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PARERGA AND PARALIPOMENA: SHORT PHILOSOPHICAL ESSAYS |
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[b]CHAPTER 26: Psychological Remarks[/b]
§ 304
Every animal, especially every human being, needs a certain fitness and proportion between his will and his intellect in order to be able to exist and make his way in the world. Now the more precisely and correctly this has been arranged by nature, the more safely and agreeably will he go through the world. Meanwhile, a mere approximation to the really correct point is enough to protect him from ruin. There is, accordingly, a certain latitude within the limits of the correctness and fitness of the aforesaid proportion. Now in this connection the following is the recognized standard. As the destiny of the intellect is to light and guide the steps of the will, the more vehement, impetuous, and passionate the inner impulse of a will, the more perfect and penetrating must be the intellect which is assigned to it. This must be so in order that the vehemence of striving and willing, the ardour of passions, and the intensity of emotions may not lead a man astray or precipitate him into ill-considered, false, and ruinous action. All this will inevitably be the case if the will is very violent and the intellect very weak. A phlegmatic character, on the other hand, and thus a weak and dull will, can manage to exist with a limited intellect; a moderate man requires a moderate intellect. Generally speaking, every case of a want of proportion between a will and its intellect, that is to say, every deviation from the above-mentioned normal proportion, tends to make a man unhappy, whether the want of proportion be due to an excess of intellect or to an excess of will. Thus an abnormally strong and superior development of the intellect and its resultant disproportionate preponderance over the will, such as constitute the essential nature of real genius, are not merely superfluous to the needs and aims of life but are positively detrimental thereto. Then in youth, excessive energy in apprehending the objective world, accompanied by a lively imagination and lacking all experience, will cause the mind to become susceptible to extravagant notions and even chimeras and will easily cram it therewith. The result of all this will then be an eccentric and even fantastic character. Now even when this has been given up and, through the teaching of experience, has later disappeared, the genius will never really feel at home in the ordinary outside world, will not fit conveniently into the life of the ordinary citizen and move about as comfortably as does the man of normal intellect; on the contrary, he will often make curious mistakes. For the commonplace intellect is so thoroughly at home in the narrow sphere of its ideas and its apprehension of the world that no one can get the better of it in that sphere and its knowledge remains always faithful to its original purpose of serving the will. Therefore it constantly attends to this without ever giving way to extravagant aims. The genius, on the other hand, is at bottom a monstrum per excessum, as I have already mentioned in the discussion of that subject, just as, conversely, the passionate and impetuous man without intellect and understanding is a brainless barbarian, a monstrum per difectum.
§ 305
The will-lo-live, as constituting the innermost core of everything that lives, manifests itself most conspicuously and can, therefore, be observed and looked at most distinctly, as regards its true nature, in the highest and cleverest animals. For below this stage it does not appear so clearly and has a lower degree of objectification; but above and thus in man, prudence and discretion have made their appearance along with the faculty of reason and with this the ability to dissimulate, which at once casts a veil over him. In him, therefore, the will appears naked and undisguised only in the outbursts of emotions and passions. This is the very reason why passion always finds credence when it speaks, no matter what it may be, and rightly so. For the same reason, the passions are the main theme of poets and the show-piece of actors. But our pleasure in dogs, monkeys, cats, and others rests on what I said at first about the higher and cleverer animals; the complete naivete of all their expressions is what affords so much amusement and delight.
What a characteristic and peculiar pleasure there is at the sight of every free animal pursuing its business without let or hindrance, going in search of its food, tending its young, or consorting with others of its species! With all this it is so entirely what it should and can be. It may be only a tiny bird, yet I am long able to watch it with pleasure; or it may be a water-rat, frog, or better still a hedgehog, weasel, roe, or stag! That the sight of animals is so pleasant is due mainly to the fact that we are very delighted to see before us our own true nature so greatly simplified.
There is in the world only one mendacious and hypocritical being, namely man. Every other is true and sincere, in that it frankly and openly declares itself to be what it is and expresses itself as it feels. An emblematic or allegorical expression of this fundamental difference is that all animals go about in a state of nature; and this greatly contributes to the delightful impression on us when we look at them. At the sight of animals, especially when they are free, my heart always goes out to them. Man, on the other hand, has through his clothes become a caricature, a fright, a monster, a creature repulsive to look at, the sight of whom is made even more repulsive by the white colour that is not natural to him and by all the loathsome consequences of an unnatural flesh diet, spiritous liquors, tobacco, debaucheries, and diseases. There he stands as a blot on nature! The Greeks felt this and reduced their clothing to the minimum.
§ 306
Mental anguish causes palpitations of the heart and these cause mental anguish. Grief, care, and mental agitation have an embarrassing and painful effect on the vital process and the working of the organism, whether it be blood circulation, secretions, or digestion. Conversely, if the workings of the organism are impeded, obstructed, or otherwise disturbed by physical causes in the heart, the intestines, the vena portarum, [1] the seminal vesicles, or elsewhere, there arise uneasiness of mind, anxiety, morose humour, groundless melancholy; and we therefore have the state called hypochondria. Again, anger also makes one shout, stamp, and gesticulate violently; on the other hand, these bodily manifestations increase anger or kindle it on the slightest provocation. I need hardly say how much all this confirms my doctrine of the unity and identity of the will with the body, according to which the body is nothing but the will manifesting itself in the spatial intuitive perception of the brain.
§ 307
Very many things that are attributed to force of habit are due rather to the constancy and unchangeable nature of the original and inborn character. According to this, we always do under similar circumstances the same thing which, therefore, takes place with the same necessity the first time as it does the hundredth. Real force of habit, on the other hand, actually rests on indolence or inertia which seeks to spare the intellect and the will the trouble, difficulty, and even danger of a fresh choice. Such indolence, therefore, makes us do today what we did yesterday and a hundred times before and of which we know that it leads to the attainment of its object.
But the truth of the matter lies deeper; for it is to be understood in a meaning stricter and more literal than at first sight appears. The power of inertia is for bodies, in so far as they are moved merely by mechanical causes, precisely what force of habit is for bodies that are moved by motives. The actions we perform from mere habit really occur without any separate individual motive that operates for the particular case; and so during such actions we do not really think about them. Of every action that has become a habit, only the first instances have had a motive whose secondary after-effect is the present habit. This now suffices to enable the action to continue, just as a body that is moved by a thrust needs no further thrust to continue its motion but goes on moving to all eternity, provided the motion is not impeded by anything. The same applies to animals in that their training is an enforced habit. The horse continues quite calmly to pull its cart without being driven. This motion is still always the effect of the strokes of the whip by which it was initially driven, and it is perpetuated as a habit in accordance with the law of inertia. All this is actually more than a mere simile; it is the identity of the thing, namely the will, at widely different stages of its objectification according to which the same law of motion now assumes such different forms.
§ 308
Viva muchos anos! [2] is a usual greeting in Spanish, and all over the world it is quite customary to wish anyone a long life. This indeed cannot be explained from a knowledge of what life is, but rather from what man is by nature, namely will-to-live.
The wish which everyone has that he may be remembered after his death and which rises to a desire for posthumous fame in the case of those who aim high, seems to spring from an attachment to life. When this sees itself cut off from all possibility of real existence, it then seizes the only kind of existence that is left, although such is only ideal; and thus it grasps a shadow.
§ 309
With everything that we do, we desire more or less the end; we are impatient to be done with it and are glad when it is finished. Only the end in general, the end of all ends, do we wish, as a rule, to put off as long as possible.
§ 310
Every parting gives us a foretaste of death, and every time we again meet someone we have a foretaste of resurrection. This is why even those who were indifferent to one another are so pleased when they again meet after twenty or thirty years.
§ 311
The deep pain that is felt at the death of every friendly soul arises from the feeling that there is in every individual something which is inexpressible, peculiar to him alone, and is, therefore, absolutely and irretrievably lost. Omne individuum ineffabile. [3] This applies even to the individual animal, where it is most acutely felt by one who has accidentally caused the death of a favourite pet. The parting look given by the animal then causes him heart-rending grief.
§311a
It may happen that, even after a short time, we mourn the loss of our enemies and opponents almost as much as that of our friends, namely when we miss them as witnesses of our brilliant successes.
§ 312
The sudden announcement of a great stroke of good fortune can easily have a fatal effect. This is due to the fact that our happiness and unhappiness are merely a proportional number between our claims and what has fallen to our lot; and accordingly, we do not feel as such the good things which we possess or of which we are quite certain in advance. For all pleasure is really only negative and has only the effect of eliminating pain, whereas pain or evil is the really positive thing and is directly felt. With the possession of things or with the certain prospect thereof, our claims at once rise and our capacity for further possessions and prospects increases. If, on the other hand, our spirits are depressed by constant misfortune and our claims are reduced to a minimum, sudden good fortune here finds no capacity for its reception. Thus as such good fortune is not neutralized by any pre-existing claims, it now apparently acts positively and consequently with all its force, whereby it may have a disruptive effect on our feelings, in other words, prove fatal. Hence the well-known caution in announcing good fortune; first we cause the man to hope for it, then offer him the prospect, and finally make it known to him only piecemeal and gradually. For each part of the good news thus loses its strength, in that it was anticipated by a claim, and still leaves room for more. As a result of all this, it might be said that our stomach for good fortune is indeed bottomless, but has a narrow opening. The foregoing remarks are not directly applicable to sudden misfortune; and so its fatal effect is much rarer because hope here is still always opposed to it. In cases of good fortune, fear does not play an analogous part because we are instinctively more inclined to hope than to fear, just as our eyes automatically turn to light and not to darkness.
§ 313
Hope is the confusion of the wish for an event with its probability. But perhaps no man is free from the folly of the heart which so deranges the intellect's correct appreciation of probability that a case of a thousand to one against is regarded as easily possible. And yet a hopeless misfortune is like a quick death-blow, whereas a hope that is always frustrated and constantly revived resembles a kind of slow death by torture.*
Whoever is abandoned by hope has also been abandoned by fear; this is the meaning of the word 'desperate'. Thus it is natural for a man to believe what he wants and to believe it because he wants it. Now if this beneficial and soothing characteristic of his nature is eradicated by the very hard and repeated blows of fate and he is even brought to believe conversely that what he does not want is bound to happen, and what he wants can never happen just because he wants it, then this is really the state which has been called desperation.
§ 314
That we are so often mistaken in others is not always entirely the fault of our own judgement, but in most cases arises from Bacon's intellectus luminis sicci non est, sed recipit infusionem a voluntate et affectibus; [4] for without knowing it, we are at the very outset prejudiced for or against them by trifles. It is often due also to the fact that we do not stop at the qualities actually discovered in them, but from these infer others, which we regard as inseparable from the former, or else as incompatible with them. For example, from perceiving generosity we infer justice, from godliness, honesty, from lying, deception, from deception, stealing, and so on. This opens the door to many errors partly because of the strangeness of human characters and also because of the one-sidedness of our point of view. It is true that character is generally consistent and coherent, but the roots of all its qualities lie too deep for us to be able to determine from isolated data which qualities can coexist in a given case, and which cannot.
§ 315
The ordinary use of the word person in all European languages for describing the human individual is unconsciously striking and to the point. For persona really means a mask as worn by actors; and it is certain that no one shows himself as he is, but everyone wears a mask and plays a part. Generally speaking, the whole of our social life is the continuous performance of a comedy. This renders it insipid for men of substance and merit, whereas blockheads take a real delight in it.
§ 316
We often happen to blurt out something which might in some way be dangerous to us; but we are not deserted by our reticence and discretion in the case of those things that might make us ridiculous, because here the effect follows close on the cause.
§ 317 Unjust treatment kindles in the natural man an ardent thirst for revenge, and it has often been said that revenge is sweet. This is confirmed by the many sacrifices that are made, merely in order to enjoy it and without any intention of thereby obtaining amends. The painful death of the Centaur Nessus was made sweet by the certain prevision of an exceedingly clever revenge for the preparation of which he used his last moments; and the same idea, in a modern plausible account, is contained in Bertolotti's novel Le due sorelle, which has been translated into three languages. Sir Walter Scott expresses this same human tendency both forcibly and appropriately: 'Revenge is the sweetest morsel to the mouth that ever was cooked in hell.' I will now attempt to give a psychological explanation of the craving for revenge.
All suffering that is inflicted on us by nature, chance, or fate, is not, ceteris paribus, [5] so painful as that brought upon us by the arbitrary action of others. This is because we acknowledge nature and chance to be the original masters of the world. We see that what has befallen us through them would likewise have befallen everyone else; and so in sufferings from this source we bewail the common lot of mankind rather than our own fate. On the other hand, the suffering caused by the arbitrary action of another has, in addition to the pain or damage itself, something quite peculiar and bitter, namely the consciousness of the other man's superiority, whether through force or cunning, and of our own impotence. If possible, the damage inflicted is made good by reparation, but that additional bitterness, namely the thought: 'I have to put up with this from you', which often causes more pain than does the injury itself, can be neutralized only by revenge. Thus by inflicting injury, either by force or cunning, on the man who has injured us, we show our superiority and thereby annul evidence of his. This gives our feelings the satisfaction for which they thirsted. Accordingly, there will be a great thirst for revenge where there is much pride or vanity. But just as every fulfilled desire reveals itself more or less as a disappointment, so too does the desire for revenge. In most cases, the pleasure to be hoped for from revenge will through compassion be gall and wormwood to us. Indeed, the revenge we have taken will afterwards often wring our hearts and torment our conscience. The motive for revenge no longer operates and we are left with the evidence of our own wickedness.
§ 318
The pain of an unfulfilled desire is small in comparison with that of remorse; for the former stands before the ever-open and immeasurable future, whereas the latter stands before the irrevocably closed past.
§ 319
Patience, patientia, Geduld, but in particular the Spanish sufrimiento, is so called from suffering;6 consequently, it is passivity, the opposite of the activity of the mind. Where such activity is great, it can hardly be reconciled with patience. It is the inborn virtue of phlegmatic persons and also of the mentally indolent and mentally poor and of women. Nevertheless, the fact that patience is so very useful and necessary betokens a melancholy state of affairs in this world.
§ 320 Money is human happiness in abstracto; and so the man who is no longer capable of enjoying such happiness in concreto, sets his whole heart on money.
§ 321
All obstinacy is due to the fact that the will has forced itself into the place of knowledge.
§ 322
Peevishness or bad temper is something very different from melancholy. From cheerfulness to melancholy is a much shorter path than from bad temper to melancholy.
Melancholy attracts; bad temper repels.
Hypochondria torments us not only with anger and annoyance without cause over the things of the present; not only with groundless anxiety over artificially invented misfortunes of the future, but also with unmerited reproaches concerning our own actions in the past.
The immediate effect of hypochondria is a constant seeking and speculating on what might make us angry or annoyed. The cause is an inner morbid discontent, frequently with the addition of an inner restlessness or uneasiness due to temperament. If the two reach the highest degree, they lead to suicide.
§ 323
The following remarks may help to elucidate more fully juvenal's verse which was cited in § 114:
[quote]Quantulacunque adeo est occasio, sufficit irae. [7][/quote]
Anger at once creates a deception which consists in a monstrous exaggeration and distortion of its cause. Again this deception itself intensifies the anger and is once more magnified by this intensified anger itself. The intensification of action and reaction thus continues until the furor brevis [8] is reached.
To guard against this, men of quick and impulsive temper should endeavour to prevail on themselves to dismiss the matter from their minds for the time being as soon as they begin to feel annoyed. For when after an hour they return to it, it will long since have ceased to appear so bad and will perhaps seem to be of no importance.
§ 324
Hatred is an affair of the heart; contempt that of the head. The ego does not have either in its power; for its heart is unchangeable and is moved by motives and its head judges in accordance with immutable rules and objective data. The ego is merely the association of a particular heart with a particular head, the [x]. [9]
Hatred and contempt are definitely antagonistic and mutually exclusive. There are even many cases where one man's hatred has no source other than the esteem and respect that are enforced by another's excellent qualities. On the other hand, if we attempted to hate all the miserable creatures we met, we should have too much to do; whereas we can despise them, one and all, with the greatest ease. True genuine contempt is the very reverse of true genuine pride; it remains entirely concealed and gives no hint of its existence. For whoever shows contempt, thereby gives a sign of some regard in so far as he wants to let the other man know how little he esteems him. In this way, he betrays hatred which excludes and only feigns contempt. Genuine contempt, on the other hand, is a firm conviction of the other man's worthlessness and is compatible with consideration and indulgence. By means of these, we avoid irritating the object of our contempt and do so for the sake of peace and security; for everyone can do harm. If, however, this pure, cold, and sincere contempt once shows itself, it is reciprocated with the fiercest hatred, since the man who is held in scorn does not have it in his power to retaliate with the same weapon.
§ 324a
Every incident, even if very insignificant, which stirs a disagreeable emotion, will leave in our mind an after-effect which, as long as it lasts, obstructs a clear and objective view of things and circumstances; in fact, it tinges all our thoughts, just as a very small object, brought close to our eyes, limits and distorts our field of vision.
§ 325
What makes people hard-hearted is the fact that everyone has enough troubles of his own to bear, or thinks he has. Therefore an unusual state of happiness makes most people sympathetic and benevolent. But a state of happiness that has always existed, and has become permanent, often has the opposite effect since it removes men so far from suffering that they are no longer able to feel any sympathy therewith. The result is that the poor show themselves more ready to help than the wealthy.
On the other hand, what makes people so very inquisitive, as can be seen from their peeping and prying into the affairs of others, is boredom, the opposite pole of life to suffering; although there is often some envy at work as well.
§ 326
If we wish to discover our own sincere feelings for a man, we should note the impression made on us by the first sight of an unexpected letter from him.
§ 327
It seems at times that we both want and do not want something and are accordingly simultaneously pleased and worried about the same event. If, for example, in some matter we have to pass a decisive test, where to come off victorious will be very much to our advantage, we both want and fear the moment of this trial. Now if, while waiting for it, we hear that it has been postponed for the time being, we shall be simultaneously pleased and worried; for it is contrary to our intention and yet affords us momentary relief. It is the same when we expect an important and decisive letter and it fails to arrive.
In such cases, there are really two different motives acting on us, namely the stronger but more distant, the desire to pass the test and obtain a decision; and the weaker but nearer, the desire to be left in peace for the present and to continue to enjoy the advantage that the state of hopeful uncertainty has at any rate over the possible unsuccessful outcome of the affair. Accordingly, there occurs here in the moral that which happens in the physical when in our range of vision a smaller but nearer object conceals the larger but more remote.
§ 328
The faculty of reason merits also the name of prophet; for it holds before us the future occurrence as the eventual consequence and effect of our present actions. It is precisely in this way that it is calculated to keep us in check when desires of sensual passion, outbursts of anger, or cupidity and covetousness are likely to lead us astray into doing what we should inevitably regret in times to come.
§ 329
The course and events of our individual lives are, as regards their true meaning and connection, comparable to the rougher works in mosaic. So long as we stand close to such works, we do not really recognize the objects depicted and do not perceive either their significance or beauty; only at a distance do these stand out. In the same way, we frequently do not understand the true connection of important events in our own lives while they are going on or shortly after they have occurred, but only long afterwards.*
Is this because we need the magnifying glass of the imagination; or the whole can be surveyed only at a distance; or the passions must be cooled off; or only the school of experience matures our judgement? Perhaps all of these together; but it is certain that the correct light concerning the actions of others and sometimes even our own, often dawns on us only after many years. And just as it is in our own lives, so is it also in history.
§ 330
States of human happiness often resemble certain groups of trees which look very beautiful when seen from a distance; but, if we go up to them and walk among the trees, that beauty vanishes. We do not know where it was and are standing between trees. This is the reason why we so often envy the position of others.
§ 331
Why is it that, in spite of all mirrors, a man does not really know what he looks like and therefore cannot picture to himself his own features as he can those of every acquaintance? This is a difficulty that faces [x] [10] at the very outset.
Undoubtedly this is due partly to the fact that he never sees himself in the mirror except with his face turned straight towards it and perfectly motionless, whereby the very significant play of the eyes, but with it the really characteristic feature of his face, is for the most part lost. But together with this physical impossibility, there appears to be at work an ethical that is analogous thereto. A man cannot look in the mirror at his own image with the ryes of a stranger; and yet this is the condition for an objective view of it. For this look rests ultimately on moral egoism with its deeply felt not-I (cf. Two Fundamental Problems of Ethics, 'Basis of Ethics', § 22); and yet these are necessary if he is to perceive purely objectively all the defects and as they really are, whereby only then does the image truly and faithfully present itself. Instead of this, whenever a man sees himself in the mirror, that very egoism at all times whispers in his ear a precautionary' it is not another ego but my ego that I see.' This acts as a noli me tangere [11] and prevents him from taking the purely objective view which apparently cannot be brought about without the ferment of a grain of malice.
§ 332
No one knows what forces for suffering and acting he has within himself until an occasion puts them into operation; just as from the calm water, lying like a mirror in the pond, we do not see with what raging and roaring it is capable of rushing down intact from the rocks, or how high it can rise as a fountain; and we also do not suspect the heat that is latent in ice-cold water.
§ 333
Existence without consciousness has reality only for other beings in whose consciousness it manifests itself; immediate reality is conditioned by one's own consciousness. Therefore man's real individual existence also resides primarily in his consciousness. But as such, this is necessarily a consciousness which forms representations and is, therefore, conditioned by the intellect and by the sphere and material of the intellect's activity. Accordingly, the degrees of clearness of consciousness, and thus of thoughtfulness and reflection, can be regarded as those of the reality of existence. But in the human race itself, these degrees of reflectiveness or clear consciousness of our own and other people's existence, are very varied according to the natural powers of the mind, their cultivation, and the amount of leisure for meditation.
Now as regards the real and original difference of mental powers, a comparison between them cannot very well be made as long as we do not consider particulars, but stick to what is general. For this difference cannot be seen from a distance and is not so easily apparent externally as are the differences in education, leisure, and occupation. But even proceeding merely in accordance with these, we have to admit that many a man has a degree of existence at least ten times higher than that of another and, therefore, exists ten times as much.
Here I will not speak of savages whose life is often only one stage above that of the apes in trees; but let us consider, say, a porter in Naples or Venice (in the North concern over the winter makes man more thoughtful and therefore more reflective), and survey the course of his life from beginning to end. Driven by need and poverty, borne by his own strength, meeting the needs of the day and even of the hour by hard work, great effort, constant tumult, privation in its many forms, no thought for the morrow, relaxation and rest after exhaustion, much bickering and quarrelling with others, not a moment for reflection, sensual pleasure in a mild climate and with food just bearable, and then finally, as the metaphysical element, some crass superstitions of his Church; on the whole, therefore, a fairly dull consciousness of driving, or rather of being driven, through life. This troubled, restless, and confused dream constitutes the lives of many millions. They know only for the purpose of what at the moment they will. They do not reflect on the connection and sequence in their existence, not to mention that of existence itself; to a certain extent, they exist without really becoming aware of it. Accordingly, the existence of the proletarian or slave who goes on living without thinking, is considerably nearer than is ours to that of the animal, which is confined entirely to the present. Such a proletarian existence, however, is for that very reason less harrowing and distressing. In fact, since by its nature all pleasure is negative, that is, consists in our being freed from want or pain, the constant and rapid interchange between difficulties and their removal which always accompanies the work of the proletarian and then appears in a stronger form with the final exchange of his work for rest and the satisfaction of his needs, is a constant source of pleasure. The cheerfulness, seen much more often in the faces of the poor than in those of the wealthy, is a sure proof of the richness and fertility of that source.
Now let us consider the rational and reflective merchant who spends his life speculating, cautiously carries out carefully considered plans, establishes a firm, provides for wife, family, and descendants, and also takes an active part in the life of the community. It is obvious that this man exists with a much greater degree of consciousness than does the other; that is to say, his existence has a higher degree of reality.
Let us then look at the scholar who investigates, say, the history of the past. Such a man is already conscious of existence as a whole; he sees beyond the period of his own life and person and reflects on the course of the world.
Finally, let us think of the poet or even philosopher in whom reflectiveness has reached so high a degree that, instead of being urged to investigate some particular phenomenon in existence, he stands in astonishment before existence itself, this great sphinx, and makes this his problem. In him consciousness has been enhanced to a degree of clearness where it has become a consciousness of the world. Thus in him the mental picture or representation has gone beyond all reference to the service of his will and now holds before him a world that calls upon him to investigate and consider much more than to take part in its affairs. Now if the degrees of consciousness are those of reality, then when we describe such a man as the 'most real of all beings', this expression will have sense and significance.
Between the extremes here sketched and the intervening stages everyone will be able to find his own position.
§ 334
Ovid's verse
[quote]Pronaque cum spectent animalia cetera terram, [12][/quote]
applies in the real and physical sense only to animals; but in the figurative and spiritual, alas, it applies also to almost all human beings. Their musings, thoughts, and aspirations are identified entirely with a desire for physical pleasure and wellbeing, or indeed with personal interests whose sphere often embraces many different things, it is true, but which nevertheless ultimately derive their importance only from the relation to those thoughts. Beyond this, however, they do not go. This is testified not only by their mode of life and conversation, but even by their mere look, the expression on their faces, the way in which they walk, and their gesticulations. Everything about them exclaims: in terram prona! [13] Accordingly, Ovid's next lines:
[quote]Os homini sublime dedit, coelumque tueri Jussit, et erectos ad sidera toltere vultus, [14][/quote]
apply not to such people, but only to nobler and more highly gifted natures, to those who think and really look about them, and who occur only as the exceptions of the race.
§ 335
Why is common an expression of contempt, and 'uncommon', 'extraordinary', 'distinguished' are expressions of approbation? Why is everything common contemptible?
Common means originally that which is peculiar and common to all, that is, to the whole species, and hence that which is already associated therewith. Accordingly, whoever possesses no other qualities than those of the human species generally, is a common man. 'Ordinary person' is a much milder expression intended more for intellectual qualities, whereas the expression 'common person' is concerned rather with moral qualities.
What value, indeed, can a being have who is no different from millions of his kind? Millions? nay an infinitude of beings, an endless number, whom nature incessantly bubbles forth from her inexhaustible spring, in secula seculorum; [15] she is as generous with them as is a blacksmith with the sparks flying round him.
It is obviously quite right that a being who has no other qualities than just those of the species, shall not be entitled to any existence other than that in and through the species.
I have discussed more than once (e.g. Two Fundamental Problems of Ethics, 'Freedom of the Will', Pt. III (2); World as Will and Representation, volume I, § 55) that, whereas animals have only the character of the species, to man alone belongs the individual character in the proper sense of the term. In most people, however, there is only very little that is really individual; they can be sorted entirely into classes. Ce sont des especes. [16] Their thinking and willing, like their faces, are that of the whole species, or at all events of the class to which they belong. For this reason, they are trivial, trite, and common, and exist in thousands. We can also say fairly accurately in advance what they are doing and talking about. They have no characteristic hall-mark; they are like manufactured articles mass-produced.
Should not their existence, like their true nature, be merged also in that of the species? The curse of vulgarity reduces man to the level of the animal by granting him an essential nature and existence only in the species.
But it goes without saying that everything great, exalted, and noble will, by its very nature, exist in isolation in a world where no better expression could be found for describing what is mean and objectionable than the one that declares everything ordinarily existing to be 'common'.
§ 336
The will, as the thing-in-itself, is the common substance of all beings, the universal element of things. Accordingly, we have it in common with everyone else, even with the animals and with still lower forms of existence. In the will as such we are, therefore, like everything, in so far as each and every thing is filled to overflowing therewith. On the other hand, what raises one being above another, one human being above another, is knowledge, to which our assertions and observations should, therefore, be restricted as far as possible, and which alone should be in evidence. For the will, as that which we all have, is precisely what is common; and so every violent manifestation thereof is common, that is, it reduces us to a mere sample of the species; for we then reveal merely the character thereof. Hence all anger is common, boisterous hilarity, all hatred, all fear, in short, every emotion, that is, every movement of the will, when it becomes so strong that in consciousness it decidedly outweighs knowledge, and causes one to appear more as a willing than a knowing being. In giving way to such an emotion, the greatest genius becomes like the commonest son of earth. On the other hand, whoever wishes to be positively uncommon and therefore great, must never let the predominant movements of the will take complete possession of his consciousness, however much he may be solicited to do so. For instance, he must be capable of perceiving the spiteful and malicious attitude of others without feeling his own provoked thereby. Indeed, there is no surer sign of greatness than when a man refuses to take any notice of offensive or insulting remarks, in that he simply attributes them, as he does countless other errors, to the poor knowledge of the speaker and, therefore, merely perceives them without feeling them. Gracian's words can also be explained from this: 'Nothing lowers a man so much as when he shows himself to be simply a human being' (el mayor desdoro de un hombre es dar muestras de que es hombre).
According to the foregoing, a man has to conceal his will as he does his genitals, although both are the very root of our true nature. We should merely display knowledge, just as we show only our faces, on pain of becoming common.
Even in the drama, where passions and emotions are its special and peculiar theme, these nevertheless readily appear common and vulgar. This is particularly noticeable in the French tragedians who have aimed at nothing higher than a description of the passions and attempt to conceal the vulgarity of their subject first behind a fatuous and ridiculous pathos and then behind epigrammatic witticisms. The famous Mademoiselle Rachel, as Mary Stuart in her outburst against Elizabeth, reminded me of a Billingsgate woman, although she played the part superbly. In her performance, the last scene of farewell also lost everything sublime, that is, everything truly tragic, of which the French have not the least conception. The same part was played incomparably better by the Italian actress Ristori; for, in spite of great differences in many respects, Italians and Germans nevertheless agree as regards their feelings for what in art is profound, serious, and true, and are thus opposed to the French who everywhere betray their want of such feelings. What is noble, i.e. what is uncommon and indeed sublime, is brought into the drama primarily through knowing as opposed to willing. For the sublime element hovers freely over all those movements of the will and makes them even the material of its contemplation. Shakespeare, in particular, shows this everywhere, especially in Hamlet. Now if knowledge reaches the point where the vanity of all willing and striving dawns on it and the will consequently abolishes itself, it is then that the drama becomes really tragic and hence truly sublime and attains its supreme purpose.
§ 337
According as the energy of the intellect is exerted or relaxed, life seems to it so short, petty, and fleeting that no event therein can be worth our interest, but everything remains insignificant, even pleasure, wealth, and fame; and this to such an extent that, however a man may have failed, he cannot possibly have lost much in this way. On the other hand, life may seem to the intellect so long and important, so all in all momentous and difficult, that we accordingly devote ourselves to it body and soul in order to share in its good things, to make sure of the prizes of its struggles, and to carry out our plans. This is the immanent view of life and is what Gracian meant when he said, tomar muy de veras el vivir (to take life very seriously). But for the other view, the transcendent, Ovid's words are a good expression: non est tanti; [17] and an even better expression is Plato's [x], (nihil, in rebus humanis, magno studio dignum est). [18]
The first attitude results really from the fact that in consciousness knowledge has gained the ascendancy where it now frees itself from the mere service of the will, objectively apprehends the phenomenon of life, and cannot fail to see clearly the vanity and futility thereof. In the second attitude, however, willing is uppermost and knowledge exists merely to illuminate the objects thereof and to shed light on the paths to them. A man is great or small according as the one view of life predominates or the other.
§ 338
Everyone regards the limits of his field of vision as those of the world; this is the illusion, as inevitable intellectually as it is in physical vision, which regards heaven and earth as touching at the horizon. To this, among other things, is due the fact that everyone measures us with his own standard, which is often that of a mere tailor, and we have to put up with this; as also the fact that everyone falsely imputes to us his own mediocrity and insignificance, a fiction that is acknowledged once for all.
§ 339
There are some concepts which very rarely exist in any mind with clearness and precision, but manage to exist merely through their name. This then really indicates only the place of such a concept yet without it they would be entirely lost. For instance, the concept wisdom is of this kind. How vague it is in almost all minds! We have only to look at the explanations of philosophers.
Wisdom seems to indicate not merely theoretical but also practical perfection. I would define it as the complete and correct knowledge of things, as a whole and in general, with which a man is so thoroughly imbued that it now appears even in his actions, in that they are everywhere guided by it.
§ 340
Everything original, and thus everything genuine, in man as such operates unconsciously, like the forces of nature. That which has passed through consciousness has thus become a representation or mental picture; consequently its expression is, to a certain extent, the communication of a representation. Accordingly, all genuine and sound qualities of character and intellect are originally unconscious and only as such do they make a profound impression. Everything that is done consciously is something touched up and intentional and, therefore, degenerates into affectation, i.e. deception. What a man does unconsciously costs him no effort, but no amount of effort can take its place. Of this sort is the birth of original conceptions which underlie all genuine achievements and constitute their very core. Therefore only what is inborn is genuine and sound; and everyone who wants to achieve something must comply with the rules without knowing them in everything he undertakes, whether in conduct, writing, or mental culture.
§ 341
Many a man certainly owes good fortune in his life simply to the circumstance that he has a pleasant smile with which he wins hearts. Yet it would be better to be careful and to realize from Hamlet's memorial' that one may smile, and smile, and be a villain'.
§ 342
Men of great and brilliant qualities think little of admitting their shortcomings and weaknesses or of letting them be seen. They regard them as something for which they have paid; or they even think that they will do their shortcomings an honour rather than that these will bring discredit to them. But this will be particularly the case when they are shortcomings that are directly connected with their great qualities, as conditiones sine quibus non, [19] according to the words of George Sand already quoted: chacun a les dieauts de ses vertus. [20]
On the other hand, there are those of good character and faultless intellect who never admit their few and trifling weaknesses but carefully conceal them, and who are very sensitive to any hint of their existence. This is because their whole merit consists in the absence of defects and infirmities and is at once impaired by any defect that is brought to light.
§ 343
With moderate abilities modesty is mere honesty; but with great talent it is hypocrisy. It is, therefore, just as becoming for great talent openly to express its own feelings of superiority and not to conceal its awareness of unusual powers, as it is for moderate ability to be modest. Very fine examples of this are furnished by Valerius Maximus in the chapter De fiducia sui.
§ 344
Even in his ability to be trained, man surpasses all animals. Mohammedans are trained to pray five times a day with their faces turned to Mecca and never fail to do so. Christians are trained to cross themselves, to bow, and to do other things on certain occasions. Indeed, speaking generally, religion is the chef d'oeuvre of training, namely training the ability to think; and so, as we know, a beginning in it cannot be made too early. There is no absurdity, however palpable, which cannot be firmly implanted in the minds of all, if only one begins to inculcate it before the early age of six by constantly repeating it to them with an air of great solemnity. For the training of man, like that of animals, is completely successful only at an early age.
Noblemen are trained to hold nothing sacred but their word of honour, to believe rigidly, firmly, and quite seriously in the grotesque code of knightly honour, to set their seal to it by dying for it if required to do so, and to regard the king actually as a being of a higher order. Our compliments and expressions of politeness, especially the respectful attentions paid to ladies, are due to training, as also is our esteem for birth, rank, and titles. In the same way, we take due umbrage at anything said against us; for instance, Englishmen are trained to regard as a deadly insult the reproach that they are not gentlemen and still more that they are liars; Frenchmen resent the reproach of cowardice (lache), Germans that of stupidity, and so on. Many are trained to a strict and inviolable integrity in one respect, but boast of little honour in every other. Thus many a man does not steal money, but will take everything that can be directly enjoyed. Many a merchant deceives without the least scruple, but would certainly not steal.
§ 344a
The doctor sees man in all his weakness; the lawyer sees him in all his wickedness; and the theologian sees him in all his folly and stupidity.
§ 345
There is in my mind a standing opposition party which subsequently attacks everything I have done or decided, even after mature consideration, yet without its always being right on that account. It is, I suppose, only a form of the corrective spirit of investigation; but it often casts an unmerited slur on me. I suspect that it also happens to many another; for who does not have to say to himself
[quote] quid tam dextro pede concipis, ut te Conatus non poeniteat, votique peracti? [21][/quote]
§ 346
That man has great power of imagination whose cerebral activity in intuitive perception is strong enough not to be always in need of sense stimulation in order to become active.
Accordingly, the power of imagination is the more active, the less external intuitive perception is brought to us through the senses. Long periods of solitude in prison or in a sick-room, quiet, twilight, and darkness promote its activity and under their influence it begins to play of its own accord. Conversely, when much real material is given to intuitive perception from without as on a journey, in the tumult and turmoil of the world, or in broad daylight, the power of imagination ceases to work and, even when urged to, does not become active; it seems to realize that this is not its proper time.
Yet, to be fruitful, that power must have received much material from the external world; for this alone fills its storehouse. But it is the same with the nourishment of the imagination as with that of the body. When this has just received from without much food which it has to digest, it is at that moment least capable of doing any work and prefers to rest from its labours. Yet the body is indebted to this very nourishment for all the powers which it afterwards manifests at the right time.
§ 347
Opinion observes the law of oscillation; if it goes beyond the centre of gravity on the one side, it must afterwards go as far on the other. Only with time does it find and stop at the real point of rest.
§ 348
In space distance diminishes everything by contracting it, whereby its defects and drawbacks vanish; and so in a convex mirror or camera obscura everything appears to be more beautiful than it is in reality. In time the past has just the same effect; scenes and events of long ago together with those who took part in them, seem most delightful in our memory, where everything inessential and disturbing is dropped. The present, that is without such advantages, always seems to be defective.
Again in space small objects close to us appear to be large; and if they are very near, they occupy our whole field of vision. But as soon as we are some distance from them, they become small and insignificant. It is the same as regards time; the little incidents and accidents that occur in our daily lives appear to be large, significant, and important so long as they are present and close to us and accordingly stir our emotions, anxiety, annoyance, and passions. But as soon as the restless stream of time has made them more remote, they are unimportant, not worth considering, and are quickly forgotten; for their size depended merely on their being close to us.
§ 348
As joy and sorrow are not representations or mental pictures but affections of the will, they do not lie in the domain of memory and we cannot recall those affections themselves, which means that we cannot renew them. On the contrary, we can again bring to mind merely the representations by which they were accompanied, but in particular recall our expressions that were at the time provoked by them in order to gauge from them what those emotions were. And so our memory of joys and sorrows is always imperfect and, when they are over, they are to us a matter of indifference. This is why it is always futile when we try sometimes to revive the pleasures or pains of the past; for the real and essential nature of both lies in the will. In itself and as such, however, the will has no memory, such being a function of the intellect which by its nature furnishes and contains nothing but mere representations; but these are not the subject we are considering. It is strange that on our bad days we can very vividly recall the happy days that are past; on the other hand, we have on our good days only a very imperfect and bleak picture of the bad.
§ 350
So far as memory is concerned, a confusion rather than a real congestion of what has been learnt is to be feared. Its capacity is not reduced by what has been learnt, just as the forms into which sand has been successively moulded do not diminish its capacity to be moulded into fresh forms. In this sense memory is unfathomable; yet the greater and more varied a man's knowledge, the more time he will need to find out what is suddenly demanded of him. For he is like a merchant who has to hunt for the required article from a large and miscellaneous store; or properly speaking, he has to recall from the many trains of thought which are possible to him that one which, in consequence of previous training and practice, leads to the required subject. For memory is not a reservoir for preserving things, but merely an ability to exercise mental powers. Therefore the mind always possesses all its knowledge only potentia, not actu; and on this subject I refer to § 45 of the second edition of my essay On the Principle of Sufficient Reason.
§ 350a
On occasions my memory will not reproduce a word of a foreign language, a name, or a technical term, although I know it quite well. After I have worried about it for a longer or shorter time, I dismiss the matter entirely from my mind. Then within an hour or two, in rare instances even later and sometimes only after four to six weeks, the word I have been looking for usually occurs to me while I am thinking of something quite different; and it occurs as suddenly as ifit had been whispered by someone. (It is then a good thing to fix it for the time being by a mnemonic sign until it is again stamped on the memory proper.) After observing and admiring for very many years this phenomenon, I have now come to the following as its probable explanation. After a painful and fruitless search, my will retains the craving for the word and therefore appoints for it a watcher in the intellect. Now as soon as, in the course and play of my thoughts, a word having the same initial letter or some other resemblance to the one sought accidentally occurs, the watcher springs forward and supplies what is required to make up the word sought; it seizes it and suddenly drags it forward in triumph without my knowing how and where this was done; and so it comes as ifit had been whispered in my ear. It is the same as when a child cannot repeat a word and the teacher finally suggests the first or even second 1ctter, whereupon the word comes to him. Where this method fails, the word in the end is systematically sought by our going through all the letters of the alphabet.
Images and pictures of intuitive perception are more firmly retained in the memory than are mere concepts; and so those gifted with imagination learn languages more easily than others; for they at once associate the intuitively perceptual image of the thing with the new word, whereas others connect it only with the equivalent word in their own language.
We should endeavour as far as possible to refer to an intuitively perceptual image or picture that which we wish to assimilate in our memory, whether it be direct, or an example of the thing, a mere simile, analogue, or anything else. For everything intuitively perceptual sticks much more firmly than do things that are thought only in abstracto, or even mere words. What we have experienced is, therefore, very much better retained than what we have read.
The word mnemonics appertains not only to the art of converting the direct retention into an indirect by means of a witticism, but also to a systematic theory of memory which would explain all its peculiarities, and derive these from its essential nature and then from one another.
§ 351
Only now and then do we learn something; but all day long we are forgetting.
In this connection, our memory is like a sieve that holds less and less through use and with the passage of time. Thus the older we grow, the more rapidly does what we still commit to memory vanish therefrom; whereas what was fixed in it in our early years is still retained. An old man's reminiscences are, therefore, the more distinct, the further they go back into the past; and they become less and less clear, the nearer they approach the present; so that his memory, like his eyes, has become long-sighted ([x]). [22]
§ 352
There are moments in life when the sensuous perception of the present and our environment reaches a rare and higher degree of clearness without any special external cause, but rather through an enhanced susceptibility coming from within and explainable only physiologically. In this way, such moments subsequently remain indelibly impressed on the memory and are preserved in their entire individuality. We do not know why it should be just these moments out of so many thousands like them. On the contrary, they seem to be quite as accidental as are the solitary specimens of complete extinct animal species which are preserved in layers of rock, or the insects that were once accidentally crushed between the pages of a book when it was shut. However, memories of this nature are always delightful and pleasant.
How fine and significant many of the scenes and events of our early life appear to be when we recall them, although at the time we let them pass without attaching to them any particular value! But, whether appreciated or not, they were bound to pass away; they are just the pieces of mosaic whence the picture of recollection of our lives is composed.
§ 353
Scenes long past sometimes start up suddenly and vividly in the memory, apparently without cause. In many cases, this may be due to a faint odour of which we are not clearly conscious, but which we now detect precisely as we did previously. For it is well known that odours awaken memory with particular ease and that everywhere the nexus idearum23 needs only an exceedingly small impulse. Incidentally, the eye is the sense of the understanding (Fourfold Root qf the Principle of Sufficient Reason, § 21); the ear that of the faculty of reason (see above § 301); and here, as we see, the sense of smell is that of memory. Touch and taste are realistic and tied to contact; they have no ideal side.
§ 354
One of the peculiarities of memory is that slight intoxication enhances the recollection of past times and scenes to such a degree that we recall all their circumstances more perfectly than we could have done in a state of soberness. On the other hand, the recollection of what we ourselves said or did while intoxicated is less perfect than it would otherwise be; in fact, it does not exist at all after we have been really drunk. Thus intoxication enhances recollection, but furnishes it with little material.
§ 355
Delirium falsifies intuitive perception; madness thoughts and ideas.
§ 356
That the lowest of all mental activities is arithmetic is proved by the fact that it is the only one that can be performed even by a machine. In England at the present time, calculating machines are frequently used for the sake of convenience. Now all analysis finitorum et infinitorum [24] ultimately amounts to repeated reckoning. It is on these lines that we should gauge the' mathematical profundity', about which Lichtenberg is very amusing when he says: 'The so-called professional mathematicians, supported by the childish immaturity of the rest of mankind, have earned a reputation for profundity of thought that bears a strong resemblance to that for godliness which the theologians claim for themselves.'
§ 357
Men of very great ability will, as a rule, get on better with those of very limited intellect than with ordinary people, for the same reason that the tyrant and the mob, grandparents and grandchildren, are natural allies.
§ 358
Men are in need of external activity because they have none that is internal. On the other hand, where the latter takes place, the former is rather an inopportune and indeed often confounded disturbance and hindrance, and the prevailing desire is for leisure and peace and quiet from without. From that need for external activity can also be explained a restlessness and pointless mania for travel on the part of those who have nothing to do. What chases them through all the countries of their travels is the same boredom that in their own country drives and herds them together in a way that is really quite comic to watch.* An excellent confirmation of the truth of this was once afforded by a stranger, a man about fifty, who told me all about his two-year pleasure trip to distant countries and continents. When I remarked that he must have endured great hardships, privations, and dangers, he gave me the extremely naive reply, at once and without any ceremony but with the assumption of the enthymemes, that not for one moment was he bored.
§ 359
I am not surprised that people are bored when they are alone; they cannot laugh when they are by themselves; even the very idea of such a thing seems to them absurd. Is laughter, then, only a signal for others and a mere sign, like a word? Lack of imagination and of mental keenness generally, (dullness, [x] [25] as Theophrastus says, Ethici characteres, c. 27) is what prevents them from laughing when they are alone. The animals do not laugh either alone or m company.
Myson, the misanthrope, when laughing to himself, was once surprised by one of those men. He was then asked why he was laughing, since he was alone. 'That is the very reason why I am laughing' was Myson's reply.
§ 360
Nevertheless, a man who with a phlegmatic temperament is merely a blockhead would with a sanguine nature be a fool.
§ 361
Whoever does not go to the theatre resembles a man who dresses without a mirror; but worse still is he who makes his decisions without consulting a friend. For a man may have the most excellent and accurate judgement in everything except in his own affairs because here the will at once confuses the intellect. We should, therefore, consult others for the same reason that a doctor cures everyone but himself; when ill he calls in a colleague.
§ 361a
The everyday natural gesticulation, such as accompanies any lively conversation, is a language of its own and indeed one that is much more universal than that of words, in so far as it is independent of the latter and is the same in all countries. It is true that each nation makes use of it according to its vivacity and that in the case of some, the Italians, for example, such language has been supplemented by a few merely conventional gesticulations of its own which are, therefore, of only local application. Its universal nature is analogous to logic and grammar since it is due to the fact that the gesticulation expresses the formal, and not the material part of any conversation. Yet it is distinguished from them by the fact that it relates not merely to what is intellectual, but also to what is moral, i.e. the stirrings of the will. Accordingly, it accompanies the conversation as does a correctly progressive ground-bass the melody; and, like this bass, it helps to enhance the effect of the conversation. Now the most interesting thing about this is the absolute identity of the particular gesture in use whenever the formal part of the conversation is the same, however different its material part and thus its subject-matter, namely the business under discussion. And so when from my window I see two men carrying on a lively conversation without hearing what they are saying, I am well able to understand its general, i.e. merely formal and typical, sense. For I infallibly perceive that the speaker is now arguing, advancing his reasons, then limiting them, then driving them home, and drawing his conclusions in triumph. Or else I see him giving an account and a palpable description of some wrong that has been done to him, the lively way in which he complains of the callous, stupid, and intractable nature of opponents. Again, I can see him telling the other man about the fine plan he made and carried out, or complaining how through an unkind fate he failed. I can now see him admitting his helplessness in the present case or saying how, in the nick of time, he noticed the machinations of others, saw through them, and, by asserting his rights or applying force, frustrated them and punished their authors; and a hundred similar things. But what the mere gesticulation gives me is really the essential substance of the conversation in abstracto, either morally or intellectually, thus its quintessence, its true subject-matter, which, in spite of the most different occasions and thus of the most varied material, is identical. It is related to this as the concept to the individual things that are covered by it. As I have said, the most interesting and amusing thing is the absolute identity and stability of the gestures for expressing the same circumstances, even when they are used by men of very different temperament. Thus the gestures are absolutely like the words of a language and the same for everyone and, like these, undergo only such modifications as do words through minor differences of pronunciation or even of education. Yet there is certainly no convention or agreement underlying these standing and universally observed forms of gesticulation. On the contrary, they are natural and original, a true language of nature, although they may be established by imitation and custom. It is well known that an actor, and to a lesser extent a public speaker, has to make a careful study of them which, however, must consist mainly in observation and imitation. For the matter cannot be reduced to abstract rules, with the exception of a few quite general leading principles, as for example the one that the gesture must not come after the word, but rather just before it, announcing it, as it were, and thus attracting attention.
The English have a characteristic contempt for gesticulation and regard it as something vulgar and beneath their dignity. But this seems to be just one of those silly prejudices of English prudery. For here we are speaking of a language which nature gives everyone and everyone understands. Accordingly, to do away with it summarily merely out of deference to that much-lauded gentlemanly feeling and to declare it taboo might be a precarious proceeding.
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[b]Notes:[/b]
1 ['Portal veins'.] 2 ['May you live many years!']
3 ['Every individual is unfathomable and inscrutable.']
* Hope is a state to which our whole being (namely will and intellect) tends; the will by its desiring the object of hope; the intellect by its reckoning such object as probable. The greater the share of the latter factor and the smaller that of the former, the better it will be for hope. If the ratios are reversed, the worse it will be.
4 ['The intellect is no light that would burn dry (without oil), but receives its supply from the will and from the passions.']
5 ['Other things being equal'.] 6 [Pati, to suffer.] 7 ['An opportunity, however small, suffices to make us angry.']
8 ['Brief paroxysm of rage' (Horace, Epistles, I. 2. 62).]
9 ['Bond', 'bridge'.]
* We do not easily recognize the significance of events and persons when they are actually present. It is only when they lie in the past that they stand out in all their significance after being given prominence by recollection, narrative, and description.
10 [' Know thyself ']
11 ['Touch me not!']
12 ['While the animals bend down and turn their faces to the earth' (Metamorphoses, I. 84).]
13 [' Bent down to the earth!' (Sallust, Catalina.)]
14 ['To man alone he gave a sublime countenance and bade him look up with exalted gaze to the stars in the heavens.' (Metamorphoses, I. 85-6.)]
15 ['Century after century'.]
16 ['They are specimens.']
17 ['It is not so important.' (Metamorphoses, VI. 386.)]
18 ['No human affair is worth our troubling ourselves very much about it.']
19 ['Essential conditions'.]
20 ['Everyone has the failings of his virtues.']
21 ['What have you begun with such skill that you ought not to regret the attempt and the success of the wish?' (Juvenal, Satires, 10. 5-6.)] 22 [As an old man ([x]) he suffers from presbyopia, or long-sightedness.]
23 ['Association of ideas'.] 24 ['Analysis of finite and infinite numbers'.]
* Moreover, boredom is the source of the gravest evils; if we go to the root of the matter, gambling, drinking, extravagance, intrigues, and so on, have their origin in boredom.
25 ['Mental apathy and dullness'.]
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