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PARERGA AND PARALIPOMENA: SHORT PHILOSOPHICAL ESSAYS |
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[b]CHAPTER 6: On the Different Periods of Life[/b]
VOLTAIRE has made the very fine statement:
[quote]Qui n'a pas l'esprit de son age, De son age a tout le malheur. [1][/quote]
At the conclusion of these observations on eudemonology it will, therefore, be appropriate for us to cast a glance at the changes that are produced in us by the periods of life.
Throughout the whole of our lives we always possess only the present and never anything else. What distinguishes this is merely that, at the beginning, we see before us a long future, but that, towards the end, we see behind us a long past. Then there is the fact that our temperament, although not our character, undergoes certain well-known changes whereby the present always assumes a different hue.
In my chief work, volume ii, chapter 3I, I have shown why in childhood we behave much more like knowing than willing beings. This is the reason for that happiness of the first quarter of our life in consequence whereof that period subsequently lies behind us like a lost paradise. In childhood we have only few associations and limited needs and thus little stirring of the will. Accordingly, the greater part of our true nature is taken up with knowledge. The intellect, like the brain that attains its full size in the seventh year, is developed early, although it is not mature. It incessantly seeks nourishment in the entire world of an existence that is still fresh and new, where everything, absolutely everything, is varnished over with the charm of novelty. The result of this is that our years of childhood are a continuous poem. Thus the essential nature of the poem, as of all art, consists in comprehending in every particular thing the Platonic Idea, in other words, what is essential and therefore common to the whole species, whereby each thing appears as the representative of its class or family and one case holds good for a thousand. Now although it seems that in the scenes of our childhood we are always concerned only with the individual object or event for the time being and indeed only in so far as it interests our will for the moment, this is not really the case. Thus in all its significance, life is for us still so new and fresh without its impressions being deadened by repetition that, in the midst of our childish pursuits, we are always secretly concerned, without any clear purpose, to grasp in the particular scenes and events the essential nature of life itself, the fundamental types of its shapes and forms. We see all things and persons sub specie aeternitatis, [2] as Spinoza expresses it. The younger we are, the more every particular thing represents its whole class or family. This constantly decreases from year to year and accounts for the very great difference between the impression made on us by things when we are young and that made on us by them when we are old. And so the experiences and acquaintances of childhood and early youth afterwards become the regular standing types and rubrics of all later knowledge and experience, their categories as it were, to which we subsume everything that comes later, although we are not always clearly conscious of so doing.* Accordingly, the solid foundation of our view of the world and thus its depth or shallowness are formed in the years of childhood. Such a view is subsequently elaborated and perfected, yet essentially it is not altered. Therefore in consequence of this purely objective and hence poetical view which is essential to childhood and is sustained by the fact that the will is still far from appearing with all its energy, as children we behave far more like purely knowing than willing beings. Hence the serious contemplative look of many children which Raphael has used so happily for his angels, especially for those of the Sistine Madonna. For this very reason the years of childhood are so blissful that their memories are always accompanied by longing. Now while we are so earnestly engaged in the first comprehension of things through intuitive perception, education, on the other hand, aims at instilling into us concepts which, however, do not furnish us with what is really essential; on the contrary, this, namely the fund and substance of all our knowledge, lies in the comprehension of the world through intuitive perception. But this can be gained only from ourselves; it cannot be instilled into us in any way. Therefore our worth, both moral and intellectual, does not come to us from without, but proceeds from the very depths of our own nature; and no Pestalozzian pedagogics can turn a born simpleton into a thinker: never! As a simpleton is he born, and as a simpleton must he die. The deep comprehension, here described, of the first outside world of intuitive perception explains also why the surroundings and experiences of our childhood make so firm an impression on our memory. Thus we were completely absorbed in our surroundings and here nothing distracted us, and we regarded the things standing before us as if they were the only ones of their kind, indeed were the only ones that existed at all. Later we lose our courage and patience when we know how many objects there are. Now if we recall what I explained in chapter 30 of the above-mentioned volume of my chief work, namely that the objective existence of all things, that is, their existence in our mere representation or mental picture, is generally agreeable, whereas their subjective existence, that consists in willing, is steeped in pain and misery, we shall accept the following sentence as a brief expression of the matter: all things are delightful to see, but dreadful to be. Now in consequence of the foregoing remarks, things in our childhood are far better known to us from the side of seeing and thus of the representation, of objectivity, than from the side of being, which is that of the will. Now since the objective is the pleasant side of things, whereas the subjective and terrible side is still unknown to us, the young intellect regards all those forms that are presented to it by reality and art as just so many blissful beings. It imagines that they are so beautiful to see and are perhaps even more beautiful to be. Accordingly, the world lies before such an intellect like an Eden; and this is the Arcadia in which we are all born. Somewhat later, there results from this the thirst for real life, the urge to do and to suffer, which drives us into the hurly-burly of the world. We then come to know the other side of things, the side of being, i.e. of willing, which thwarts us at every step. There then comes on gradually the great disillusion and after it has made its appearance people say: l'age des illusions est passe; [3] and yet it continues to come on and becomes ever more complete. Accordingly, it can be said that in childhood life presents itself as a theatre decoration that is seen from a distance, whereas in old age it looks like the same decoration that is seen at very close quarters.
Finally, there is also the following circumstance that contributes to the happiness of childhood. Just as at the beginning of spring all leaves have the same colour and almost the same shape, so are we all in early childhood like one another and therefore admirably harmonize. But with puberty there begins a divergence that becomes ever greater like that of the radii of a circle.
Now what disturbs and renders unhappy the remainder of the first half of life, namely the age of youth that has so many advantages over the second half, is the hunt for happiness on the firm assumption that it must be met with in life. From this arise the constantly deluded hope and so also dissatisfaction. Deceptive images of a vague happiness of our dreams hover before us in capriciously selected shapes and we search in vain for their original. And so in the age of adolescence, we are often dissatisfied with our position and environment, whatever they may be, because we attribute to them what belongs to the emptiness and wretchedness of human life everywhere, with which we are now making our first acquaintance, after expecting something quite different. Much would have been gained if through timely advice and instruction young men could have had eradicated from their minds the erroneous notion that the world has a great deal to offer them. But the very opposite occurs through our becoming acquainted with life often through fiction rather than from fact. In the bright dawn of our youth the scenes depicted by the poetry of fiction are resplendent before our gaze and we are now tormented by the yearning desire to see them realized, to grasp the rainbow. The young man expects the course of his life to be in the form of an interesting novel; and so arises the disappointment, already described by me in the previously mentioned second volume, chapter 30. For what lends charm to all those images is just that they are merely imaginary and not real and we are thus in the peace and all-sufficiency of pure knowledge when we intuitively perceive them. To be realized means to be preoccupied with willing and this inevitably produces pain. The reader who is interested may also be referred to chapter 37 of the above-mentioned volume.
Accordingly, if the characteristic feature of the first half of life is an unsatisfied longing for happiness, that of the second is a dread of misfortune. For with it there has more or less clearly dawned on us the knowledge that all happiness is chimerical, whereas all suffering is real. Therefore we, or at any rate the more prudent among us, now aspire to mere painlessness and an undisturbed state rather than to pleasure. When in my young days there was a ring at the door, I was pleased, for I thought, 'now it might come'; but in later years on the same occasion my feelings were rather akin to dread and I thought 'here it comes'. For distinguished and gifted individuals who, precisely as such, do not really belong to the world of men and women and who, therefore, stand alone, more or less according to the degree of their merits, there are two opposite feelings as regards this world. In youth they frequently have the feeling of being abandoned by the world, whereas in later years there is the feeling of having run away from it. The first is unpleasant and is due to our not being acquainted with the world, whereas the second is pleasant and rests on our acquaintance with it. As a result of this, the second half of life, like the second half of a musical period, contains less push and ambition but more relief and restfulness than does the first. This is due generally to the fact that in youth we think there is to be had in the world a prodigious amount of happiness and pleasure which is merely difficult to attain, and that in old age, on the other hand, we know there is nothing to be got and so are perfectly at ease in the matter, enjoy a bearable present, and even delight in trifles.
What the mature man acquires through his life's experience, whereby he sees the world with eyes different from those of the boy or youth, is primarily frankness or freedom from prejudice. He then sees things quite simply and takes them for what they are; whereas for the boy and the youth the world of reality was disguised or distorted by an illusion that was made up of self-created whims and crotchets, inherited prejudices, and strange fancies. For the first thing that experience finds to do is to free us from dreams, visions, and false notions that have settled in us in our youth. To protect youth from these would certainly be the best, though only a negative, education; but it is very difficult. For this purpose, the child's horizon would at first have to be kept as narrow as possible and yet within such horizon none but clear and correct notions would have to be inculcated. Only after the child had correctly appreciated everything lying within that sphere could it be gradually enlarged, care always being taken that nothing obscure, or even half or wrongly understood, was left behind. In consequence of this, the child's notions of things and of human relations would still always be limited and very simple, but yet clear and correct, so that they would always need only extension, not correction; and thus right on into the age of adolescence. This method requires in particular that one is not permitted to read novels, but that these are replaced by suitable biographies, such as, for instance, that of Franklin, Anton Reisert by Moritz, and others.
When we are young, we imagine that the important persons and momentous events in our life will make their appearance with a flourish of trumpets and drums. Yet in old age we see, when we look back, that they all slipped in very quietly by the back-door and almost unnoticed.
Further, from the point of view so far considered, life can be compared to a piece of embroidered material of which everyone, in the first half of his time, comes to see the top side, but in the second half the reverse side. The latter is not so beautiful, but is more instructive because it enables one to see how the threads are connected together.
Intellectual superiority, even the greatest, will assert its decided ascendancy in conversation only after one is forty years of age. For maturity of years and the fruit of experience can in many ways be surpassed, yet never replaced, by mental superiority. But even to the most ordinary man they give a certain counterpoise to the powers of the greatest mind so long as this isstill young. Here I mean merely what is personal, not works.
After his fortieth year, any man of merit, anyone who is not just one of five-sixths of humanity so grievously and miserably endowed by nature, will hardly be free from a certain touch of misanthropy. For as is natural, he has inferred the characters of others from his own and has gradually become disappointed. He has seen that they are not on his level, but are far beneath him, either as regards the head or the heart, often even as regards both. He therefore willingly avoids having anything to do with them. For in general, everyone will love or hate solitude, his own company, to the extent that he is worth anything in himself. Even Kant discusses this kind of misanthropy in the Critique of Judgement, at the end of the general remark to § 29 of the first part.
In a young man it is from an intellectual and also a moral point of view a bad sign if, at an early age, he knows how to deal with people, is at once at home with them, and enters into their affairs prepared as it were; it betokens vulgarity. On the other hand, an attitude of astonishment, surprise, awkwardness, and waywardness in such circumstances points to a nature of a nobler sort.
The cheerfulness and buoyancy of our youth are due partly to the fact that we are climbing the hill of life and do not see death that lies at the foot of the other side. But when we have crossed the summit, we actually catch sight of death that was hitherto known only from hearsay; and, as at the same time our vital strength begins to ebb, this causes our spirits to droop. A doleful seriousness now supersedes the youthful exuberance of joy and is stamped even on the countenance. As long as we are young, people can say what they like to us; we regard life as endless and accordingly use our time lavishly. The older we grow, the more we economize in our time; for in later years every day lived through produces a sensation akin to that felt by the condemned criminal at every step on his way to the gallows.
Seen from the standpoint of youth, life is an endlessly long future; from that of old age it resembles a very brief past. Thus at the beginning life presents itself in the same way as do things when we look at them through opera glasses that are held the reverse way; but at the end, it resembles things that are seen when the opera glasses are held in the normal way. A man must have grown old and lived long in order to see how short life is. In our youth time itself has a much slower pace; and so the first quarter of our life is not only the happiest but also the longest, so that it leaves behind many more memories. If he were required to do so, everyone would be able to narrate more from that period than from two of the following. As in the spring of the year, so in that of life, the very days ultimately become of tiresome length; in the autumn of both they become short, but brighter and more uniform.
When life draws to a close, we do not know what has become of it. Now why in our old age do we discover that the life we have lived is so short? Because we regard it as being just as short as is our memory thereof. Thus everything unimportant and much that was unpleasant have been forgotten and therefore little is left. For just as our intellect is generally very imperfect, so too is our memory. We must practise what has been learnt from experience and should ruminate on the past if the two are not to sink gradually into the abyss of oblivion. Now we do not usually ruminate on what was unimportant and rarely on what was unpleasant; and yet this is necessary if their memory is to be preserved. What is unimportant is always being added to; for through frequent and finally endless repetition many different things that at first seemed to us important gradually become unimportant; and so we remember the earlier years better than we do the later. Now the longer we live, the fewer are the events that seem to us important or significant enough to be subsequently considered. But only in this way could they be fixed in the memory; and so they are forgotten as soon as they are past. Thus time always passes without a trace. Now we do not like ruminating on what is unpleasant, at least when it wounds our vanity as indeed is often the case, since few troubles have befallen us for which we are entirely blameless; therefore much that is unpleasant is also forgotten. Now it is both the unpleasant and the unimportant that make our memory so short and this always becomes proportionately shorter, the longer its material becomes. Just as the objects on the shore from which we are sailing become ever smaller and more difficult to recognize and distinguish, so do our past years with all their events and actions. Moreover, there is the fact that memory and imagination occasionally present us very vividly with a scene from our life long past as if it had occurred only yesterday; and it then stands quite near to us. The reason for this is that it is impossible for us to conjure up just as vividly the long interval of time that has elapsed between now and then. For it cannot be surveyed in one picture; moreover, the events in it are for the most part forgotten. Only a general knowledge of it in the abstract is left, a mere conception but not an intuitive perception. Therefore what is long past appears to us so near in the individual thing, as if it had happened only yesterday; the intervening time vanishes and the whole life appears to be inconceivably short. Sometimes in old age the long past behind us and with it our old age itself appear to us in an instant almost like a miracle. This is due mainly to the fact that we see before us primarily the same fixed and immovable present. Inner events of this nature, however, are ultimately due to the fact that not our true being-in-itself but only the phenomenal appearance thereof lies in time and that the present is the point of contact between object and subject. And again, why in our youth does the life we still have before us look so immeasurably long? Because we have to find room for the boundless hopes with which we cram it and for whose realization Methuselah would die too young. Another reason is that, for measuring it, we take the few years we have already lived whose memory is always rich in material and therefore long. For novelty makes everything seem important; and so we subsequently ruminate thereon and thus often repeat it in our memory, whereby it becomes impressed on the mind.
Occasionally we think we long to see once more a distant place, whereas we really long to have the time that we spent there when we were younger and fresher. Time then deceives us by wearing the mask of space. If we travel to the place, we shall become aware of the deception.
For reaching a great age, with a sound constitution as a conditio sine qua non, there are two ways that can be illustrated by the burning of two lamps. One burns for a long time because with little oil it has a very thin wick; the other also burns for a long time because it has plenty of oil for a thick wick. The oil is the vital energy, the wick the use thereof in every way and by every means.
As regards vital force, we can as far as the age of thirty-six be compared to those who live on their interest; what is spent today exists again tomorrow. But after that age our position is analogous to that of the man of independent means who begins to touch his capital. At first, he does not notice this at all; the greatest part of the expense is again automatically recovered and a small deficit is not seen. But this gradually increases, becomes noticeable, and the increase itself every day grows larger. It spreads more and more; every day is poorer than its yesterday and there is no hope of things coming to a standstill. The decline speeds ever more on its way, like the falling of bodies, until at last nothing more is left. It is very depressing when both the things here compared, namely vital force and property, are on the point of actually melting away together. For this reason, love of possessions increases with age. On the other hand, at the beginning till we come of age, and even for some time afterwards, we resemble, as regards our vital force, those who from their interest still add something to their capital. Not only are the expenses again made good, but the capital increases. And again, this too is sometimes the case with money through the care and thoughtfulness of an honest guardian. O happy youth! O sad old age! Nevertheless, we should take care of the strength of our youth. Aristotle observes (Politics, last book, chap 5) that, of the Olympic victors, only two or three had carried off the victory as boys and again as men because the early exertions required by preliminary practice so exhausted their strength that they failed later when they reached the age of manhood. Just as this applies to muscular energy, so does it even more to nervous, whose manifestations are all intellectual achievements. Therefore the ingenia praecocia, the youthful prodigies, the fruit of a hothouse education, who excite our astonishment when they are young, afterwards become very ordinary individuals. Indeed the early and enforced efforts to acquire a knowledge of the ancient languages may be responsible for the subsequent dullness and lack of judgement that are shown by so many scholars.
I have observed that the character of almost every man appears to be particularly appropriate to one period of his life, so that at this age he is seen to better advantage. Some are sweet-tempered when they are young, and this then passes. Others are strong and active men who are robbed of all value by old age. Many a man is seen to the best advantage in old age when he is more lenient and indulgent because he is more experienced, unruffled, and resigned. This is often the case with the French, and it must be due to the fact that the character itself has in it something youthful, manly, or elderly with which the particular age of our life harmonizes or counteracts as a corrective.
Just as our progress on a ship is observed only by the way in which objects on the shore recede and accordingly become smaller, so do we become aware of our advancing years by the fact that those who are even older seem to us to be young.
We have already discussed how and why all that we see, do, and experience leaves in the mind fewer traces, the older we grow. In this sense, it might be asserted that only in youth do we live with a full degree of consciousness and that in old age we are really only half-conscious. The older we become, the less consciously do we live; things hurry past us without making any impression, just as none is made by a work of art that has been seen a thousand times. We do what we have to do and afterwards do not know whether we have done it. Now since life becomes more and more unconscious, the more it rushes towards the point where all consciousness ceases, so does its course become ever more rapid. In childhood the novelty of objects and the incident make us aware of everything and thus the day is interminably long. The same thing happens when we travel and one month then seems longer than four spent at home. Yet this novelty of things does not prevent time, which seems longer in both cases, from often becoming actually more protracted for us than when we are old or at home. But through long habit of perceiving the same things, the intellect gradually becomes so rubbed down and exhausted that everything passes over it and produces less and less effect. In this way, the days then become ever less important and thus shorter. The boy's hours are longer than the old man's days. Accordingly, our time has an accelerated motion like that of a ball that is rolling down. Just as on a revolving disc each point moves more rapidly, the farther it lies from the centre, so time passes away for everyone ever more rapidly, the farther he is from the beginning of his life. Consequently, it may be assumed that, in the direct assessment of our attitude, the length of a year is inversely proportional to the number of times it will divide into our age. For example, when the year is one-fifth of our age, it seems to be ten times longer than when it is only one-fiftieth. The variation in the rapidity of time has the most decided influence on the entire nature of our existence at each period thereof. In the first place, it makes childhood, although embracing only about fifteen years, seem the longest period of life and so the richest in reminiscences. Then again, the younger we are, the more likely we are to be bored. Children constantly need some pastime, whether it be play or work; if this ceases they are instantly seized by a terrible boredom. Even youths are still very liable to this and view with alarm the prospect of hours in which they will have nothing to do. In the age of manhood boredom vanishes more and more. For old men time is always too short and the days fly past like arrows. Of course, it is obvious that I speak of human beings and not of old brutes. Through this acceleration in the flight of time, boredom in most cases ceases to exist as we get older. On the other hand, as the passions with their torments are also silenced, the burden of life is, on the whole, actually lighter than in youth, if only one's health has been preserved. And so the years that precede the appearance of the feebleness and infirmities of extreme old age are called our 'best years'. This they may actually be as regards our feeling of ease and comfort; yet the years of our youth, when everything makes an impression and we are vividly conscious thereof, still have the advantage of being for the mind the productive period, its blossom-setting spring. Thus deep truths may only be discerned but not worked out; in other words, their first knowledge is immediate and is called forth by the momentary impression. Consequently, such knowledge occurs only so long as that impression is powerful, vivid, and deep. Accordingly, in this respect everything depends on the way in which we have used the years of our youth. In later years, we can make more impression on others, in fact on the world, because we ourselves are finished and accomplished and are no longer a prey to influences; the world, however, has less effect on us. These years are, therefore, the time for action and achievement, whereas those of our youth are the time for original conception and knowledge.
In youth intuitive perception predominates; in old age reflection; thus youth is the time for poetry, whereas old age is more for philosophy. Also in practical affairs we allow ourselves to be determined in youth by what is intuitively perceived and by the impression thereof, and in old age only by what is thought. This is due partly to the fact that only in old age have cases from intuitive perception occurred often enough and have been classified into concepts for these to be given full significance, substance, and credit, and at the same time for the impression of intuitive perception to be moderated through usage and practice. On the other hand, in youth the impression of intuitive perception and hence of the external aspect of things, especially on lively and imaginative minds, is so powerful that they regard the world as a picture. And so their main interest is what kind of figure they cut in it rather than how they feel mentally and morally. This already shows itself in the personal vanity and great fondness for clothes which are characteristic of young people.
The greatest energy and highest tension of our mental powers undoubtedly occur in youth up to the age of thirty-five at the latest. From then on they decline, although very slowly. Nevertheless our later years and even old age are not without their intellectual compensation. Only then have experience and learning become really abundant; we have had time and opportunity to consider and weigh in our minds everything from every aspect. We have compared one 'thing with another and have discovered their points of contact and connecting links so that only now are their relations rightly understood. Everything is cleared up and thus we now have a much more thorough knowledge even of that which we already knew in our youth, since we have for each concept many more proofs. What we thought we knew in our youth we really know in old age; moreover, we actually know much more and possess a knowledge that has been explored in every direction and is, therefore, really quite coherent and consistent. In our youth, on the other hand, our knowledge is always defective and fragmentary. Only the man who attains old age acquires a complete and consistent mental picture of life; for he views it in its entirety and its natural course, yet in particular he sees it not merely from the point of entry, as do others, but also from that of departure. In this way, he fully perceives especially its utter vanity, whereas others are still always involved in the erroneous idea that everything may come right in the end. On the other hand, there is more conception in youth and we are thus able to make more out of the little we know; but in old age we have more judgement, penetration, and thoroughness. A gifted man is already acquiring in his youth the material of his own knowledge, of his original and fundamental views, and hence that which he is destined to present to the world; but only in his later years does he become master of his material. Accordingly, in most cases, we shall find that great writers produced their masterpieces when they were about fifty years of age. Nevertheless youth remains the root of the tree of knowledge, although only the top bears fruit. But just as every era, even the most contemptible, regards itself as much .wiser than the one immediately preceding it, not to mention the earlier ones, so does every age in the life of man; yet in both cases we are often mistaken. In the years of physical growth when we are daily adding to our mental powers and knowledge, it becomes a habit for today to look down with contempt on yesterday. Such a habit takes root and remains even when our intellectual powers have begun to decline and when today should rather look up to yesterday with reverence and respect. Thus we often underrate not only the achievements, but also the judgements, of our early years.*
Here we should make the general remark that, although in its fundamental qualities, man's intellect or head as well as his character or heart is innate, yet the former by no means remains so unalterable as does the latter. On the contrary, it is subject to very many transformations which on the whole regularly appear. This is due partly to the fact that the head or intellect has a physical foundation and partly to its having empirical material. Thus its own power has its gradual growth until it reaches its acme, after which there is a gradual decadence down to imbecility. On the other hand, the material occupying these forces and keeping them active, and hence the subject-matter of thought and knowledge, is experience, intellectual achievements, practice and thus a perfection of insight, an ever-growing quantity until a decided weakness makes its appearance and everything is thrown over and abandoned. Man consists of one element that is absolutely unalterable and of another that is regularly alterable in a twofold and opposite way. This explains the difference in his bearing and importance at different periods of his life.
In a wider sense, it can also be said that the first forty years of our life furnish the text, whereas the following thirty supply the commentary. This first teaches us properly to understand the true sense and sequence of the text together with its moral and all its niceties and subtleties.
Towards the end of life, much the same happens as at the end of a masked ball when the masks are removed. We now see who those really were with whom we had come in contact during the course of our life. Characters have revealed themselves, deeds have borne fruit, achievements have been justly appreciated, and all illusions have crumbled away. But for all this time was necessary. The curious thing, however, is that only towards the end of our lives do we really recognize and understand even ourselves, our real aim and object, especially in our relations to the world and to others. Very often, but not always, we shall have to assign to ourselves a lower place than we had previously thought was our due. Sometimes we shall give ourselves a higher, the reason for this being that we had no adequate notion of the baseness of the world, and accordingly set our aim higher than it. Incidentally, we come to know what we have in ourselves.
We are accustomed to call youth the happy time of life and old age the unhappy. This would be true if the passions made us happy. Youth is torn and distracted by them and they afford little pleasure and much pain. Cool old age is left in peace by them and at once assumes a contemplative air; for knowledge becomes free and gains the upper hand. Now since this is in itself painless, we are happier, the more conscious we are that it predominates in our nature. In old age we are better able to prevent misfortune, in youth to endure it. We need only reflect that the nature of all pleasure is negative and that that of pain is positive in order to see that passions cannot make us happy and that old age is not to be deplored just because it is denied many pleasures. For every pleasure is always only the allaying of a need or want. Now that pleasure should come to an end when the need ceases is no more a matter of complaint than that we cannot go on eating after a meal and must remain awake after a good night's rest. In the introduction to the Republic, Plato more correctly considers that hoary old age is happy in so far as it has finally done with the sexual impulse which has incessantly disturbed and tormented us. It might even be asserted that the many different and endless whims and crotchets that are engendered by the sexual impulse and the emotions arising therefrom foster in man a perpetual mild madness so long as he is under the influence of that impulse or devil with which he is constantly possessed; so that he becomes rational only when the passion is extinguished. But it is certain that, in general and apart from every individual circumstance and situation, a certain melancholy and sadness are peculiar to youth, while a certain cheerfulness is characteristic of old age. The reason is simply that youth is still under the sway and even forced labour of that demon which hardly ever grants it an hour of freedom and is at the same time the direct or indirect author of almost every evil or misfortune that befalls or threatens man. But old age has the cheerfulness of one who has rid himself of a shackle long borne and who now freely moves about. On the other hand, it might be said that, after the sexual impulse has faded away, the real kernel of life has gone and only the shell remains. In fact, it is like a comedy which is begun by human beings but is afterwards played to the end by automata dressed up in their costumes.
However that may be, youth is the period of unrest, old age that of repose; and even from this the feeling of ease and comfort of both could be inferred. The child greedily stretches out its hands for all the things of every colour and shape that it sees; for it is charmed by them, its senses being still so young and fresh. The same thing happens with greater energy to the youth who is also charmed by the world in its many colours and by its variety of forms. His imagination conjures up from them more than the world can ever promise. He is, therefore, full of eager desire and longing for something vague and indefinite; and this robs him of that peace without which there is no happiness. Accordingly, whereas the youth imagines that a prodigious number of things is to be had in the world, if only he could discover where, the old man is convinced from Ecclesiastes that all is vanity and knows that all nuts are hollow, however much they may be gilded. For in old age everything has abated partly because the blood is cooler and the senses are not so readily stimulated; and partly because experience has enlightened us as to the value of things and the intrinsic worth of pleasures. In this way, illusions, chimeras, and prejudices have been gradually dispelled which previously concealed and distorted a free and correct view of things. Thus we now recognize everything more clearly and correctly, take it for what it is, and arrive more or less at an insight into the vanity and unreality of all earthly things. It is just this that gives almost every old man, even if he has only very ordinary faculties, a certain touch of wisdom which distinguishes him from younger men. But the principal result of all this is peace of mind which is a great element in happiness and is really the condition and essence thereof.
Further, it is thought that the lot of old age is sickness and boredom. The former is certainly not essential to this age, especially if a long span of years is to be attained; for crescente vita, crescit sanitas et morbus. [5] As regards boredom, I have already shown why old age is even less exposed to it than is youth. Moreover, it is by no means a necessary accompaniment of the loneliness to which we are certainly led by old age, for reasons that can easily be seen. On the contrary, it is only for those who have experienced no other pleasures than those of the senses and of society and who have left their minds unstocked and their powers undeveloped. It is true that in old age our mental powers also decline, but there will still always be enough left to combat boredom. Then, as I have already shown, an accurate insight into things increases through experience, knowledge, practice, and reflection; our judgement is keener and the sequence and connection of events becomes clear. In all things we obtain an ever more comprehensive survey of the whole. Through ever fresh combinations of accumulated knowledge and its occasional enrichment, our own real self-culture continues to make progress in every respect and our mind is thus occupied, satisfied, and rewarded. The above-mentioned decline is to a certain extent compensated by all this. Moreover, as I have said, time passes much more rapidly in old age and this counteracts boredom. The decline in physical strength does little harm unless we need it for earning our livelihood. Poverty in old age is a great misfortune; but if this is banished and we retain our health, old age can be a very endurable period of our life. Comfort and security are its principal requirements; hence in old age we are even fonder of money than we were in our youth because it provides a substitute for failing strength. Deserted by Venus, we shall gladly look for merriment and diversion in Bacchus. The desire to teach and speak replaces the urge to see, travel, and learn. But it is a piece of good fortune if an old man still retains his love of study, music, the theatre, and generally a certain susceptibility to external things. For in the case of some old people this undoubtedly lasts into extreme old age.
Only in our later years do we really attain to Horace's nil admirari, [6] in other words, to the immediate, sincere, and firm conviction of the vanity of all things and the hollowness of all the world's splendours. The chimeras have vanished and we are no longer of the opinion that a special happiness dwells somewhere, either in a palace or a cottage, which is greater than the one we essentially enjoy everywhere when we are just free from bodily or mental pain. For us there is no longer in world-values any difference between great and small, high and low. This gives old people a special placidity and serenity with which they smilingly look down on the phantasmagoria of the world. They are completely disillusioned and know that, whatever may be done to adorn and deck out human life, its barren and paltry nature soon shows through all such finery and tinsel. However much it may be tinted and trimmed, it is everywhere essentially the same, an existence whose true value is always to be estimated only on the basis of an absence of pain, not on that of a presence of pleasures, still less of pomp and show. (Horace, Epistles, 1.12.1-4). The fundamental characteristic of old age is disillusionment; the illusions which hitherto gave life its charm and spurred us to activity have vanished. We have recognized the vanity and emptiness of all the splendours of the world, especially of the pomp, brilliance, and magnificent show. We have learnt that there is very little behind most of the things desired and most of the pleasures hoped for; and we have gradually gained an insight into the great poverty and hollowness of our whole existence. Only when we are seventy do we thoroughly understand the first verse of Ecclesiastes;7 but it is also this that gives to old age a certain touch of peevishness and ill-humour. What a man 'has in himself' is never more to his advantage than in old age.
Most people, of course, who have always been dull and dense become more and more of automata as they grow old. They always think, say, and do the same thing; and no outside impression is any longer able to bring about in them any change or to evoke from them anything new. To talk to such old people is like writing in the sand, for the impression is effaced almost immediately afterwards. An old age of this kind is, of course, only the caput mortuum [8] of life. It seems that nature tries to symbolize the appearance of second childhood in old age by the cutting of a third set of teeth which then in rare instances occurs.
The disappearance of all our powers as we grow older is certainly very distressing; yet this is necessary and even beneficial, as otherwise death would be too hard for which it prepares the ground. Therefore the greatest gain that comes to us through the attainment of a great age is euthanasia. This is a very easy way of dying, which is not ushered in by any illness, is not accompanied by any convulsions, and is not felt at all. A description of this will be found in the second volume of my chief work, chapter 41.*
However long we live, we are never in possession of anything more than the indivisible present; but memory daily loses more through forgetfulness than it gains through accretion. The older we grow, the smaller human affairs seem to be, one and all; life, which in our youth stood before us as something firm and stable, now seems to be like a rapid flight of ephemeral phenomena; the vanity and emptiness of the whole stand out.
The fundamental difference between youth and age will always be that the former has in prospect life, the latter death; thus the former possesses a short past and a long future, whereas the latter possesses the opposite. In the years of old age life is like the fifth act of a tragedy; we know that a tragic end is near, but do not yet know what it will be. When we are old, we certainly have in front of us only death, but when we are young we have life. The question is which of the two is more hazardous and whether on the whole life is not something that it is better to have behind us than in front of us. Indeed Ecclesiastes (7:1) says: 'The day of death is better than the day of one's birth.' To want to live very long is in any case rash; for the Spanish proverb says: quien larga vida vive mucho mal vive. [9]
It is true that the course of an individual's life is not traced out and indicated in the planets, as astrology would have us believe; yet a man's life generally is so in so far as one planet in turn corresponds to each period thereof, and his life is accordingly governed in succession by all the planets. Mercury rules in the tenth year; and like this the individual moves rapidly and lightly in the narrowest circle. He can be won over by trifles, but he learns much easily under the sway of the god of astuteness and eloquence. At twenty we have the dominion of Venus; love and women have us entirely in their possession. At thirty Mars reigns, and a man is now impetuous, strong, bold, warlike, and defiant. At forty the four asteroids rule and accordingly a man's life is broadened; he is frugi, in other words, serves what is useful and expedient by virtue of Ceres; he has his own hearth by the influence of Vesta; he has learnt what he needs to know through Pallas; and the mistress of his house, his wife, reigns as Juno. [10] But at fifty Jupiter holds the sway; a man has already outlived most people and feels himself superior to the present generation. Still in full enjoyment of his powers, he has a wealth of experience and knowledge; according to his individual nature and position, he has authority over all those about him. Accordingly, he is no longer willing to take orders but to give them himself. He is now most fitted to guide and govern in his own sphere. Thus Jupiter culminates and with him the man who is fifty years of age. Then follows Saturn at the sixtieth year and with him the heaviness, slowness, and ductility of lead:
[quote]But old folks, many feign as they were dead; Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.
-- Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Sc. 5.[/quote]
Finally Uranus comes and then, as they say, we go to heaven. Here I cannot take into account Neptune (unfortunately so dubbed through thoughtlessness) because I may not call it by its true name which is Eros. Otherwise I would show how beginning and end are connected together, namely how Eros is secretly related to death. By virtue of his relation, Orcus or Amenthes of the Egyptians (Plutarch, On Isis and Osiris, c. 29) is the [x], [11] thus not only the taker but also the giver, and death is the great reservoir of life. Therefore everything comes from Orcus and everything that now has life has already been there. If only we were capable of understanding the conjuring trick whereby this is done, all would be clear.
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[b]Notes:[/b]
1 'Who has not the spirit of his age, Has all the misfortune of his age.'
* Ah, those years of childhood! when time still passes so slowly that things seem to be almost at a standstill and to want to stay as they are to all eternity.
2 ['From the aspect of eternity'.]
3 [' The age of illusions is past.'] 4 [This is written in the form of a novel, but is to all intents and purposes a biography.] * Yet in our youth, when time is most precious, we often spend it most lavishly, and only in old age do we begin to economize in it.
5 ['With increasing age health and sickness increase.']
6 ['Not to allow ourselves to be disconcerted (in face of desire and fear). Not to lose our equanimity.' (Horace, Epistles, 1.6.1.)]
7 ['Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity.']
* Human life cannot really be called either long or short since it is at bottom the standard whereby we measure all other lengths of time. In the Upanishad of the Veda (Oupnekhat, vol. ii, p. 53) the natural duration of human lift is stated to be a hundred years. I think this is correct because I have noticed that only those who have passed their ninetieth year attain to euthanasia, that is to say, die without illness, apoplexy, convulsions, or rattles in the throat; sometimes they die without turning pale, often when seated and after a meal; or rather they do not exactly die, but simply cease to live. At any earlier age one dies merely of disease and hence prematurely. In the Old Testament (Psalms 90:10) the span of human life is given as seventy or at most eighty years; and what is more important, Herodotus says the same thing (lib. I, c. 32 and lib. III, c. 22). But this is wrong and is merely the result of a crude and superficial interpretation of daily experience. For if the natural span were between seventy and eighty years, people would inevitably die between those years of old age; but this is by no means the case. They then die, like younger people, of disease which is something essentially abnormal; and so it is not a natural end. Only between ninety and a hundred years do people die, but then as a rule of old age, without sickness, death-struggle, death-rattles, or convulsions, sometimes without turning pale; this is called euthanasia. Therefore here also the Upanishad is right in putting the natural span of human life at a hundred years. 8 ['Dead head' i.e. dead residue (expression from ancient chemistry for the dry residue from the heating of certain materials in retorts).]
9 ['Whoever lives long experiences much evil.']
10 Some fifty asteroids since discovered are an innovation in which I am not interested. And so my attitude to them is like that of the profession of philosophy to me. I ignore them because they do not suit my purpose.
11 ['The taker and giver'.] |