, to curb our anger, always remembering that only an infinitely small part of all that is desirable is attainable for any individual, while many evils are bound to befall everyone; in a word, απεχειν και ανεχειν, abstinere et sustinere – this is a rule, without the observance of which neither wealth nor power can prevent us from feeling miserable. This is what Horace aims at:

17. Ὁ βιος ἐν τῃ κινησει ἐστι (vita motu constat) said Aristotle, with obvious truth: and just as our physical life consists only in and through ceaseless movement, so too does our inner, spiritual life demand constant occupation, occupation with something, through doing or thinking. Proof of this is already given by the drumming of hands or some object, which unoccupied and thoughtless people immediately resort to. Our existence, you see, is essentially restless: therefore, complete inactivity soon becomes unbearable, as it brings about the most dreadful boredom. This urge, then, should be regulated to satisfy it methodically and thus better. Therefore, activity, doing something, if possible creating something, or at least learning something – is indispensable for human happiness: our powers demand their use, and we want to perceive their success in some way. The greatest satisfaction, however, in this regard, is afforded by making something, producing something, be it a basket or a book; but to see a work grow daily under one's hands and finally reach its completion brings immediate happiness. This is achieved by a work of art, a piece of writing, or even mere handiwork; of course, the nobler the work, the higher the enjoyment. In this respect, the most fortunate are the highly gifted, who are aware of their ability to produce significant, great, and coherent works. For through this, a higher kind of interest spreads over their entire existence and imparts a savor that is lacking in others, which, compared to theirs, is quite insipid. For them, life and the world, besides the common, material interest shared by all, have a second and higher, a formal interest, in that they contain the material for their works, with the collection of which they are busily occupied throughout their lives, as soon as personal necessity allows them to breathe. Also, their intellect is in a way twofold: partly one for ordinary relationships (matters of the will), like that of all others; partly one for the purely objective apprehension of things. Thus, they live doubly, are spectators and actors at the same time, while the others are only the latter. – Meanwhile, let everyone do something, according to their abilities. For how detrimental the lack of planned activity, of any work, is to us, one notices on long pleasure trips, where, now and then, one feels quite unhappy; because, without real occupation, one is, as it were, torn from one's natural element. To exert oneself and to struggle against resistance is a human need, like digging for a mole. The standstill that the self-sufficiency of a lasting pleasure would bring about would be unbearable to him. Overcoming obstacles is the full enjoyment of his existence; they may be material, as in acting and doing, or intellectual, as in learning and researching: the struggle with them and the victory brings happiness. If he lacks the opportunity for it, he creates it as best he can: depending on what his individuality brings with it, he will hunt, or play bilboquet, or, guided by the unconscious impulse of his nature, seek quarrels, or spin intrigues, or engage in deceptions and all sorts of wickedness, just to put an end to the state of rest that is unbearable to him. Difficilis in otio quies.

18. One should not take images of fantasy as the guiding star of one's endeavors, but rather clearly conceived concepts. However, the opposite usually happens. For, upon closer examination, one will find that what ultimately tips the scales in our decisions is usually not concepts and judgments, but a fantasy image that represents and stands for one of the alternatives. I no longer remember in which novel by Voltaire or Diderot, when the hero was a youth and Hercules at the crossroads, virtue always appeared to him in the form of his old tutor, holding a snuffbox in his left hand and a pinch in his right, thus moralizing; vice, on the other hand, appeared in the form of his mother's chambermaid. – Especially in youth, the goal of our happiness becomes fixed in the form of certain images that float before us and often persist for half, or even all, of our lives. They are actually teasing ghosts: for, once we have reached them, they vanish into nothing, as we experience that they deliver none of what they promised. Of this kind are individual scenes of domestic, civil, social, rural life, images of the dwelling, surroundings, honors, marks of respect, etc., etc. chaque fou a sa marotte; the image of the beloved often belongs here too. That this happens to us is natural: for the intuitive, being immediate, also acts more directly on our will than the concept, the abstract thought, which merely provides the general without the particular, which alone contains reality: it can therefore only act indirectly on our will. And yet, it is only the concept that keeps its word: therefore, it is cultivation to trust only it. Of course, it will sometimes need elucidation and paraphrase through some images: but only cum grano salis.

19. The preceding rule can be subsumed under the more general one, that one should always master the impression of the present and the intuitive in general. This is disproportionately strong compared to what is merely thought and known, not by virtue of its matter and content, which are often very slight; but by virtue of its form, its intuitiveness and immediacy, which penetrates the mind and disturbs its peace, or shakes its resolutions. For the present, the intuitive, being easily surveyable, always acts with its full force at once: whereas thoughts and reasons require time and quiet to be thought through piece by piece, so that one cannot have them fully present every moment. Consequently, the pleasant, which we have renounced as a result of deliberation, still tempts us at its sight: likewise, a judgment whose complete incompetence we know offends us; an insult whose contemptibility we understand enrages us; similarly, ten reasons against the existence of a danger are outweighed by the false appearance of its real presence, etc. In all these, the original irrationality of our being asserts itself. Women will also often succumb to such an impression, and few men have such an ascendancy of reason that they would not suffer from its effects. Where we cannot entirely overcome it by means of mere thoughts, the best thing is to neutralize an impression by the opposite, e.g., the impression of an insult by seeking out those who hold us in high esteem; the impression of an impending danger by actually contemplating what counteracts it. That Italian, of whom Leibniz (in nouveaux essais, Liv. I, c. 2, § 11) relates, could even resist the pains of torture by not letting the image of the gallows, to which his confession would have brought him, escape his imagination for a moment during it, as he had resolved; which is why he cried out from time to time io ti vedo; which words he later explained. – For the very reason considered here, it is a difficult thing, if all those around us are of a different opinion than we are, and behave accordingly, not to be shaken by them, even if we are convinced of their error. For a fleeing, persecuted king traveling seriously incognito, the ceremonial subservience observed in private by his trusted companion must be an almost necessary strengthening of heart, so that he does not ultimately doubt himself.

20. Having already emphasized the high value of health in the second chapter, as the first and most important element for our happiness, I want to provide a few very general rules of conduct for its strengthening and preservation here.

One should toughen oneself by subjecting the body, both as a whole and in each part, to a great deal of exertion and hardship as long as one is healthy, and accustom oneself to resisting adverse influences of all kinds. As soon as a pathological condition, whether of the whole or of a part, manifests itself, the opposite procedure must be adopted immediately, and the diseased body, or part thereof, must be spared and cared for in every way: for that which is suffering and weakened is incapable of being toughened.

Muscles are strengthened by strenuous use; nerves, however, are weakened by it. Therefore, one should exercise their muscles through every appropriate exertion, but protect their nerves from any; thus, the eyes from too bright, especially reflected light, from any strain in twilight, as well as from prolonged viewing of too small objects; likewise, the ears from too loud noise; but especially the brain from forced, too prolonged, or untimely exertion: therefore, one should let it rest during digestion; because then the same life force that forms thoughts in the brain is strenuously working in the stomach and intestines to prepare chyme and chyle; also during, or even after, significant muscle exertion. For it is with the motor nerves as with the sensory nerves, and just as the pain we feel in injured limbs has its true seat in the brain; so it is not actually the legs and arms that walk and work; but the brain, namely the part of it which, by means of the medulla oblongata and the spinal cord, excites the nerves of those limbs and thereby sets them in motion. Accordingly, the fatigue we feel in our legs or arms also has its true seat in the brain; which is why only muscles whose movement is voluntary, i.e., originates from the brain, tire, whereas those working involuntarily, like the heart, do not. Obviously, then, the brain is impaired if one forces it to perform strong muscular activity and mental exertion simultaneously, or even just in close succession. This does not contradict the fact that one often feels increased mental activity at the beginning of a walk, or generally on short walks: for no fatigue of the said brain parts has yet occurred, and on the other hand, such light muscular activity and the increased respiration caused by it promote the ascent of arterial, now also better oxygenated blood to the brain. – But especially, one should give the brain the full measure of sleep necessary for its refreshment; for sleep is for the whole person what winding is for the clock. (Cf. World as Will and Representation II, 217. – 3rd ed. II, 240.) This measure will be greater the more developed and active the brain is; to exceed it, however, would be a mere waste of time, because then sleep loses in intensity what it gains in extension. (Cf. World as Will and Representation II, 247. – 3rd ed. II, 275.) In general, one should well understand that our thinking is nothing other than the organic function of the brain, and thus behaves analogously to every other organic activity with regard to exertion and rest. Just as excessive exertion spoils the eyes, so too does it spoil the brain. It has rightly been said: the brain thinks, as the stomach digests. The delusion of an immaterial, simple, essentially and always thinking, consequently tireless soul, which merely resided in the brain and needed nothing in the world, has certainly led many to senseless behavior and dulling of their mental faculties; as, for example, Frederick the Great once tried to completely break the habit of sleeping. Professors of philosophy would do well not to promote such a, even practically harmful, delusion through their catechism-compliant homespun philosophy. – One should get used to regarding one's mental faculties as physiological functions in every respect, in order to treat, spare, exert, etc., them accordingly, and to consider that every physical ailment, discomfort, disorder, in whatever part it may be, affects the mind. Cabanis, des Rapports du physique et du moral de l'homme, is best suited for this.

Neglecting the advice given here is the reason why some great minds, as well as great scholars, have become senile, childish, and even insane in their old age. For example, that the celebrated English poets of this century, such as Walter Scott, Wordsworth, Southey and many others, became mentally dull and incapacitated in their old age, indeed already in their sixties, and even descended into imbecility, is undoubtedly to be explained by the fact that they all, enticed by high fees, pursued writing as a trade, thus wrote for the sake of money. This leads to unnatural exertion, and whoever harnesses his Pegasus and drives his muse with the whip will pay for it in an analogous way, like one who has rendered forced services to Venus. I suspect that Kant, in his later years, after he had finally become famous, also overworked himself and thereby caused the second childhood of his last four years . –

Every month of the year has a peculiar and immediate, i.e., weather-independent, influence on our health, our physical conditions in general, and even on our mental states.

C. Regarding our behavior towards others.

21. To get through the world, it is advisable to take along a large supply of caution and forbearance: the former protects one from harm and loss, the latter from strife and quarrels.

Whoever must live among people should never absolutely reject any individuality, however much it may have been set and given by nature, not even the worst, most miserable, or most ridiculous. Rather, one must accept it as unchangeable, which, as a result of an eternal and metaphysical principle, must be as it is, and in severe cases, one should think: "there must be such eccentrics too." If one acts otherwise, one does wrong and provokes the other to a war of life and death. For no one can change their actual individuality, i.e., their moral character, their cognitive faculties, their temperament, their physiognomy, etc. If we condemn their being entirely, nothing remains for them but to fight us as a mortal enemy: for we only want to grant them the right to exist on the condition that they become different from what they unalterably are. Therefore, to be able to live among people, we must let everyone, with their given individuality, however it may have turned out, exist and be valid, and we should only be concerned with using them as their nature and constitution allow; but neither hope for their change nor, as they are, simply condemn them. This is the true meaning of the saying: "live and let live." The task, however, is not as easy as it is just, and one should consider oneself fortunate if one can avoid many individualities forever. – Meanwhile, to learn to tolerate people, one should practice patience with inanimate objects, which, by virtue of mechanical or other physical necessity, stubbornly resist our actions; for which there is daily opportunity. The patience thus gained can then be transferred to people, by accustoming oneself to think that they too, wherever they hinder us, must do so by virtue of an equally strict necessity arising from their nature, just like that with which inanimate things act; therefore, it is just as foolish to be indignant about their actions as about a stone that rolls into our path.

22. It is astonishing how easily and quickly homogeneity or heterogeneity of spirit and temperament between people reveals itself in conversation: it becomes palpable in every little thing. Even if the conversation concerns the most unfamiliar, indifferent things, between essentially heterogeneous individuals, almost every sentence of one will displease the other more or less, and some may even annoy them. Homogeneous individuals, on the other hand, immediately and in everything feel a certain agreement, which, with great homogeneity, soon flows into perfect harmony, indeed, into unison. This explains, first and foremost, why very ordinary people are so sociable and find good company so easily everywhere – such right, dear, honest folk. With unusual people, it is the opposite, and the more so the more distinguished they are; so much so that, in their isolation, they can sometimes genuinely rejoice at having discovered even the smallest homogeneous fiber in another, however small! For each person can only be as much to another as that other is to them. Truly great minds nest, like eagles in the heights, alone. – Secondly, however, it becomes understandable how like-minded people quickly find each other, as if they were magnetically drawn to each other: – kindred souls greet each other from afar. Most frequently, of course, one will have the opportunity to observe this in those of low disposition or poor talent; but only because these exist in legions, while better and superior natures are, and are called, rare. Accordingly, for example, in a large community focused on practical purposes, two true scoundrels will recognize each other as quickly as if they wore a field sign, and will immediately come together to plot mischief or betrayal. Likewise, if one imagines, per impossibile, a large company of only very intelligent and witty people, with the exception of two fools who are also present; these will feel sympathetically drawn to each other and soon each will rejoice in their heart at having at least met one reasonable man. It is truly remarkable to witness how two people, especially those who are morally and intellectually backward, recognize each other at first sight, eagerly strive to approach each other, greeting each other kindly and joyfully, rushing towards each other as if they were old acquaintances; – it is so striking that one is tempted, according to the Buddhist doctrine of metempsychosis, to assume they had already been friends in a previous life.

What, however, even with much agreement, keeps people apart, and sometimes even creates temporary disharmony between them, is the diversity of their current mood, which is almost always different for each person, depending on their current situation, occupation, surroundings, physical condition, momentary train of thought, etc. From this arise dissonances even between the most harmonious personalities. To always be able to make the necessary correction to resolve this disturbance and introduce an equal temperament would be an achievement of the highest cultivation. How much the equality of mood contributes to social interaction can be gauged by the fact that even a large company is aroused to lively mutual communication and sincere participation, with general well-being, as soon as something objective, be it a danger or a hope or a piece of news or a rare sight, a play, music or whatever else, affects everyone at once and in the same way. For such things, by overwhelming all private interests, create universal unity of mood. In the absence of such an objective influence, a subjective one is usually resorted to, and therefore bottles are the usual means of bringing a common mood into society. Even tea and coffee serve this purpose.

However, it is precisely from that disharmony, which the difference in momentary mood so easily brings into all relationships, that it is partly explainable why, in memory freed from this and all similar, disturbing, albeit transient, influences, everything idealizes itself, indeed, sometimes almost transfigures itself. Memory acts like the condensing lens in a camera obscura: it draws everything together and thereby produces a much more beautiful image than its original. We partly gain the advantage of being seen in this way already through any absence. For although idealizing memory requires a considerable amount of time to complete its work, its beginning is made immediately. For this reason, it is even wise to show oneself to acquaintances and good friends only after significant intervals; for then, upon reunion, one will notice that memory has already been at work.

23. No one can see above themselves. By this I mean: everyone sees as much in another as they themselves are: for they can only grasp and understand them according to the measure of their own intelligence. If this is of the lowest kind, then all spiritual gifts, even the greatest, will fail to affect them, and they will perceive nothing in the possessor of these gifts but merely the lowest in their individuality, i.e., only their entire weaknesses, temperament, and character flaws. From this, the other person will be composed for them. The higher spiritual faculties of the same are as little present for them as color is for the blind. For all spirits are invisible to him who has none; and every appreciation is a product of the value of the appreciated with the cognitive sphere of the appraiser. From this it follows that one levels oneself with everyone one speaks to, as everything one may have in advance of them disappears, and even the self-denial required for it remains completely unrecognized. If one now considers how thoroughly low-minded and low-gifted, i.e., how thoroughly common most people are, one will realize that it is not possible to talk to them without, for that time (by analogy with electrical distribution), oneself becoming common, and then one will thoroughly understand the true meaning and aptness of the expression “to make oneself common,” but also gladly avoid any company with which one can only communicate by means of the partie honteuse of one's nature. One will also realize that, in the face of fools and idiots, there is only one way to demonstrate one's intelligence, and that is not to speak with them. But indeed, in society, many will sometimes feel like a dancer who has come to a ball where he finds only lame people: with whom shall he dance?

24. My respect is earned by that one in a hundred who, when waiting for something, sits idly by, not immediately drumming or clattering rhythmically with whatever comes to hand—be it his cane, or knife and fork, or anything else. He is probably thinking. Many people, however, show that seeing has completely replaced thinking for them: they try to become aware of their existence by clattering; that is, if there is no cigar at hand, which serves precisely this purpose. For the same reason, they are also constantly all eyes and ears for everything happening around them.

25. Rochefoucauld aptly observed that it is difficult to hold someone in high esteem and love them deeply at the same time. We would, therefore, have the choice of whether to seek the love or the veneration of people. Their love is always selfish, though in very different ways. Furthermore, what one gains it with is not always suitable to make us proud of it. Primarily, one will be liked to the extent that one sets one's demands on the minds and hearts of others low, and this earnestly and without pretense, not merely out of that indulgence rooted in contempt. If one now recalls the very true saying of Helvetius here: le degré d'esprit nécessaire pour nous plaire, est une mesure assez exacte du degré d'esprit que nous avons (the degree of wit necessary to please us is a fairly accurate measure of the degree of wit we possess); – then the conclusion follows from these premises. – With the veneration of people, however, it is the opposite: it is wrung from them only against their will, and, precisely for that reason, mostly concealed. Therefore, it gives us, internally, much greater satisfaction: it is connected with our worth; which is not directly true of people's love: for the latter is subjective, veneration is objective. Love is certainly more useful to us.

26. Most people are so subjective that, at bottom, nothing interests them but themselves. This is why, in everything that is said, they immediately think of themselves, and any accidental, however remote, connection to something personal to them seizes and possesses their entire attention, so that they have no capacity left for the objective subject of the discourse. It also means that no arguments hold any sway with them as soon as their interest or vanity opposes them. Hence they are so easily distracted, so easily hurt, offended, or aggrieved, that when speaking objectively with them, no matter what the topic, one cannot be careful enough to avoid any possible, perhaps detrimental, references of what is said to the worthy and delicate self one has before them: for they care about this alone, and nothing else. While they are devoid of sense and feeling for the truth, accuracy, beauty, subtlety, or wit of another's speech, they possess the most delicate sensitivity to anything that could, even in the most remote or indirect way, wound their petty vanity or in any way reflect detrimentally upon their highly precious self. Thus, in their vulnerability, they resemble small dogs whose paws are so easily stepped on without warning, and then one has to listen to their yelping; or they can be compared to a sick person covered in wounds and bruises, where every possible touch must be avoided with the utmost caution. With some, however, the matter goes so far that they perceive intellect and understanding, displayed in conversation with them, or not sufficiently concealed, as a direct insult, even if they initially hide it. Afterwards, the inexperienced person then ponders and broods in vain, wondering how in the world they could have incurred their resentment and hatred. – Yet, they are just as easily flattered and won over. Therefore, their judgment is usually biased and merely a pronouncement in favor of their party or class, not an objective and just one. All of this rests on the fact that in them, the will far outweighs cognition, and their meager intellect is entirely at the service of the will, from which it cannot free itself for even a moment.

A great proof of the pitiful subjectivity of human beings, in consequence of which they relate everything to themselves and immediately return in a straight line from every thought to themselves, is furnished by astrology, which relates the course of the great celestial bodies to the miserable ego, and also connects comets in the sky with earthly affairs and trifles. This, however, has happened at all times and already in the oldest times. (See, for example, Stob. Eclog. L. I, c. 22, 9, pag. 478.)

27. Whenever something absurd is said in public or in society, or written in literature and well-received, or at least not refuted, one should not despair and think that this is how it will remain; but rather know and take comfort that the matter will subsequently and gradually be ruminated upon, illuminated, considered, weighed, discussed, and mostly, in the end, correctly judged; so that, after a period appropriate to its difficulty, almost everyone finally understands what the clear mind saw immediately. In the meantime, of course, one must be patient. For a man of correct insight among the deluded is like someone whose watch is accurate in a city where all the tower clocks are set incorrectly. He alone knows the true time: but what good does it do him? Everyone else goes by the falsely showing city clocks; even those who know that his watch alone tells the true time.

28. People are like children in that they become naughty when spoiled; therefore, one should never be too lenient or affectionate with anyone. Just as one will generally not lose a friend by refusing them a loan, but very easily by giving them one; similarly, one will not easily lose a friend through proud and somewhat neglectful behavior, but often as a result of too much kindness and courtesy, which makes them arrogant and unbearable, leading to a rupture. Above all, people absolutely cannot tolerate the idea that they are needed; arrogance and presumption are its inseparable companions. With some, it arises, to a certain extent, simply from associating with them, perhaps speaking to them often or in a familiar way: immediately they will think that one must put up with something from them, and will try to expand the boundaries of politeness. Therefore, so few are suitable for any more intimate interaction, and one should especially beware of not associating with base natures. If someone, however, gets the idea that he is much more necessary to me than I am to him, it is immediately as if I had stolen something from him: he will seek revenge and try to regain it. Superiority in social interaction arises solely from not needing others in any way and letting this be seen. For this reason, it is advisable to make everyone, be it man or woman, feel from time to time that one can very well do without them: this strengthens friendship; indeed, with most people, it can do no harm if one occasionally lets a grain of disdain flow in: they value our friendship all the more: chi non istima vien stimato (he who does not esteem is esteemed) says a fine Italian proverb. But if someone is truly worth a great deal to us, we must conceal this from them as if it were a crime. This is not pleasant, but it is true. Hardly even dogs can tolerate great kindness, let alone humans.

29. The fact that people of nobler character and higher abilities so often, especially in their youth, reveal a striking lack of knowledge of human nature and worldly wisdom, and are therefore easily deceived or otherwise misled, while lower natures learn to navigate the world much more quickly and effectively, is due to the fact that, in the absence of experience, one must judge a priori, and that no experience whatsoever equals the a priori. This a priori, in fact, provides those of the ordinary sort with their own selves as a guide, but not the noble and excellent: for precisely as such, they are vastly different from others. Therefore, when they calculate the thoughts and actions of others based on their own, the calculation does not hold true.

Even if someone has, through external instruction and personal experience, finally learned a posteriori what to expect from people in general—that about 5/6 of them are, morally or intellectually, such that anyone not circumstantially connected with them is better off avoiding them from the outset and, as far as possible, staying out of all contact with them—they will still hardly ever gain a sufficient understanding of people's pettiness and wretchedness. Instead, they will always, as long as they live, have to expand and complete this understanding, often miscalculating to their own detriment in the meantime. And then again, even after truly taking the received instruction to heart, it will sometimes happen that, encountering a company of people still unknown to them, they will be surprised at how all of them, by their words and demeanor, appear quite reasonable, honest, sincere, honorable, and virtuous, and perhaps even clever and witty. This should not mislead them, however; for it merely comes from nature not acting like bad poets who, when portraying villains or fools, work so clumsily and intentionally that one almost sees the poet standing behind each such person, continually disavowing their sentiments and speech and calling out with a warning voice: “This is a villain, this is a fool; pay no attention to what he says.” Nature, on the other hand, acts like Shakespeare and Goethe, in whose works every character, even if it were the devil himself, is right while standing and speaking; because they are conceived so objectively that we are drawn into their interest and compelled to sympathize with them: for they are, just like the works of nature, developed from an inner principle, by virtue of which their saying and doing appears natural, and therefore necessary. So, whoever expects devils to walk with horns and fools with bells will always be their prey or their plaything. Added to this is the fact that in social interaction, people behave like the moon and hunchbacks, namely, always showing only one side, and each even has an innate talent to mimically rework their physiognomy into a mask that accurately portrays what they should actually be, and which, because it is exclusively calculated for their individuality, fits and suits them so precisely that the effect is exceedingly deceptive. They put it on whenever it comes to ingratiating themselves. One should give as much credence to it as if it were made of oilcloth, mindful of the excellent Italian proverb: non è sì tristo cane, che non meni la coda (there is no dog so bad that it will not wag its tail).

In any case, one should be very careful not to form too favorable an opinion of any new acquaintance; otherwise, in most cases, one will be disappointed to one's own shame or even detriment. – It is also worth considering this: It is precisely in trifles, where a person does not compose themselves, that they reveal their character, and there one can often, in minor actions, in mere manners, easily observe the boundless egoism that shows no consideration for others whatsoever, which is not denied later in larger matters, albeit masked. And one should not miss such an opportunity. If someone in the small daily occurrences and relations of life, in things of which the de minimis lex non curat applies, acts inconsiderately, merely seeking their own advantage or convenience, to the detriment of others; if they appropriate what is for everyone, etc.; then be convinced that no justice dwells in their heart, but that they will also be a scoundrel in larger matters as soon as the law and force do not bind their hands, and do not trust them beyond the threshold. Indeed, whoever shamelessly breaks the rules of their club will also break those of the state, as soon as they can do so without danger.

If someone with whom we are in contact or association has done something unpleasant or annoying to us, we only need to ask ourselves whether he is worth so much to us that we are willing to put up with the same thing, even intensified, from him again and again; – or not. (To forgive and forget means to throw valuable experiences out the window.) In the affirmative case, there won't be much to say about it, because talking helps little: we must, therefore, let the matter go, with or without admonition, but we should know that by doing so we have invited it upon ourselves again. In the negative case, however, we must immediately and forever break with the esteemed friend, or, if it is a servant, dismiss him. For inevitably, if the occasion arises, he will do exactly the same, or something completely analogous, again, even if he now solemnly and sincerely assures us of the contrary. One can forget everything, everything, except oneself, one's own nature. For character is simply incorrigible; because all human actions flow from an inner principle, by virtue of which, under the same circumstances, one must always do the same and cannot do otherwise. Read my prize essay on the so-called freedom of the will and free yourself from this delusion. Therefore, to reconcile with a friend with whom one had broken is a weakness that one atones for when the same person, at the first opportunity, does exactly and precisely the same thing again that caused the break; indeed, with even more audacity, in the silent awareness of his indispensability. The same applies to dismissed servants whom one rehires. Just as little, and for the same reason, should we expect that someone, under changed circumstances, will do the same as before. Rather, people change their attitudes and behavior as quickly as their interests change; indeed, their intentionality draws its bills at such short sight that one would have to be even more shortsighted not to let them be protested.

Suppose, then, we wanted to know how someone would act in a situation we intend to place them in; we shouldn't rely on their promises and assurances. For even if they spoke sincerely, they would be speaking of something they don't know. Therefore, we must calculate their actions solely from considering the circumstances they are about to enter and the conflict between those circumstances and their character.

To gain the necessary, clear, and thorough understanding of the true and very sad nature of humans, as they mostly are, it is extremely instructive to use their behavior and conduct in literature as a commentary on their behavior and conduct in practical life, and vice versa. This is very helpful to avoid becoming disillusioned with oneself or with them. However, no trait of particular baseness or stupidity that we encounter in life or literature should ever become a source of vexation and anger for us, but merely a source of knowledge, as we see in it a new contribution to the characterization of the human race and therefore take note of it. Then we will regard it roughly as the mineralogist regards a very characteristic specimen of a mineral that he has encountered. – There are exceptions, yes, incredibly great ones, and the differences in individualities are enormous: but, on the whole, as has long been said, the world is in a bad way: the savages devour each other and the civilized deceive each other, and that is called the way of the world. What are states, with all their artificial machinery directed outwards and inwards, and their means of power, but precautions to set limits to the boundless injustice of humans? Do we not see, throughout history, every king, as soon as he is firmly established and his country enjoys some prosperity, using this to fall upon neighboring states with his army, as with a band of robbers? Are not almost all wars essentially raids? In early antiquity, as also partly in the Middle Ages, the defeated became slaves of the victors, i.e., fundamentally, they had to work for them: but the same applies to those who pay war contributions: they give up the proceeds of earlier labor. Dans toutes les guerres il ne s'agit que de voler, says Voltaire, and the Germans should take note of it.

30. No character is such that it should be left to itself and allowed to totally give way; instead, every character needs to be guided by concepts and maxims. If one wishes to go far in this, namely to a character that does not originate from our innate nature, but solely from rational deliberation, a truly acquired and artificial character, then one will very soon discover that

You may drive out Nature with a pitchfork, yet she'll always return

find confirmation. Indeed, one can very well understand a rule for conduct towards others, even discover it oneself and express it aptly, and yet, in real life, immediately thereafter violate it. However, one should not be discouraged by this and think that it is impossible to guide one's behavior in the world according to abstract rules and maxims, and therefore it is best to just let oneself go. Rather, it is like all theoretical prescriptions and instructions for practical matters: understanding the rule is the first step, learning to practice it is the second. The former is gained by reason at once, the latter gradually through practice. One shows the student the fingerings on the instrument, the parries and thrusts with the rapier: he immediately fails, despite the best intentions, and now thinks that observing them in the speed of reading notes and the heat of battle is almost impossible. Nevertheless, he gradually learns it, through practice, stumbling, falling, and getting up again. The same applies to the rules of grammar in writing and speaking Latin. In no other way does the boor become a courtier, the hothead a refined man of the world, the open-hearted reserved, the noble ironic. However, such self-discipline, acquired through long habit, will always act as an external compulsion, which nature never entirely ceases to resist and sometimes unexpectedly breaks through. For all action based on abstract maxims relates to action from original, innate inclination, like a human work of art, for example a clock, where form and movement are imposed on the material alien to them, to a living organism, in which form and material are permeated by each other and are one. In this relationship of acquired to innate character, therefore, a saying of Emperor Napoleon is confirmed: tout ce qui n'est pas naturel est imparfait; which is generally a rule that applies to everything and everyone, be it physical or moral, and of which the only exception that comes to my mind is the natural aventurine known to mineralogists, which does not equal the artificial.

Therefore, be warned against any and all affectation. It always evokes contempt: firstly, as a deception, which as such is cowardly because it is based on fear; secondly, as a self-condemnation by oneself, in that one wants to appear what one is not, and what one consequently considers better than what one is. Affecting any quality, boasting about it, is a self-confession that one does not possess it. Be it courage, or erudition, or intellect, or wit, or success with women, or wealth, or noble status, or whatever else one brags about; one can conclude from this that one is precisely lacking in that regard: for whoever truly possesses a quality perfectly does not think of displaying it and affecting it, but is quite at ease about it. This is also the meaning of the Spanish proverb: herradura que chacolotea clavo le falta (the clattering horseshoe lacks a nail). However, as stated at the beginning, no one should let loose completely and show themselves exactly as they are; because much of the bad and bestial in our nature requires concealment: but this only justifies the negative, dissimulation, not the positive, simulation. – One should also know that affectation is recognized even before it becomes clear what one is actually affecting. And finally, in the long run, it does not hold up, but the mask eventually falls off. Nemo potest personam diu ferre fictam. Ficta cito in naturam suam recidunt. (Seneca, De Clementia, L. I, c. 1.)

31. Just as one carries the weight of one's own body without feeling it, unlike that of any other person one wishes to move, so too does one not notice one's own faults and vices, but only those of others. – However, everyone has a mirror in the other, in which they clearly perceive their own vices, faults, peculiarities, and unpleasantnesses of all kinds. But mostly, they behave like the dog that barks at the mirror, because it doesn't know it's seeing itself, but thinks it's another dog. Whoever criticizes others is working on their own self-improvement. Thus, those who have the inclination and habit of subjecting the external behavior, in general the actions and omissions of others, quietly, to themselves, to an attentive and sharp criticism, are thereby working on their own improvement and perfection: for they will possess either justice, or at least enough pride and vanity, to avoid themselves what they so often severely censure. The opposite applies to the tolerant: namely hanc veniam damus petimusque vicissim. The Gospel moralizes quite beautifully about the splinter in another's eye and the beam in one's own: but the nature of the eye dictates that it looks outwards and not at itself: therefore, to become aware of one's own faults, noticing and criticizing them in others is a very suitable means. For our improvement, we need a mirror.

This rule also applies to style and writing: whoever admires a new folly instead of criticizing it will imitate it. That's why every such folly spreads so quickly in Germany. Germans are very tolerant: it's noticeable. Hanc veniam damus petimusque vicissim is their motto.

32. In his youth, a person of nobler character believes that the essential and decisive relationships and connections between people are the ideal ones, i.e., those based on similarity of disposition, way of thinking, taste, intellectual faculties, etc. However, he later realizes that they are the real ones, i.e., those based on some material interest. These form the basis of almost all connections: indeed, the majority of people have no concept of other relationships. Consequently, everyone is taken according to their office, or business, or nation, or family, in short, according to the position and role that convention has assigned to them: according to this, they are sorted and treated in a factory-like manner. On the other hand, what he is in and of himself, i.e., as a human being, by virtue of his personal qualities, only comes up incidentally and therefore only exceptionally, and is set aside and ignored by everyone as soon as it suits them, which is most of the time. The more this is the case, the less he will like that arrangement, and thus he will seek to withdraw from its sphere. However, this is based on the fact that, in this world of need and necessity, the means to meet these are everywhere the essential, and therefore predominant, factors.

33. Just as paper money circulates instead of silver, so too do external demonstrations and mimicked gestures of true respect and friendship circulate in the world. However, one might also ask if there are truly people who deserve such genuine sentiments. In any case, I value the wag of an honest dog's tail more than a hundred such demonstrations and gestures.

True, genuine friendship presupposes a strong, purely objective, and completely disinterested participation in the weal and woe of another, and this in turn requires a real identification with the friend. The egoism of human nature is so much opposed to this that true friendship belongs to those things of which, like colossal sea serpents, one does not know whether they are fabulous or exist somewhere. Nevertheless, there are many kinds of connections between people, though in the main, of course, based on hidden egoistic motives of the most varied kinds, which are nonetheless imbued with a grain of that true and genuine friendship, whereby they are so ennobled that, in this world of imperfections, they may with some justification bear the name of friendship. They stand high above the everyday liaisons, which are rather such that we would not speak another word to most of our good acquaintances if we heard how they speak of us in our absence.

To test the authenticity of a friend, besides situations where serious help and significant sacrifices are needed, the best opportunity arises the moment you inform them of a misfortune that has just befallen you. For then, their features will either reflect true, profound, unmixed sorrow; or, by their composed calm, or a fleeting secondary trait, they will confirm the well-known saying of Rochefoucauld: dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose qui ne nous déplait pas (in the adversity of our best friends, we always find something that does not displease us). Ordinary so-called friends, on such occasions, can often barely suppress a flicker of a slight, contented smile. – There are few things that so reliably put people in a good mood as when you tell them about a significant misfortune that has recently struck you, or even openly reveal some personal weakness to them. – Characteristic!

Distance and long absence take their toll on every friendship, however reluctantly one admits it. For people we don't see, even if they were our dearest friends, gradually dry up over the years into abstract concepts, whereby our participation in them becomes more and more merely rational, even traditional: the lively and deeply felt participation remains reserved for those we have before our eyes, even if they are only beloved animals. So sensual is human nature. Thus, Goethe's saying proves true here as well:

The house friends are usually rightly called so, in that they are more friends of the house than of the master, thus more like cats than dogs.

Friends call themselves sincere; enemies are so: therefore, one should use their criticism for self-knowledge, like a bitter medicine. –

Friends in need are rare? – On the contrary! Hardly have you made friends with someone than he is already in need and wants to borrow money. –

34. What a novice he is who imagines that showing wit and understanding is a means to make oneself popular in society! On the contrary, among the immeasurably overwhelming majority, they arouse a hatred and resentment that is all the more bitter because the person feeling it is not entitled to accuse its cause, indeed, he conceals it from himself. The closer course of events is this: if someone perceives and feels great intellectual superiority in the person he is talking to, he silently and without clear consciousness concludes that, to the same extent, the other person perceives and feels his inferiority and limitations. This enthymeme arouses his bitterest hatred, resentment, and indignation. (Cf. World as Will and Representation, 3rd ed., Vol. II, 256, the quoted words of Dr. Johnson and Merck, Goethe's childhood friend.) Gracian rightly says: "para ser bien quisto, el unico medio vestirse la piel del mas simple de los brutos." (See Oraculo manual, y arte de prudencia, 240. [Obras, Amberes 1702, P. II, p. 287.]) For to display wit and understanding is only an indirect way of reproaching all others for their incapacity and dullness. Moreover, common nature rebels when it sees its opposite, and the secret instigator of the rebellion is envy. For the satisfaction of their vanity is, as one can see daily, a pleasure that surpasses all others for people, yet it is only possible through comparing themselves with others. But man is proud of no advantages as much as of intellectual ones: for only on them rests his superiority over animals. To present him with decided superiority in this regard, and even in front of witnesses, is therefore the greatest audacity. He feels thereby provoked to revenge and will usually seek an opportunity to carry this out by way of insult, thereby stepping from the realm of intelligence to that of will, in which we are all equal in this respect. Therefore, while in society, status and wealth can always count on respect, intellectual advantages are by no means to be expected: in the most favorable case, they are ignored, otherwise, they are regarded as a kind of impertinence, or as something to which their owner has come illicitly and now presumes to boast about; for which everyone secretly intends to inflict some other humiliation on him and only waits for the opportunity. The humblest behavior will scarcely succeed in begging forgiveness for intellectual superiority. Sadi says in the Gulistan (p. 146 of Graf's translation): "Know that there is a hundred times more aversion in the ignorant towards the intelligent than the intelligent feels aversion towards the ignorant." – On the other hand, intellectual inferiority serves as a true recommendation. For what warmth is to the body, the comforting feeling of superiority is to the mind; therefore, everyone instinctively approaches the object that promises it, just as they do a stove or sunshine. Such an object is only the decidedly inferior, in terms of mental qualities for men, and beauty for women. To demonstrate undisguised inferiority to some people, however – that takes something. On the other hand, observe with what heartfelt friendliness a tolerable girl approaches a truly ugly one. Physical advantages are not very important for men; although one feels more comfortable next to a smaller person than a larger one. Consequently, among men, the stupid and ignorant, and among women, the ugly, are generally popular and sought after: they easily gain the reputation of having an exceedingly good heart; because everyone needs a pretext for their affection, both for themselves and for others. For this very reason, intellectual superiority of any kind is a very isolating quality: it is shunned and hated, and all sorts of faults are attributed to its owner as a pretext. Beauty has exactly the same effect among women: very beautiful girls find no friends, indeed, no companions. They had better not apply for positions as companions at all: for at their very appearance, the face of the hoped-for new mistress darkens, as she, whether for herself or for her daughters, by no means needs such a foil. – On the other hand, the advantages of rank are the opposite; because these do not act, like personal ones, through contrast and distance, but, like the colors of the surroundings on the face, through reflection.

Our trust in others is very often largely due to laziness, selfishness, and vanity: laziness, when we prefer to trust another rather than investigate, watch, or act ourselves; selfishness, when the need to talk about our affairs leads us to confide in someone; vanity, when it belongs to something we pride ourselves on. Nevertheless, we demand that our trust be honored.

On the other hand, we should not be angry about distrust: for in it lies a compliment to honesty, namely the sincere admission of its great rarity, as a result of which it belongs to those things whose existence is doubted.

36. Of politeness, that Chinese cardinal virtue, I have given one reason in my Ethics p. 201 (2nd ed. 198): the other lies in the following. It is a tacit agreement to mutually ignore and not reproach each other for our morally and intellectually wretched nature; – whereby, to mutual advantage, this comes to light somewhat less easily.

Politeness is wisdom; consequently, impoliteness is foolishness: to needlessly and wantonly make enemies through it is madness, like setting one's house on fire. For politeness, like counters, is an obviously false coin: to be sparing with it proves a lack of understanding; whereas generosity with it proves understanding. All nations conclude letters with votre très-humble serviteur, – your most obedient servant, – suo devotissimo servo: only the Germans hold back with "servant" – because it's not true after all! He who, however, pushes politeness to the point of sacrificing real interests, is like someone who would give genuine gold pieces instead of counters. – Just as wax, naturally hard and brittle, becomes so pliable with a little warmth that it takes on any desired shape; so too can even stubborn and hostile people be made flexible and agreeable through a little politeness and kindness. Thus, politeness is to man what warmth is to wax.

Indeed, politeness is a difficult task insofar as it demands that we show the greatest respect to all people, while most of them deserve none; furthermore, that we feign the most lively interest in them, while we should be glad to have none. – To combine politeness with pride is a masterpiece. –

We would be far less perturbed by insults, which essentially always consist of expressions of disrespect, if we didn't, on the one hand, harbor an utterly exaggerated notion of our own high worth and dignity—in other words, immeasurable arrogance—and, on the other hand, if we had clearly understood what, as a rule, everyone truly thinks and feels about others in their heart. What a stark contrast there is between the sensitivity of most people to the slightest hint of criticism directed at them and what they would hear if they overheard their acquaintances discussing them! – We should, rather, bear in mind that common politeness is merely a grinning mask: then we wouldn't scream bloody murder if it shifted slightly or was removed for a moment. But when someone becomes outright rude, it's as if they've cast off their clothes and stand in puris naturalibus. Of course, like most people in this state, they don't look good.

37. For one's actions and omissions, one should not take another as a model; because situations, circumstances, and conditions are never the same, and because the diversity of character also gives a different nuance to the action, hence duo cum faciunt idem, non est idem. One must, after mature consideration and sharp reflection, act according to one's own character. Thus, even in practice, originality is indispensable: otherwise, what one does does not fit with what one is.

38. Do not dispute anyone's opinion; but consider that if you wanted to talk him out of all the absurdities he believes, you could reach Methuselah's age without finishing.

Also, one should refrain from all, even well-intentioned, corrective remarks in conversation: for it is easy to offend people, but difficult, if not impossible, to improve them.

When the absurdities of a conversation we are forced to listen to begin to annoy us, we must imagine it's a comedic scene between two fools. Probatum est. – He who has come into the world to enlighten it seriously and on the most important matters can count himself lucky to escape with a whole skin.

39. He who wishes his judgment to be believed should express it calmly and dispassionately. For all vehemence springs from the will; hence, the judgment will be attributed to this, and not to cognition, which by its nature is cold. Since the radical element in man is the will, and cognition is merely secondary and superadded, one will sooner believe that the judgment originated from an excited will, than that the excitement of the will arose merely from the judgment.

40. Even with the best right to do so, do not allow yourself to be led into self-praise. For vanity is such a common thing, and merit such an uncommon one, that as often as we seem to praise ourselves, even indirectly, everyone will bet a hundred to one that what speaks from us is vanity, lacking the sense to see the ridiculousness of the matter. – However, despite all this, Bacon of Verulam may not be entirely wrong when he says that the semper aliquid haeret, applies to self-praise as much as to slander, and therefore recommends it in moderate doses.

41. If you suspect someone is lying, pretend to believe them: they will become bolder, lie more strongly, and be exposed. If, on the other hand, you notice that a truth they wish to conceal has partly slipped out, pretend to disbelieve it, so that, provoked by the contradiction, they will bring up the rear guard of the whole truth.

42. We should consider all our personal affairs as secrets, and to our good acquaintances, we must remain completely unknown beyond what they see with their own eyes. For their knowledge of even the most innocent things can, through time and circumstances, bring us disadvantage. – In general, it is wiser to demonstrate one's understanding by what one keeps silent than by what one says. The former is a matter of prudence, the latter of vanity. The opportunity for both arises equally often, but we often prefer the fleeting satisfaction that the latter provides to the lasting benefit that the former brings. Even the relief of speaking a word aloud to oneself, which often happens to lively people, should be denied, lest it become a habit; because thereby thought becomes so befriended and fraternized with the word that gradually speaking with others also turns into thinking aloud; while prudence dictates that a wide chasm be kept open between our thinking and our speaking.

Sometimes we think that others absolutely cannot believe something concerning us, while it doesn't even occur to them to doubt it; however, if we make them think of it, then they can no longer believe it. But we often betray ourselves simply because we imagine it's impossible for someone not to notice it – like we throw ourselves down from a height out of dizziness, i.e., through the thought that it's impossible to stand firm here, but the agony of standing here is so great that it's better to cut it short: this delusion is called dizziness.

On the other hand, it should be known that people, even those who otherwise reveal no particular acumen, are excellent algebraists in the personal affairs of others, where, by means of a single given quantity, they solve the most intricate problems. If, for example, one tells them a former event, omitting all names and other designations of persons, one must be careful not to introduce any entirely positive and individual circumstance, however slight, such as a place, or time, or the name of a secondary person, or anything else even indirectly connected with it: for in this they immediately have a positively given quantity, by means of which their algebraic acumen deduces everything else. For the enthusiasm of curiosity is so great here that, by virtue of it, the will spurs the intellect, which is now driven thereby to achieve the most remote results. For as unresponsive and indifferent as people are to general truths, so eager are they for individual ones.

In accordance with all this, silence has been most urgently and with the most varied arguments recommended by all teachers of worldly wisdom; therefore, I can leave it at what has been said. I will only add a few Arabic maxims, which are particularly impressive and little known. "What your enemy should not know, do not tell your friend." – "If I keep my secret, it is my prisoner: if I let it escape, I am its prisoner." – "On the tree of silence hangs its fruit, peace."

43. No money is more profitably spent than that by which we have been swindled: for we have thereby directly acquired wisdom.

44. One should, if possible, harbor no animosity towards anyone, but rather carefully note and remember everyone's procédés, in order to determine their worth accordingly, at least concerning ourselves, and to regulate our conduct and behavior towards them accordingly – always convinced of the unchangeability of character: to ever forget a bad trait of a person is like throwing away hard-earned money. – But in this way, one protects oneself from foolish familiarity and foolish friendship. –

"Neither love nor hate" contains half of all worldly wisdom: "say nothing and believe nothing" the other half. Of course, one would gladly turn their back on a world that necessitates rules like these and the following ones.

45. To let anger or hatred show in words or expressions is useless, dangerous, unwise, ridiculous, and vulgar. One should therefore never show anger or hatred except in actions. The latter will be accomplished more perfectly, the more perfectly the former has been avoided. – Only cold-blooded animals are poisonous.

46. Parler sans accent: this old rule for people of the world aims for one to let the understanding of others figure out what has been said: it is slow, and before it is finished, one is gone. On the other hand, parler avec accent means to speak to feeling; where everything turns out the opposite. To some, one can even say actual foolish things with a polite gesture and friendly tone, without immediate danger.

D. Concerning our attitude towards the course of the world and fate.

47. Whatever form human life may take, its elements are always the same, and therefore it is essentially the same everywhere, whether lived in a hut or at court, in a monastery or in the army. No matter how varied its events, adventures, fortunes, and misfortunes may be, it is like confectionery. There are many and various, very intricate and colorful figures: but everything is kneaded from one dough; and what happens to one is much more similar to what happened to another than one thinks when hearing it told. The occurrences of our life also resemble the images in a kaleidoscope, in which we see something different with each turn, but actually always have the same thing before our eyes.

48. There are three world powers, as an ancient author very aptly says: συνεσις, κρατος, και τυχη, wisdom, strength, and luck. I believe that the last-mentioned is the most potent. For our life's journey is comparable to the course of a ship. Fate, τυχη, secunda aut adversa fortuna, plays the role of the wind, propelling us quickly forward or throwing us far back; whereas our own efforts and endeavors can accomplish little. These, in fact, play the role of the oars: if, through many hours of labor, they have carried us a certain distance forward, a sudden gust of wind throws us back just as far. If, on the other hand, the wind is favorable, it propels us so effectively that we do not need the oars. This power of luck is expressed unsurpassably by a Spanish proverb: da ventura a tu hijo, y echa lo en el mar (give your son luck, and throw him into the sea).

Indeed, chance is a malevolent force to which one should surrender as little as possible. Yet, among all givers, who is the only one who, by giving, simultaneously shows us most clearly that we have no claim whatsoever to his gifts, that we owe them entirely not to our worthiness, but solely to his goodness and grace, and that precisely from this we may draw the joyful hope of humbly receiving many more undeserved gifts? – It is chance: he, who possesses the royal art of making it clear that against his favor and grace, all merit is powerless and counts for nothing. –

When one looks back on one's life path, surveys its "labyrinthine erratic course," and must now see so much missed happiness, so much self-inflicted misfortune, one can easily go too far in self-reproach. For our life's journey is by no means solely our own work, but the product of two factors: the series of events and the series of our decisions, which constantly interlock and mutually modify each other. Added to this is the fact that in both, our horizon is always very limited, as we cannot predict our decisions far in advance, and even less can we foresee events; rather, only the present ones are truly known to us. Therefore, as long as our goal is still distant, we cannot even steer directly towards it, but only approximately and by conjecture guide our direction, so we often have to tack. For all we can do is always make our decisions in accordance with the present circumstances, hoping to hit upon something that brings us closer to our main goal. Thus, events and our fundamental intentions are mostly comparable to two forces pulling in different directions, and the resulting diagonal is our life's course. – Terence said: 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; by which he must have had a kind of backgammon in mind. More concisely, we can say: fate shuffles the cards, and we play. However, to express my current reflection, the following analogy would be most suitable. Life is like a game of chess: we devise a plan, but this remains conditional on what our opponent in chess, or fate in life, chooses to do. The modifications our plan undergoes as a result are usually so great that in its execution, it is barely recognizable in some of its fundamental features.

By the way, there is something else in our life story that goes beyond all of that. It is a trivial and all too often confirmed truth that we are often more foolish than we believe: on the other hand, the discovery that we are often wiser than we ourselves think is made only by those who have been in that situation, and even then, only late. There is something wiser in us than the head. In the grand strokes, the main steps of our life's journey, we act not so much according to a clear understanding of what is right, but according to an inner impulse, one might say instinct, that comes from the deepest core of our being, and then we criticize our actions according to clear, but also meager, acquired, indeed, borrowed concepts, according to general rules, foreign examples, etc., without sufficiently considering that "one size does not fit all"; then we easily become unfair to ourselves. But in the end, it shows who was right; and only a happily reached old age is, subjectively and objectively, able to judge the matter.

Perhaps that inner impulse is under our unconscious guidance of prophetic dreams, forgotten upon waking, which precisely thereby impart to our life the uniformity of tone and dramatic unity that the so often fluctuating and erring, so easily re-tuned brain-consciousness could not give it, and as a result of which, for example, he who is called to great achievements of a specific kind feels this inwardly and secretly from youth on and works towards it, like bees building their hive. For everyone, however, it is what Baltasar Gracian calls la gran sinderesis: the instinctive great self-preservation, without which one perishes. – To act according to abstract principles is difficult and only succeeds after much practice, and even then not every time: they are also often insufficient. On the other hand, everyone has certain innate concrete principles that are in their blood and essence, being the result of all their thinking, feeling, and willing. They usually do not know them in abstracto, but only become aware upon looking back at their life that they have always followed them and have been drawn by them, as if by an invisible thread. Depending on what they are, they will lead him to his happiness or misfortune.

49. One should constantly bear in mind the effect of time and the changeability of things, and therefore, with everything that is happening now, immediately imagine the opposite; thus, in good fortune, misfortune; in friendship, enmity; in fair weather, foul; in love, hatred; in trust and openness, betrayal and regret, and vice versa, vividly represent these to oneself. This would provide a lasting source of true worldly wisdom, as we would always remain composed and not be so easily deceived. Mostly, we would thereby only have anticipated the effect of time. – But perhaps no knowledge requires experience as indispensably as the correct estimation of the impermanence and change of things. Because every state, for the duration of its existence, is necessarily and therefore rightfully present; thus, every year, every month, every day appears as if it finally wants to be right, for all eternity. But none remains so, and change alone is constant. The wise person is one whom apparent stability does not deceive, and who moreover foresees the direction that change will next take. That people, however, generally consider the temporary state of things, or the direction of their course, to be permanent, comes from the fact that they see the effects but do not understand the causes, which are precisely what carry the germ of future changes within them; while the effect, which exists solely for them, contains nothing of this. They cling to this and assume that the unknown causes, which were able to produce such effects, will also be able to maintain them. They have the advantage that, if they err, it always happens unisono; hence, the calamity that consequently befalls them is always general, while the thinking mind, if it has erred, stands alone in addition. – Incidentally, we have here a confirmation of my proposition that error always arises from concluding from the consequence to the reason. See “World as W. and V.” Vol. 1, p. 90. (3rd ed. 94.)

However, one should anticipate time only theoretically and by foreseeing its effects, not practically, that is, not by preempting it, by demanding before its time what only time can bring. For whoever does this will find that there is no worse, more relentless usurer than time itself, and that, if forced to make advances, it charges heavier interest than any Jew. For example, one can force a tree with unslaked lime and heat to sprout leaves, blossoms, and fruit within a few days, but then it dies. – If a young man wants to exercise the procreative power of a man now, even if only for a few weeks, and achieve at nineteen what he could very well achieve at thirty; then time will at most make the advance, but a part of the strength of his future years, indeed, a part of his life itself, is the interest. – There are illnesses from which one recovers properly and thoroughly only by letting them take their natural course, after which they disappear on their own, leaving no trace. But if one demands to be healthy immediately and now, just now; then here too time must make an advance: the illness is driven away, but the interest is weakness and chronic ailments, lifelong. – If one needs money in times of war or unrest, and immediately, right now; then one is forced to sell real estate or government bonds for ¹/₃ and even less of their value, which one would receive in full if one were to let time take its course, i.e., wait a few years; but one forces it to make an advance. – Or one needs a sum for a long journey: within one or two years one could have saved it from one's income. But one does not want to wait, so it is borrowed or temporarily taken from capital, i.e., time must advance it. Its interest then is ingrained disorder in the cash box, a permanent and growing deficit that one never gets rid of. – This, then, is the usury of time: its victims are all those who cannot wait. To want to accelerate the measured flow of time is the most costly undertaking. So beware of becoming indebted to time for interest.

50. A characteristic difference, very often evident in common life, between ordinary and clever minds is that the former, in their deliberation and estimation of possible dangers, always ask and consider only what has already happened; while the latter, on the other hand, consider what could possibly happen; bearing in mind that, as a Spanish proverb says, lo que no acaece en un año, acaece en un rato (what doesn't happen in a year, happens in a moment). The difference in question is, of course, natural: for to survey what can happen requires understanding; what has happened, merely senses.

Our maxim, however, should be: sacrifice to the evil demons! That is, one should not shy away from a certain expenditure of effort, time, inconvenience, circumlocution, money, or deprivation to close the door on the possibility of misfortune: and the greater the misfortune would be, the smaller, more distant, or more improbable that expenditure may be. The clearest example of this rule is the insurance premium. It is a sacrifice publicly and universally brought to the altar of the evil demons.

51. No incident should evoke great jubilation or great lamentation; partly due to the mutability of all things, which can transform it at any moment; partly due to the deceptiveness of our judgment regarding what is beneficial or detrimental to us; as a result, almost everyone has at some point lamented over what later proved to be their greatest good, or rejoiced over what became the source of their greatest suffering. The sentiment recommended here, on the other hand, has been beautifully expressed by Shakespeare:

He who remains composed in all misfortunes, however, shows that he knows how colossal and manifold the possible evils of life are; which is why he regards the evil that has now occurred as a very small part of what could come: this is the Stoic attitude, in accordance with which one should never be conditionis humanae oblitus, but always bear in mind what a sad and miserable lot human existence is in general, and how innumerable are the evils to which it is exposed. To refresh this insight, one only needs to cast a glance around oneself everywhere: wherever one is, one will soon have before one's eyes this struggle and writhing and torment for a wretched, barren, unproductive existence. One will then lower one's demands, learn to resign oneself to the imperfection of all things and conditions, and always anticipate misfortunes, in order to avoid them or endure them. For misfortunes, great and small, are the true element of our life: this one should therefore always bear in mind; not, however, as a δυσκολος, with Beresford, lamenting and pulling faces over the hourly miseries of human life, much less in pulicis morsu Deum invocare; but, as a ευλαβης, to carry caution in anticipating and preventing misfortunes, whether they originate from people or from things, so far and to refine it so much that, like a clever fox, one neatly avoids every great or small mishap (which is mostly just a disguised clumsiness).

The reason why a misfortune is less burdensome when we have considered it possible beforehand, and, as they say, prepared ourselves for it, may be chiefly because, when we calmly contemplate the event as a mere possibility before it occurs, we clearly survey the extent of the misfortune from all sides and thus recognize it as at least finite and comprehensible; consequently, when it actually strikes, it can only exert its true weight. If, on the other hand, we have not done so, but are caught unprepared, the startled mind cannot accurately gauge the magnitude of the misfortune in the first moment: it is now unfathomable to it, and therefore easily appears immeasurable, or at least much greater than it actually is. In the same way, darkness and uncertainty make every danger appear greater. Of course, it also adds that we have simultaneously considered the grounds for consolation and remedies for the anticipated misfortune, or at least accustomed ourselves to the idea of it.

Nothing, however, will better enable us to bear the misfortunes that befall us with equanimity than the conviction of the truth, which I have deduced and established from its ultimate grounds in my prize essay on the freedom of the will, namely, as it states there, p. 62 (2nd ed. p. 60): “Everything that happens, from the greatest to the smallest, happens necessarily.” For man soon comes to terms with the unavoidable necessity, and this knowledge makes him regard everything, even that brought about by the most alien coincidences, as just as necessary as that which follows according to the best-known rules and with complete foresight. I refer here to what I have said (World as W. and V. Vol. 1, pp. 345 and 46 [3rd ed. 361]) about the calming effect of the knowledge of the unavoidable and necessary. Whoever is permeated by this will first do what he can, and then willingly suffer what he must.

The small mishaps that vex us hourly can be viewed as designed to keep us in practice, lest the strength to endure the great ones completely slacken in good fortune. Against daily annoyances, petty frictions in human interaction, insignificant affronts, improprieties of others, gossip, and the like, one must be a horned Siegfried, meaning not to feel them at all, much less take them to heart and brood over them; but rather to let none of it affect oneself, to cast it off like pebbles lying in the path, and by no means to take it into the inner workings of one's deliberation and rumination.

52. What people commonly call fate are mostly just their own foolish blunders. One cannot, therefore, sufficiently heed the beautiful passage in Homer (JL. XXIII, 313 sqq.) where he recommends μητις, i.e., prudent deliberation. For even if the worst blunders are only atoned for in the next world, the foolish ones are atoned for in this one; – although now and then mercy may prevail over justice.

It is not the one who looks grimly, but the one who looks shrewdly, who appears formidable and dangerous – as certain as a human brain is a more terrible weapon than the claw of a lion. –

The most perfect man of the world would be he who never hesitated in indecision and never rushed into haste.

53. Next to prudence, courage is a very essential quality for our happiness. Of course, one can neither give oneself one nor the other; rather, one inherits the former from the mother and the latter from the father. However, what is already present can be enhanced through intention and practice. For this world, where "the dice fall like iron," an iron will is needed, armored against fate and armed against people. For all of life is a struggle, every step is contested, and Voltaire rightly says: on ne réussit dans ce monde, qu'à la pointe de l'épée, et on meurt les armes à la main. Therefore, it is a cowardly soul that shrinks, wants to despair, and laments as soon as clouds gather or even just appear on the horizon. Rather, let our motto be:

As long as the outcome of a dangerous situation is merely uncertain, as long as there is still a possibility that it will be a fortunate one, no hesitation should be considered, but only resistance; just as one should not despair of the weather as long as there is still a patch of blue in the sky. Indeed, bring it to the point of saying:

Life itself, let alone its blessings, is not worth such a cowardly tremor and shrinking of the heart:

And yet, here too, excess is possible: for courage can degenerate into recklessness. Indeed, a certain degree of timidity is necessary for our existence in the world; cowardice is merely exceeding that measure. Bacon of Verulam expressed this very aptly in his etymological explanation of terror Panicus, which far surpasses the older one preserved for us by Plutarch (de Iside et Osir. c. 14). He derives it from Pan, as personified nature, and says: Natura enim rerum omnibus viventibus indidit metum, ac formidinem, vitae atque essentiae suae conservatricem, ac mala ingruentia vitantem et depellentem. Verumtamen eadem natura modum tenere nescia est: sed timoribus salutaribus semper vanos et inanes admiscet; adeo ut omnia (si intus conspici darentur) Panicis terroribus plenissima sint, praesertim humana. (De sapientia veterum VI.) Moreover, the characteristic of panic terror is that it is not clearly conscious of its reasons, but rather presupposes them more than it knows them, indeed, if necessary, even directly asserts fear itself as the reason for fear.

Chapter VI.
On the Differences of the Ages of Life.

Voltaire beautifully said:

Therefore, it will be appropriate, at the conclusion of these eudaimonological reflections, to cast a glance at the changes that the ages of life bring about in us.

Throughout our entire life, we only ever possess the present, and never more. What distinguishes it is merely that at the beginning we see a long future before us, but towards the end a long past behind us; furthermore, that our temperament, though not our character, undergoes some known changes, which each time create a different coloring of the present. –

In my main work, Vol. 2, Chap. 31, pp. 394 ff. (3rd ed. 499 ff.), I have explained that and why we behave much more cognitively than volitionally in childhood. This is precisely the basis of that happiness of the first quarter of our life, in consequence of which it afterwards lies behind us like a lost paradise. In childhood, we have few relationships and few needs, hence little stimulation of the will: the greater part of our being is therefore absorbed in cognition. – The intellect, like the brain, which already reaches its full size by the seventh year, is developed early, though not mature, and ceaselessly seeks nourishment in an entire world of still new existence, where everything, everything is varnished with the charm of novelty. From this it arises that our childhood years are a continuous poem. Namely, the essence of poetry, like all art, consists in grasping the Platonic Idea, i.e., the essential and therefore the commonality of the whole species, in every individual; whereby each thing appears as a representative of its kind and one instance stands for a thousand. Although it now seems that in the scenes of our childhood we are always occupied only with the individual object or process of the moment, and only insofar as it interests our momentary will; yet, fundamentally, it is otherwise. Namely, life, in its whole significance, stands before us still so new, fresh, and without dulling of its impressions by repetition, that, amidst our childish activities, we are always silently and without clear intention occupied with grasping the essence of life itself, the archetypes of its forms and representations, from the individual scenes and processes. We see, as Spinoza expresses it, all things and persons sub specie aeternitatis. The younger we are, the more each individual represents its entire kind. This diminishes more and more, from year to year: and on this rests the great difference in the impression things make on us in youth and old age. Therefore, the experiences and acquaintances of childhood and early youth afterwards become the standing types and rubrics of all later knowledge and experience, as it were, their categories, under which we subsume everything later, even if not always with clear consciousness. Thus, already in childhood, the firm foundation of our worldview is formed, and with it its superficiality or depth: it is later elaborated and perfected; but not essentially changed. So, in consequence of this purely objective and thereby poetic view, which is essential to childhood and supported by the fact that the will does not yet appear with its full energy, we behave, as children, far more purely cognitively than volitionally. Hence the serious, contemplative gaze of some children, which Raphael so happily used for his angels, especially those of the Sistine Madonna. For this very reason, the childhood years are so blessed that the memory of them is always accompanied by longing. – While we are now, with such seriousness, engaged in the first intuitive understanding of things, education, on the other hand, endeavors to teach us concepts. But concepts do not provide what is truly essential: rather, this, i.e., the fund and genuine content of all our knowledge, lies in the intuitive apprehension of the world. But this can only be gained by ourselves, not in any way taught to us. Hence, just as our moral worth, so also our intellectual worth does not come into us from outside, but arises from the depths of our own being, and no Pestalozzian educational arts can turn a born dunce into a thinking person: never! he is born a dunce and must die a dunce. – From the described, deeply intimate apprehension of the first intuitive outer world, it is also explained why the surroundings and experiences of our childhood are so firmly imprinted on memory. We were, namely, undivided in our devotion to them, nothing distracted us, and we regarded the things that stood before us as if they were the only ones of their kind, indeed, as if they were the only ones existing at all. Later, the then known multitude of objects takes away our courage and patience. – If one now wishes to recall what I demonstrated on pp. 372 ff. (3rd ed. 423 ff.) of the above-mentioned volume of my main work, namely, that the objective existence of all things, i.e., their existence in mere representation, is thoroughly delightful, whereas their subjective existence, which consists in willing, is strongly mingled with pain and sorrow; then one will readily accept the statement as a concise expression of the matter: all things are glorious to see, but terrible to be. According to the above, in childhood, things are known to us much more from the side of seeing, i.e., of representation, of objectivity, than from the side of being, which is that of the will. Since the former is the delightful side of things, and the subjective and terrible side remains unknown to us; the young intellect considers all those figures which reality and art present to it as so many blissful beings: it thinks that as beautiful as they are to see, they would be even much more beautiful to be. Accordingly, the world lies before it like an Eden: this is the Arcadia in which we are all born. From this arises somewhat later the thirst for real life, the urge for deeds and sufferings, which drives us into the turmoil of the world. In this, we then learn the other side of things, that of being, i.e., of willing, which is thwarted at every step. Then gradually comes the great disappointment, after whose onset it is said l'âge des illusions est passé: and yet it still continues, becoming ever more complete. Consequently, one can say that in childhood, life presents itself to us like a theatrical backdrop seen from afar; in old age, like the same seen at closest proximity.

Finally, the following contributes to the happiness of childhood. Just as in early spring all the leaves have the same color and almost the same shape, so too are we all similar in early childhood, and therefore harmonize excellently. But with puberty, divergence begins and, like the radii of a compass, grows ever larger.

What now clouds, indeed makes unhappy, the rest of the first half of life, which has so many advantages over the second, that is, youth, is the pursuit of happiness, under the firm assumption that it must be found in life. From this springs perpetually disappointed hope, and from this, dissatisfaction. Dazzling images of a dreamed, undefined happiness float before us in capriciously chosen forms, and we search in vain for their archetype. Therefore, in our youthful years, we are mostly dissatisfied with our situation and environment, whatever it may be; because we attribute to it what is inherent in the emptiness and wretchedness of human life everywhere, and with which we are now making our first acquaintance, after having expected entirely different things. – Much would be gained if, through timely instruction, the delusion that there is much to be gained in the world could be eradicated in young people. But the opposite happens because life usually becomes known to us through poetry earlier than through reality. The scenes depicted by the former gleam in the dawn of our own youth before our eyes, and now the longing to see them realized torments us – to grasp the rainbow. The young person expects their life to unfold in the form of an interesting novel. Thus arises the delusion which I have already described on page 347 (3rd ed. 428) of the aforementioned second volume. For what gives all those images their charm is precisely this, that they are mere images and not real, and therefore, in contemplating them, we find ourselves in the tranquility and self-sufficiency of pure knowing. To be realized means to be filled with willing, which willing brings unavoidable pains. The sympathetic reader is also referred to the passage on page 427 (3rd ed. 488) of the aforementioned volume.

If, therefore, the character of the first half of life is unsatisfied longing for happiness, that of the second is apprehension of unhappiness. For with it, more or less clearly, the realization has dawned that all happiness is chimerical, whereas suffering is real. Therefore, at least by the more reasonable characters, mere painlessness and an unmolested state are now sought rather than pleasure. – When, in my youth, the doorbell rang, I was pleased, for I thought, now it's coming. But in later years, my feeling, on the same occasion, had much more something akin to terror: I thought: “Here it comes.” – With regard to the human world, for distinguished and gifted individuals who, precisely as such, do not quite properly belong to it and therefore, more or less, depending on the degree of their merits, stand alone, there are also two opposing feelings: in youth, one often has the feeling of being abandoned by it; in later years, however, the feeling of having escaped it. The former, an unpleasant one, is based on unfamiliarity; the second, a pleasant one, on familiarity with it. – As a result, the second half of life, like the second half of a musical period, contains less striving but more tranquility than the first, which is generally based on the fact that in youth one thinks that there is wonderful happiness and pleasure to be found in the world, only difficult to attain; whereas in old age one knows that there is nothing to be gained, and thus, perfectly at peace with it, enjoys a tolerable present, and even takes pleasure in trifles. –

What the mature man has gained through the experience of his life, and by which he sees the world differently than the youth and boy, is first and foremost impartiality. He alone sees things simply and takes them for what they are; while for the boy and youth, a delusion, composed of self-created whims, inherited prejudices, and strange fantasies, covered or distorted the true world. For the first thing experience finds to do is to free us from the chimeras and false notions that have settled in youth. To protect the youthful age from these would indeed be the best education, though only a negative one; but it is very difficult. For this purpose, one would have to keep the child's horizon as narrow as possible, but within it, teach him only clear and correct concepts, and only after he had correctly understood everything contained therein, gradually expand it, always ensuring that nothing obscure, nothing half or wrongly understood, remained. As a result, his concepts of things and human relations, still limited and very simple, would be clear and correct, so that they would always only need expansion, not correction; and so on into adolescence. This method requires, in particular, that one not allow the reading of novels, but replace them with appropriate biographies, such as Franklin's, Anton Reiser by Moritz, and the like. –

When we are young, we imagine that the important and momentous events and people in our lives will appear with drums and trumpets: in old age, however, retrospective reflection shows that they all slipped in quite silently through the back door, and almost unnoticed.

Furthermore, in the respect considered thus far, life can be compared to an embroidered fabric, of which everyone in the first half of their time would see the right side, but in the second half the reverse side: the latter is not as beautiful, but more instructive; because it allows the connection of the threads to be recognized . –

Intellectual superiority, even the greatest, will only assert its decided dominance in conversation after the age of forty. For the maturity of years and the fruit of experience can indeed be surpassed many times over by the former, but never replaced: but it also gives the most ordinary person a certain counterweight against the forces of the greatest mind, as long as the latter is young. I mean here merely the personal, not the works. –

Every person of any excellence, everyone who does not belong to the ⁵/₆ of humanity so sadly endowed by nature, will, after the age of forty, hardly remain free from a certain touch of misanthropy. For he had, as is natural, inferred from himself to others and has gradually been disappointed, has come to see that they lag behind him either on the side of the head or the heart, mostly even both, and do not become even with him; which is why he gladly avoids getting involved with them; as indeed everyone will love or hate solitude, i.e., their own company, according to the measure of their inner worth. Kant also discusses this kind of misanthropy in the Critique of Judgment, towards the end of the general remark to § 29 of the first part.

It is a bad sign in a young person, both intellectually and morally, if they know how to find their way early on in the hustle and bustle of human affairs, immediately feeling at home and, as if prepared, entering into it: it betrays vulgarity. Conversely, in this regard, a bewildered, perplexed, awkward, and inept demeanor indicates a nature of a nobler kind.

The cheerfulness and zest for life of our youth are partly due to the fact that, walking uphill, we do not see death; because it lies at the foot of the other side of the mountain. However, once we have crossed the summit, we truly behold death, which until then we only knew by hearsay, and as life force simultaneously begins to ebb, our zest for life also wanes; so that a somber seriousness now displaces youthful exuberance and imprints itself upon our faces. As long as we are young, no matter what we are told, we consider life endless and treat time accordingly. The older we get, the more we economize our time. For in later age, each day lived evokes a sensation akin to that felt by a delinquent led to the gallows with every step.

From the perspective of youth, life is an infinitely long future; from the perspective of old age, a very short past; so that at first it appears to us like things do when we put the objective lens of an opera glass to our eye, but finally like when we use the eyepiece. One must have grown old, that is, lived a long time, to realize how short life is. – The older one gets, the smaller all human things appear: life, which in youth stood before us as firm and stable, now reveals itself as the rapid flight of ephemeral phenomena: the futility of the whole becomes apparent. – Time itself moves at a much slower pace in our youth; hence the first quarter of our life is not only the happiest, but also the longest, so that it leaves behind many more memories, and everyone, if it came to it, would know more to tell from it than from two of the following quarters. Even, as in the spring of the year, so too in the spring of life, the days eventually become annoyingly long. In the autumn of both, they become short, but more serene and constant.

Why is it, then, that in old age, the life behind us appears so short? Because we consider it as short as our memory of it. From this memory, all the insignificant and much of the unpleasant has fallen away, leaving little behind. For, just as our intellect is generally very imperfect, so too is our memory: what has been learned must be practiced, and what has passed must be ruminated upon, lest both gradually sink into the abyss of forgetfulness. However, we usually do not ruminate on the insignificant, and mostly not on the unpleasant, which would be necessary to preserve it in memory. But the insignificant continually increases: for through frequent and finally countless repetitions, much that initially seemed significant to us gradually becomes insignificant; hence we remember earlier years better than later ones. The longer we live, the fewer events seem important or significant enough to be ruminated on afterwards, which is the only way they could be fixed in memory: so they are forgotten as soon as they are over. Thus, time passes ever more tracelessly. – Furthermore, we do not like to ruminate on the unpleasant, least of all when it wounds our vanity, which is often the case; because few sufferings have befallen us entirely without our fault. Therefore, much unpleasantness is also forgotten. Both these omissions are what make our memory so short, and comparatively shorter the longer its material becomes. Just as objects on the shore, from which one sails away, become smaller, less recognizable, and harder to distinguish; so do our past years, with their experiences and actions. Added to this is the fact that sometimes memory and imagination can make a long-past scene of our life as vivid as yesterday; whereby it then approaches us very closely; this arises because it is impossible to represent to ourselves the long time that has elapsed between now and then, as it cannot be surveyed in a single image, and moreover, most of the events within it are forgotten, and only a general knowledge in abstracto of it remains, a mere concept, not an intuition. Therefore, what is long past appears to us in detail as close as if it were only yesterday, but the intervening time disappears, and the whole life presents itself as incomprehensibly short. Sometimes, in old age, the long past we have behind us, and thus our own age, can even seem almost fabulous to us in an instant; which mainly arises from the fact that we still see the same, standing present before us. Such internal processes ultimately rest on the fact that not our being in itself, but only its appearance lies in time, and that the present is the point of contact between object and subject. – And why, again, does life, which is still before us, appear so immeasurably long in youth? Because one must have space for the boundless hopes with which one populates it, and for the realization of which Methuselah would die too young; then, because one takes as the measure of it the few years one has already lived, and the memory of which is always rich in material, consequently long, since novelty made everything seem significant, which is why it was ruminated on afterwards, thus often repeated in memory and thereby imprinted upon it.

Sometimes we believe we long for a distant place, when in reality we only long for the time we spent there, when we were younger and more vibrant. Thus, time deceives us under the mask of space. If we travel there, we become aware of the deception. –

To reach a ripe old age, assuming a flawless constitution, there are, as a conditio sine qua non, two paths, which can be explained by the burning of two lamps: one burns long because, with little oil, it has a very thin wick; the other, because, with a strong wick, it also has much oil: the oil is the life force, the wick is the consumption of it in every way.

Regarding vitality, up to the age of 36, we are comparable to those who live off their interest: what is spent today is replenished tomorrow. But from that point on, our analogue is the annuitant who begins to draw on their capital. Initially, this is barely noticeable: most of the expenditure still replenishes itself; a small deficit is overlooked. However, this gradually grows, becomes noticeable, and its increase itself accelerates daily: it encroaches more and more, each today is poorer than yesterday, with no hope of cessation. Thus, like the fall of bodies, the decline accelerates ever more – until at last nothing remains. It is a truly sad case when both those compared here, vitality and property, are actually melting away together: hence, the love of possession grows with age. – Conversely, at first, up to adulthood and a little beyond, we resemble, in terms of vitality, those who add something to their capital from their interest: not only is what is spent replenished automatically, but the capital grows. And again, this is sometimes also the case with money, through the care of an honest guardian. Oh, happy youth! Oh, sad old age! – Nevertheless, one should conserve youthful strength. Aristotle notes (Polit. L. ult. c. 5) that of the Olympic victors, only two or three won once as boys and then again as men; because the early exertion required by training exhausts the powers so much that they are lacking later, in manhood. As this applies to muscular strength, it applies even more to nervous energy, whose expression is all intellectual achievements: hence, ingenia praecocia, child prodigies, the products of hothouse education, who amaze as boys, later become very ordinary minds. Even the early, forced exertion to learn ancient languages may be to blame for the subsequent lameness and lack of judgment of so many learned minds. –

I have observed that the character of almost every person seems to be particularly suited to a certain age; so that they appear to their best advantage in that period. Some are charming youths, and then it's over; others are strong, active men, from whom age robs all value; some present themselves most advantageously in old age, as they are milder then, being more experienced and composed: this is often the case with French people. The matter must rest on the fact that the character itself has something youthful, masculine, or elderly about it, with which the respective age corresponds, or acts as a corrective.

Just as one, being on a ship, only notices one's progress by the receding and consequently shrinking of objects on the shore; so one realizes one's aging and growing older by the fact that people of ever higher years seem young to one.

It has already been discussed how and why everything one sees, does, and experiences leaves fewer and fewer traces in the mind as one gets older. In this sense, one could claim that one only lived with full consciousness in youth; in old age, only with half. The older one gets, the less conscious one lives: things rush by without making an impression; like a work of art one has seen a thousand times makes none: one does what one has to do, and afterwards does not know if one has done it. As life thus becomes more and more unconscious the more it hastens towards complete unconsciousness, the passage of time also becomes ever swifter. In childhood, the novelty of all objects and events brings everything to consciousness: hence, the day is immeasurably long. The same happens to us when traveling, which is why one month seems longer than four at home. However, this novelty of things does not prevent the time, in both cases, from seeming longer and often truly "long" to us in both, more than in old age, or more than at home. Gradually, however, through long habituation to the same perceptions, the intellect becomes so dulled that more and more everything glides over it without effect; whereby the days become more and more insignificant and thus shorter: the hours of a boy are longer than the days of an old man. Accordingly, the time of our life has an accelerated motion, like that of a rolling ball; and just as on a rotating disc every point moves faster the further it is from the center; so for everyone, according to their distance from the beginning of life, time flows faster and faster. One can therefore assume that, in the immediate estimation of our mind, the length of a year stands in inverse proportion to the quotient of it to our age: if, for example, the year is ¹/₅ of our age, it appears ten times as long to us as if it only makes up ¹/₅₀ of it. This difference in the speed of time has the most decisive influence on the whole nature of our existence at every age. Firstly, it causes childhood, even if only encompassing about 15 years, to be the longest period of life, and therefore the richest in memories; secondly, that we are universally subject to boredom in inverse proportion to our age: children constantly need amusement, be it play or work; if it stops, dreadful boredom immediately seizes them. Young people are also still very subject to it and look with apprehension at unfilled hours. In mature age, boredom disappears more and more: for the elderly, time is always too short and the days fly by like arrows. It goes without saying that I am speaking of human beings, not of old cattle. Through this acceleration of the passage of time, boredom usually disappears in later years, and since, on the other hand, the passions, with their torment, also fall silent; then, if health has been preserved, on the whole, the burden of life is actually less than in youth: hence the period preceding the onset of weakness and the infirmities of old age is called "the best years". In terms of our well-being, they may indeed be so: however, the years of youth, when everything makes an impression and everything enters consciousness vividly, retain the advantage of being the fertilizing time for the spirit, its blossoming spring. For deep truths can only be intuited, not calculated, i.e., their first recognition is immediate and is brought about by the momentary impression: it can consequently only occur as long as this is strong, vivid, and deep. Accordingly, in this respect, everything depends on the utilization of the years of youth. In later years we can influence others more, indeed, the world: because we ourselves are complete and finished and no longer belong to the impression: but the world influences us less. These years are therefore the time of doing and achieving; but those are the time of original apprehension and recognition.

In youth, perception prevails; in old age, thought: hence the former is the time for poetry, the latter more for philosophy. Practically, too, in youth one is determined by what is perceived and its impression, in old age only by thought. This is partly due to the fact that only in old age have a sufficient number of empirical cases been present and subsumed under concepts to give these full meaning, substance, and credit, and at the same time to moderate the impression of perception through habit. In contrast, in youth, especially for lively and imaginative minds, the impression of the perceptible, and thus also the outward appearance of things, is so overwhelming that they regard the world as a picture; therefore, their main concern is how they figure and appear in it – more than how they feel inwardly about it. This is already evident in the personal vanity and love of adornment of young men.

The greatest energy and highest tension of mental powers undoubtedly occur in youth, at the latest until the 35th year; from then on, though very slowly, they diminish. However, later years, even old age, are not without mental compensation for this. Experience and erudition only now truly become rich: one has had time and opportunity to consider and reflect on things from all sides, has held each in relation to the others and discovered their points of contact and connecting links; through which one now first truly understands them in context. Everything has become clear. Therefore, even what one knew in youth, one knows much more thoroughly now, as one has many more proofs for each concept. What one believed to know in youth, one truly knows in old age; moreover, one truly knows much more and has a thoroughly considered and thereby truly coherent understanding in all directions; whereas in youth our knowledge is always incomplete and fragmentary. Only he who grows old gains a complete and adequate conception of life, by surveying it in its entirety and its natural course, especially not just, like others, from the beginning, but also from the end, whereby he then particularly recognizes its emptiness completely; while others are still caught in the delusion that the right thing is yet to come. In contrast, there is more conception in youth; hence one is then able to make more out of the little one knows: but in old age there is more judgment, penetration, and thoroughness. The material of his own insights, his original fundamental views, that is, what a privileged mind is destined to bestow upon the world, he gathers already in youth: but he only becomes master of his material in later years. Accordingly, one will mostly find that great writers delivered their masterpieces around their fiftieth year. Nevertheless, youth remains the root of the tree of knowledge; although only the crown bears the fruits. But just as every age, even the most miserable, considers itself much wiser than the one immediately preceding it, along with earlier ones; so too does every age of human life: yet both are often mistaken. In the years of physical growth, where we also daily increase in mental powers and knowledge, today becomes accustomed to looking down on yesterday with disdain. This habit takes root and remains even when the decline of mental powers has set in and today should rather look upon yesterday with reverence; hence we then often underestimate both the achievements and the judgments of our younger years.

It is worth noting here that while a person's character or heart, like their intellect or mind, is innate in its fundamental qualities, the latter is by no means as unchangeable as the former. Instead, it undergoes many transformations that occur regularly as a whole, partly because it has a physical basis and partly because it has empirical material. For example, its own power gradually grows to its peak and then gradually declines to imbecility. On the other hand, the material that occupies and keeps all these powers active—that is, the content of thought and knowledge, experience, understanding, practice, and thereby the perfection of insight—is a constantly growing quantity until the onset of decided weakness, which causes everything to fall away. This constitution of man, consisting of something absolutely unchangeable and something regularly changeable in two opposite ways, explains the diversity of his appearance and validity at different ages of life.

In a broader sense, one could also say: the first forty years of our lives provide the text, the following thirty the commentary on it, which truly teaches us to understand the text's true meaning and context, along with its moral and all its subtleties.

Towards the end of life, it's like the end of a masquerade ball, when the masks are removed. You now see who the people you encountered during your life's journey truly were. For characters have revealed themselves, deeds have borne their fruits, achievements have received their just recognition, and all illusions have crumbled. All of this required time. – The strangest thing, however, is that one only truly recognizes and understands oneself, one's own goals and purposes, towards the end of life, especially in relation to the world and to others. Often, though not always, one will have to assign oneself a lower position than previously imagined; but sometimes also a higher one, which then stems from not having had a sufficient understanding of the world's lowliness and consequently setting one's goals higher than it. One incidentally learns what one is. –

It is customary to call youth the happiest time of life, and old age the saddest. This would be true if passions brought happiness. Youth is tossed to and fro by them, with little joy and much pain. They leave cool old age in peace, and it soon takes on a contemplative air: for knowledge becomes free and gains the upper hand. Since knowledge itself is painless, consciousness becomes happier the more it prevails. One only needs to consider that all pleasure is negative, pain positive, to understand that passions cannot bring happiness, and that old age, therefore, is not to be lamented for being denied certain pleasures. For every pleasure is merely the satisfaction of a need: that this, along with the need, should cease, is no more regrettable than that one cannot eat after dinner or must stay awake after a full night's sleep. Plato (at the beginning of the Republic) much more correctly esteems old age as happy, insofar as it is finally rid of the sexual urge that incessantly troubled us until then. One could even claim that the manifold and endless whims generated by the sexual urge, and the affects arising from them, maintain a constant, mild madness in man as long as he is under the influence of that urge or that devil, by which he is constantly possessed; so that he only becomes entirely rational after its extinction. It is certainly true, however, that, in general and apart from all individual circumstances and conditions, youth is characterized by a certain melancholy and sadness, and old age by a certain serenity: and the reason for this is none other than that youth is still under the dominion, indeed the servitude, of that demon who hardly grants it a free hour and is at the same time the direct or indirect cause of almost all and every misfortune that befalls or threatens man: old age, however, has the serenity of one who is freed from a long-worn chain and now moves freely. – On the other hand, however, it could be said that after the sexual urge has been extinguished, the actual core of life is consumed and only its shell remains; indeed, that it resembles a comedy begun by humans, and then played to the end by automatons in their clothes.

Be that as it may, youth is the time of unrest; old age that of tranquility: from this alone one could deduce their mutual well-being. The child eagerly stretches out its hands, into the distance, towards everything it sees before it, so colorful and multifaceted: for it is stimulated by it; because its sensory system is still so fresh and young. The same occurs, with greater energy, in the young man. He too is stimulated by the colorful world and its manifold forms: immediately his imagination makes more of it than the world can ever bestow. Hence he is full of desire and longing for the indeterminate: these take away his peace, without which there is no happiness. In old age, however, all this has subsided; partly because the blood has cooled and the excitability of the sensory system has diminished; partly because experience has enlightened him about the value of things and the content of pleasures, whereby one has gradually gotten rid of the illusions, chimeras, and prejudices that formerly obscured and distorted the free and pure view of things; so that one now recognizes everything more correctly and clearly and takes it for what it is, and, more or less, has come to insight into the vanity of all earthly things. This is precisely what gives almost every old person, even one of very ordinary abilities, a certain touch of wisdom that distinguishes him from the young. But mainly, through all this, peace of mind has been brought about: this, however, is a large component of happiness, in fact even its condition and essence. While, therefore, the young man believes that there is something wonderful to be gained in the world, if only he could find out where; the old man is permeated by the Kohelethic "it is all vanity" and knows that all nuts are hollow, however gilded they may be.

It is only in later life that man truly attains the Horatian nil admirari, that is, the immediate, sincere, and firm conviction of the vanity of all things and the hollowness of all worldly glories: the chimeras have vanished. He no longer imagines that somewhere, be it in a palace or a hut, a special happiness resides, a greater one than he essentially enjoys everywhere, provided he is free from physical or mental pain. The great and the small, the noble and the humble, by worldly standards, are no longer distinguished for him. This gives the elderly a particular serenity of mind, in which they smile down upon the world's deceptions. They are completely disillusioned and know that human life, no matter how one tries to adorn and embellish it, soon reveals its poverty through all such fairground tinsel, and, no matter how one colors and decorates it, it is essentially the same everywhere—an existence whose true value is to be assessed only by the absence of pain, not by the presence of pleasures, much less of pomp. (Hor. epist. L. I, 12, v. 1-4.) The fundamental characteristic of old age is disillusionment: the illusions that until then lent life its charm and activity its spur have vanished; one has recognized the futility and emptiness of all worldly glories, especially pomp, splendor, and the semblance of grandeur; one has learned that there is very little behind most desired things and longed-for pleasures, and thus one has gradually arrived at the insight into the great poverty and emptiness of our entire existence. Only at seventy does one fully understand the first verse of Koheleth. But this is also what gives old age a certain somber tinge . –

It is commonly thought that old age is a period of sickness and boredom. The former is not at all essential to old age, especially not if one is to live to a great age, for crescente vita, crescit sanitas et morbus (as life grows, so grow health and sickness). And as for boredom, I have shown above why old age is even less susceptible to it than youth; nor is it a necessary companion of solitude, which, for easily foreseeable reasons, old age certainly leads us towards. Rather, it is only for those who have known no other pleasures than sensual and social ones, and who have left their minds uncultivated and their faculties undeveloped. It is true that, in advanced age, mental faculties also decline; but where there was much, there will always be enough left to combat boredom. Furthermore, as shown above, through experience, knowledge, practice, and reflection, proper insight continues to grow, judgment sharpens, and connections become clear; one gains more and more a comprehensive overview of the whole in all things. Thus, through ever new combinations of accumulated knowledge and its occasional enrichment, one's own innermost self-cultivation in all respects continues to progress, occupying, satisfying, and rewarding the mind. All this compensates to some extent for the aforementioned decline. Moreover, as I said, time passes much more quickly in old age, which counteracts boredom. The decline of physical strength matters little if one does not need it for earning a living. Poverty in old age is a great misfortune. If this is banished and health remains, then old age can be a very tolerable part of life. Comfort and security are its main needs; therefore, in old age, one loves money even more than before, because it provides a substitute for lost strength. Released from Venus, one will gladly seek cheer with Bacchus. The need to see, to travel, and to learn has been replaced by the need to teach and to speak. It is a blessing, however, if the old person still retains a love for their studies, also for music, for the theater, and generally a certain receptiveness to external things; as this indeed continues in some people until the latest age. What one "has in oneself" never benefits one more than in old age. Most, of course, being always dull, become more and more like automatons in advanced age: they always think, say, and do the same thing, and no external impression can change it or evoke anything new from them. To speak to such old people is like writing in the sand: the impression fades almost immediately. Old age of this kind is indeed only the caput mortuum (dead head/residue) of life. – Nature seems to want to symbolize the onset of second childhood in old age by the third dentition that occurs in rare cases at that time.

The dwindling of all powers with increasing age, more and more, is certainly very sad, yet it is necessary, indeed beneficial, because otherwise death would become too difficult, to which it prepares. Hence, the greatest gain that reaching a very old age brings is euthanasia, the exceedingly easy dying, not initiated by any illness, not accompanied by any twitch, and not felt at all; a description of which can be found in the second volume of my main work, Chap. 41, p. 470 (3rd ed. 534). –

In the Upanishad of the Veda (Vol. II, p. 53), the natural lifespan is stated to be 100 years. I believe, rightly so; because I have observed that only those who have passed the 90th year partake in euthanasia, i.e., they die without any illness, without apoplexy, without twitching, without rattling, sometimes even without turning pale, mostly while sitting, and indeed after eating, or rather, they do not die at all, but merely cease to live. At any earlier age, one dies solely from illnesses, thus prematurely. –

Human life is actually neither long nor short to call; because it is fundamentally the measure by which we estimate all other lengths of time.

The fundamental difference between youth and old age always remains that the former has life in prospect, the latter death; that is, the former possesses a short past and a long future; the latter, conversely. Certainly, when one is old, one has only death before them; but when one is young, one has life before them; and the question is, which of the two is more precarious, and whether, on the whole, life is not something better to have behind you than before you; for Koheleth (7, 2) already says: “the day of death is better than the day of one’s birth.” To desire a very long life is, in any case, a presumptuous wish. For quien larga vida vive mucho mal vive says the Spanish proverb. –

While the individual's life course is not, as astrology would have it, predetermined by the planets, the life course of humanity in general is, in that each age corresponds to a planet in sequence, and thus one's life is successively governed by all planets. – In the tenth year of life, Mercury reigns. Like Mercury, a person moves quickly and lightly, within the narrowest circle: they are easily swayed by trifles, but they learn much and easily, under the dominion of the god of cunning and eloquence. – With the twentieth year, the reign of Venus begins: love and women completely possess them. In the thirtieth year of life, Mars rules: the person is now strong, vehement, bold, warlike, and defiant. – In the fortieth, the four Planetoids govern: their life thus broadens: they are frugi, i.e., devoted to the useful, by virtue of Ceres: they have their own hearth, by virtue of Vesta: they have learned what they need to know, by virtue of Pallas: and as Juno, the mistress of the house, their wife, rules. – In the fiftieth year, however, Jupiter reigns. The person has already outlived most, and feels superior to the current generation. Still in full enjoyment of their power, they are rich in experience and knowledge: they have (according to their individuality and situation) authority over all who surround them. They therefore no longer wish to be commanded, but to command themselves. As a guide and ruler, they are now most suitable in their sphere. Thus, Jupiter culminates, and with him, the fifty-year-old. – But then, in the sixtieth year, Saturn follows, and with him the heaviness, slowness, and tenacity of lead:

Finally comes Uranus: there, as they say, one goes to heaven. Neptune (unfortunately baptized by thoughtlessness) I cannot consider here; because I am not allowed to call him by his true name, which is Eros. Otherwise, I would show how the beginning is linked to the end, how Eros is secretly connected with death, by virtue of which Orcus or Amenthes of the Egyptians (according to Plutarch de Iside et Os. c. 29), the λαμβανων και διδους, thus not only the taker but also the giver, and death is the great réservoir of life. Therefore, from Orcus, everything comes, and there everything that now has life has already been: – if only we were capable of grasping the conjurer's trick by which this happens; then everything would be clear.

End.