ESSAYS OF 

ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER 

TRANSLATED BY 

T. BAILEY SAUNDERS, M.A. 



WISDOM OF LIFE 
COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 



WILLEY BOOK COMPANY 
NEW YORK 



509803 



B 



V-2, 



THE WISDOM OF LIFE. 

CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER PAG 

INTRODUCTION 1 

I. DIVISION OF THE SUBJECT 3 

II. PERSONALITY, OR WHAT A MAN is 14 

III. PROPERTY, OR WHAT A MAN HAS 45 

IV. POSITION, OR A MAN S PLACE IN THE ES 

TIMATION OF OTHERS 

Sect. 1. Reputation 55 

" 2. Pride 63 

" 3. Rank 67 

" 4. Honor 68 

" 5. Fame. 107 



INTRODUCTION. 

IN these pages I shall speak of The Wisdom of 
Life in the common meaning of the term, as the 
art, namely, of ordering our lives so as to obtain 
the greatest possible amount of pleasure and suc 
cess; an art the theory of which may be called 
Eudcemonology , for it teaches us how to lead a 
happy existence. Such an existence might perhaps 
be defined as one which, looked at from a purely 
objective point of view, or, rather, after cool and 
mature reflection for the question necessarily in 
volves subjective considerations, would be de 
cidedly preferable to non-existence; implying that 
we should cling to it for its own sake, and not 
merely from the fear of death; and further, that 
we should never like it to come to an end. 

Now whether human life corresponds, or could 
possibly correspond, to this conception of existence, 
is a question to which, as is well-known, my philo 
sophical system returns a negative answer. On the 
eudsemonistic hypothesis, however, the question 
must be answered in the affirmative; and I have 
shown, in the second volume of my chief work 
(ch. 49), that this hypothesis is based upon a fun 
damental mistake. Accordingly, in elaborating the 
scheme of a happy existence, I have had to make 
a complete surrender of the higher metaphysical 
and ethical standpoint to which my own theories 
lead; and everything I shall say here will to some 
extent rest upon a compromise; in so far, that is, 
as I take the common standpoint of every day, and 

i 



INTRODUCTION 

embrace the error which is at the bottom of it. My 
remarks, therefore, will possess only a qualified 
value, for the very word eudcemonology is a euphe 
mism. Further, I make no claims to completeness ; 
partly because the subject is inexhaustible, and 
partly because I should otherwise have to say over 
again what has been already said by others. 

The only book composed, as far as I remember, 
with a like purpose to that which animates this 
collection of aphorisms, is Cardan s De utilitate ex 
adversis capienda, which is well worth reading, and 
may be used to supplement the present work. Aris 
totle, it is true, has a few words on eudgemonology 
in the fifth chapter of the first book of his Rhetoric; 
but what he says does not come to very much. As 
compilation is not my business, I have made no use 
of these predecessors; more especially because in 
the process of compiling, individuality of view is 
lost, and individuality of view is the kernel of works 
of this kind. In general, indeed, the wise in all 
ages have always said the same thing, and the fools, 
who at all times form the immense majority, have 
in their way too acted alike, and done just the 
opposite; and so it will continue. For, as Voltaire 
says, we shall leave this world as foolish and as 
wicked as we found it on our arrival. 



THE WISDOM OF LIFE. 

CHAPTER I. 

DIVISION or THE SUBJECT. 

ARISTOTLE 1 divides the blessings of life into three 
classes those which come to us from without, 
those of the soul, and those of the body. Keeping 
nothing of this division but the number, I observe 
that the fundamental differences in human lot may 
be reduced to three distinct classes : 

(1) What a man is: that is to say, personality, 
in the widest sense of the word; under which are 
included health, strength, beauty, temperament, 
moral character, intelligence, and education. 

(2) What a man has: that is, property and pos 
sessions of every kind. 

(3) How a man stands in the estimation of 
others: by which is to be understood, as everybody 
knows, what a man is in the eyes of his fellowmen, 
or, more strictly, the light in which they regard him. 
This is shown by their opinion of him; and their 
opinion is in its turn manifested by the honor in 
which he is held, and by his rank and reputation. 

The differences which come under the first head 
are those which Nature herself has set between man 
and man; and from this fact alone we may at once 
infer that they influence the happiness or unhappi- 
ness of mankind in a much more vital and radical 

*Eth. Nichom., I. 8. 
3 



4 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

way than those contained under the two following 
heads, which are merely the effect of human ar 
rangements. Compared with genuine personal ad 
vantages, such as a great mind or a great heart, 
all the privileges of rank or birth, even of royal 
birth, are but as kings on the stage, to kings in real 
life. The same thing was said long ago by Metro- 
dorus, the earliest disciple of Epicurus, who wrote 
as the title of one of his chapters, The happiness 
we receive from ourselves is greater than that which 
we obtain from our surroundings. 1 And it is an 
obvious fact, which cannot be called in question, 
that the principal element in a man s well-being, 
indeed, in the whole tenor of his existence, is what 
he is made of, his inner constitution. For this is 
the immediate source of that inward satisfaction or 
dissatisfaction resulting from the sum total of his 
sensations, desires and thoughts; whilst his sur 
roundings, on the other hand, exert only a mediate 
or indirect influence upon him. This is why the 
same external events or circumstances affect no 
two people alike ; even with perfectly similar sur 
roundings every one lives in a world of his own. 
For a man has immediate apprehension only of his 
own ideas, feelings and volitions; the outer world 
can influence him only in so far as it brings these 
to life. The world in which a man lives shapes 
itself chiefly by the way in which he looks at it, and 
so it proves different to different men; to one it is 
barren, dull, and superficial; to another rich, inter 
esting, and full of meaning. On hearing of the 
interesting events which have happened in the 
course of a man s experience, many people will wish 
that similar things had happened in their lives too, 
completely forgetting that they should be envious 
1 Cf . Clemens Alex. Strom. II., 21. 



DIVISION OF THE SUBJECT 5 

rather of the mental aptitude which lent those 
events the significance they possess when he de 
scribes them ; to a man of genius they were interest 
ing adventures; but to the dull perceptions of an 
ordinary individual they would have been stale, 
every-day occurrences. This is in the highest de 
gree the case with many of Goethe s and Byron s 
poems, which are obviously founded upon actual 
facts; where it is open to a foolish reader to envy 
the poet because so many delightful things hap 
pened to him, instead of envying that mighty power 
of phantasy which was capable of turning a fairly 
common experience into something so great and 
beautiful. 

In the same way, a person of melancholy temper 
ament will make a scene in a tragedy out of what 
appears to the sanguine man only in the light of 
an interesting conflict, and to a phlegmatic soul as 
something without any meaning; -all of which 
rests upon the fact that every event, in order to be 
realized and appreciated, requires the co-operation 
of two factors, namely, a subject and an object, 
although these are as closely and necessarily con 
nected as oxygen and hydrogen in water. When 
therefore the objective or external factor in an ex 
perience is actually the same, but the subjective 
or personal appreciation of it varies, the event is 
just as much a different one in the eyes of dif 
ferent persons as if the objective factors had not 
been alike; for to a blunt intelligence the fairest 
and best object in the world presents only a poor 
reality, and is therefore only poorly appreciated, 
like a fine landscape in dull weather, or in the re 
flection of a bad camera obscura. In plain lan 
guage, every man is pent up within the limits of 
his own consciousness, and cannot directly get 



6 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

beyond those limits any more than he can get be 
yond his own skin; so external aid is not of much 
use to him. On the stage, one man is a prince, 
another a minister, a third a servant or a soldier 
or a general, and so on, mere external differences : 
the inner reality, the kernel of all these appearances 
is the same a poor player, with all the anxieties 
of his lot. In life it is just the same. Differences 
of rank and wealth give every man his part to play, 
but this by no means implies a difference of inward 
happiness and pleasure; here, too, there is the same 
being in all a poor mortal, with his hardships and 
troubles. Though these may, indeed, in every case 
proceed from dissimilar causes, they are in their 
essential nature much the same in all their forms, 
with degrees of intensity which vary, no doubt, but 
in no wise correspond to the part a man has to 
play, to the presence or absence of position and 
wealth. Since everything which exists or happens 
for a man exists only in his consciousness and hap 
pens for it alone, the most essential thing for a man 
is the constitution of this consciousness, which is in 
most cases far more important than the circum 
stances which go to form its contents. All the pride 
and pleasure of the world, mirrored in the dull 
consciousness of a fool, are poor indeed compared 
with the imagination of Cervantes writing his Don 
Quixote in a miserable prison. The objective half 
of life and reality is in the hand of fate, and accord 
ingly takes various forms in different cases: the 
subjective half is ourself, and in essentials is always 
remains the same. 

Hence the life of every man is stamped with the 
same character throughout, however much his ex 
ternal circumstances may alter; it is like a series 
of variations on a single theme, No one can get 



DIVISION OF THE SUBJECT 7 

beyond his own individuality. An animal, under 
whatever circumstances it is placed, remains within 
the narrow limits to which nature has irrevocably 
consigned it; so that our endeavors to make a pet 
happy must always keep within the compass of its 
nature, and be restricted to what it can feel. So 
it is with man; the measure of the happiness he 
can attain is determined beforehand by his indi 
viduality. More especially is this the case with the 
mental powers, which fix once for all his capacity 
for the higher kinds of pleasure. If these powers 
are small, no efforts from without, nothing that 
his fellowmen or that fortune can do for him, will 
suffice to raise him above the ordinary degree of 
human happiness and pleasure, half animal though 
it be; his only resources are his sensual appetite, 
a cozy and cheerful family life at the most, low 
company and vulgar pastime; even education, on 
the whole, can avail little, if anything, for the en 
largement of his horizon. For the highest, most 
varied and lasting pleasures are those of the mind, 
however much our youth may deceive us on this 
point; and the pleasures of the mind turn chiefly 
on the powers of the mind. It is clear, then, that 
our happiness depends in a great degree upon what 
we are, upon our individuality, whilst lot or destiny 
is generally taken to mean only what we have, or 
our reputation. Our lot, in this sense, may im 
prove; but we do not ask much of it if we are 
inwardly rich: on the other hand, a fool remains 
a fool, a dull blockhead, to his last hour, even 
though he were surrounded by houris in paradise. 
This is why Goethe, in the West-ostlichen Divan, 
says that every man, whether he occupies a low 
position in life, or emerges as its victor, testifies to 
personality as the greatest factor in happiness : 



8 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

Volk und Knecht und Uberwinder 

Sie gestehen, zu jeder Zeit, 
Hochtes Gliick der Erdenkinder 

Sei nur die Personlichkeit. 

Everything confirms the fact that the subjective 
element in life is incomparably more important for 
our happiness and pleasure than the objective, from 
such sayings as Hunger is the best sauce, and 
Youth and Age cannot live together, up to the life 
of the Genius and the Saint. Health outweighs all 
other blessings so much that one may really say 
that a healthy beggar is happier than an ailing 
king. A quiet and cheerful temperament, happy 
in the enjoyment of a perfectly sound physique, 
an intellect clear, lively, penetrating and seeing 
things as they are, a moderate and gentle will, and 
therefore a good conscience these are privileges 
which no rank or wealth can make up for or re 
place. For what a man is in himself, what accom 
panies him when he is alone, what no one can give 
or take away, is obviously more essential to him 
than everything he has in the way of possessions, 
or even what he may be in the eyes of the world. 
An intellectual man in complete solitude has ex 
cellent entertainment in his own thoughts and 
fancies, while no amount of diversity or social 
pleasure, theatres, excursions and amusements, can 
ward off boredom from a dullard. A good, tem 
perate, gentle character can be happy in needy 
circumstances, whilst a covetous, envious and mali 
cious man, even if he be the richest in the world, 
goes miserable. Nay more ; to one who has the con 
stant delight of a special individuality, with a 
high degree of intellect, most of the pleasures 
which are run after by mankind are simply super 
fluous; they are even a trouble and a burden. And 



DIVISION OF THE SUBJECT 9 

so Horace says of himself, that, however many 
are deprived of the fancy-goods of life, there is 
one at least who can live without them : 

Gemmas, marmor, ebur, TyrrJiena sigilla, tabellas, 

Argentum, vestes, Gcetulo murice tinctas 

Sunt qui non habeant, est qui non curat habere; 

and when Socrates saw various articles of luxury 
spread out for sale, he exclaimed: How much 
there is in the world I do not want. 

So the first and most essential element in our 
life s happiness is what we are, our personality, 
if for no other reason than that it is a constant 
factor coming into play under all circumstances: 
besides, unlike the blessings which are described 
under the other two heads, it is not the sport of 
destiny and cannot be wrested from us; and, so 
far, it is endowed with an absolute value in con 
trast to the merely relative worth of the other two. 
The consequence of this is that it is much more 
difficult than people commonly suppose to get a 
hold on a man from without. But here the all- 
powerful agent, Time, comes in and claims its 
rights, and before its influence physical and mental 
advantages gradually waste away. Moral char 
acter alone remains inaccessible to it. In view of 
the destructive effect of time, it seems, indeed, as 
if the blessings named under the other two heads, 
of which time cannot directly rob us, were superior 
to those of the first. Another advantage might be 
claimed for them, namely, that being in their very 
nature objective and external, they are attainable, 
and every one is presented with the possibility, at 
least, of coming into possession of them; whilst 
what is subjective is not open to us to acquire, but 
making its entry by a kind of divine right, it re- 



10 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

mains for life, immutable, inalienable, an inexora 
ble doom. Let me quote those lines in which 
Goethe describes how an unalterable destiny is as 
signed to every man at the hour of his birth, so 
that he can develop only in the lines laid down 
for him, as it were, by the conjunctions of the stars: 
and how the Sybil and the prophets declare that 
himself a man can never escape, nor any power of 
time avail to change the path on which his life is 
cast; 

Wie an dem Tag, der dich der Welt verliehen, 
D ie Sonne stand zum Grusse der Planeten, 
Bist alsobald und fort und fort gediehen, 
Nach dem Gesetz, wonach du angetreten. 
So musst du sein, dir kannst du nicht entfliehen, 
So tagten schon Sybillen und Propheten; 
Und keine Zeit, und keine Macht zerstuckelt 
Geprdgte Form,, die lebend sich entwickelt. 

The only thing that stands in our power to 
achieve, is to make the most advantageous use pos 
sible of the personal qualities we possess, and 
accordingly to follow such pursuits only as will 
call them into play, to strive after the kind of per 
fection of which they admit and to avoid every 
other; consequently, to choose the position, occupa 
tion and manner of life which are most suitable 
for their development. 

Imagine a man endowed with herculean strength 
who is compelled by circumstances to follow a 
sedentary occupation, some minute exquisite work 
of the hands, for example, or to engage in study 
and mental labor demanding quite other powers, 
and just those which he has not got, compelled, 
that is, to leave unused the powers in which he is 
pre-eminently strong; a man placed like this will 
never feel happy all his life through. Even more 
miserable will be the lot of the man with intel- 



DIVISION OF THE SUBJECT 11 

lectual powers of a very high order, who has to 
leave them undeveloped and unemployed, in the 
pursuit of a calling which does not require them, 
some bodily labor, perhaps, for which his strength 
is insufficient. Still, in a case of this kind, it should 
be our care, especially in youth, to avoid the preci 
pice of presumption, and not ascribe to ourselves 
a superfluity of power which is not there. 

Since the blessings described under the first 
head decidedly outweigh those contained under the 
other two, it is manifestly a wiser course to aim at 
the maintenance of our health and the cultivation 
of our faculties, than at the amassing of wealth; 
but this must not be mistaken as meaning that we 
should neglect to acquire an adequate supply of 
the necessaries of life. Wealth, in the strict sense 
of the word, that is, great superfluity, can do little 
for our happiness; and many rich people feel un 
happy just because they are without any true men 
tal culture or knowledge, and consequently have 
no objective interests which would qualify them for 
intellectual occupations. For beyond the satisfac 
tion of some real and natural necessities, all that 
the possession of wealth can achieve has a very 
small influence upon our happiness, in the proper 
sense of the word; indeed, wealth rather disturbs 
it, because the preservation of property entails a 
great many unavoidable anxieties. And still men 
are a thousand times more intent on becoming rich 
than on acquiring culture, though it is quite certain 
that what a man is contributes much more to his 
happiness than what he has. So you may see many 
a man, as industrious as an ant, ceaselessly occupied 
from morning to night in the endeavor to increase 
his heap of gold. Beyond the narrow horizon of 
means to this end, he knows nothing; his mind is a 



12 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

blank, and consequently unsusceptible to any other 
influence. The highest pleasures, those of the in 
tellect, are to him inaccessible, and he tries in vain 
to replace them by the fleeting pleasures of sense 
in which he indulges, lasting but a brief hour and 
at tremendous cost. And if he is lucky, his strug 
gles result in his having a really great pile of gold, 
which he leaves to his heir, either to make it still 
larger, or to squander it in extravagance. A life 
like this, though pursued with a sense of earnest 
ness and an air of importance, is just as silly as 
many another which has a fool s cap for its 
symbol. 

What a man has in himself is, then, the chief 
element in his happiness. Because this is, as a rule, 
so very little, most of those who are placed beyond 
the struggle with penury feel at bottom quite 
as unhappy as those who are still engaged in it. 
Their minds are vacant, their imagination dull, 
their spirits poor, and so they are driven to the 
company of those like them for similis simili 
gaudet where they make common pursuit of pas 
time and entertainment, consisting for the most 
part in sensual pleasure, amusement of every kind, 
and finally, in excess and libertinism. A young 
man of rich family enters upon life with a large 
patrimony, and often runs through it in an incred 
ibly short space of time, in vicious extravagance; 
and why? Simply because, here too, the mind is 
empty and void, and so the man is bored with 
existence. He was sent forth into the world out 
wardly rich but inwardly poor, and his vain en 
deavor was to make his external wealth compen 
sate for his inner poverty, by trying to obtain every 
thing -from without, like an old man who seeks to 
strengthen himself as King David or Marechal 



DIVISION OF THE SUBJECT 13 

de Rex tried to do. And so in the end one who is 
inwardly poor comes to be also poor outwardly. 

I need not insist upon the importance of the 
other two kinds of blessings which make up the 
happiness of human life; now-a-days the value of 
possessing them is too well known to require ad 
vertisement. The third class, it is true, may seem, 
compared with the second, of a very ethereal char 
acter, as it consists only of other people s opinions. 
Still every one has to strive for reputation, that is 
to say, a good name. Rank, on the other hand, 
should be aspired to only by those who serve the 
state, and fame by very few indeed. In any case, 
reputation is looked upon as a priceless treasure, 
and fame as the most precious of all the blessings 
a man can attain, the Golden Fleece, as it were, 
of the elect: whilst only fools will prefer rank to 
property. The second and third classes, moreover, 
are reciprocally cause and effect; so far, that is, as 
Petronius maxim, habes habeberis, is true; and 
conversely, the favor of others, in all its forms, 
often puts us in the way of getting what we want. 



CHAPTER II. 

PERSONALITY, OR WHAT A MAN Is. 

WE have already seen, in general, that what a 
man is contributes much more to his happiness 
than what he has, or how he is regarded by others. 
What a man is, and so what he has in his own per 
son, is always the chief thing to consider; for his 
individuality accompanies him always and every 
where, and gives its color to all his experiences. 
In every kind of enjoyment, for instance, the pleas 
ure depends principally upon the man. himself. 
Every one admits this in regard to physical, and 
how much truer it is of intellectual, pleasure. 
When we use that English expression, "to enjoy 
one s self," we are employing a very striking and 
appropriate phrase; for observe one says, not "he 
enjoys Paris," but "he enjoys himself in Paris." 
To a man possessed of an ill-conditioned individ 
uality, all pleasure is like delicate wine in a mouth 
made bitter with gall. Therefore, in the blessings 
as well as in the ills of life, less depends upon what 
befalls us than upon the way in which it is met, 
that is, upon the kind and degree of our general 
susceptibility. What a man is and has in himself, 
in a word personality, with all it entails, is the 
only immediate and direct factor in his happiness 
and welfare. All else is mediate and indirect, and 
its influence can be neutralized and frustrated; but 
the influence of personality never. This is why 
the envy which personal qualities excite is the most 

14 



PERSONALITY, OR WHAT A MAN IS 15 

implacable of all, as it is also the most carefully 
dissembled. 

Further, the constitution of our consciousness is 
the ever present and lasting element in all we do 
or suffer; our individuality is persistently at work, 
more or less, at every moment of our life : all other 
influences are temporal, incidental, fleeting, and 
subject to every kind of chance and change. This 
is why Aristotle says: It is not wealth but char 
acter that lasts. 1 

rf yap <f>v(Ti<: /?/?aiov, ov ra ^pr;/x.aTa. 

And just for the same reason we can more easily 
bear a misfortune which comes to us entirely from 
without, than one which we have drawn upon our 
selves; for fortune may always change, but not 
character. Therefore, subjective blessings, a 
noble nature, a capable head, a joyful tempera 
ment, bright spirits, a well-constituted, perfectly 
sound physique, in a word, mens sana in corpore 
sano, are the first and most important elements in 
happiness ; so that we should be more intent on pro 
moting and preserving such qualities than on the 
possession of external wealth and external honor. 
And of all these, the one which makes us the 
most directly happy is a genial flow of good spirits ; 
for this excellent quality is its own immediate re 
ward. The man who is cheerful and merry has 
always a good reason for being so, the fact, 
namely, that he is so. There is nothing which, like 
this quality, can so completely replace the loss of 
every other blessing. If you know anyone who is 
young, handsome, rich and esteemed, and you want 
to know, further, if he is happy, ask, Is he cheerful 

1 Eth. End., vii. 2. 37: 



16 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

and genial? and if he is, what does it matter 
whether he is young or old, straight or hump 
backed, poor or rich? he is happy. In my early 
days I once opened an old book and found these 
words : // you laugh a great deal, you are happy; 
if you cry a great deal, you are unhappy; a very 
simple remark, no doubt; but just because it is so 
simple I have never been able to forget it, even 
though it is in the last degree a truism. So if cheer 
fulness knocks at our door, we should throw it wide 
open, for it never comes inopportunely; instead of 
that, we often make scruples about letting it in. 
We want to be quite sure that we have every rea 
son to be contented; then we are afraid that cheer 
fulness of spirits may interfere with serious reflec 
tions or weighty cares. Cheerfulness is a direct 
and immediate gain, the very coin, as it were, of 
happiness, and not, like all else, merely a cheque 
upon the bank; for it alone makes us immediately 
happy in the present moment, and that is the high 
est blessing for beings like us, whose existence is 
but an infinitesimal moment between two eternities. 
To secure and promote this feeling of cheerfulness 
should be the supreme aim of all our endeavors 
after happiness. 

Now it is certain that nothing contributes so little 
to cheerfulness as riches, or so much, as health. Is 
it not in the lower classes, the so-called working 
classes, more especially those of them who live in 
the country, that we see cheerful and contented 
faces? and is it not amongst the rich, the upper 
classes, that we find faces full of ill-humor and vex 
ation? Consequently we should try as much as 
possible to maintain a high degree of health; for 
cheerfulness is the very flower of it. I need hardly 
say what one must do to be healthy avoid every 



PERSONALITY, OR WHAT A MAN IS 17 

kind of excess, all violent and unpleasant emotion, 
all mental overstrain, take daily exercise in the open 
air, cold baths and such like hygienic measures. 
For without a proper amount of daily exercise no 
one can remain healthy; all the processes of life 
demand exercise for the clue performance of their 
functions, exercise not only of the parts more im 
mediately concerned, but also of the whole body. 
For, as Aristotle rightly says, Life is movement; 
it is its very essence. Ceaseless and rapid motion 
goes on in every part of the organism. The heart, 
with its complicated double systole and diastole, 
beats strongly and untiringly; with twenty-eight 
beats it has to drive the whole of the blood through 
arteries, veins and capillaries; the lungs pump like 
a steam-engine, without intermission ; the intestines 
are always in peristaltic action; the glands are all 
constantly absorbing and secreting; even the brain 
has a double motion of its own, with every beat of 
the pulse and every breath we draw. When people 
can get no exercise at all, as is the case with the 
countless numbers who are condemned to a seden 
tary life, there is a glaring and fatal disproportion 
between outward inactivity and inner tumult. For 
this ceaseless internal motion requires some exter 
nal counterpart, and the want of it produces effects 
like those of emotion which we are obliged to sup 
press. Even trees must be shaken by the wind, if 
they are to thrive. The rule which finds its appli 
cation here may be most briefly expressed in Latin : 
omnis motus, quo celerior, eo magis motus. 

How much our happiness depends upon our 
spirits, and these again upon our state of health, 
may be seen by comparing the influence which the 
same external circumstances or events have upon 
us when we are well and strong with the effects 



18 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

which they have when we are depressed and 
troubled with ill-health. It is not what things are 
objectively and in themselves, but what they are 
for us, in our way of looking at them, that makes 
us happy or the reverse. As Epictetus says, Men 
are not influenced by things, but by their thoughts 
about things. And, in general, nine-tenths of our 
happiness depends upon health alone. With health, 
everything is a source of pleasure; without it, noth 
ing else, whatever it may be, is enjoyable; even the 
other personal blessings, a great mind, a happy 
temperament are degraded and dwarfed for want 
of it. So it is really with good reason that, when 
two people meet, the first thing they do is to inquire 
after each other s health, and to express the hope 
that it is good; for good health is by far the most 
important element in human happiness. It follows 
from all this that the greatest of follies is to sacri 
fice health for any other kind of happiness, what 
ever it may be, for gain, advancement, learning or 
fame, let alone, then, for fleeting sensual pleasures. 
Everything else should rather be postponed to it. 

But however much health may contribute to that 
flow of good spirits which is so essential to our hap 
piness, good spirits do not entirely depend upon 
health; for a man may be perfectly sound in his 
physique and still possess a melancholy tempera 
ment and be generally given up to sad thoughts. 
The ultimate cause of this is undoubtedly to be 
found in innate, and therefore unalterable, physical 
constitution, especially in the more or less normal 
relation of a man s sensitiveness to his muscular 
and vital energy. Abnormal sensitiveness produces 
inequality of spirits, a predominating melancholy, 
with periodical fits of unrestrained liveliness. A 
genius is one whose nervous power or sensitiveness 



PERSONALITY, OR WHAT A MAN IS 19 

is largely in excess ; as Aristotle 1 has very correctly 
observed, Men distinguished in philosophy, politics, 
poetry or art appear to be all of a melancholy tem 
perament. This is doubtless the passage which 
Cicero has in his mind when he says, as he often 
does, Aristoteles ait omnes ingeniosos melancho- 
licos esse. 2 Shakespeare has very neatly expressed 
this radical and innate diversity of temperament in 
those lines in The Merchant of Venice: 

Nature has framed strange fellows in Tier time; 

Some that will evermore peep through their eyes, 

And laugh, like parrots at a bag-piper; 

And others of such vinegar aspect, 

That they ll not show their teeth in way of smile, 

Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable. 

This is the difference which Plato draws between 
tvKoXos and SvWoAos the man of easy, and the man 
of difficult disposition in proof of which he refers 
to the varying degrees of susceptibility which dif 
ferent people show to pleasurable and painful im 
pressions ; so that one man will laugh at what makes 
another despair. As a rule, the stronger the sus 
ceptibility to unpleasant impressions, the weaker 
is the susceptibility to pleasant ones, and vice 
versa. If it is equally possible for an event to 
turn out well or ill, the 8vV/<oAos will be annoyed or 
grieved if the issue is unfavorable, and will not re 
joice, should it be happy. On the other hand, the 
cvKoAos will neither worry nor fret over an unfavor 
able Issue, but rejoice if it turns out well. If the 
one is successful in nine out of ten undertakings, 
he will not be pleased, but rather annoyed that one 
has miscarried; whilst the other, if only a single 
one succeeds, will manage to find consolation in the 
fact and remain cheerful. But here is another in- 

1 Probl. xxx., ep. L 2 Tusc. i., 3a 



20 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

stance of the truth, that hardly any evil is entirely 
without its compensation; for the misfortunes and 
sufferings which the vo-KoXot, that is, people of 
gloomy and anxious character, have to overcome, 
are, on the whole, more imaginary and therefore 
less real than those which befall the gay and care 
less; for a man who paints everything black, who 
constantly fears the worst and takes measures ac 
cordingly, will not be disappointed so often in this 
world, as one who always looks upon the bright 
side of things. And when a morbid affection of 
the nerves, or a derangement of the digestive 
organs, plays into the hands of an innate tendency 
to gloom, this tendency may reach such a height 
that permanent discomfort produces a weariness of 
life. So arises an inclination to suicide, which even 
the most trivial unpleasantness may actually bring 
about; nay, when the tendency attains its worst 
form, it may be occasioned by nothing in particular, 
but a man may resolve to put an end to his exist 
ence, simply because he is permanently unhappy, 
and then coolly and firmly carry out his determi 
nation; as may be seen by the way in which the 
sufferer, when placed under supervision, as he 
usually is, eagerly waits to seize the first unguarded 
moment, when, without a shudder, without a 
struggle or recoil, he may use the now natural and 
welcome means of effecting his release. 1 Even the 
healthiest, perhaps even the most cheerful man, 
may resolve upon death under certain circum 
stances; when, for instance, his sufferings, or his 
fears of some inevitable misfortune, reach such a 
pitch as to outweigh the terrors of death. The only 
difference lies in the degree of suffering necessary 

1 For a detailed description of this condition of mind Cf f 
Esquirol, Des maladies mentales. 



PERSONALITY, OR WHAT A MAN IS 21 

to bring about the fatal act, a degree which will be 
high in the case of a cheerful, and low in that of a 
gloomy man. The greater the melancholy, the 
lower need the degree be; in the end, it may even 
sink to zero. But if a man is cheerful, and his 
spirits are supported by good health, it requires a 
high degree of suffering to make him lay hands 
upon himself. There are countless steps in the 
scale between the two extremes of suicide, the sui 
cide which springs merely from a morbid intensi 
fication of innate gloom, and the suicide of the 
healthy and cheerful man, who has entirely objec 
tive grounds for putting an end to his existence. 

Beauty is partly an affair of health. It may be 
reckoned as a personal advantage; though it does 
not, properly speaking, contribute directly to our 
happiness. It does so indirectly, by impressing 
other people; and it is no unimportant advantage, 
even in man. Beauty is an open letter of recom 
mendation, predisposing the heart to favor the per 
son who presents it. As is well said in these lines 
of Homer, the gift of beauty is not lightly to be 
thrown away, that glorious gift which none can 
bestow save the gods alone 



otiroi air6p\TjT > tprl 6eu>v tpucvSta. Supa, 
v avrbi. Sw<nv CKWV 5 ou/t &v TIS 



The most general survey shows us that the two 
foes of human happiness are pain and boredom. 
We may go further, and say that in the degree in 
which we are fortunate enough to get away from 
the one, we approach the other. Life presents, in 
fact, a more or less violent oscillation between the 
two. The reason of this is that each of these two 
poles stands in a double antagonism to the other, 

1 Iliad 3, 65. 



22 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

external or objective, and inner or subjective. 
Needy surroundings and poverty produce pain; 
while, if a man is more than well off, he is bored. 
Accordingly, while the lower classes are engaged 
in a ceaseless struggle with need, in other words, 
with pain, the upper carry on a constant and often 
desperate battle with boredom. 2 The inner or sub 
jective antagonism arises from the fact that, in the 
individual, susceptibility to pain varies inversely 
with susceptibility to boredom, because suscepti 
bility is directly proportionate to mental power. 
Let me explain. A dull mind is, as a rule, asso 
ciated with dull sensibilities, nerves which no 
stimulus can affect, a temperament, in short, which 
does not feel pain or anxiety very much, however 
great or terrible it may be. Now, intellectual dull 
ness is at the bottom of that vacuity of soul which 
is stamped on so many faces, a state of mind which 
betrays itself by a constant and lively attention to 
all the trivial circumstances in the external world. 
This is the true source of boredom a continual 
panting after excitement, in order to have a pretext 
for giving the mind and spirits something to occupy 
them. The kind of things people choose for this 
purpose shows that they are not very particular, 
as witness the miserable pastimes they have re 
course to, and their ideas of social pleasure and con 
versation : or again, the number of people who gos 
sip on the doorstep or gape out of the window. 
It is mainly because of this inner vacuity of soul 
that people go in quest of society, diversion, amuse 
ment, luxury of every sort, which lead many to 

2 And the extremes meet; for the lowest state of civilization, 
a nomad or wandering life, finds its counterpart in the highest, 
where everyone is at times a tourist. The earlier stage was a 
case of necessity; the latter is a remedy for boredom. 



PERSONALITY, OR WHAT A MAN IS 23 

extravagance and misery. Nothing is so good a 
protection against such misery as inward wealth, 
the wealth of the mind, because the greater it 
grows, the less room it leaves for boredom. The 
inexhaustible activity of thought! finding ever new 
material to work upon in the multifarious phe 
nomena of self and nature, and able and ready to 
form new combinations of them, there you have 
something that invigorates the mind, and apart 
from moments of relaxation, sets it far above the 
reach of boredom. 

But, on the other hand, this high degree of intel 
ligence is rooted in a high degree of susceptibility, 
greater strength of will, greater passionateness; 
and from the union of these qualities comes an in 
creased capacity for emotion, an enhanced sensi 
bility to all mental and even bodily pain, greater 
impatience of obstacles, greater resentment of in 
terruption ; all of which tendencies are augmented 
by the power of the imagination, the vivid character 
of the whole range of thought, including what is 
disagreeable. This applies, in various degrees, to 
every step in the long scale of mental power, from 
the veriest dunce to the greatest genius that ever 
lived. Therefore the nearer anyone is, either from 
a subjective or from an objective point of view, to 
one of those sources of suffering in human life, the 
farther he is from the other. And so a man s nat 
ural bent will lead him to make his objective world 
conform to his subjective as much as possible; that 
is to say, he will take the greatest measures against 
that form of suffering to which he is most liable. 
The wise man will, above all, strive after freedom 
from pain and annoyance, quiet and leisure, con 
sequently a tranquil, modest life, with as few en 
counters as may be; and so, after a little experi- 



THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

ence of his so-called fellowmen, he will elect to live 
in retirement, or even, if he is a man of great in 
tellect, in solitude. For the more a man has in him 
self, the less he will want from other people, 
the less, indeed, other people can be to him. This 
is why a high degree of intellect tends to make a 
man unsocial. True, if quality of intellect could 
be made up for by quantity, it might be worth while 
to live even in the great world; but unfortunately, 
a hundred fools together will not make one wise 
man. 

But the individual who stands at the other end 
of the scale is no sooner free from the pangs of 
need than he endeavors to get pastime and society 
at any cost, taking up with the first person he meets, 
and avoiding nothing so much as himself. For in 
solitude, where every one is thrown upon his own 
resources, what a man has in himself comes to light ; 
the fool in fine raiment groans under the burden 
of his miserable personality, a burden which he can 
never throw off, whilst the man of talent peoples 
the waste places with his animating thoughts. 
Seneca declares that folly is its own burden, 
omnis stultitia laborat fastidio sui, a very true 
saying, with which may be compared the words of 
Jesus, the son of Sirach, The life of a fool is worse 
than death. 1 And, as a rule, it will be found that 
a man is sociable just in the degree in which he 
is intellectually poor and generally vulgar. For 
one s choice in this world does not go much beyond 
solitude on one side and vulgarity on the other. It 
is said that the most sociable of all people are the 
negroes; and they are at the bottom of the scale 
in intellect. I remember reading once in a French 
paper 2 that the blacks in North America, whether 
1 Ecclesiasticus, xxii. 11. 2 Le Commerce, Oct. 19th, 1837. 



PERSONALITY, OR WHAT A MAN IS 25 

free or enslaved, are fond of shutting themselves 
up in large numbers in the smallest space, because 
they cannot have too much of one another s snub- 
nosed company. 

The brain may be regarded as a kind of parasite 
of the organism, a pensioner, as it were, who dwells 
with the body: and leisure, that is, the time one has 
for the free enjoyment of one s consciousness or in 
dividuality, is the fruit or produce of the rest of 
existence, which is in general only labor and effort. 
But what does most people s leisure yield? bore 
dom and dullness; except, of course, when it is 
occupied with sensual pleasure or folly. How little 
such leisure is worth may be seen in the way in which 
it is spent : and, as Ariosto observes, how miserable 
are the idle hours of ignorant men! ozio lungo 
d uomini ignorant*. Ordinary people think merely 
how they shall spend their time ; a man of any talent 
tries to use it. The reason why people of limited 
intellect are apt to be bored is that their intellect is 
absolutely nothing more than the means by which 
the motive power of the will is put into force: and 
whenever there is nothing particular to set the will 
in motion, it rests, and their intellect takes a holiday, 
because, equally with the will, it requires something 
external to bring it into play. The result is an 
awful stagnation of whatever power a man has 
in a word, boredom. To counteract this miserable 
feeling, men run to trivialities which please for the 
moment they are taken up, hoping thus to engage 
the will in order to rouse it to action, and so set the 
intellect in motion; for it is the latter which has 
to give effect to these motives of the will. Com 
pared with real and natural motives, these are but 
as paper money to coin; for their value is only ar 
bitrary card games and the like, which have been 



26 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

invented for this very purpose. And if there is 
nothing else to be done, a man will twirl his thumbs 
or beat the devil s tattoo; or a cigar may be a wel 
come substitute for exercising his brains. Hence, 
in all countries the chief occupation of society is 
card-playing, 1 and it is the gauge of its value, and 
an outward sign that it is bankrupt in thought. 
Because people have no thoughts to deal in, they 
deal cards, and try and win one another s money. 
Idiots! But I do not wish to be unjust; so let me 
remark that it may certainly be said in defence of 
card-playing that it is a preparation for the world 
and for business life, because one learns thereby 
how to make a clever use of fortuitous but unalter 
able circumstances (cards, in this case), and to get 
as much out of them as one can: and to do this a 
man must learn a little dissimulation, and how to 
put a good face upon a bad business. But, on the 
other hand, it is exactly for this reason that card- 
playing is so demoralizing, since the whole object 
of it is to employ every kind of trick and machina 
tion in order to win what belongs to another. And 
a habit of this sort, learnt at the card-table, strikes 
root and pushes its way into practical life; and in 
the affairs of every day a man gradually comes to 
regard meum and tuum in much the same light as 
cards, and to consider that he may use to the utmost 
whatever advantages he possesses, so long as he 
does not come within the arm of the law. Examples 
of what I mean are of daily occurrence in mercan 
tile life. Since, then, leisure is the flower, or rather 
the fruit, of existence, as it puts a man into pos- 

1 Translator s Note. Card-playing to this extent is now, no 
doubt, a thing of the past, at any rate amongst the nations of 
northern Europe. The present fashion is rather in favor of a 
dilettante interest in art or literature. 



PERSONALITY, OR WHAT A MAN IS 27 

session of himself, those are happy indeed who 
possess something real in themselves. But what do 
you get from most people s leisure? only a good- 
for-nothing fellow, who is terribly bored and a 
burden to himself. Let us, therefore, rejoice, dear 
brethren, for we are not children of the bondwoman,, 
but of the free. 

Further, as no land is so well off as that which 
requires few imports, or none at all, so the happiest 
man is one who has enough in his own inner wealth, 
and requires little or nothing from outside for his 
maintenance, for imports are expensive things, re 
veal dependence, entail danger, occasion trouble, 
and when all is said and done, are a poor substitute 
for home produce. No man ought to expect much 
from others, or, in general, from the external 
world. What one human being can be to another 
is not a very great deal: in the end every one 
stands alone, and the important thing is who it is 
that stands alone. Here, then, is another applica 
tion of the general truth which Goethe recognizes 
in Dichtung und Wahrheit (Bk. III.), that in 
everything a man has ultimately to appeal to him 
self; or, as Goldsmith puts it in The Traveller: 

Still to ourselves in every place consigned 
Our own felicity we make or find. 

Himself is the source of the best and most a man 
can be or achieve. The more this is so the more 
a man finds his sources of pleasure in himself the 
happier he will be. Therefore, it is with great 
truth that Aristotle 1 says, To be happy means to 
be self-sufficient. For all other sources of happi 
ness are in their nature most uncertain, precarious, 
fleeting, the sport of chance; and so even under the 
Eth. Eud., viL 2- 



28 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

most favorable circumstances they can easily be ex 
hausted; nay, this is unavoidable, because they are 
not always within reach. And in old age these 
sources of happiness must necessarily dry up: 
love leaves us then, and wit, desire to travel, de 
light in horses, aptitude for social intercourse; 
friends and relations, too, are taken from us by 
death. Then more than ever, it depends upon what 
a man has in himself; for this will stick to him 
longest; and at any period of life it is the only 
genuine and lasting source of happiness. There is 
not much to be got anywhere in the world. It is 
filled with misery and pain; and if a man escapes 
these, boredom lies in wait for him at every corner. 
Nay more; it is evil which generally has the upper 
hand, and folly makes the most noise. Fate is 
cruel, and mankind is pitiable. In such a world as 
this, a man who is rich in himself is like a bright, 
warm, happy room at Christmastide, while without 
are the frost and snow of a December night. There 
fore, without doubt, the happiest destiny on earth is 
to have the rare gift of a rich individuality, and, 
more especially to be possessed of a good endow 
ment of intellect ; this is the happiest destiny, though 
it may not be, after all, a very brilliant one. 

There was a great wisdom in that remark which 
Queen Christina of Sweden made, in her nineteenth 
year, about Descartes, who had then lived for 
twenty years in the deepest solitude in Holland, 
and, apart from report, was known to her only by 
a single essay: M. Descartes, she said, is the hap 
piest of men, and his condition seems to me much to 
be envied. 2 Of course, as was the case with Des 
cartes, external circumstances must be favorable 
enough to allow a man to be master of his life and 

e Descartes, par Baillet. Liv. vii., ch. 10. 



PERSONALITY, OR WHAT A MAN IS 29 

happiness ; or, as we read in Ecclesiastes* Wisdom 
is good together with an inheritance, and profitable 
unto them that see the sun. The man to whom 
nature and fate have granted the blessing of wis 
dom, will be most anxious and careful to keep open 
the fountains of happiness which he has in himself; 
and for this, independence and leisure are neces 
sary. To obtain them, he will be willing to moder 
ate his desires and harbor his resources, all the more 
because he is not, like others, restricted to the ex 
ternal world for his pleasures. So he will not be 
misled by expectations of office, or money, or the 
favor and applause of his f ellowmen, into surrender 
ing himself in order to conform to low desires and 
vulgar tastes ; nay, in such a case he will follow the 
advice that Horace gives in his epistle to Maecenas. 2 

Nee somnum plebis laudo, satur altilium, nee 
Otia divitiis Arabum liberrima muto. 

It is a great piece of folly to sacrifice the inner for 
the outer man, to give the whole or the greater part 
of one s quiet, leisure and independence for splen 
dor, rank, pomp, titles and honor. This is what 
Goethe did. My good luck drew me quite in the 
other direction. 

The truth which I am insisting upon here, the 
truth, namely, that the chief source of human hap 
piness is internal, is confirmed by that most accurate 
observation of Aristotle in the Nichomachean 
Ethics, 3 that every pleasure presupposes some sort 
of activity, the application of some sort of power, 
without which it cannot exist. The doctrine of 
Aristotle s, that a man s happiness consists in the 
free exercise of his highest faculties, is also enun 
ciated by Stobaeus in his exposition of the Peripa- 

1 vii. 12. 2 Lib. 1., ep. 7. s L 7 and vii. 13, 14. 



30 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

tetic philosophy 1 : happiness, he says, means vigor 
ous and successful activity in all your undertakings; 
and he explains that by vigor dpen/ he means mas 
tery in any thing, whatever it be. Now, the original 
purpose of those forces with which nature has en 
dowed man is to enable him to struggle against the 
difficulties which beset him on all sides. But if this 
struggle comes to an end, his unemployed forces 
become a burden to him; and he has to set to work 
and play with them, to use them, I mean, for no 
purpose at all, beyond avoiding the other source of 
human suffering, boredom, to which he is at once 
exposed. It is the upper classes, people of wealth, 
who are the greatest victims of boredom. Lucretius 
long ago described their miserable state, and the 
truth of his description may be still recognized to 
day, in the life of every great capital where the 
rich man is seldom in his own halls, because it bores 
him to be there, and still he returns thither, because 
he is no better off outside; or else he is away in 
post-haste to his house in the country, as if it were 
on fire ; and he is no sooner arrived there, than he is 
bored again, and seeks to forget everything in sleep, 
or else .hurries back to town once more. 

Exit saepe foras magnis ex cedibus ille, 
Esse domi quern pertaesum est, subitoque reventat, 
Quippe foris nihilo melius qui sentiat esse. 
Currit, agens mannos, ad villam precipitant er, 
Auxilium tectis quasi ferre ardentibus instans: 
Oscitat extemplo, tetigit quum limina vittae; 
Aut abit in somnum grams, atque oblivia quaerit; 
Aut etia/m properans urbem petit atque revisit. 2 

In their youth, such people must have had a super 
fluity o^ muscular and vital energy, powers which, 
unlike those of the mind, cannot maintain their full 
1 EcL eth. ii.. du 7 2 IIL 1073, 



PERSONALITY, OR WHAT A MAN IS 31 

degree of vigor very long; and in later years they 
either have no mental powers at all, or cannot 
develop any for want of employment which would 
bring them into play ; so tha tthey are in a wretched 
plight. Will, however, they still possess, for this is 
the only power that is inexhaustible; and they try 
to stimulate their will by passionate excitement, 
such as games of chance for high stakes undoubt 
edly a most degrading form of vice. And one may 
say generally that if a man finds himself with noth 
ing to do, he is sure to choose some amusement 
suited to the kind of power in which he excels, 
bowls, it may be, or, chess; hunting or painting; 
horse-racing or music; cards, or poetry, heraldry, 
philosophy, or some other dilettante interest. We 
might classify these interests methodically, by re 
ducing them to expressions of the three funda 
mental powers, the factors, that is to say, which go 
to make up the physiological constitution of man; 
and further, by considering these powers by them 
selves, and apart from any of the definite aims 
which they may subserve, and simply as affording 
three sources of possible pleasure, out of which 
every man will choose what suits him, according as 
he excels in one direction or another. 

First of all come the pleasures of vital energy, 
of food, drink, digestion, rest and sleep; and there 
are parts of the world where it can be said that these 
are characteristic and national pleasures. Secondly, 
there are the pleasures of muscular energy, such as 
walking, running, wrestling, dancing, fencing, rid 
ing and similar athletic pursuits, which sometimes 
take the form of sport, and sometimes of a military 
life and real warfare. Thirdly, there are the pleas 
ures of sensibility, such as observation, thought, 
feeling, or a taste for poetry or culture, music, 



32 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

learning, reading, meditation, invention, philosophy 
and the like. As regards the value, relative worth 
and duration of each of these kinds of pleasure, a 
great deal might be said, which, however, I leave the 
reader to supply. But every one will see that the 
nobler the power which is brought into play, the 
greater will be the pleasure which it gives ; for pleas 
ure always involves the use of one s own powers, 
and happiness consists in a frequent repetition of 
pleasure. No one will deny that in this respect the 
pleasures of sensibility occupy a higher place than 
either of the other two fundamental kinds; which 
exist in an equal, nay, in a greater degree in brutes ; 
it is this preponderating amount of sensibility which 
distinguishes man from other animals. Now, our 
mental powers are forms of sensibility, and there 
fore a preponderating amount of it makes us cap 
able of that kind of pleasure which has to do with 
mind, so-called intellectual pleasure; and the more 
sensibility predominates, the greater the pleasure 
will be. 1 

1 Nature exhibits a continual progress, starting from the 
mechanical and chemical activity of the inorganic world, proceed 
ing to the vegetable, with its dull enjoyment of self, from that 
to the animal world, where intelligence and consciousness begfn, 
at first very weak, and only after many intermediate stages at 
taining its last great development in man, whose intellect is 
Nature s crowning point, the goal of all her efforts, the most 
perfect and difficult of all her works. And even within the range 
of the human intellect, there are a great many observable dif 
ferences of degree, and it is very seldom that intellect reaches 
its highest point, intelligence properly so-called, which in this 
narrow and strict sense of the word, is Nature s most consum 
mate product, and so the rarest and most precious thing of 
which the world can boast. The highest product of Nature is 
the clearest degree of consciousness, in which the world mirrors 
itself more plainly and completely than anywhere else. A man 
endowed with this form of intelligence is in possession of what 
is noblest and best on earth; and accordingly, he has a source 
of pleasure in comparison with which all others are small. Frour 



PERSONALITY, OR WHAT A MAN IS 33 

The normal, ordinary man takes a vivid interest 
in anything only in so far as it excites his will, that 
is to say, is a matter of personal interest to him. 
But constant excitement of the will is never an un 
mixed good, to say the least; in other words, it in 
volves pain. Card-playing, that universal occupa 
tion of "good society" everywhere, is a device for 
providing this kind of excitement, and that, too, by 
means of interests so small as to produce slight and 
momentary, instead of real and permanent, pain. 
Card-playing is, in fact, a mere tickling of the will. 1 

his surroundings he asks nothing but leisur^ A - the free enjoy 
ment of what he has got, time, as it were, to polish his diamond. 
All other pleasures that are not of the intellect are of a lower 
kind; for they are, one and all, movements of will desires, 
hopes, fears and ambitions, no matter to what directed: they 
are always satisfied at the cost of pain, and in the case of am 
bition, generally with more or less of illusion. With intellectual 
pleasure, on the other hand, truth becomes clearer and clearer. 
In the realm of intelligence pain has no power. Knowledge is 
all in all. Further, intellectual pleasures are accessible entirely 
and only through the medium of the intelligence, and are limited 
by its capacity. For all the wit there is in the world is useless 
to him who has none. Still this advantage is accompanied by a 
substantial disadvantage; for the whole of Nature shows that 
with the growth of intelligence comes increased capacity for pain, 
and it is only with the highest degree of intelligence that suffer 
ing reaches its supreme point. 

1 Vulgarity is, at bottom, the kind of consciousness in which 
the will completely predominates over the intellect, where the 
latter does nothing more than perform the service of its master, 
the will. Therefore, when the will makes no demands, supplies 
no motives, strong or weak, the intellect entirely loses its power, 
and the result is complete vacancy of mind. Now will without 
intellect is the most vulgar and common thing in the world, 
possessed by every blockhead, who, in the gratification of his 
passions, shows the stuff of which he is made. This is the con 
dition of mind called vulgarity, in which the only active elements 
are the organs of sense, and that small amount of intellect which 
is necessary for apprehending the data of sense. Accordingly, 
the vulgar man is constantly open to all sorts of impressions, 
and immediately perceives all the little trifling things that go 
on in his environment: the lightest whisper, the most trivial 



3* THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

On the other hand, a man of powerful intellect 
is capable of taking a vivid interest in things in the 
way of mere knowledge, with no admixture of will; 
nay, such an interest is a necessity to him. It places 
him in a sphere where pain is an alien, a diviner 
air, where the gods live serene. 

fool pa %UOVTS. l 

Look on these two pictures the life of the masses, 
one long, dull record of struggle and effort entirely 
devoted to the petty interests of personal welfare, 
to misery in all its forms, a life beset by intolerable 
boredom as soon as ever those aims are satisfied and 
the man is thrown back upon himself, whence he 
can be roused again to some sort of movement only 
by the wild fire of passion. On the other side you 
have a man endowed with a high degree of mental 
power, leading an existence rich in thought and full 
of life and meaning, occupied by worthy and inter 
esting objects as soon as ever he is free to give 
himself to them, bearing in himself a source of the 
noblest pleasure. What external promptings he 
wants come from the works of nature, and from the 
contemplation of human affairs and the achieve 
ments of the great of all ages arid countries, which 
are thoroughly appreciated by a man of this type 
alone, as being the only one who can quite un 
derstand and feel with them. And so it is for him 
alone that those great ones have really lived; it is 
to him that they make their appeal; the rest are 

circumstance, is sufficient to rouse his attention; he is just like 
an animal. Such a man s mental condition reveals itself in his 
face, in his whole exterior; and hence that vulgar, repulsive ap 
pearance, which is all the more offensive, if, as is usually the 
case, his will the only factor in his consciousness is a base, 
selfish and altogether bad one. 

1 Odyssey IV., 805. 



PERSONALITY, OR WHAT A MAN IS 35 

but casual hearers who only half understand either 
them or their followers. Of course, this character 
istic of the intellectual man implies that he has one 
more need than the others, the need of reading, 
observing, studying, meditating, practising, the 
need, in short, of undisturbed leisure. For, as Vol 
taire has very rightly said, there are no real pleas 
ures without real needs; and the need of them is 
why to such a man pleasures are accessible which 
are denied to others, the varied beauties of nature 
and art and literature. To heap these pleasures 
round people w r ho do not want them and cannot 
appreciate them, is like expecting gray hairs to fall 
in love. A man who is privileged in this respect 
leads two lives, a personal and an intellectual life; 
and the latter gradually comes to be looked upon as 
the true one, and the former as merely a means to it. 
Other people make this shallow, empty and 
troubled existence an end in itself. To the life of 
the intellect such a man will give the preference 
over all his other occupations: by the constant 
growth of insight and knowledge, this intellectual 
life, like a slowly-forming work of art, will acquire 
a consistency, a permanent intensity, a unity which 
becomes ever more and more complete; compared 
with which, a life devoted to the attainment of per 
sonal comfort, a life that may broaden indeed, but 
can never be deepened, makes but a poor show : and 
yet, as I have said, people make this baser sort of 
existence an end in itself. 

The ordinary life of every day, so far as it is not 
moved by passion, is tedious and insipid; and if it 
is so moved, it soon becomes painful. Those alone 
are happy whom nature has favored with some 
superfluity of intellect, something beyond what is 
just necessary to carry out the behests of their will; 



36 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

for it enables them to lead an intellectual life as 
well, a life unattended by pain and full of vivid 
interests. Mere leisure, that is to say, intellect 
unoccupied in the service of the will, is not of itself 
sufficient : there must be a real superfluity of power, 
set free from the service of the will and devoted to 
that of the intellect ; for, as Seneca says, otium sine 
litteris mors est et vivi hominis sepultura illiterate 
leisure is a form of death, a living tomb. Varying 
with the amount of the superfluity, there will be 
countless developments in this second life, the life 
of the mind; it may be the mere collection and 
labelling of insects, birds, minerals, coins, or the 
highest achievements of poetry and philosophy. 
The life of the mind is not only a protection against 
boredom; it also wards off the pernicious effects 
of boredom; it keeps us from bad company, from 
the many clangers, misfortunes, losses and extrava 
gances which the man who places his happiness en 
tirely in the objective world is sure to encounter. 
My philosophy, for instance, has never brought me 
in a six-pence; but it has spared me many an ex 
pense. 

The ordinary man places his life s happiness in 
things external to him, in property, rank, wife and 
children, friends, society, and the like, so that when 
he loses them or finds them disappointing, the foun 
dation of his happiness is destroyed. In other 
words, his centre of gravity is not in himself; it is 
constantly changing its place, with every wish and 
whim. If he is a man of means, one clay it will be 
his house in the country, another buying horses, or 
entertaining friends, or traveling, a life, in short, 
of general luxury, the reason being that he seeks 
his pleasure in things outside him. Like one whose 
health and strength are gone, he tries to regain by 



PERSONALITY, OR WHAT A MAN IS 37 

the use of jellies and drugs, instead of by developing 
his own vital power, the true source of what lie has 
lost. Before proceeding to the opposite, let us com 
pare with this common type the man who comes 
midway between the two, endowed, it may be, not 
exactly with distinguished powers of mind, but 
with somewhat more than the ordinary amount of 
intellect. He will take a dilettante interest in art, or 
devote his attention to some branch of science- 
botany, for example, or physics, astronomy, history, 
and find a great deal of pleasure in such studies, 
and amuse himself with them when external forces 
of happiness are exhausted or fail to satisfy him 
any more. Of a man like this it may be said that 
his centre of gravity is partly in himself. But a 
dilettante interest in art is a very different thing 
from creative activity; and an amateur pursuit of 
science is apt to be superficial and not to penetrate 
to the heart of the matter. A man cannot entirely 
identify himself with such pursuits, or have his 
whole existence so completely filled and permeated 
with them that he loses all interest in everything 
else. It is only the highest intellectual power, what 
we call genius, that attains to this degree of inten 
sity, making all time and existence its theme, and 
striving to express its peculiar conception of the 
world, whether it contemplates life as the subject 
of poetry or of philosophy. Hence, undisturbed 
occupation with himself, his own thoughts and 
works, is a matter of urgent necessity to such a man; 
solitude is welcome, leisure is the highest good, and 
everything else is unnecessary, nay, even burden 
some. 

This is the only type of man of whom it can be 
said that his centre of gravity is entirely in himself; 
which explains why it is that people of this sort - 



38 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

and they are very rare no matter how excellent 
their character may be, do not show that warm and 
unlimited interest in friends, family, and the com 
munity in general, of which others are so often 
capable; for if they have only themselves they are 
not inconsolable for the loss of everything else. 
This gives an isolation to their character, which is 
all the more effective since other people never really 
quite satisfy them, as being, on the whole, of a dif 
ferent nature: nay more, since this difference is 
constantly forcing itself upon their notice they get 
accustomed to move about amongst mankind as 
alien beings, and in thinking of humanity in general, 
to say they instead of we. 

So the conclusion we come to is that the man 
whom nature has endowed with intellectual wealth 
is the happiest; so true it is that the subjective 
concerns us more than the objective; for whatever 
the latter may be, it can work only indirectly, 
secondly, and through the medium of the former 
a truth finely expressed by Lucian: 



6 rijs ^vx^s TrXoDros fdvos 
TaXXa 



the wealth of the soul is the only true wealth, for 
with all other riches comes a bane even greater 
than they. The man of inner wealth wants nothing 
from outside but the negative gift of undisturbed 
leisure, to develop and mature his intellectual facul 
ties, that is, to enjoy his wealth; in short, he wants 
permission to be himself, his whole life long, every 
day and every hour. If he is destined to impress 
the character of his mind upon a whole race, he has 
only one measure of happiness or unhappiness to 

1 Epigrammata, 12, 



PERSONALITY, OR WHAT A MAN IS 39 

succeed or fail in perfecting his powers and com 
pleting his work. All else is of small consequence. 
Accordingly, the greatest minds of all ages have 
set the highest value upon undisturbed leisure, as 
worth exactly as much as the man himself. Happi 
ness appears to consist in leisure, says Aristotle; 1 
and Diogenes Laertius reports that Socrates 
praised leisure as the fairest of all possessions. So, 
in the Nichomachean Ethics, Aristotle concludes 
that a life devoted to philosophy is the happiest ; or, 
as he says in the Politics, 2 the free exercise of any 
power, whatever it may be, is happiness. This 
again, tallies with what Goethe says in Wilhelm 
Heist er: The man who is born with a talent which 
he is meant to use, finds his greatest happiness in 
using it. 

But to be in possession of undisturbed leisure, is 
far from being the common lot ; nay, it is something 
alien to human nature, for the ordinary man s des 
tiny is to spend life in procuring what is necessary 
for the subsistence of himself and his family; he is 
a son of struggle and need, not a free intelligence. 
So people as a rule soon get tired of undisturbed 
leisure, and it becomes burdensome if there are no 
fictitious and forced aims to occupy it, play, pas 
time and hobbies of every kind. For this very rea 
son it is full of possible danger, and difficilis in otio 
quies is a true saying, it is difficult to keep quiet 
if you have nothing to do. On the other hand, a 
measure of intellect far surpassing the ordinary, is 
as unnatural as it is abnormal. But if it exists, and 
the man endowed with it is to be happy, he will 
want precisely that undisturbed leisure which the 
others find burdensome or pernicious; for without 
it he is a Pegasus in harness, and consequently un- 
1 Eth. Nichom. x. 7. 2 iv. 11. 



40 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

happy. If these two unnatural circumstances, ex 
ternal, and internal, undisturbed leisure and great 
intellect, happen to coincide in the same person, it 
is a great piece of fortune; and if the fate is so far 
favorable, a man can lead the higher life, the life 
protected from the two opposite sources of human 
suffering, pain and boredom, from the painful 
struggle for existence, and the incapacity for endur 
ing leisure (which is free existence itself) evils 
which may be escaped only by being mutually neu- 



But there is something to be said in opposition 
to this view. Great intellectual gifts mean an activ 
ity pre-eminently nervous in its character, and con 
sequently a very high degree of susceptibility to 
pain in every form. Further, such gifts imply an 
intense temperament, larger and more vivid ideas, 
which, as the inseparable accompaniment of great 
intellectual power, entail on its possessor a corre 
sponding intensity of the emotions, making them in 
comparably more violent than those to which the 
ordinary man is a prey. Now, there are more things 
in the world productive of pain than of pleasure. 
Again, a large endowment of intellect tends to 
estrange the man who has it from other people 
and their doings; for the more a man has in himself, 
the less he will be able to find in them; and the 
hundred things in which they take delight, he will 
think shallow and insipid. Here, then, perhaps, is 
another instance of that law of compensation which 
makes itself felt everywhere. How often one hears 
it said, and said, too, with some plausibility, that the 
narrow-minded man is at bottom the happiest, even 
though his fortune is unenviable. I shall make no 
attempt to forestall the reader s own judgment 
on this point; more especially as Sophocles himself 



PERSONALITY, OR WHAT A MAN IS 41 

has given utterance to two diametrically opposite 
opinions : 

IloXXy rb <f>pov*iv 
trpGrro 



he says in one place wisdom is the greatest part of 
happiness; and again, in another passage, he de 
clares that the life of the thoughtless is the most 
pleasant of all 



? Ev rq. Qpov&v yap /jLrjStv ^Stcrros j3ios. 2 

The philosophers of the Old Testament find them 
selves in a like contradiction. 

The life of a fool is worse than death 3 

and 

In much wisdom is much grief; 

and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow. 4 

I may remark, however, that a man who has no 
mental needs, because his intellect is of the narrow 
and normal amount, is, in the strict sense of the 
word, what is called a philistine an expression at 
first peculiar to the German language, a kind of 
slang term at the Universities, afterwards used, by 
analogy, in a higher sense, though still in its 
original meaning, as denoting one who is not a 
Son of the Muses. A philistine is and remains 
d/xovVos avrjp. I should prefer to take a higher point of 
view, and apply the term philistine to people who 
are always seriously occupied with realities which 
are no realities; but as such a definition would be 
a transcendental one, and therefore not generally 
intelligible, it would hardly be in place in the pres 
ent treatise, which aims at being popular. The 

1 Antigone, 1347-8. 2 Ajax, 554. 

8 Ecclesiasticus, xxii. 11. 4 Ecclesiastes, i. 18. 



42 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

other definition can be more easily elucidated, in 
dicating, as it does, satisfactorily enough, the essen 
tial nature of all those qualities which distinguish 
the philistine. He is defined to be a man without 
mental needs. From this is follows, firstly, in 
relation to himself, that he has no intellectual 
pleasures; for, as was remarked before, there 
are no real pleasures without real needs. The 
philistine s life is animated by no desire to gain 
knowledge and insight for their own sake, or 
to experience that true anesthetic pleasure which 
is so nearly akin to them. If pleasures of this 
kind are fashionable, and the philistine finds 
himself compelled to pay attention to them, he will 
force himself to do so, but he will take as little in 
terest in them as possible. His only real pleasures 
are of a sensual kind, and he thinks that these 
indemnify him for the loss of the others. To him 
oysters and champagne are the height of existence; 
the aim of his life is to procure what will contribute 
to his bodily welfare, and he is indeed in a happy 
way if this causes him some trouble. If the luxuries 
of life are heaped upon him, he will inevitably be 
bored, and against boredom he has a great many 
fancied remedies, balls, theatres, parties, cards, 
gambling, horses, women, drinking, traveling and 
so on ; all of which can not protect a man from being 
bored, for where there are no intellectual needs, no 
intellectual pleasures are possible. The peculiar 
characteristic of the philistine is a dull, dry kind of 
gravity, akin to that of animals. Nothing really 
pleases, or excites, or interests him, for sensual 
pleasure is quickly exhausted, and the society of 
philistines soon becomes burdensome, and one may 
even get tired of playing cards. True, the pleas 
ures of vanity are left, pleasures which he enjoys in 



PERSONALITY, OR WHAT A MAN IS 43 

his own way, either by feeling himself superior in 
point of wealth, or rank, or influence and power to 
other people, who thereupon pay him honor ; or, at 
any rate, by going about with those who have a 
superfluity of these blessings, sunning himself in 
the reflection of their splendor what the English 
call a snob. 

From the essential nature of the philistine it 
follows, secondly, in regard to others, that, as he 
possesses no intellectual, but only physical need, he 
will seek the society of those who can satisfy the 
latter, but not the former. The last thing he will 
expect from his friends is the possession of any sort 
of intellectual capacity; nay, if he chances to 
meet with it, it will rouse his antipathy and even 
hatred ; simply because in addition to an unpleasant 
sense of inferiority, he experiences, in his heart, a 
dull kind of envy, which has to be carefully con 
cealed even from himself. Nevertheless, it some 
times grows into a secret feeling of rancor. But 
for all that, it will never occur to him to make his 
own ideas of worth or value conform to the standard 
of such qualities ; he will continue to give the prefer 
ence to rank and riches, power and influence, which 
in his eyes seem to be the only genuine advantages 
in the world; and his wish will be to excel in them 
himself. All this is the consequence of his being 
a man without intellectual needs. The great afflic 
tion of all philistines is that they have no interest 
in ideas, and that, to escape being bored, they are 
in constant need of realities. But realities are either 
unsatisfactory or dangerous; when they lose their 
interest, they become fatiguing. But the ideal 
world is illimitable and calm, 

something afar 
From the sphere of our sorrow. 



44 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

NOTE. In these remarks on the personal quali 
ties which go to make happiness, I have been mainly 
concerned with the physical and intellectual nature 
of man. For an account of the direct and immediate 
influence of morality upon happiness, let me refer 
to my prize essay on The Foundation of Morals 
(Sec. 22.) 



CHAPTER III. 
PROPERTY, OR WHAT A MAN HAS. 

EPICURUS divides the needs of mankind into three 
classes, and the division made by this great profes 
sor of happiness is a true and a fine one. First come 
natural and necessary needs, such as, when not 
satisfied, produce pain, food and clothing, victus 
et amictus, needs which can easily be satisfied. 
Secondly, there are those needs which, though 
natural, are not necessary, such as the gratification 
of certain of the senses. I may add, however, that 
in the report given by Diogenes Laertius, Epicurus 
does not mention which of the senses he means; so 
that on this point my account of his doctrine is 
somewhat more definite and exact than the original. 
These are needs rather more difficult to satisfy. The 
third class consists of needs which are neither na 
tural nor necessary, the need of luxury and prod 
igality, show and splendor, which never come to 
an end, and are very hard to satisfy. 1 

It is difficult, if not impossible, to define the limits 
which reason should impose on the desire for 
wealth; for there is no absolute or definite amount 
of wealth which will satisfy a man. The amount is 
always relative, that is to say, just so much as 
will maintain the proportion between what he wants 
and what he gets ; for to measure a man s happiness 
only by what he gets, and not also by what he 
expects to get, is as futile as to try and express a 
fraction which shall have a numerator but no de- 

1 Cf . Diogenes Laertius, Bk. x., ch. xxvii., pp. 127 and 149 ; 

also Cicero de finibus, i., 13. 

45 



46 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

nominator. A man never feels the loss of things 
which it never occurs to him to ask for; he is just 
as happy without them; whilst another, who may 
have a hundred times as much, feels miserable be 
cause he has not got the one thing he wants. In 
fact, here too, every man has an horizon of his own, 
and he will expect as much as he thinks it is possible 
for him to get. If an object within his horizon 
looks as though he could confidently reckon on get 
ting it, he is happy; but if difficulties come in the 
way, he is miserable. What lies beyond his horizon 
has no effect at all upon him. So it is that the vast 
possessions of the rich do not agitate the poor, and 
conversely, that a wealthy man is not consoled by 
all his wealth for the failure of his hopes. Riches, 
one may say, are like sea-water ; the more you drink 
the thirstier you become; and the same is true of 
fame. The loss of wealth and prosperity leaves a 
man, as soon as the first pangs of grief are over, in 
very much the same habitual temper as before ; and 
the reason of this is, that as soon as fate diminishes 
the amount of his possessions, he himself immedi 
ately reduces the amount of his claims. But when 
misfortune comes upon us, to reduce the amount of 
our claims is just what is most painful; once that 
we have done so, the pain becomes less and less, and 
is felt no more ; like an old wound which has healed. 
Conversely, when a piece of good fortune befalls us, 
our claims mount higher and higher, as there is 
nothing to regulate them ; it is in this feeling of ex 
pansion that the delight of it lies. But it lasts no 
longer than the process itself, and when the expan 
sion is complete, the delight ceases ; we have become 
accustomed to the increase in our claims, and 
consequently indifferent to the amount of wealth 
which satisfies them. There is a passage in the 



OR WHAT A MAN HAS 47 

Odyssey^ ii e istrating this truth, of which I may 
quote the last two lines: 

Totbs 7ct/> v&os ta-rlv kiriy^Qvltav tivOpfairwv 
Oiov <J> TJfJ&p (Lyet jrar rjp dvdputv re 0etDu re. 

the thoughts of man that dwells on the earth are 
as the day granted him by the father of gods and 
men. Discontent springs from a constant endeavor 
to increase the amount of our claims, when we are 
powerless to increase the amount which will satisfy 
them. 

When we consider how full of needs the human 
race is, how its whole existence is based upon them, 
it is not a matter for surprise that wealth is held in 
more sincere esteem, nay, in greater honor, than 
anything else in the world ; nor ought we to wonder 
that gain is made the only good of life, and every 
thing that does not lead to it pushed aside or thrown 
overboard philosophy, for instance, by those who 
profess it. People are often reproached for wish 
ing for money above all things, and for loving it 
more than anything else; but it is natural and even 
inevitable for people to love that which, like an 
unwearied Proteus, is always ready to turn itself 
into whatever object their wandering wishes or man 
ifold desires may for the moment fix up3n. Every 
thing else can satisfy only one wish, one need : food 
is good only if you are hungry; wine, if you are able 
to enjoy it; drugs, if you are sick; fur for the win 
ter; love for youth, and so on. These are all only 
relatively good, fyaOa irpfa . Money alone is abso 
lutely good, because it is not only a concrete satis 
faction of one need in particular; it is an abstract 
satisfaction of all. 

If a man has an independent fortune, he should 
regard it as a bulwark against the many evils and 
1 xviii., 130-7. 



48 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

misfortunes which he may encounter; h$ should not 
look upon it as giving him leave to get what pleasure 
he can out of the world, or as rendering it incum 
bent upon him to spend it in this way. People who 
are not born with a fortune, but end by making a 
large one through the exercise of whatever talents 
they possess, almost always come to think that their 
talents are their capital, and that the money they 
have gained is merely the interest upon it; they do 
not lay by a part of their earnings to form a per 
manent capital, but spend their money much as they 
have earned it. Accordingly, they often fall into 
poverty ; their earnings decreased, or come to an end 
altogether, either because their talent is exhausted 
by becoming antiquated, as, for instance, very 
often happens in the case of fine art ; or else it was 
valid only under a special conjunction of circum 
stances which has now passed away. There is noth 
ing to prevent those who live on the common labor 
of their hands from treating their earnings in that 
way if they like; because their kind of skill is not 
likely to disappear, or, if it does, it can be replaced 
by that of their f ellow- workmen ; morever, the kind 
of work they do is always in demand; so that what 
the proverb says is quite true, a useful trade is a 
mine of gold. But with artists and professionals 
of every kind the case is quite different, and that is 
the reason why they are well paid. They ought to 
build up a capital out of their earnings; but they 
recklessly look upon them as merely interest, and 
end in ruin. On the other hand, people who inherit 
money know, at least, how to distinguish between 
capital and interest, and most of them try to make 
their capital secure and not encroach upon it; nay, 
if they can, they put by at least an eighth of their 
interests in order to meet future contingencies. So 



PROPERTY, OR WHAT A MAN HAS 49 

most of them maintain their position. These few 
remarks about capital and interest are not appli 
cable to commercial life, for merchants look upon 
money only as a means of further gain, just "as a 
workman regards his tools; so even if their capital 
has been entirely the result of their own efforts, they 
try to preserve and increase it by using it. Accord 
ingly, wealth is nowhere so much at home as in the 
merchant class. 

It will generally be found that those who know 
what it is to have been in need and destitution are 
very much less afraid of it, and consequently more 
inclined to extravagance, than those who know 
poverty only by hearsay. People who have been 
born and bred in good circumstances are as a rule 
much more careful about the future, more eco 
nomical, in fact, than those who, by a piece of good 
luck, have suddenly passed from poverty to wealth. 
This looks as if poverty were not really such a very 
wretched thing as it appears from a distance. The 
true reason, however, is rather the fact that the man 
who has been born into a position of wealth comes 
to look upon it as something without which he could 
no more live than he could live without air; he 
guards it as he does his very life; and so he is gen 
erally a lover of order, prudent and economical. 
But the man who has been born into a poor position 
looks upon it as the natural one, and if by any 
chance he comes in for a fortune, he regards it as 
a superfluity, something to be enjoyed or wasted, 
because, if it comes to an end, he can get on just 
as well as before, with one anxiety the less; or, as 
Shakespeare says in Henry VI., 1 

.... fhe adage must be verified 
That beggars mounted run their horse to death. 

* Part III., Act 1., Sc. 4. 



50 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

But it should be said that people of this kind have 
a firm and excessive trust, partly in fate, partly in 
the peculiar means which have already raised them 
out of need and poverty, a trust not only of the 
head, but of the heart also ; and so they do not, like 
the man born rich, look upon the shallows of poverty 
as bottomless, but console themselves with the 
thought that once they have touched ground again, 
they can take another upward flight. It is this trait 
in human character which explains the fact that 
women who were poor before their marriage often 
make greater claims, and are more extravagant, 
than those who have brought their husbands a rich 
dowry ; because, as a rule, rich girls bring with them, 
not only a fortune, but also more eagerness, nay, 
more of the inherited instinct, to preserve it, than 
poor girls do. If anyone doubts the truth of this, 
and thinks that it is just the opposite, he will find 
authority for his view in Ariosto s first Satire; but, 
on the other hand, Dr. Johnson agrees with my 
opinion. A woman of fortune, he says, being used 
to the handling of money, spends it judiciously; 
but a woman who gets the command of money for 
the first time upon her marriage, has such a 
gusto in spending it, that she throws it away with 
great profusion. 2 And in any case let me advise 
anyone who marries a poor girl. not to leave her 
the capital but only the interest, and to take especial 
care that she has not the management of the chil 
dren s fortune. 

I do not by any means think that I am touching 
upon a subject which is not worth my while to men 
tion when I recommend people to be careful to 
preserve what they have earned or inherited. 
For to start life with just as much as will 
2 Boswell s Life of Johnson : ann : 1776, aetat : 67. 



PROPERTY, OR WHAT A MAN HAS 51 

make one independent, that is, allow one to 
live comfortably without having to work even 
if one has oniy just enough for oneself, not 
to speak of a family is an advantage which 
cannot be over-estimated; for it means exemp 
tion and immunity from that chronic disease of 
penury, which fastens on the life of man like a 
plague; it is emancipation from that forced labor 
which is the natural lot of every mortal. Only 
under a favorable fate like this can a man be said 
to be born free, to be, in the proper sense of the 
word, sui juris, master of his own time and powers, 
and able to say every morning, This day is my 
own. And just for the same reason the difference 
between the man who has a hundred a year and the 
man who has a thousand, is infinitely smaller than 
the difference between the former and a man who 
has nothing at all. But inherited wealth reaches its 
utmost value when it falls to the individual endowed 
with mental powers of a high order, who is resolved 
to pursue a line of life not compatible with the mak 
ing of money; for he is then doubly endowed by 
fate and can live for his genius ; and he will pay his 
debt to mankind a hundred times, by achieving what 
no other could achieve, by producing some work 
which contributes to the general good, and redounds 
to the honor of humanity at large. Another, again, 
may use his wealth to further philanthropic schemes, 
and make himself well-deserving of his fellowmen. 
But a man who does none of these things, who does 
not even try to do them, who never attempts to 
learn the rudiments of any branch of knowledge 
so that he may at least do what he can towards pro 
moting it such a one, born as he is into riches, is a 
mere idler and thief of time, a contemptible fellow. 
He will not even be happy, because, in his case, 



52 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

exemption from need delivers him up to the other 
extreme of human suffering, boredom, which is such 
martyrdom to him, that he would have been better 
off if poverty had given him something to do. And 
as he is bored he is apt to be extravagant, and so lose 
the advantage of which he showed himself un 
worthy. Countless numbers of people find them 
selves in want, simply because, when they had 
money, they spent it only to get momentary relief 
from the feeling of boredom which oppressed them. 
It is quite another matter if one s object is success 
in political life, where favor, friends and connec 
tions are all-important, in order to mount by their 
aid step by step on the ladder of promotion, and 
perhaps gain the topmost rung. In this kind of 
life, it is much better to be cast upon the world with 
out a penny; and if the aspirant is not of noble 
family, but is a man of some talent, it will redound 
to his advantage to be an absolute pauper. For 
what every one most aims at in ordinary contact 
with his fellows is to prove them inferior to him 
self; and how much more is this the case in politics. 
Now, it is only an absolute pauper who has such a 
thorough conviction of his own complete, profound 
and positive inferiority from every point of view, 
of his own utter insignificance and worthlessness, 
that he can take his place quietly in the political 
machine. 1 He is the only one who can keep on bow 
ing low enough, and even go right down upon his 
face if necessary; he alone can submit to everything 

1 Translator s Note. Schopenhauer is probably here making 
one of his most virulent attacks upon Hegel; in this case on 
account of what he thought to be the philosopher s abject ser 
vility to the government of his day. Though the Hegelian sys 
tem has been the fruitful mother of many liberal ideas, there 
can be no doubt that Hegel s influence, in his own lifetime, was 
an effective support of Prussian bureaucracy. 



PROPERTY, OR WHAT A MAN HAS 53 

and laugh at it ; he alone knows the entire worthless- 
ness of merit ; he alone uses his loudest voice and his 
boldest type whenever he has to speak or write of 
those who are placed over his head, or occupy any 
position of influence; and if they do a little scrib 
bling, he is ready to applaud it as a masterwork. 
He alone understands how to beg, and so betimes, 
when he is hardly out of his boyhood, he becomes a 
high priest of that hidden mystery which Goethe 
brings to light. 



Uber s Niedertrachtige 
Niemand sicTi beklage: 
Denn es ist das Machtige 
Was man dir auch sage: 



it is no use to complain of low aims ; for, whatever 
people may say, they rule the world. 

On the other hand, the man who is born with 
enough to live upon is generally of a somewhat in 
dependent turn of mind; he is accustomed to keep 
his head up; he has not learned all the arts of the 
beggar ; perhaps he even presumes a little upon the 
possession of talents which, as he ought to know, can 
never compete with cringing mediocrity ; in the long 
run he comes to recognize the inferiority of those 
who are placed over his head, and when they try to 
put insults upon him, he becomes refractory and 
shy. This is not the way to get on in the world. 
Nay, such a man may at least incline to the opinion 
freely expressed by Voltaire: We have only two 
days to live; it is not worth our while to spend them 
in cringing to contemptible rascals. But alas! let 
me observe by the way, that contemptible rascal is 
an attribute which may be predicated of an abom 
inable number of people, What Juvenal says it is 



5 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

difficult to rise if your poverty is greater than your 
talent 

Hand facile emergunt quorum virtutibus obstat 
Res angusta domi 

is more applicable to a career of art and literature 
than to a political and social ambition. 

Wife and children I have not reckoned amongst 
a man s possessions : he is rather in their possession. 
It would be easier to include friends under that 
head; but a man s friends belong to him not a whit 
more than he belongs to them. 



CHAPTER IV. 

POSITION, OR A MAN S PLACE IN THE ESTIMATION 
or OTHERS. 

Section I. Reputation. 

BY a peculiar weakness of human nature, people 
generally think too much about the opinion which 
others form of them; although the slightest reflec 
tion will show that this opinion, whatever it may be, 
is not in itself essential to happiness. Therefore it 
is hard to understand why everybody feels so very 
pleased when he sees that other people have a good 
opinion of him, or say anything flattering to his 
vanity. If you stroke a cat, it will purr; and, as 
inevitably, if you praise a man, a sweet expression 
of delight will appear on his face ; and even though 
the praise is a palpable lie, it will be welcome, if the 
matter is one on which he prides himself. If only 
other people will applaud him, a man may console 
himself for downright misfortune or for the pit 
tance he gets from the two sources of human happi 
ness already discussed: and conversely, it is aston 
ishing how infallibly a man will be annoyed, and 
in some cases deeply pained, by any wrong done to 
his feeling of self-importance, whatever be the na 
ture, degree, or circumstances of the injury, or by 
any depreciation, slight, or disregard. 

If the feeling of honor rests upon this peculiarity 
of human nature, it may have a very salutary effect 
upon the welfare of a great many people, as a sub- 

55 



56 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

stitute for morality; but upon their happiness, more 
especially upon that peace of mind and independ 
ence which are so essential to happiness, its effect 
will be disturbing and prejudicial rather than 
salutary. Therefore it is advisable, from our point 
of view, to set limits to this weakness, and duly to 
consider and rightly to estimate the relative value 
of advantages, and thus temper, as far as possible, 
this great susceptibility to other people s opinion, 
whether the opinion be one flattering to our vanity, 
or whether it causes us pain; for in either case it is 
the same feeling which is touched. Otherwise, a 
man is the slave of what other people are pleased to 
think, and how little it requires to disconcert or 
soothe the mind that is greedy of praise: 

Sic leve, sic parvum est, animum quod laudis avarum 
Subrwt ac reficit. 1 

Therefore it will very much conduce to our 
happiness if we duly compare the value of what a 
man is in and for himself with what he is in the eyes 
of others. Under the former comes everything that 
fills up the span of our existence and makes it what 
it is, in short, all the advantages already considered 
and summed up under the heads of personality and 
property; and the sphere in which all this takes 
place is the man s own consciousness. On the other 
hand, the sphere of what we are for other people is 
their consciousness, not ours ; it is the kind of figure 
we make in their eyes, together with the thoughts 
which this arouses. 2 But this is something which 
has no direct and immediate existence for us, but 

1 Horace, Epist: II., 1, 180. 

2 Let me remark that people in the highest positions in life, 
with all their brilliance, pomp, display, magnificence and gen 
eral show, may well say: Our happiness lies entirely outside 
u*- S>r it exists only in the heads of others. 



REPUTATION 57 

can affect us only mediately and indirectly, so far, 
that is, as other people s behavior towards us is 
directed by it; and even then it ought to affect us 
only in so far as it can move us to modify what we 
are in and for ourselves. Apart from this, what 
goes on in other people s consciousness is, as such, 
a matter of indifference to us; and in time we get 
really indifferent to it, when we come to see how 
superficial and futile are most people s thoughts, 
how narrow their ideas, how mean their sentiments, 
how perverse their opinions, and how much of error 
there is in most of them; when we learn by ex 
perience with what depreciation a man will speak 
of his fellow, when he is not obliged to fear him, 
or thinks that what he says will not come to his ears. 
And if ever we have had an opportunity of seeing 
how the greatest of men will meet with nothing but 
slight from half-a-dozen blockheads, we shall un 
derstand that to lay great value upon what other 
people say is to pay them too much honor. 

At all events, a man is in a very bad way, who 
finds no source of happiness in the first two classes 
of blessings already treated of, but has to seek it 
in the third, in other words, not in what he is in 
himself, but in what he is in the opinion of others. 
For, after all, the foundation of our whole nature, 
and, therefore, of our happiness, is our physique, 
and the most essential factor in happiness is health, 
and, next in importance after health, the ability to 
maintain ourselves in independence and freedom 
from care. There can be no competition or com 
pensation between these essential factors on the one 
side, and honor, pomp, rank and reputation on the 
other, however much value we may set upon the 
latter. No one would hesitate to sacrifice the latter 
for the former, if it were necessary. We should 



58 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

add very much to our happiness by a timely recog 
nition of the simple truth that every man s chief and 
real existence is in his own skin, and not in other 
people s opinions; and, consequently, that the actual 
conditions of our personal life, health, tempera 
ment, capacity, income, wife, children, friends, 
home, are a hundred times more important for our 
happiness than what other people are pleased to 
think of us: otherwise we shall be miserable. And 
if people insist that honor is dearer than life itself, 
what they really mean is that existence and well- 
being are as nothing compared with other people s 
opinions. Of course, this may be only an exagger 
ated way of stating the prosaic truth that reputa 
tion, that is, the opinion others have of us, is indis 
pensable if we are to make any progress in the 
world; but I shall come back to that presently. 
When we see that almost everything men devote 
their lives to attain, sparing no effort and encounter 
ing a thousand toils and dangers in the process, has, 
in the end, no further object than to raise them 
selves in the estimation of others ; when we see that 
not only offices, titles, decorations, but also wealth, 
nay, even knowledge 1 and art, are striven for only 
to obtain, as the ultimate goal of all effort, greater 
respect from one s f ellowmen, is not this a lament 
able proof of the extent to which human folly can 
go? To set much too high a value on other peo 
ple s opinion is a common error everywhere; an 
error, it may be, rooted in human nature itself, or 
the result of civilization, and social arrangements 
generally; but, whatever its source, it exercises a 
very immoderate influence on all we do, and is 
very prejudicial to our happiness. We can trace 

1 Scire tuum nihil est nisi te scire hoc sciat alter, (Persius 
i. 27) knowledge is no use unless others know that you have it. 



REPUTATION 59 

it from a timorous and slavish regard for what other 
people will say, up to the feeling which made Vir- 
ginius plunge the dagger into his daughter s heart, 
or induces many a man to sacrifice quiet, riches, 
health and even life itself, for posthumous glory. 
Undoubtedly this feeling is a very convenient in 
strument in the hands of those who have the control 
or direction of their fellowmen; and accordingly 
we find that in every scheme for training up human- 
tiy in the way it should go, the maintenance and 
strengthening of the feeling of honor occupies an 
important place. But it is quite a different matter 
in its effect on human happiness, of which it is 
here our object to treat; and we should rather be 
careful to dissuade people from setting too much 
store by what others think of them. Daily expe 
rience shows us, however, that this is just the mis 
take people persist in making; most men set the 
utmost value precisely on what other people think, 
and are more concerned about it than about what 
goes on in their own consciousness, which is the 
thing most immediately and directly present to 
them. They reverse the natural order, regarding 
the opinions of others as real existence and their 
own consciousness as something shadowy; making 
the derivative and secondary into the principal, and 
considering the picture they present to the world of 
more importance than their own selves. By thus 
trying to get a direct and immediate result out of 
what has no really direct or immediate existence, 
they fall into the kind of folly which is called 
vanity the appropriate term for that which has no 
solid or instrinsic value. Like a miser, such people 
forget the end in their eagerness to obtain the 
means. 

The truth is that the value we set upon the 



60 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

opinion of others, and our constant endeavor in 
respect of it, are each quite out of proportion to 
any result we may reasonably hope to attain ; so that 
this attention to other people s attitude may be re 
garded as a kind of universal mania which every 
one inherits. In all we do, almost the first thing we 
think about is, what will people say ; and nearly half 
the troubles and bothers of life may be traced to 
our anxiety on this score; it is the anxiety which 
is at the bottom of all that feeling of self-impor 
tance, which is so often mortified because it is so 
very morbidly sensitive. It is solicitude about what 
others will say that underlies all our vanity and 
pretension, yes, and all our show and swagger too. 
Without it, there would not be a tenth part of the 
luxury which exists. Pride in every form, point 
d honneur and punctilio, however varied their kind 
or sphere, are at bottom nothing but this anxiety 
about what others will say and what sacrifices it 
costs i One can see it even in a child; and though 
it exists at every period of life, it is strongest in 
age ; because, when the capacity for sensual pleasure 
fails, vanity and pride have only avarice to share 
their dominion. Frenchmen, perhaps, afford the 
best example of this feeling, and amongst them it 
is a regular epidemic, appearing sometimes in the 
most absurd ambition, or in a ridiculous kind of na 
tional vanity and the most shameless boasting. 
However, they frustrate their own gains, for other 
people make fun of them and call them la grande 
nation. 

By way of specially illustrating this perverse and 
exuberant respect for other people s opinion, let me 
take passage from the Times of March 31st, 1846, 
giving a detailed account of the execution of one 
Thomas Wix, an apprentice who, from motives of 



REPUTATION 61 

vengeance, had murdered his master. Here we have 
very unusual circumstances and an extraordinary 
character, though one very suitable for our purpose ; 
and these combine to give a striking picture of this 
folly, which is so deeply rooted in human nature, 
and allow us to form an accurate notion of the ex 
tent to which it will go. On the morning of the 
execution, says the report, the rev. ordinary was 
early in attendance upon him, but Wix, beyond a 
quiet demeanor, betrayed no interest in his ministra 
tions, appearing to feel anxious only to acquit him 
self "bravely" before the spectators of his ignomin- 

inous end In the procession Wix jell into 

his proper place with alacrity, and, as he entered the 
Chapel-yard, remarked, sufficiently loud to be heard 
by several persons near him, "Now, then, as Dr. 
Dodd said, I shall soon know the grand secret." 
On reaching the scaffold, the miserable wretch 
mounted the drop without the slightest assistance, 
and when he got to the centre, he bowed to the spec 
tators twice, a proceeding which called forth a tre 
mendous cheer from the degraded crowd beneath. 

This is an admirable example of the way in which 
a man, with death in the most dreadful form before 
his very eyes, and eternity beyond it, will care for 
nothing but the impression he makes upon a crowd 
of gapers, and the opinion he leaves behind him in 
their heads. There was much the same kind of 
thing in the case of Lecompte, who was executed 
at Frankfurt, also in 1846, for an attempt on the 
king s life. At the trial he was very much annoyed 
that he was not allowed to appear, in decent attire, 
before the Upper House; and on the day of the 
execution it was a special grief to him that he was 
not permitted to shave. It is not only in recent 
times that this kind of thing has been known to 



62 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

happen. Mateo Aleman tells us, in the Introduc 
tion to his celebrated romance, Juzman de Alfar- 
ache, that many infatuated criminals, instead of de 
voting their last hours to the welfare of their souls, 
as they ought to have done, neglect this duty for 
the purpose of preparing and committing to mem 
ory a speech to be made from the scaffold. 

I take these extreme cases as being the best illus 
trations to what I mean; for they give us a magni 
fied reflection of our own nature. The anxieties of 
all of us, our worries, vexations, bothers, troubles, 
uneasy apprehensions and strenuous efforts are due, 
in perhaps the large majority of instances, to what 
other people will say; and we are just as foolish in 
this respect as those miserable criminals. Envy and 
hatred are very often traceable to a similar source. 

Now, it is obvious that happiness, which consists 
for the most part in peace of mind and contentment, 
would be served by nothing so much as by reducing 
this impulse of human nature within reasonable 
limits, which would perhaps make it one fiftieth 
part of what it is now. By doing so, we should 
get rid of a thorn in the flesh which is always caus 
ing us pain. But it is a very difficult task, because 
the impulse in question is a natural and innate per 
versity of human nature. Tacitus says, The lust 
of fame is the last that a wise man shakes off. 1 The 
only way of putting an end to this universal folly 
is to see clearly that it is a folly; and this may be 
done by recognizing the fact that most of the opin 
ions in men s heads are apt to be false, perverse, 
erroneous and absurd, and so in themselves un 
worthy of attention; further, that other people s 
opinions can have very little real and positive influ 
ence upon us in most of the circumstances and 
1 Hist., iv., 6. 



PRIDE VJO 

affairs of life. Again, this opinion is generally of 
such an unfavorable character that it would worry 
a man to death to hear everything that was said of 
him, or the tone in which he was spoken of. And 
finally, among other things, we should be clear 
about the fact that honor itself has no really direct, 
but only an indirect, value. If people were gen 
erally converted from this universal folly, the re 
sult would be such an addition to our piece of mind 
and cheerfulness as at present seems inconceivable ; 
people would present a firmer and more confident 
front to the world, and generally behave with less 
embarrassment and restraint. It is observable that 
a retired mode of life has an exceedingly beneficial 
influence on our peace of mind, and this is mainly 
because we thus escape having to live constantly in 
the sight of others, and pay everlasting regard to 
their casual opinions; in a word, we are able to re 
turn upon ourselves. At the same time a good deal 
of positive misfortune might be avoided, which we 
are now drawn into by striving after shadows, or, 
to speak more correctly, by indulging a mischievous 
piece of folly; and we should consequently have 
more attention to give to solid realities and enjoy 
them with less interruption that at present. But 
xaXeTra ra KaXa what is worth doing is hard to do. 

Section 2. Pride. 

The folly of our nature which we are discussing 
puts forth three shoots, ambition, vanity and pride. 
The difference between the last two is this : pride is 
an established conviction of one s own paramount 
worth in some particular respect; while vanity is 
the desire of rousing such a conviction in others, 
and it is generally accompanied by the secret hope 



62, THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

of ultimately coming to the same conviction one 
self. Pride works from within; it is the direct ap 
preciation of oneself. Vanity is the desire to arrive 
at this appreciation indirectly, from without. So 
we find that vain people are talkative, proud, and 
taciturn. But the vain person ought to be aware 
that the good opinion of others, which he strives for 
may be obtained much more easily and certainly 
by persistent silence than by speech, even though 
he has very good things to say. Anyone who wishes 
to affect pride is not therefore a proud man; but he 
will soon have to drop this, as every other, assumed 
character. 

It is only a firm, unshakeable conviction of pre 
eminent worth and special value which makes a man 
proud in the true sense of the word, a conviction 
which may, no doubt, be a mistaken one or rest on 
advantages which are of an adventitious and con 
ventional character: still pride is not the less pride 
for all that, so long as it be present in real earnest. 
And since pride is thus rooted in conviction, it re 
sembles every other form of knowledge in not being 
within our own arbitrament. Pride s worst foe, 
I mean its greatest obstacle, is vanity, which 
courts the applause of the world in order to gain 
the necessary foundation for a high opinion of one s 
own worth, whilst pride is based upon a pre-existing 
conviction of it. 

It is quite true that pride is something which is 
generally found fault with, and cried down; but 
usually, I imagine, by those who have nothing upon 
which they can pride themselves. In view of the 
impudence and foolhardiness of most people, any 
one who possesses any kind of superiority or merit 
will do well to keep his eyes fixed on it, if he does 
not want it to be entirely forgotten; for if a man is 



PRIDE 65 

good-natured enough to ignore his own privileges, 
and nob-nob with the generality of other people, as 
if he were quite on their level, they will be sure to 
treat him, frankly and candidly, as one of them 
selves. This is a piece of advice I would specially 
offer to those whose superiority is of the highest 
kind real superiority, I mean, of a purely personal 
nature which cannot, like orders and titles, appeal 
to the eye or ear at every moment; as, otherwise, 
they will find that familiarity breeds contempt, or, 
as the Romans used to say, sus Minervam. Joke 
with a slave, and he ll soon show his heels, is an 
excellent Arabian proverb ; nor ought we to despise 
what Horace says, 

Sume superbiam 
meritis. 



usurp the fame you have deserved. No doubt, 
when modesty was made a virtue, it was a very ad 
vantageous thing for the fools; for everybody is 
expected to speak of himself as if he were one. This 
is leveling down indeed; for it comes to look as if 
there were nothing but fools in the world. 

The cheapest sort of pride is national pride; for 
if a man is proud of his own nation, it argues that 
he has no qualities of his own of which he can be 
proud; otherwise he would not have recourse to 
those which he shares with so many millions of his 
fellowmen. The man who is endowed with im 
portant personal qualities will be only too ready to 
see clearly in what respects his own nation falls 
short, since their failings will be constantly before 
his eyes. But every miserable fool who has nothing 
at all of which he can be proud adopts, as a last re 
source, pride in the nation to which he belongs; 
he is ready and glad to defend all its faults and 



66 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

follies tooth and nail, thus reimbursing himself for 
his own inferiority. For example, if you speak of 
the stupid and degrading bigotry of the English 
nation with the contempt it deserves, you will hardly 
find one Englishman in fifty to agree with you; 
but if there should be one, he will generally happen 
to be an intelligent man. 

The Germans have no national pride, which 
shows how honest they are, as everybody knows! 
and how dishonest are those who, by a piece of ridic 
ulous affectation, pretend that they are proud of 
their country the Deutsche Briider and the dema 
gogues who flatter the mob in order to mislead it. 
I have heard it said that gunpowder was invented 
by a German. I doubt it. Lichtenberg asks, Why 
is it that a man who is not a German does not care 
about pretending that he is one; and that if he 
makes any pretence at all, it is to be a Frenchman 
or an Englishman? 1 

However that may be, individuality is a far more 
important thing than nationality, and in any given 
man deserves a thousand-fold more consideration. 
And since you cannot speak of national character 
without referring to large masses of people, it is im 
possible to be loud in your praises and at the same 
time honest. National character is only another 
name for the particular form which the littleness, 
perversity and baseness of mankind take in every 
country. If we become disgusted with one, we 
praise another, until we get disgusted with this too. 
Every nation mocks at other nations, and all are 
right. 

1 Translator s Note. It should be remembered that these re 
marks were written in the earlier part of the present century, 
and that a German philosopher now-a-days, even though he were 
as apt to say bitter things as Schopenhauer, could hardly write 
in a similar strain. 



RANK 67 

The contents of this chapter, which treats, as I 
have said, of what we represent in the world, or 
what we are in the eyes of others, may be further 
distributed under three heads: honor rank and 
fame. 

Section 3. Rank. 

Let us take rank first, as it may be dismissed in 
a few words, although it plays an important part 
in the eyes of the masses and of the philistines, and 
is a most useful wheel in the machinery of the 
State. 

It has a purely conventional value. Strictly 
speaking, it is a sham; its method is to exact an 
artificial respect, and, as a matter of fact, the whole 
thing is a mere farce. 

Orders, it may be said, are bills of exchange 
drawn on public opinion, and the measure of their 
value is the credit of the drawer. Of course, as a 
substitute for pensions, they save the State a good 
deal of money; and, besides, they serve a very use 
ful purpose, if they are distributed with discrimina 
tion and judgment. For people in general have 
eyes and ears, it is true; but not much else, very 
little judgment indeed, or even memory. There 
are many services of the State quite beyond the 
range of their understanding; others, again, are 
appreciated and made much of for a time, and then 
soon forgotten. It seems to me, therefore, very 
proper, that a cross or a star should proclaim to the 
mass of people always and everywhere, This man 
is not like you; lie has done something. But orders 
lose their value when they are distributed unjustly, 
or without due selection, or in too great numbers: 
a prince should be as careful in conferring them as 



68 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

a man of business is in signing a bill. It is a pleo 
nasm to inscribe on any order for distinguished 
service; for every order ought to be for distin 
guished service. That stands to reason. 

Section 4- Honor. 

Honor is a much larger question than rank, and 
more difficult to discuss. Let us begin by trying to 
define it. 

If I were to say Honor is external conscience, 
and conscience is inward honor, no doubt a good 
many people would assent ; but there would be more 
show than reality about such a definition, and it 
would hardly go to the root of the matter. I prefer 
to say, Honor is, on its objective side, other people s 
opinion of what we are worth; on its subjective side, 
it is the respect we pay to this opinion. From the 
latter point of view, to be a man of honor is to exer 
cise what is often a very wholesome, but by no 
means a purely moral, influence. 

The feelings of honor and shame exist in every 
man who is not utterly depraved, and honor is 
everywhere recognized as something particularly 
valuable. The reason of this is as follows. By and 
in himself a man can accomplish very little; he is 
like Robinson Crusoe on a desert island. It is only 
in society that a man s powers can be called into full 
activity. He very soon finds this out when his con 
sciousness begins to develop, and there arises in him 
the desire to be looked upon as a useful member of 
society, as one, that is, who is capable of playing his 
part as a man pro parte virili thereby acquiring 
a right to the benefits of social life. Now, to be 
a useful member of society, one must do two things : 
firstly, what everyone is expected to do everywhere ; 



HONOR 69 

and, secondly, what one s own particular position 
in the world demands and requires. 

But a man soon discovers that everything de 
pends upon his being useful, not in his own opinion, 
but in the opinion of others ; and so he tries his best 
to make that favorable impression upon the world, 
to which he attaches such a high value. Hence, this 
primitive and innate characteristic of human nature, 
which is called the feeling of honor, or, under 
another aspect, the feeling of shame verecundia. 
It is this which brings a blush to his cheeks at the 
thought of having suddenly to fall in the estimation 
of others, even when he knows that he is innocent, 
nay, even if his remissness extends to no absolute 
obligation, but only to one which he has taken upon 
himself of his own free will. Conversely, nothing in 
life gives a man so much courage as the attainment 
or renewal of the conviction that other people re 
gard him with favor; because it means that every 
one jcins to give him help and protection, which is 
an infinitely stronger bulwark against the ills of life 
than anything he can do himself. 

The variety of relations in which a man can stand 
to other people so as to obtain their confidence, 
that is, their good opinion, gives rise to a distinction 
between several kinds of honor, resting chiefly on 
the different bearings that meum may take to tuum; 
or, again, on the performance of various pledges; 
or finally, on the relation of the sexes. Hence, 
there are three main kinds of honor, each of which 
takes various forms civic honor, official honor, and 
sexual honor. 

Civic honor has the widest sphere of all. It con 
sists in the assumption that we shall pay uncon 
ditional respect to the rights of others, and, there 
fore, never use any unjust or unlawful means of 



70 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

getting what we want. It is the condition of all 
peaceable intercourse between man and man; and 
it is destroyed by anything that openly and mani 
festly militates against this peaceable intercourse, 
anything, accordingly, which entails punishment at 
the hands of the law, always supposing that the 
punishment is a just one. 

The ultimate foundation of honor is the convic 
tion that moral character is unalterable : a single bad 
action implies that future actions of the same kind 
will, under similar circumstances, also be bad. This 
is well expressed by the English use of the word 
character as meaning credit, reputation, honor. 
Hence honor, once lost, can never be recovered; 
unless the loss rested on some mistake, such as may 
occur if P, man is slandered or his actions viewed in 
a false light. So the law provides remedies against 
slander, libel, and even insult; for insult though it 
amounts to no more than mere abuse, is a kind of 
summary slander with a suppression of the reasons. 
What I mean may be well put in the Greek phrase 
not quoted from any authoi &mv ^ XoiSo/>ia Sia/SoA.^ 
mn/rcytos. It is true that if a man abuses another, 
he is simply showing that he has no real or true 
causes of complaint against him; as, otherwise, he 
would bring these forward as the premises, and 
rely upon his hearers to draw the conclusion them 
selves : instead of which, he gives the conclusion and 
leaves out the premises, trusting that people will 
suppose that he has done so only for the sake of 
being brief. 

Civic honor draws its existence and name from the 
middle classes ; but it applies equally to all, not ex 
cepting the highest. No man can disregard it, and 
it is a very serious thing, of which every one should 
be careful not to make light. The man who breaks 



HONOR 71 

confidence lias for ever forfeited confidence, what 
ever he may do, and whoever he may be; and the 
bitter consequences of the loss of confidence can 
never be averted. 

There is a sense in which honor may be said to 
have a negative character in opposition to the posi 
tive character of fame. For honor is not the opin 
ion people have of particular qualities which a man 
may happen to possess exclusively: it is rather the 
opinion they have of the qualities which a man may 
be expected to exhibit, and to which he should not 
prove false. Honor, therefore, means that a man 
is not exceptional ; fame, that he is. Fame is some 
thing which must be won; honor, only something 
which must not be lost. The absence of fame is ob 
scurity, which is only a negative; but loss of honor 
is shame, which is a positive quality. This negative 
character of honor must not be confused with any 
thing passive; for honor is above all things active in 
its working. It is the only quality which proceeds 
directly from the man who exhibits it; it is con 
cerned entirely with what he does and leaves un 
done, and has nothing to do with the actions of 
others or the obstacles they place in his way. It is 
something entirely in our own power rw e^ ^/xwv. 
This distinction, as we shall see presently, marks 
off true honor from the sham honor of chivalry. 

Slander is the only weapon by which honor can 
be attacked from without; and the only way to 
repel the attack is to confute the slander with the 
proper amount of publicity, and a due unmasking 
of him who utters it. 

The reason why respect is paid to age is that old 
people have necessarily shown in the course of their 
lives whether or not they have been able to maintain 
their honor unblemished; while that of young peo- 



72 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

pie has not been put to the proof, though they are 
credited with the possession of it. For neither 
length of years, equalled, as it is, and even ex 
celled, in the case of the lower animals, nor, again, 
experience, which is only a closer knowledge of the 
world s ways, can be any sufficient reason for the 
respect which the young are everywhere required to 
show towards the old : for if it were merely a matter 
of years, the weakness which attends on age would 
call rather for consideration than for respect. It is, 
however, a remarkable fact that white hair always 
commands reverence a reverence really innate and 
instinctive. Wrinkles a much surer sign of old 
age command no reverence at all; you never hear 
any one speak of venerable wrinkles; but venerable 
white hair is a common expression. 

Honor has only an indirect value. For, as I 
explained at the beginning of this chapter, what 
other people think of us, if it affects us at all, can 
affect us only in so far as it governs their behavior 
towards us, and only just so long as we live with, 
or have to do with, them. But it is to society alone 
that we owe that safety which we and our posses 
sions enjoy in a state of civilization; in all we do 
we need the help of others, and they, in their turn, 
must have confidence in us before they can have 
anything to do with us. Accordingly, their opinion 
of us is, indirectly, a matter of great importance; 
though I cannot see how it can have a direct or im 
mediate value. This is an opinion also held by 
Cicero. I quite agree, he writes, with what Chry- 
sippus and Diogenes used to say, that a good repu 
tation is not worth raising a finger to obtain, if it 
were not that it is so useful. 1 This truth has been 
insisted upon at great length by Helvetius in his 

1 De finibus iii., 17. 



HONOR 73 

chief work De I Esprit? the conclusion of which 
is that we love esteem not for its own sake, but 
solely for the advantages which it brings. And as 
the means can never be more than the end, that say 
ing, of which so much is made, Honor is dearer than 
life itself, is, as I have remarked, a very exag 
gerated statement. So much then, for civic honor. 

Official honor is the general opinion of other peo 
ple that a man who fills any office really has the 
necessary qualities for the proper discharge of all 
the duties which appertain to it. The greater and 
more important the duties a man has to discharge in 
the State, and the higher and more influential the 
office which he fills, the stronger must be the opinion 
which people have of the moral and intellectual 
qualities which render him fit for his post. There 
fore, the higher his position, the greater must be the 
degree of honor paid to him, expressed, as it is, 
in titles, orders and the generally subservient be 
havior of others towards him. As a rule, a man s 
official rank implies the particular degree of honor 
which ought to be paid to him, however much this 
degree may be modified by the capacity of the 
masses to form any notion of its importance. Still, 
as a matter of fact, greater honor is paid to a man 
who fulfills special duties than to the common citi 
zen, whose honor mainly consists in keeping clear 
of dishonor. 

Official honor demands, further, that the man who 
occupies an office must maintain respect for it, for 
the sake both of his colleagues and of those who will 
come after him. This respect an official can main 
tain by a proper observance of his duties, and by 
repelling any attack that may be made upon the 
office itself or upon its occupant: he must not, for 

: iii. 17. 



74 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

instance, pass over unheeded any statement to the 
effect that the duties of the office are not properly 
discharged, or that the office itself does not conduce 
to the public welfare. He must prove the unwar 
rantable nature of such attacks by enforcing the 
legal penalty for them. 

Subordinate to the honor of official personages 
comes that of those who serve the State in any other 
capacity, as doctors, lawyers, teachers, anyone, in 
short, who, by graduating in any subject, or by any 
other public declaration that he is qualified to exer 
cise some special skill, claims to practice it; in a 
word, the honor of all those who take any public 
pledges whatever. Under this head comes military 
honor, in the true sense of the word, the opinion 
that people who have bound themselves to defend 
their country really possess the requisite qualities 
which will enable them to do so, especially courage, 
personal bravery and strength, and that they are 
perfectly ready to defend their country to the death, 
and never and under any circumstances desert the 
flag to which they have once sworn allegiance. I 
have here taken official honor in a wider sense than 
that in which it is generally used, namely, the 
respect due by citizens to an office itself. 

In treating of sexual honor and the principles on 
which it rests, a little more attention and analysis 
are necessary; and what I shall say will support 
my contention that all honor really rests upon a 
utilitarian basis. There are two natural divisions 
of the subject the honor of women and the honor 
of men, in either side issuing in a well-understood 
esprit de corps. The former is by far the more im 
portant of the two, because the most essential feat 
ure in woman s life is her relation to man. 

Female honor is the general opinion in regard to 



HONOR 75 

a girl that she is pure, and in regard to a wife that 
she is faithful. The importance of this opinion rests 
upon the following considerations. Women depend 
upon men in all the relations of life; men upon 
women, it might be said, in one only. So an ar 
rangement is made for mutual interdependence 
man undertaking responsibility for all woman s 
needs and also for the children that spring from 
their union an arrangement on which is based the 
welfare of the whole female race. To carry out this 
plan, women have to band together with a show of 
esprit de corps, and present one undivided front to 
their common enemy, man, who possesses all the 
good things of the earth, in virtue of his superior 
physical and intellectual power, in order to lay 
siege to and conquer him, and so get possession of 
him and a share of those good things. To this end 
the honor of all women depends upon the enforce 
ment of the rule that no woman should give herself 
to a man except in mariage, in order that every man 
may be forced, as it were, to surrender and ally him 
self with a woman; by this arrangement provision 
is made for the whole of the female race. This is 
a result, however, which can be obtained only by a 
strict observance of the rule; and, accordingly, 
women everywhere show true esprit de corps in 
carefully insisting upon its maintenance. Any girl 
who commits a breach of the rule betrays the whole 
female race, because its welfare would be destroyed 
if every woman were to do likewise; so she is cast 
out with shame as one who has lost her honor. No 
woman will have anything more to do with her ; she 
is avoided like the plague. The same doom is 
awarded to a woman who breaks the marriage tie; 
for in so doing she is false to the terms upon which 
the man capitulated; and as her conduct is such as 



76 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

to frighten other men from making a similar sur 
render, it imperils the welfare of all her sisters. 
Nay, more; this deception and coarse breach of troth 
is a crime punishable by the loss, not only of per 
sonal, but also of civic honor. This is why we mini 
mize the shame of a girl, but not of a wife ; because, 
in the former case, marriage can restore honor, while 
in the latter, no atonement can be made for the 
breach of contract. 

Once this esprit de corps is acknowledged to be 
the foundation of female honor, and is seen to be a 
wholesome, nay, a necessary arrangement, as at 
bottom a matter of prudence and interest, its ex 
treme importance for the welfare of women will 
be recognized. But it does not possess anything 
more than a relative value. It is no absolute end, 
lying beyond all other aims of existence and valued 
above life itself. In this view, there will be nothing 
to applaud in the forced and extravagant conduct 
of a Lucretia or a Virginius conduct which can 
easily degenerate into tragic farce, and produce a 
terrible feeling of revulsion. The conclusion of 
Emilia Galotti, for instance, makes one leave the 
theatre completely ill at ease; and, on the other 
hand, all the rules of female honor cannot prevent 
a certain sympathy with Clara in Egmont. To 
carry this principle of female honor too far is to for 
get the end in thinking of the means and this is 
just what people often do; for such exaggeration 
suggests that the value of sexual honor is absolute; 
while the truth is that it is more relative than any 
other kind. One might go so far as to say that its 
value is purely conventional, when one sees from 
Thomasius how in all ages and countries, up to the 
time of the Reformation, irregularities were permit 
ted and recognized by law, with no derogation to 



HONOR 77 

female honor, not to speak of the temple of 
Mylitta at Babylon. 1 

There are also of course certain circumstances in 
civil life which make external forms of marriage 
impossible, especially in Catholic countries, where 
there is no such thing as divorce. Ruling princes 
everywhere, would, in my opinion, do much better, 
from a moral point of view, to dispense with forms 
altogether rather than contract a morganatic mar 
riage, the descendants of which might raise claims 
to the throne if the legitimate stock happened to die 
out; so that there is a possibility, though, perhaps, 
a remote one, that a morganatic marriage migb 
produce a civil war. And, besides, such a marriage., 
concluded in defiance of all outward ceremony, is L 
concession made to women and priests two classes 
of persons to whom one should be most careful to 
give as little tether as possible. It is further to be 
remarked that every man in a country can marry 
the woman of his choice, except one poor individual, 
namely, the prince. His hand belongs to his coun 
try, and can be given in marriage only for reasons 
of State, that is, for the good of the country. Still, 
for all that, he is a man; and, as a man, he likes to 
follow whither his heart leads. It is an unjust, un 
grateful and priggish thing to forbid, or to desire 
to forbid, a prince from following his inclinations in 
this matter; of course, as long as the lady has no 
influence upon the Government of the country. 
From her point of view she occupies an exceptional 
position, and does not come under the ordinary rules 
of sexual honor; for she has merely given herself to 
a man who loves her, and whom she loves but cannot 
marry. And in general, the fact that the principle 
of female honor has no origin in nature, is shown by 

1 Heroditus, i. 199. 



78 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

the many bloody sacrifices which have been offered 
to it, the murder of children and the mother s 
suicide. No doubt a girl who contravenes the code 
commits a breach of faith against her whole sex; 
but this faith is one which is only secretly taken for 
granted, and not sworn to. And since, in most 
cases, her own prospects suffer most immediately, 
her folly is infinitely greater than her crime. 

The corresponding virtue in men is a product of 
the one I have been discussing. It is their esprit de 
corps, which demands that, once a man has made 
that surrender of himself in marriage which is so 
advantageous to his conqueror, he shall take care 
that the terms of the treaty are maintained ; both in 
order that the agreement itself may lose none of its 
force by the permission of any laxity in its observ 
ance, and that men, having given up everything, 
may, at least, be assured of their bargain, namely, 
exclusive possession. Accordingly, it is part of a 
man s honor to resent a breach of the marriage tie 
on the part of his wife, and to punish it, at the very 
least by separating from her. If he condones the 
offence, his fellowmen cry shame upon him; but 
the shame in this case is not nearly so foul as that 
of the woman who has lost her honor; the stain is 
by no means of so deep a dye levioris notce 
macula; because a man s relation to woman is sub 
ordinate to many other and more important affairs 
in his life. The two great dramatic poets of modern 
times have each taken man s honor as the theme of 
two plays; Shakespeare in Othello and The Win 
ter s Tale, and Calderon in El medico de su honra, 
(The Physician of his Honor) , and A secreto agra- 
vio seer eta venganza, (for Secret Insult Secret 
Vengeance). It should be said, however, that 
honor demands the punishment of the wife only; to 



HONOR 79 

punish her paramour too, is a work of supereroga 
tion. This confirms the view I have taken, that a 
man s honor originates in esprit de corps. 

The kind of honor which I have been discussing 
hitherto has always existed in its various forms and 
principles amongst all nations and at all times; al 
though the history of female honor shows that its 
principles have undergone certain local modifica 
tions at different periods. But there is another 
species of honor which differs from this entirely, a 
species of honor of which the Greeks and Romans 
had no conception, and up to this day it is perfectly 
unknown amongst Chinese, Hindoos or Moham 
medans. It is a kind of honor which arose only in 
the Middle Age, and is indigenous only to Chris 
tian Europe, nay, only to an extremely small por 
tion of the population, that is to say, the higher 
classes of society and those who ape them. It is 
knightly honor, or point d honneur. Its principles 
are quite different from those which underlie the 
kind of honor I have been treating until now, and 
in some respects are even opposed to them. The 
sort I am referring to produces the cavalier; while 
the other kind creates the man of honor. As this 
is so, I shall proceed to give an explanation of its 
principles, as a kind of code or mirror of knightly 
courtesy. 

(1.) To begin with, honor of this sort consists, 
not in other people s opinion of what we are worth, 
but wholly and entirely in whether they express it 
or not, no matter whether they really have any 
opinion at all, let alone whether they know of rea 
sons for having one. Other people may entertain 
the worst opinion of us in consequence of what we 
do, and may despise us as much as they like ; so long 
as no one dares to give expression to his opinior. 



80 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

our honor remains untarnished. So if our actions 
and qualities compel the highest respect from other 
people, and they have no option but to give this 
respect, as soon as anyone, no matter how wicked 
or foolish he may be, utters something depreciatory 
of us, our honor is offended, nay, gone for ever, 
unless we can manage to restore it. A superfluous 
proof of what I say, namely, that knightly honor 
depends, not upon what people think, but upon 
what they say, is furnished by the fact that insults 
can be withdrawn, or, if necessary, form the subject 
of an apology, which makes them as though they 
had never been uttered. Whether the opinion 
which underlays the expression has also been recti 
fied, and why the expression should ever have been 
used, are questions which are perfectly unimpor 
tant: so long as the statement is withdrawn, all is 
well. The truth is that conduct of this kind aims, 
not at earning respect, but at extorting it. 

(2.) In the second place, this sort of honor rests, 
not on what a man does, but on what he suffers, 
the obstacles he encounters; differing from the 
honor which prevails in all else, in consisting, not 
in what he says or does himself, but in what another 
man says or does. His honor is thus at the mercy of 
every man who can talk it away on the tip of his 
tongue; and if he attacks it, in a moment it is gone 
for ever, unless the man who is attacked manages 
to wrest it back again by a process which I shall 
mention presently, a process which involves danger 
to his life, health, freedom, property and peace of 
mind. A man s whole conduct may be in accord 
ance with the most righteous and noble principles, 
his spirit may be the purest that ever breathed, his 
intellect of the very highest order ; and yet his honor 
may disappear the moment that anyone is pleased 



HONOR 81 

to insult him, anyone at all who has not offended 
against this code of honor himself, let him be the 
most worthless rascal or the most stupid beast, an 
idler, gambler, debtor, a man, in short, of no ac 
count at all. It is usually this sort of fellow who 
likes to insult people; for, as Seneca 1 rightly re 
marks, ut quisque contemtissimus et ludibrio est, 
ita solutissimce est, the more contemptible and 
ridiculous a man is, the readier he is with his 
tongue. His insults are most likely to be directed 
against the very kind of man I have described, be 
cause people of different tastes can never be friends, 
and the sight of pre-eminent merit is apt to raise 
the secret ire of a ne er-do-well. What Goethe says 
in the Westostlicher Divan is quite true, that it is 
useless to complain against your enemies; for they 
can never become your friends, if your whole being 
is a standing reproach to them : 

Was klagst du uber Feinde^ 
Sollten Solche je werden Freunde 
Denen das Wesen, wie du bist, 
Im stillen em ewiger Vorwurf ist? 

It is obvious that people of this worthless descrip 
tion have good cause to be thankful to the principle 
of honor, because it puts them on a level with peo 
ple who in every other respect stand far above them. 
If a fellow likes to insult any one, attribute to him, 
for example, some bad quality, this is taken prima 
facie as a well-founded opinion, true in fact; a de 
cree, as it were, with all the force of law ; nay, if it is 
not at once wiped out in blood, it is a judgment 
which holds good and valid to all time. In other 
words, the man who is insulted remains in the eyes 
of all honorable people what the man who .ttered 
the insult even though he were the greatest wretch 

1 De Constantia, 11. 



82 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

on earth was pleased to call him; for he has put 
up with the insult the technical term, I believe. 
Accordingly, all honorable people will have nothing 
more to do with him, and treat him like a leper, and, 
it may be, refuse to go into any company where he 
may be found, and so on. 

This wise proceeding may, I think, be traced back 
to the fact that in the Middle Age, up to the fif 
teenth century, it was not the accuser in any crimi 
nal process who had to prove the guilt of the ac 
cused, but the accused who had to prove his inno 
cence. 1 This he could do by swearing he was not 
guilty; and his backers consacramentales had to 
come and swear that in their opinion he was incap 
able of perjury. If he could find no one to help 
him in this way, or the accuser took ob j ection to his 
backers, recourse was had to trial by the Judgment 
of God, which generally meant a duel. For the ac 
cused was now in disgrace, 2 and had to clear himself. 
Here, then, is the origin of the notion of disgrace, 
and of that whole system which prevails now-a-days 
amongst honorable people only that the oath is 
omitted. This is also the explanation of that deep 
feeling of indignation which honorable people are 
called upon to show if they are given the lie ; it is a 
reproach which they say must be wiped out in blood. 
It seldom comes to this pass, however, though lies 
are of common occurrence; but in England, more 
than elsewhere, it is a superstition which has taken 
very deep root. As a matter of order, a man who 
threatens to kill another for telling a lie should 

1 See C. G. von Waehter s Beitrage zur deutschen Geschichte, 
especially the chapter on criminal law. 

2 Translator s Note. It is true that this expression has another 
special meaning in the technical terminology of Chivalry, but it 
is the nearest English equivalent which I can find for the German 
ein Bescholtener. 



HONOR 83 

never have told one himself. The fact is, that the 
criminal trial of the Middle Age also admitted of a 
shorter form. In reply to the charge, the accused 
answered : That is a lie; whereupon it was left to be 
decided by the Judgment of God. Hence, the code 
of knightly honor prescribes that, when the lie is 
given, an appeal to arms follows as a matter of 
course. So much, then, for the theory of insult. 

But there is something even worse than insult, 
something so dreadful that I must beg pardon of 
all honorable people for so much as mentioning it in 
this code of knightly honor; for I know they will 
shiver, and their hair will stand on end, at the very 
thought of it the summum malum, the greatest 
evil on earth, worse than death and damnation. A 
man may give another horrible dictu! a slap or 
a blow. This is such an awful thing, and so utterly 
fatal to all honor, that, while any other species of 
insult may be healed by blood-letting, this can be 
cured only by the coup-de-grace. 

(3.) In the third place, this kind of honor has 
absolutely nothing to do with what a man may be 
in and for himself; or, again, with the question 
whether his moral character can ever become better 
or worse, and all such pedantic inquiries. If your 
honor happens to be attacked, or to all appearances 
gone, it can very soon be restored in its entirety if 
you are only quick enough in having recourse to the 
one universal remedy a duel. But if the aggres 
sor does not belong to the classes which recognize 
the code of knightly honor, or has himself once 
offended against it, there is a safer way of meeting 
any attack upon your honor, whether it consists in 
blows, or merely in words. If you are armed, you 
can strike down your opponent on the spot, or per 
haps an hour later. This will restore your honor. 



84 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

But if you wish to avoid such an extreme step, 
from fear of any unpleasant consequences arising 
therefrom, or from uncertainty as to whether the 
aggressor is subject to the laws of knightly honor 
or not, there is another means of making your posi 
tion good, namely, the Avantage. This consists in 
returning rudeness with still greater rudeness; and 
if insults are no use, you can try a blow, which forms 
a sort of climax in the redemption of your honor; 
for instance, a box on the ear may be cured by a 
blow with a stick, and a blow with a stick by a 
thrashing with a horsewhip; and, as the approved 
remedy for this last, some people recommend you 
to spit at your opponent. 1 If all these means are 
of no avail, you must not shrink from drawing 
blood. And the reason for these methods of wip 
ing out insult is, in this code, as follows : 

(4.) To receive an insult is disgraceful; to give 
one, honorable. Let me take an example. My op 
ponent has truth, right and reason on his side. Very 
well. I insult him. Thereupon right and honor 
leave him and come to me, and, for the time being, 
he has lost them until he gets them back, not by 
the exercise of right or reason, but by shooting and 
sticking me. Accordingly, rudeness is a quality 
which, in point of honor, is a substitute for any other 
and outweighs them all. The rudest is always 
right. What more do you want ? However stupid, 
bad or wicked a man may have been, if he is only 
rude into the bargain, he condones and legitimizes 
all his faults. If in any discussion or conversation, 
another man shows more knowledge, greater .""ove 

1 Translator s Note. It must be remembered that Schopen 
hauer is here describing, or perhaps caricaturing the manners 
and customs of the German aristocracy of half a century ago. 
Now, of course, nous avons change tout cela! 



HONOR 85 

of truth, a sounder judgment, better understand 
ing than we, or generally exhibits intellectual qual 
ities which cast ours into the shade, we can at once 
annul his superiority and our own shallowness, and 
in our turn be superior to him, by being insulting 
and offensive. For rudeness is better than any 
argument; it totally eclipses intellect. If our op 
ponent does not care for our mode of attack, and 
will not answer still more rudely, so as to plunge 
us into the ignoble rivalry of the Avantage, we are 
the victors and honor is on our side. Truth, knowl 
edge, understanding, intellect, wit, must beat a re 
treat and leave the field to this almighty insolence. 

Honorable people immediately make a show of 
mounting their war-horse, if anyone utters an opin 
ion adverse to theirs, or shows more intelligence 
than they can muster; and if in any controversy 
they are at a loss for a reply, they look about for 
some weapon of rudeness, which will serve as well 
and come readier to hand; so they retire masters of 
the position. It must now be obvious that people 
are quite right in applauding this principle of honor 
as having ennobled the tone of society. This princi 
ple springs from another, which forms the heart and 
soul of the entire code. 

(5.) Fifthly, the code implies that the highest 
court to which a man can appeal in any differences 
he may have with another on a point of honor is 
the court of physical force, that is, of brutality. 
Every piece of rudeness is, strictly speaking, an 
appeal to brutality ; for it is a declaration that intel 
lectual strength and moral insight are incompetent 
to decide, and that the battle must be fought out 
by physical force a struggle which, in the case of 
man, whom Franklin defines as a tool-maJdng ani 
mal, is decided by the weapons peculiar to the 



86 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

species ; and the decision is irrevocable. This is the; 
well-known principle of right of might irony, of 
course, like the wit of a fool, a parallel phrase. The 
honor of a knight may be called the glory of might. 

(6.) Lastly, if, as we saw above, civic honor is 
very scrupulous in the matter of meum and tuum, 
paying great respect to obligations and a promise 
once made, the code we are here discussing displays, 
on the other hand, the noblest liberality. There is 
only one word which may not be broken, the word 
of honor upon my honor, as people say the pre 
sumption being, of course, that every other form of 
promise may be broken. Nay, if the worst comes 
to the worst, it is easy to break even one s word of 
honor, and still remain honorable again by adopt 
ing that universal remedy, the duel, and fighting 
with those who maintain that we pledged our word. 
Further, there is one debt, and one alone, that 
under no circumstances must be left unpaid a 
gambling debt, which has accordingly been called 
a debt of honor. In all other kinds of debt you may 
cheat Jews and Christians as much as you like ; and 
your knightly honor remains without a stain. 

The unprejudiced reader will see at once that 
such a strange, savage and ridiculous code of honor 
as this has no foundation in human nature, nor any 
warrant in a healthy view of human affairs. The 
extremely narrow sphere of its operation serves 
only to intensify the feeling, which is exclusively 
confined to Europe since the Middle Age, and then 
only to the upper classes, officers and soldiers, and 
people who imitate them. Neither Greeks nor 
Romans knew anything of this code of honor or of 
its principles; nor the highly civilized nations of 
Asia, ancient or modern. Amongst them no other 
kind of honor is recognized but that which I dis- 



HONOR 87 

cussed first, in virtue of which a man is what he 
shows himself to be by his actions, not what any 
wagging tongue is pleased to say of him. They 
thought that what a man said or did might perhaps 
affect his own honor, but not any other man s. To 
them, a blow was but a blow and any horse or 
donkey could give a harder one a blow which 
under certain circumstances might make a man 
angry and demand immediate vengeance; but it 
had nothing to do with honor. No one kept ac 
count of blows or insulting words, or of the satisfac 
tion which was demanded or omitted to be de 
manded. Yet in personal bravery and contempt of 
death, the ancients were certainly not inferior to 
the nations of Christian Europe. The Greeks and 
Romans were thorough heroes, if you like ; but they 
knew nothing about point d honneur. If they had 
any idea of a duel, it was totally unconnected with 
the life of the nobles; it was merely the exhibi 
tion of mercenary gladiators, slaves devoted to 
slaughter, condemned criminals, who, alternately 
with wild beasts, were set to butcher one another to 
make a Roman holiday. When Christianity was in 
troduced, gladiatorial shows were done away with, 
and their place taken, in Christian times, by the 
duel, which was a way of settling difficulties by the 
Judgment of God. 

If the gladiatorial fight was a cruel sacrifice to 
the prevailing desire for great spectacles, dueling 
is a cruel sacrifice to existing prejudices a sacri 
fice, not of criminals, slaves and prisoners, but of 
the noble and the free. 1 

There are a great many traits in the character of 

1 Translator s Note. These and other remarks on dueling will 
no doubt wear a belated look to English readers; but they are 
hardly yet antiquated for most parts of the Continent. 



88 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

the ancients which show that they were entirely free 
from these prejudices. When, for instance, Marius 
was summoned to a duel by a Teutonic chief, he re 
turned answer to the effect that, if the chief were 
tired of his life, he might go and hang himself; at 
the same time he offered him a veteran gladiator 
for a round or two. Plutarch relates in his life of 
Themistocles that Eurybiades, who was in command 
of the fleet, once raised his stick to strike him; 
whereupon Themistocles, instead of drawing his 
sword, simply said: Strike, but hear me. How 
sorry the reader must be, if he is an honorable man, 
to find that we have no information that the Athen 
ian officers refused in a body to serve any longer 
under Themistocles, if he acted like that ! There is 
a modern French writer who declares that if anyone 
considers Demosthenes a man of honor, his ignor 
ance will excite a smile of pity ; and that Cicero was 
not a man of honor either ! 2 In a certain passage in 
Plato s Laws, 3 the philosopher speaks at length of 
otKta or assault, showing us clearly enough that the 
ancients had no notion of any feeling of honor in 
connection with such matters. Socrates frequent 
discussions were often followed by his being 
severely handled, and he bore it all mildly. Once, 
for instance, when somebody kicked him, the 
patience with which he took the insult surprised one 
of his friends. Do you think, said Socrates, that if 
an ass happened to kick me, I should resent it?* 
On another occasion, when he was asked, Has not 
that fellow abused and insulted you? No, was his 
answer, what he says is not addressed to me. 5 
Stobaeus has preserved a long passage from Muson- 
ius, from which we can see how the ancients treated 

2 Soirees litteraires : par C. Durand. Rouen, 1828. 

3 Bk. IX. 4 Diogenes Laertius, ii., 21. 5 Ibid 36. 



HONOR 89 

insults. They knew no other form of satisfaction 
than that which the law provided, and wise people 
despised even this. If a Greek received a box on 
the ear, he could get satisfaction by the aid of the 
law; as is evident from Plato s Gorgias, where 
Socrates opinion may be found. The same thing 
may be seen in the account given by Gellius of one 
Lucius Veratius, who had the audacity to give some 
Roman citizens whom he met on the road a box on 
the ear, without any provocation whatever; but to 
avoid any ulterior consequences, he told a slave to 
bring a bag of small money, and on the spot paid 
the trivial legal penalty to the men whom he had 
astonished by his conduct. 

Crates, the celebrated Cynic philosopher, got 
such a box on the ear from Nicorlromus, the musi 
cian, that his face swelled up and became black and 
blue; whereupon he put a label on his forehead, 
with the inscription, Nicodromus fecit, which 
brought much disgrace to the fluteplayer who had 
committed such a piece of brutality upon the man 
whom all Athens honored as a household god. 1 
And in a letter to Melesippus, Diogenes of Sinope 
tells us that he got a beating from the drunken 
sons of the Athenians; but he adds that it was a 
matter of no importance. 2 And Seneca devotes the 
last few chapters of his De Constantia to a lengthy 
discussion on insult contumelia; in order to show 
that a wise man will take no notice of it. In Chap 
ter XIV, he says, What shall a wise man do. if he 
is given a blow? What Cato did, when some one 
struck him on the mouth; not fire up or avenge 
the insult, or even return the blow, but simply 
ignore it. 

1 Diogenes Laertins, vi. 87, and Apul: FJor: p. 126. 
1 Cf . Casaubon s Note, Diog. Laert., vi. 33. 



90 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

Yes, you say, but these men were philosophers. 
And you are fools, eh? Precisely. 

It is clear that the whole code of knightly honor 
was utterly unknown to the ancients ; for the simple 
reason that they always took a natural and unpre 
judiced view of human affairs, and did not allow 
themselves to be influenced by any such vicious and 
abominable folly. A blow in the face was to them 
a blow and nothing more, a trivial physical injury; 
whereas the moderns make a catastrophe out of it, 
a theme for a tragedy; as, for instance, in the Cid 
of Corneille, or in a recent German comedy of mid 
dle-class life, called The Power of Circumstance, 
which should have been entitled The Power of Pre 
judice. If a member of the National Assembly at 
Paris got a blow on the ear, it would resound from 
one end of Europe to the other. The examples 
which I have given of the way in which such an oc 
currence would have been treated in classic times 
may not suit the ideas of honorable people; so let 
me recommend to their notice, as a kind of antidote, 
the story of Monsieur Desglands in Diderot s mas 
terpiece, Jacques le fataliste. It is an excellent 
specimen of modern knightly honor, which, no 
doubt, they will find enjoyable and edifying. 1 

1 Translator s Note. The story to which Schopenhauer here 
refers is briefly as follows: Two gentlemen, one of whom was 
named Desglands, were paying court to the same lady. As they 
sat at table side by side, with the lady opposite, Desglands did 
his best to charm her with his conversation; but she pretended 
not to hear him, and kept looking at his rival. In the agony 
of jealousy, Desglands, as he was holding a fresh egg in his 
hand, involuntarily crushed it; the shell broke, and its contents 
bespattered his rival s face. Seeing him raise his hand, Des 
glands seized it and whispered : Sir, I take it as given. The next 
day Desglands appeared with a large piece of black sticking- 
plaster upon his right cheek. In the duel which followed, Des 
glands severely wounded his rival; upon which he reduced the 
size of the plaster. When his rival recovered, they had another 



HONOR 91 

From what I have said it must be quite evident 
that the principle of knightly honor has no essential 
and spontaneous origin in human nature. It is an 
artificial product, and its source is not hard to find. 
Its existence obviously dates from the time when 
people used their fists more than their heads, when 
priestcraft had enchained the human intellect, the 
much bepraised Middle Age, with its system of 
chivalry. That was the time when people let the 
Almighty not only care for them but judge for 
them too; when difficult cases were decided by an 
ordeal, a Judgment of God; which, with few excep 
tions, meant a duel, not only where nobles were con 
cerned, but in the case of ordinary citizens as well. 
There is a neat illustration of this in Shakespeare s 
Henry VI. 2 Every judicial sentence was subject 
to an appeal to arms a court, as it were, of higher 
instance, namely, the Judgment of God: and this 
really meant that physical strength and activity, 
that is, our animal nature, usurped the place of 
reason on the judgment seat, deciding in matters 
of right and wrong, not by what a man had done, 
but by the force with which he was opposed, the 
same system, in fact, as prevails to-day under the 
principles of knightly honor. If any one doubts 
that such is really the origin of our modern duel, 
let him read an excellent work by J. B. Millingen, 
The History of Dueling? Nay, you may still find 
amongst the supporters of the system, who, by 
the way are not usually the most educated or 
thoughtful of men, some who look upon the result 
of a duel as really constituting a divine judgment 

duel; Desglands drew blood again, and again made his plaster 
a little smaller; and so on for five or six times. After every 
duel Desglands plaster grew less and less, until at last his rival 
2 Part II., Act 2, Sc. 3. 3 Published in 1849. 



92 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

in the matter in dispute; no doubt in consequence 
of the traditional feeling on the subject. 

But leaving aside the question of origin, it must 
now be clear to us that the main tendency of the 
principle is to use physical menace for the purpose 
of extorting an appearance of respect which is 
deemed too difficult or superfluous to acquire in 
reality ; a proceeding which comes to much the same 
thing as if you were to prove the warmth of your 
room by holding your hand on the thermometer 
and so make it rise. In fact, the kernel of the mat 
ter is this: whereas civic honor aims at peaceable 
intercourse, and consists in the opinion of other peo 
ple that we deserve full confidence, because we pay 
unconditional respect to their rights; knightly 
honor, on the other hand, lays down that we are to 
be feared, as being determined at all costs to main 
tain our own. 

As not much reliance can be placed upon human 
integrity, the principle that it is more essential to 
arouse fear than to invite confidence would not, per 
haps, be a false one, if we were living in a state of 
nature, where every man would have to protect 
himself and directly maintain his own rights. But 
in civilized life, where the State undertakes the pro 
tection of our person and property, the principle 
is no longer applicable: it stands, like the castles 
and watch-towers of the age when might was right, 
a useless and forlorn object, amidst well-tilled fields 
and frequented roads, or even railways. 

Accordingly, the application of knightly honor, 
which still recognizes this principle, is confined to 
those small cases of personal assault which meet 
with but slight punishment at the hands of the law, 
or even none at all, for de minimis non, mere 
trivial wrongs, committed sometimes only in jest. 



HONOR 93 

The consequence of this limited application of the 
principle is that it has forced itself into an exag 
gerated respect for the value of the person, a re 
spect utterly alien to the nature, constitution or 
destiny of man which it has elated into a species 
of sanctity: and as it considers that the State has 
imposed a very insufficient penalty on the commis 
sion of such trivial injuries, it takes upon itself to 
punish them by attacking the aggressor in life or 
limb. The whole thing manifestly rests upon an 
excessive degree of arrogant pride, which, com 
pletely forgetting what man really is, claims that 
he shall be absolutely free from all attack or even 
censure. Those who determine to carry out this 
principle by main force, and announce, as their 
rule of action, whoever insults or strikes me shall 
die! ought for their pains to be banished the 
country. 1 

As a palliative to this rash arrogance, people are 
in the habit of giving way on everything. If two 

1 Knightly honor is the child of pride and folly, and it is 
need, not pride, which is the heritage of the human race. It is 
a very remarkable fact that this extreme form of pride should 
be found exclusively amongst the adherents of the religion which 
teaches the deepest humility. Still, this pride must not be put 
down to religion, but, rather, to the feudal system, which made 
every nobleman a petty sovereign who recognized no human 
judge, and learned to regard his person as sacred and inviolable, 
and any attack upon it, or any blow or insulting word, as an 
offence punishable with death. The principle of knightly honor 
and of the duel were at first confined to the nobles, arid, later 
on, also to officers in the army, who, enjoying a kind of off- 
and-on relationship with the upper classes, though they were 
never incorporated with them, were anxious not to be behind 
them. It is true that duels were the product of the old ordeals; 
but the latter are not the foundation, but rather the consequence 
and application of the principle of honor: the man who recog- 
tiized no human judge appealed to the divine. Ordeals, however, 
are not peculiar to Christendom: they may be found in great 
force among the Hindoos, especially of ancient times; and there 
are traces of them even now. 



94 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

intrepid persons meet, and neither will give way, 
the slightest difference may cause a shower of 
abuse, then fisticuffs, and, finally, a fatal blow: so 
that it would really be a more decorous proceeding 
to omit the intermediate steps and appeal to arms 
at once. An appeal to arms has its own special 
formalities; and these have developed into a rigid 
and precise system of laws and regulations, to 
gether forming the most solemn farce there is a 
regular temple of honor dedicated to folly! For 
if two intrepid persons dispute over some trivial 
matter, (more important affairs are dealt with by 
law), one of them, the cleverer of the two, will of 
course yield; and they will agree to differ. That 
this is so is proved by the fact that common people, 
or, rather, the numerous classes of the community 
who do not acknowledge the principle of knightly 
honor, let any dispute run its natural course. 
Amongst these classes homicide is a hundredfold 
rarer than amongst those and they amount, per 
haps, in all, to hardly one in a thousand, who pay 
homage to the principle : and even blows are of no 
very frequent occurrence. 

Then it has been said that the manners and tone 
of good society are ultimately based upon this prin 
ciple of honor, which, with its system of duels, is 
made out to be a bulwark against the assaults of 
savagery and rudeness. But Athens, Corinth and 
Rome could assuredly boast of good, nay, excellent 
society, and manners and tone of a high order, 
without any support from the bogey of knightly 
honor. It is true that women did not occupy that 
prominent place in ancient society which they hold 
now, when conversation has taken on a frivolous 
and trifling character, to the exclusion of that 
weighty discourse which distinguished the ancients. 



HONOR 95 

This change has certainly contributed a great deal 
to bring about the tendency, which is observable in 
good society now-a-days, to prefer personal cour 
age to the possession of any other quality. The 
fact is that personal courage is really a very sub 
ordinate virtue, merely the distinguishing mark 
of a subaltern, a virtue, indeed, in which we are 
surpassed by the lower animals; or else you would 
not hear people say, as brave as a lion. Far from 
being the pillar of society, knightly honor affords 
a sure asylum, in general for dishonesty and wick 
edness, and also for small incivilities, want of con 
sideration and unmannerliness. Rude behavior is 
often passed over in silence because no one cares 
to risk his neck in correcting it. 

After what I have said, it will not appear strange 
that the dueling system is carried to the highest 
pitch of sanguinary zeal precisely in that nation 
whose political and financial records show that they 
are not too honorable. What that nation is like 
in its private and domestic life, is a question which 
may be best put to those who are experienced in 
the matter. Their urbanity and social culture have 
long been conspicuous by their absence. 

There is no truth, then, in such pretexts. It can 
be urged with more justice that as, when you snarl 
at a dog, he snarls in return, and when you pet 
him, he fawns; so it lies in the nature of men to 
return hostility by hostility, and to be embittered 
and irritated at any signs of depreciatory treatment 
or hatred: and, as Cicero says, there is something 
so penetrating in the shaft of envy that even men 
of wisdom and worth find its wound a painful one; 
and nowhere in the world, except, perhaps, in a few 
religious sects, is an insult or a blow taken with 
equanimity. And yet a natural view of either 



96 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

would in no case demand anything more than a 
requital proportionate to the offence, and would 
never go to the length of assigning death as the 
proper penalty for anyone who accuses another of 
lying or stupidity or cowardice. The old German 
theory of blood for a blow is a revolting supersti 
tion of the age of chivalry. And in any case the 
return or requital of an insult is dictated by anger, 
and not by any such obligation of honor and duty 
as the advocates of chivalry seek to attach to it. 
The fact is that, the greater the truth, the greater 
the slander; and it is clear that the slightest hint 
of some real delinquency will give much greater 
offence than a most terrible accusation which is 
perfectly baseless: so that a man who is quite sure 
that he has done nothing to deserve a reproach 
may treat it with contempt, and will be safe in 
doing so. The theory of honor demands that he shall 
show a susceptibility which he does not possess, 
and take bloody vengeance for insults which he 
cannot feel. A man must himself have but a poor 
opinion of his own worth who hastens to prevent 
the utterance of an unfavorable opinion by giving 
his enemy a black eye. 

True appreciation of his own value will make a 
man really indifferent to insult; but if he cannot 
help resenting it, a little shrewdness and culture 
will enable him to save appearances and dissemble 
his anger. If he could only get rid of this super 
stition about honor the idea, I mean, that it dis 
appears when you are insulted, and can be restored 
by returning the insult; if we could only stop peo 
ple from thinking that wrong, brutality and inso 
lence can be legalized by expressing readiness to 
give satisfaction, that is, to fight in defence of it, 
we should all soon come to the general opinion 



HONOR 97 

that insult and depreciation are like a battle in 
which the loser wins; and that, as Vincenzo Monti 
says, abuse resembles a church-procession, because 
it always returns to the point from which it set 
out. If we could only get people to look upon 
insult in this light, we should no longer have to say 
something rude in order to prove that we are in 
the right. Xow, unfortunately, if we want to take 
a serious view of any question, we have first of all 
to consider whether it will not give offence in some 
way or other to the dullard, who generally show r s 
alarm and resentment at the merest sign of intelli 
gence ; and it may easily happen that the head which 
contains the intelligent view has to be pitted against 
the noodle wilich is empty of everything but nar 
rowness and stupidity. If all this were done away 
with, intellectual superiority could take the leading 
place in society which is its due a place now oc 
cupied, though people do not like to confess it, 
by excellence of physique, mere fighting pluck, in 
fact; and the natural effect of such a change would 
be that the best kind of people would have one rea 
son the less for withdrawing from society. This 
would pave the way for the introduction of real 
courtesy and genuinely good society, such as un 
doubtedly existed in Athens, Corinth and Rome. 
If anyone wants to see a good example of what I 
mean, I should like him to read Xenophon s 
Banquet. 

The last argument in defence of knightly honor 
no doubt is, that, but for its existence, the world- 
awful thought ! w r ould be a regular bear-garden. 
To which I may briefly reply that nine hundred 
and ninety-nine people out of a thousand who do 
not recognize the code, have often given and re 
ceived a blow without any fatal consequences: 



98 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

whereas amongst the adherents of the code a blow 
usually means death to one of the parties. But let 
me examine this argument more closety. 

I have often tried to find some tenable, or at 
any rate, plausible basis other than a merely con 
ventional one some positive reasons, that is to say, 
for the rooted conviction which a portion of man 
kind entertains, that a blow is a very dreadful 
thing; but I have looked for it in vain, either in 
the animal or in the rational side of human nature. 
A blow is, and always will be, a trivial physical 
injury which one man can do to another; proving, 
thereby, nothing more than his superiority in 
strength or skill, or that his enemy was off his 
guard. Analysis will carry us no further. The 
same knight who regards a blow from the human 
hand as the greatest of evils, if he gets a ten times 
harder blow from his horse, will give you the as 
surance, as he limps away in suppressed pain, that 
it is a matter of no consequence whatever. So I 
have come to think that it is the human hand which 
is at the bottom of the mischief. And yet in a 
battle the knight may get cuts and thrusts from the 
same hand, and still assure you that his wounds are 
not worth mentioning. Now, I hear that a blow 
from the flat of a sword is not by any means so 
bad as a blow from a stick; and that, a short time 
ago, cadets were liable to be punished by the one 
but not the other, and that the very greatest honor 
of all is the accolade. This is all the psychological 
or moral basis that I can find; and so there is noth 
ing left me but to pronounce the whole thing an 
antiquated superstition that has taken deep root, 
and one more of the many examples which show 
the force of tradition. My view is confirmed by the 
wdl-kno^n fact that in China a beating with a 



HONOR 99 

bamboo is a very frequent punishment for the com 
mon people, and even for officials of every class; 
which shows that human nature, even in a highly 
civilized state, does not run in the same groove here 
and in China. 

On the contrary, an unprejudiced view of human 
nature shows that it is just as natural for a man 
to beat as it is for savage animals to bite and rend in 
pieces, or for horned beasts to butt or push. Man 
may be said to be the animal that beats. Hence it is 
revolting to our sense of the fitness of things to 
hear, as we sometimes do, that one man bitten 
another; on the other hand, it is a natural and 
everyday occurrence for him to get blows or give 
them. It is intelligible enough that, as we become 
educated, we are glad to dispense with blows by 
a system of mutual restraint. But it is a cruel 
thing to compel a nation or a single class to regard 
a blow as an awful misfortune which must have 
death and murder for its consequences. There 
are too many genuine evils in the world to allow 
of our increasing them by imaginary misfortunes, 
which brings real ones in their train: and yet this 
is the precise effect of the superstition, which thus 
proves itself at once stupid and malign. 

It does not seem to me wise of governments and 
legislative bodies to promote any such folly by 
attempting to do away with flogging as a punish 
ment in civil or military life. Their idea is that 
they are acting in the interests of humanity; but, 
in point of fact, they are doing just the opposite; 
for the abolition of flogging will serve only to 
strengthen this inhuman and abominable supersti 
tion, to which so many sacrifices have already been 
made. For all offences, except the worst, a beat 
ing is the obvious, and therefore the natural pen- 



100 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

ally; and a man who will not listen to reason will 
yield to blows. It seems to me right and proper 
to administer corporal punishment to the man who 
possesses nothing and therefore cannot be fined, 
or cannot be put in prison because his master s in 
terests would suffer by the loss of his service. 
There are really no arguments against it ; only mere 
talk about the dignity of man talk which pro 
ceeds, not from any clear notions on the subject, 
but from the pernicious superstition I have been 
describing. That it is a superstition which lies at 
the bottom of the whole business is proved by an 
almost laughable example. Not long ago, in the 
military discipline of many countries, the cat was 
replaced by the stick. In either cast the object 
was to produce physical pain ; but the latter method 
involved no disgrace, and was not derogatory to 
honor. 

By promoting this superstition, the State is play 
ing into the hands of the principle of knightly 
honor, and therefore of the duel; while at the same 
time it is trying, or at any rate it pretends it is 
trying, to abolish the duel by legislative enactment. 
As a natural consequence we find that this frag 
ment of the theory that might is right, which has 
come down to us from the most savage days of 
the Middle Age, has still in this nineteenth century 
a good deal of life left in it more shame to us! 
It is high time for the principle to be driven out 
bag and baggage. Now-a-days no one is allowed 
to set dogs or cocks to fight each other, at any 
rate, in England it is a penal offence, but men 
are plunged into deadly strife, against their will, 
by the operation of this ridiculous, superstitious 
and absurd principle, which imposes upon us the 
obligation, as its narrow-minded supporters and 



HONOR 101 

advocates declare, of fighting with one another like 
gladiators, for any little trifle. Let me recommend 
our purists to adopt the expression baiting, 1 instead 
of duel, which probably comes to us, not from the 
Latin duellum, but from the Spanish duelo, 
meaning suffering, nuisance, annoyance. 

In any case, we may well laugh at the pedantic 
excess to which this foolish system has been carried. 
It is really revolting that this principle, with its 
absurd code, can form a power within the State 
imperium in imperio a power too easily put in 
motion, which, recognizing no right but might, 
tyrannizes over the classes which come within its 
range, by keeping up a sort of inquisition, before 
which any one may be haled on the most flimsy 
pretext, and there and then be tried on an issue 
of life and death between himself and his opponent. 
This is the lurking place from which every rascal, 
if he only belongs to the classes in question, may 
menace and even exterminate the noblest and best 
of men, who, as such, must of course be an object 
of hatred to him. Our system of justice and police- 
protection has made it impossible in these days 
for any scoundrel in the street to attack us with 
Your money or your life! An end should be put 
to the burden which weighs upon the higher classes 
the burden, I mean, of having to be ready every 
moment to expose life and limb to the mercy of 
anyone who takes it into his rascally head. to be 
coarse, rude, foolish or malicious. It is perfectly 
atrocious that a pair of silly, passionate boys should 
be wounded, maimed or even killed, simply because 
they have had a few words. 

The strength of this tyrannical power within the 
State, and the force of the superstition, may be 
1 Ritterhetze. 



102 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

measured by the fact that people who are prevented 
from restoring their knightly honor by the superior 
or inferior rank of their aggressor, or anything else 
that puts the persons on a different level, often 
come to a tragic-comic end by committing suicide 
in sheer despair. You may generally know a thing 
to be false and ridiculous by finding that, if it is 
carried to its logical conclusion, it results in a con 
tradiction; and here, too, we have a very glaring 
absurdity. For an officer is forbidden to take part 
in a duel; but if he is challenged and declines to 
come out, he is punished by being dismissed the 
service. 

As I am on the matter, let me be more frank 
still. The important distinction, which is often in 
sisted upon, between killing your enemy in a fair 
fight with equal weapons, and lying in ambush for 
him, is entirely a corollary of the fact that the 
power within the State, of which I have spoken, 
recognizes no other right than might, that is, the 
right of the stronger, and appeals to a Judgment 
of God as the basis of the whole code. For to 
kill a man in a fair fight, is to prove that you are 
superior to him in strength or skill; and to justify 
the deed, you must assume that the right of the 
stronger is really a right. 

But the truth is that, if my opponent is unable 
to defend himself, it gives me the possibility, but 
not by any means the right, of killing him. The 
right, the moral justification, must depend entirely 
upon the motives which I have for taking his life. 
Even supposing that I have sufficient motive for 
taking a man s life, there is no reason why I should 
make his death depend upon whether I can shoot 
or fence better than he. In such a case, it is im 
material in what way I kill him, whether I attack 



HONOR 103 

liii* from the front or the rear. From a moral 
point of view, the right of the stronger is no more 
convincing than the right of the more skillful; 
and it is skill which is employed if you murder a 
a man treacherously. Might and skill are in this 
case equally right; in a duel, for instance, both the 
one and the other come into play; for a feint is 
only another name for treachery. If I consider 
myself morally justified in taking a man s life, it 
is stupid of me to try first of all whether he can 
shoot or fence better than I; as, if he can, he will 
not only have wronged me, but have taken my life 
into the bargain. 

It is Rousseau s opinion that the proper way to 
avenge an insult is, not to fight a duel with your 
aggressor, but to assassinate him, an opinion, 
however, which he is cautious enough only to barely 
indicate in a mysterious note to one of the books 
of his Emile. This shows the philosopher so com 
pletely under the influence of the mediaeval super 
stition of knightly honor that he considers it justi 
fiable to murder a man who accuses you of lying: 
whilst he must have known that every man, and 
himself especially, has deserved to have the lie given 
him times without number. 

The prejudice which justifies the killing of your 
adversary, so long as it is done in an open contest 
and with equal weapons, obviously looks upon 
might as really right, and a duel as the interfer 
ence of God. The Italian who, in a fit of rage, 
falls upon his aggressor wherever he finds him, 
and despatches him without any ceremony, acts, 
at any rate, consistently and naturally: he may be 
cleverer, but he is not worse, than the duelist. If 
you say, I am justified in killing my adversary in 
a duel, because he is at the moment doing his best 



104 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

to kill me; I can reply that it is your challenge 
which has placed him under the necessity of defend 
ing himself; and that by mutually putting it on the 
ground of self-defence, the combatants are seeking 
a plausible pretext for committing murder. I 
should rather justify the deed by the legal maxim 
Tolenti non fit injuria; because the parties mu 
tually agree to set their life upon the issue. 

This argument may, however, be rebutted by 
showing that the injured party is not injured 
volens; because it is this tyrannical principle of 
knightly honor, with its absurd code, which forcibly 
drags one at least of the combatants before a bloody 
inquisition. 

I have been rather prolix on the subject of 
knightly honor, but I had good reason for being 
so, because the Augean stable of moral and intel 
lectual enormity in this world can be cleaned out 
only with the besom of philosophy. There are two 
things which more than all else serve to make the 
social arrangements of modern life compare un 
favorably with those of antiquity, by giving our age 
a gloomy, dark and sinister aspect, from which an 
tiquity, fresh, natural and, as it were, in the morn 
ing of life, is completely free; I mean modern 
honor and modern disease, par nobile fratruml 
which have combined to poison all the relations of 
life, whether public or private. The second of this 
noble pair extends its influence much farther than 
at first appears to be the case, as being not merely 
a physical, but also a moral disease. From the time 
that poisoned arrows have been found in Cupid s 
quiver, an estranging, hostile, nay, devilish element 
has entered into the relations of men and women, 
like a sinister thread of fear and mistrust in the 
warp and woof of their intercourse ; indirectly shak- 



HONOR 105 

ing the foundations of human fellowship, and so 
more or less affecting the whole tenor of existence. 
But it would be beside my present purpose to pur 
sue the subject further. 

An influence analogous to this, though working 
on other lines, is exerted by the principle of 
knightly honor, that solemn farce, unknown to 
the ancient world, which makes modern society 
stiff, gloomy and timid, forcing us to keep the 
strictest watch on every word that falls. Nor is 
this all. The principle is a universal Minotaur; 
and the goodly company of the sons of noble houses 
which it demands in yearly tribute, comes, not from 
one country alone, as of old, but from every land 
in Europe. It is high time to make a regular attack 
upon this foolish system ; and this is what I am try 
ing to do now. Would that these two monsters 
of the modern world might disappear before the 
end of the century! 

Let us hope that medicine may be able to find 
some means of preventing the one, and that, by 
clearing our ideals, philosophy may put an end to 
the other: for it is only by clearing our ideas that 
the evil can be eradicated. Governments have tried 
to do so by legislation, and failed. 

Still, if they are really concerned to stop the 
dueling system; and if the small success that has 
attended their efforts is really due only to their 
inability to cope with the evil, I do not mind pro 
posing a law the success of which I am prepared to 
guarantee. It will involve no sanguinary measures, 
and can be put into operation without recourse 
either to the scaffold or the gallows, or to imprison 
ment for life. It is a small homeopathic pilule, 
with no serious after effects. If any man send or 
accept a challenge, let the corporal take him before 



106 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

the guard house, and there give him, in broad day 
light, twelve strokes with a stick a la Chinoise; a 
non-commissioned officer or a private to receive six. 
If a duel has actually taken place, the usual crim 
inal proceedings should be instituted. 

A person with knightly notions might, perhaps, 
object that, if such a punishment were carried out, 
a man of honor would possibly shoot himself; to 
which I should answer that it is better for a fool 
like that to shoot himself rather than other people. 
However, I know very well that governments are 
not really in earnest about putting down dueling. 
Civil officials, and much more so, officers in the 
army, (except those in the highest positions), are 
paid most inadequately for the services they per 
form ; and the deficiency is made up by honor, which 
is represented by titles and orders, and, in general, 
by the system of rank and distinction. The duel 
is, so to speak, a very serviceable extra-horse for 
people of rank: so they are trained in the knowl 
edge of it at the universities. The accidents which 
happen to those who use it make up in blood for the 
deficiency of the pay. 

Just to complete the discussion, let me here men 
tion the subject of national honor. It is the honor 
of a nation as a unit in the aggregate of nations. 
And as there is no court to appeal to but the court 
of force; and as every nation must be prepared to 
defend its own interests, the honor of a nation con 
sists in establishing the opinion, not only that it may 
be trusted (its credit), but also that it is to be 
feared. An attack upon its rights must never be 
allowed to pass unheeded. It is a combination of 
civic and knightly honor. 



FAME 107 

Section 5. Fame. 

Under the heading of place in the estimation of 
the world we have put Fame; and this we must now 
proceed to consider. 

Fame and honor are twins; and twins, too, like 
Castor and Pollux, of whom the one was mortal 
and the other was not. Fame is the undying brother 
of ephemeral honor. I speak, of course, of the 
highest kind of fame, that is, of fame in the true 
and genuine sense of the word; for, to be sure, 
there are many sorts of fame, some of which last 
but a day. Honor is concerned merely with such 
qualities as everyone may be expected to show 
under similar circumstances; fame only of those 
which cannot be required of any man. Honor is 
of qualities which everyone has a right to attribute 
to himself; fame only of those which should be left 
to others to attribute. Whilst our honor extends 
as far as people have knowledge of us; fame runs 
in advance, and makes us known wherever it finds 
its way. Everyone can make a claim to honor; 
very few to fame, as being attainable only in virtue 
of extraordinary achievements. 

These achievements may be of two kinds, either 
actions or works; and so to fame the**e are two 
paths open. On the path of actions, a great heart is 
the chief recommendation ; on that of works, a great 
head. Each of the two paths has its own peculiar 
advantages and detriments ; and the chief difference 
between them is that actions are fleeting, while 
works remain. The influence of an action, be it 
never so noble, can last but a short time ; but a work 
of genius is a living influence, beneficial and enno 
bling throughout the ages. All that can remain of 
actions is a memory, and that becomes weak and 



108 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

disfigured by time a matter of indifference to us, 
until at last it is extinguished altogether; unless, 
indeed, history takes it up, and presents it, fossil 
ized, to posterity. Works are immortal in them 
selves, and once committed to writing, may live for 
ever. Of Alexander the Great we have but the 
name and the record; but Plato and Aristotle, 
Homer and Horace are alive, and as directly at 
work to-day as they were in their own life-time, 
The Vcdas, and their Upanishads, are still with us: 
but of all contemporaneous actions not a trace has 
come down to us. 1 

Another disadvantage under which actions labor 
is that they depend upon chance for the possibility 
of coming into existence; and hence, the fame they 
win does not flow entirely from their intrinsic value, 
but also from the circumstances which happened to 
lend them importance and lustre. Again, the fame 
of actions, if, as in war, they are purely personal, 
depends upon the testimony of fewer witnesses; 

1 Accordingly it is a poor compliment, though sometimes a 
fashionable one, to try to pay honor to a work by calling it an 
action. For a work is something essentially higher in its nature. 
An action is always something based on motive, and, therefore, 
fragmentary and fleeting a part, in fact, of that Will which is 
the universal and original element in the constitution of the 
world. But a great and beautiful work has a permanent char 
acter, as being of universal significance, and sprung from the 
Intellect, which rises, like a perfume, above the faults and follies 
of the world of Will. 

The fame of a great action has this advantage, that it generally 
starts with a loud explosion; so loud, indeed, as to be heard all 
over Europe : whereas the fame of a great work is slow and 
gradual in its beginnings; the noise it makes is at first slight, 
but it goes on growing greater, until at last, after a hundred 
years perhaps, it attains its full force; but then it remains, 
because the works remain, for thousands of years. But in the 
other case, when the first explosion is over, the noise it makes 
grows less and less, and is heard by fewer and fewer persons; 
until it ends by the action having only a shadowy existence in 
the pages of history. 



FAME 109 

and these are not always present, and even if pres 
ent, are not always just or unbiased observers. 
This disadvantage, however, is counterbalanced by 
the fact that actions have the advantage of being 
of a practical character, and, therefore, within the 
range of general human intelligence; so that once 
the facts have been correctly reported, justice is 
immediately done; unless, indeed, the motive under 
lying the action is not at first properly understood 
or appreciated. No action can be really understood 
apart from the motive which prompted it. 

It is just the contrary with works. Their incep 
tion does not depend upon chance, but wholly and 
entirely upon their author; and whoever they are 
in and for themselves, that they remain as long as 
they live. Further, there is a difficulty in properly 
judging them, which becomes all the harder, the 
higher their character; often there are no persons 
competent to understand the work, and often no 
unbiased or honest critics. Their fame, however, 
does not depend upon one judge only; they can 
enter an appeal to another. In the case of actions, 
as I have said, it is only their memory which comes 
down to posterity, and then only in the traditional 
form; but works are handed down themselves, and, 
except when parts of them have been lost, in the 
form in which they first appeared. In this case 
there is no room for any disfigurement of the facts ; 
and any circumstance which may have prejudiced 
them in their origin, fall away with the lapse of 
time. Nay, it is often only after the lapse of time 
that the persons really competent to judge them 
appear exceptional critics sitting in judgment on 
exceptional works, and giving their weighty ver 
dicts in succession. These collectively form a per 
fectly just appreciation: and though there are cases 



110 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

where it has taken some hundreds of years to form 
it, no further lapse of time is able to reverse the 
verdict; so secure and inevitable is the fame of a 
great work. 

Whether authors ever live to see the dawn of 
their fame depends upon the chance of circum 
stance; and the higher and more important their 
works are, the less likelihood there is of their doing 
so. That was an incomparable fine saying of 
Seneca s, that fame follows merit as surely as the 
body casts a shadow; sometimes falling in front, 
and sometimes behind. And he goes on to remark 
that though the envy of contemporaries be shown 
by universal silence, there will come those who will 
judge without enmity or favor. From this remark 
it is manifest that even in Seneca s age there were 
rascals who understood the art of suppressing merit 
by maliciously ignoring its existence, and of con 
cealing good work from the public in order to favor 
the bad: it is an art well understood in our day, 
too, manifesting itself, both then and now, in an 
envious conspiracy of silence. 

As a general rule, the longer a man s fame is 
likely to last, the later it will be in coming; for 
all excellent products require time for their devel 
opment. The fame which lasts to posterity is like 
an oak, of very slow growth; and that which en 
dures but a little while, like plants which spring up 
in a year and then die; whilst false fame is like a 
fungus, shooting up in a night and perishing as 
soon. 

And why? For this reason; the more a man be 
longs to posterity, in other words, to humanity in 
general, the more of an alien he is to his contempo 
raries ; since his work is not meant for them as such, 
but only for them in so far as they form part of 



FAME 111 

mankind at large; there is none of that familiar 
local color about his productions which would ap 
peal to them; and so what he does, fails of recog 
nition because it is strange. 

People are more likely to appreciate the man 
who serves the circumstances of his own brief hour, 
or the temper of the moment, belonging to it, 
living and dying with it. 

The general history of art and literature shows 
that the highest achievements of the human mind 
are, as a rule, not favorably received at first; but 
remain in obscurity until they win notice from in 
telligence of a high order, by whose influence they 
are brought into a position which they then main 
tain, m virtue of the authority thus given them. 

If the reason of this should be asked, it will be 
found that ultimately, a man can really understand 
and appreciate those things only which are of like 
nature with himself. The dull person will like 
what is dull, and the common person what is com 
mon ; a man whose ideas are mixed will be attracted 
by confusion of thought; and folly will appeal to 
him who has no brains at all ; but best of all, a man 
will like his own works, as being of a character 
thoroughly at one with himself. This is a truth 
as old as Epicharmus of fabulous memory 



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The sense of this passage for it should not be 
lost is that we should not be surprised if people 
are pleased with themselves, and fancy that they 
are in good case ; for to a dog the best thing in the 



THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

world is a dog; to an ox, an ox; to an ass, an ass; 
and to a sow, a sow. 

The strongest arm is unavailing to give impetus 
to a featherweight; for, instead of speeding on its 
way and hitting its mark with effect, it will soon 
fall to the ground, having expended what little 
energy was given to it, and possessing no mass of 
its own to be the vehicle of momentum. So it is 
with great and noble thoughts, nay, with the very 
masterpieces of genius, when there are none but 
little, weak, and perverse minds to appreciate them, 
a fact which has been deplored by a chorus of 
the wise in all ages. Jesus, the son of Sirach, for 
instance, declares that He that telleth a tale to a 
fool speaketh to one in slumber: when he hath told 
his tale, he will say, What is the matter? ^ And 
Hamlet says, A knavish speech sleeps in a fool s 
ear. 2 And Goethe is of the same opinion, that a 
dull ear mocks at the wisest word, 

Das gliicklichste Wort es wird verhohnt, 
Wenn der Horer ein Schiefohr ist: 

and again, that we should not be discouraged if 
people are stupid, for you can make no rings if 
you throw your stone into a marsh. 

Du wirkest nicht, Alles bleibt so stumpf: 

Sei guter Dinge! 
Der Stein in Sumpf 

Macht keine Einge. 

Lichtenberg asks: When a head and a book come 
into collision, and one sounds hollow, is it always 
the book? And in another place: Works like this 
are as a mirror; if an ass looks in, you cannot expect 
an apostle to look out. We should do well tu re 
member old Gellert s fine and touching lament, 

1 Ecclesiasticus, xxii., 8. 2 Act iv., Sc. 2. 



FAME 113 

that the best gifts of all find the fewest admirers, 
and that most men mistake the bad for the good, 
a daily evil that nothing can prevent, like a plague 
which no remedy can cure. There is but one thing 
to be done, though how difficult! the foolish must 
become wise, and that they can never be. The 
value of life they never know ; they see with the 
outer eye but never with the mind, and praise the 
trivial because the good is strange to them: 

Nie kennen sie den Werth der Dinge, 
Ihr Auge schliesst, nicht ihr V erst and; 

Sie lob en ewig das Geringe 
Weil sie das Gute nie gekannt. 

To the intellectual incapacity which, as Goethe 
says, fails to recognize and appreciate the good 
which exists, must be added something which comes 
into play everywhere, the moral baseness of man 
kind, here taking the form of envy. The new fame 
that a man wins raises him afresh over the heads of 
his fellows, who are thus degraded in proportion. 
All conspicuous merit is obtained at the cost of 
those who possess none; or, as Goethe has it in the 
Westostlicher Divan, another s praise is one s own 
depreciation 

Wenn wir Andern Ehre geben 
Mussen wir uns selbst entadeln. 

We see, then, how it is that, whatever be the form 
which excellence takes, mediocrity, the common lot 
of by far the greatest number, is leagued against it 
in a conspiracy to resist, and if possible, to suppress 
it. The pass-word of this league is a bos le merit e. 
Nay more; those who have done something them 
selves, and enjoy a certain amount of fame, do not 
care about the appearance of a new reputation, 
because its success is apt to throw theirs into the 



114 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

shade. Hence, Goethe declares that if we had to 
depend for our life upon the favor of others, we 
should never have lived at all; from their desire 
to appear important themselves, people gladly 
ignore our very existence: 

Hdtte ich gezaudert zu werden, 

Bis man mir s Leben geognnt, 

Ich ware noch nicht auf Erden, 

Wie ihr begreifen konnt, 

Wenn ihr seht, wie sie sich geberden, 

Die, um etwas zu scheinen, 

Mich gerne mochten verneinen. 

Honor, on the contrary, generally meets with 
fair appreciation, and is not exposed to the on 
slaught of envy; nay, every man is credited with 
the possession of it until the contrary is proved. 
But fame has to be won in despite of envy, and the 
tribunal which awards the laurel is composed of 
judges biased against the applicant from the very 
first. Honor is something which we are able and 
ready to share with everyone; fame suffers en 
croachment and is rendered more unattainable in 
proportion as more people come by it. Further, 
the difficulty of winning fame by any given work 
stands in reverse ratio to the number of people 
who are likely to read it; and hence it is so much 
harder to become famous as the author of a learned 
work than as a writer who aspires only to amuse. 
It is hardest of all in the case of philosophical 
works, because the result at which they aim is rather 
vague, and, at the same time, useless from a ma 
terial point of view; they appeal chiefly to readers 
who are working on the same lines themselves. 

It is clear, then, from what I have said as to the 
difficulty of winning fame, that those who labor, 
not out of love for their subject, nor from pleasure 



FAME 115 

in pursuing it, but under the stimulus of ambition, 
rarely or never leave mankind a legacy of immortal 
works. The man who seeks to do what is good 
and genuine, must avoid what is bad, and be ready 
to defy the opinions of the mob, nay, even to de 
spise it and its misleaders. Hence the truth of the 
remark, (especially insisted upon by Osorius de 
Gloria), that fame shuns those who seek it, and 
seeks those who shun it; for the one adapt them 
selves to the taste of their contemporaries, and the 
others work in defiance of it. 

But, difficult though it be to acquire fame, it is 
an easy thing to keep when once acquired. Here, 
again, fame is in direct opposition to honor, with 
which everyone is presumably to be accredited. 
Honor has not to be won; it must only not be lost. 
But there lies the difficulty! For by a single un 
worthy action, it is gone irretrievably. But fame, 
in the proper sense of the word, can never disap 
pear; for the action or work by which it was 
acquired can never be undone; and fame attaches 
to its author, even though he does nothing to de 
serve it anew. The fame which vanishes, or is out 
lived, proves itself thereby to be spurious, in other 
words, unmerited, and due to a momentary over 
estimate of a man s work; not to speak of the kind 
of fame which Hegel enjoyed, and which Lichten- 
berg describes as trumpeted forth by a clique of 
admiring undergraduates the resounding echo of 
empty heads; such a fame as will make posterity 
smile when it lights upon a grotesque architecture 
of words, a fine nest with the birds long ago flown; 
it will knock at the door of this decayed structure 
of conventionalities and -find it utterly empty! 
not even a trace of thought there to invite the 
passer-by. 



116 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

The truth is that fame means nothing but what 
a man is in comparison with others. It is essentially 
relative in character, and therefore only indirectly 
valuable; for it vanishes the moment other people 
become what the famous man is. Absolute value 
can be predicated only of what a man possesses 
under any and all circumstances, here, what a 
man is directly and in himself. It is the possession 
of a great heart or a great head, and not the mere 
fame of it, which is worth having, and conducive to 
happiness. Not fame, but that which deserves to 
be famous, is what a man should hold in esteem. 
This is, as it were, the true underlying substance, 
and fame is only an accident, affecting its subject 
chiefly as a kind of external symptom, which serves 
to confirm his own opinion of himself. Light is not 
visible unless it meets with something to reflect it; 
and talent is sure of itself only when its fame is 
noised abroad. But fame is not a certain symptom 
of merit; because you can have the one without the 
other; or, as Lessing nicely puts it, Some people 
obtain fame, and others deserve it. 

It would be a miserable existence which should 
make its value or want of value depend upon what 
other people think; but such would be the life of a 
hero or a genius if its worth consisted in fame, 
that is, in the applause of the world. Every man 
lives arid exists on his own account, and, therefore, 
mainly in and for himself; and what he is and the 
whole manner of his being concern himself more 
than anyone else; so if he is not worth much in this 
respect, he cannot be worth much otherwise. The 
idea which other people form of his existence is 
something secondary, derivative, exposed to all the 
chances of fate, and in the end affecting him but 
very indirectly. Besides, other people s heads are 



FAME 117 

a wretched place to be the home of a man s true 
happiness a fanciful happiness perhaps, but not 
a real one. 

And what a mixed company inhabits the Temple 
of Universal Fame! generals, ministers, charla 
tans, jugglers, dancers, singers, millionaires and 
Jews ! It is a temple in which more sincere recog 
nition, more genuine esteem, is given to the several 
excellencies of such folk, than to superiority of 
mind, even of a high order, which obtains from the 
great majority only a verbal acknowledgment. 

From the point of view of human happiness, 
fame is, surely, nothing but a very rare and delicate 
morsel for the appetite that feeds on pride and 
vanity an appetite which, however carefully con 
cealed, exists to an immoderate degree in every 
man, and is, perhaps strongest of all in those who 
set their hearts on becoming famous at any cost. 
Such people generally have to wait some time in 
uncertainty as to their own value, before the oppor 
tunity comes which will put it to the proof and let 
other people see what they are made of; but until 
then, they feel as if they were suffering secret in 
justice. 1 

But, as I explained at the beginning of this chap 
ter, an unreasonable value is set upon other people s 
opinion, and one quite disproportionate to its real 
worth. Hobbes has some strong remarks on this 
subject; and no doubt he is quite right. Mental 
pleasure, he writes, and ecstacy of any kind, arise 
when, on comparing ourselves with others, we come 
to the conclusion that we may think well of our- 

1 Our greatest pleasure consists in being admired ; but those 
who admire us, even if they have every reason to do so, are 
slow to express their sentiments. Hence he is the happiest man 
who, no matter how, manages sincerely to admire himself so 
long as other people leave him alone. 



118 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

selves. So we can easily understand the great value 
which is always attached to fame, as worth any sac 
rifices if there is the slightest hope of attaining it. 

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 

(That hath infirmity of noble mind) 

To scorn delights and live laborious days. 1 

And again: 

How hard it is to climb 
The heights where Fame s proud temple shines afar! 

We can thus understand how it is that the vain 
est people in the world are always talking about 
la gloire, with the most implicit faith in it as a 
stimulus to great actions and great works. But 
there can be no doubt that fame is something sec 
ondary in its character, a mere echo or reflection 
as it were, a shadow or symptom of meri f ,: and, 
in any case, what excites admiration must be of 
more value than the admiration itself. The truth 
is that a man is made happy, not by fame, but by 
that which brings him fame, by his merits, or to 
speak more correctly, by the disposition and capacity 
from which his merits proceed, whether they be 
moral or intellectual. The best side of a man s 
nature must of necessity be more important for him 
than for anyone else : the reflection of it, the opinion 
which exists in the heads of others, is a matter that 
can affect him only in a very subordinate degree. 
He who deserves fame without getting it possesses 
by far the more important element of happiness, 
which should console him for the loss of the other. 
It is not that a man is thought to be great by masses 
of incompetent and often infatuated people, but 
that he really is great, which should move us to 
envy his position ; and his happiness lies, not in the 

1 Milton. Lycidas. 



FAME 119 

fact that posterity will hear of him, but that he is 
the creator of thoughts worthy to be treasured up 
and studied for hundreds of years. 

Besides, if a man has done this, he possesses some 
thing which cannot be wrested from him; and, un 
like fame, it is a possession dependent entirely upon 
himself. If admiration were his chief aim, there 
would be nothing in him to admire. This is just 
what happens in the case of false, that is, un 
merited, fame; for its recipient lives upon it with 
out actually possessing the solid substratum of 
which fame is the outward and visible sign. False 
fame must often put its possessor out of conceit 
with himself; for the time may come when, in spite 
of the illusions borne of self-love, he will feel giddy 
on the heights which he was never meant to climb, 
or look upon himself as spurious coin; and in the 
anguish of threatened discovery and well-merited 
degradation, he will read the sentence of posterity 
on the foreheads of the wise like a man who owes 
his property to a forged will. 

The truest fame, the fame that comes after death, 
is never heard of by its recipient; and yet he is 
called a happy man. 

His happiness lay both in the possession of those 
great qualities which won him fame, and in the 
opportunity that was granted him of developing 
them the leisure he had to act as he pleased, to 
dedicate himself to his favorite pursuits. It is only 
work done from the heart that ever gains the laurel. 

Greatness of soul, or wealth of intellect, is what 
makes a man happy intellect, such as, when 
stamped on its productions, will receive the admi 
ration of centuries to come, thoughts which make 
him happy at the time, and will in their turn be a 
source of study and delight to the noblest minds 



120 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

of the most remote posterity. The value of post 
humous fame lies in deserving it; and this is its 
own reward. Whether works destined to fame 
attain it in the lifetime of their author is a chance 
affair, of no very great importance. For the aver 
age man has no critical power of his own, and is 
absolutely incapable of appreciating the difficulty 
of a great work. People are always swayed by 
authority; and where fame is widespread, it means 
that ninety-nine out of a hundred take it on faith 
alone. If a man is famed far and wide in his own 
lifetime, he will, if he is wise, not set too much value 
upon it, because it is no more than the echo of a 
few voices, which the chance of a day has touched 
in his favor. 

Would a musician feel flattered by the loud ap 
plause of an audience if he knew that they were 
nearly all deaf, and that, to conceal their infirmity, 
they set to work to clap vigorously as soon as ever 
they saw one or two persons applauding? And 
what would he say if he got to know that those 
one or two persons had often taken bribes to secure 
the loudest applause for the poorest player! 

It is easy to see why contemporary praise so 
seldom develops into posthumous fame. D Alern- 
bert, in an extremely fine description of the temple 
of literary fame, remarks that the sanctuary of the 
temple is inhabited by the great dead, who during 
their life had no place there, and by a very few 
living persons, who are nearly all ejected on their 
death. Let me remark, in passing, that to erect 
a monument to a man in his lifetime is as much as 
declaring that posterity is not to be trusted in its 
judgment of him. If a man does happen to see 
his own true fame, it can very rarely be before 
he is old, though there have been artists and mu- 



FAME 

sicians who have been exceptions to this rule, but 
very few philosophers. This is confirmed by the 
portraits of people celebrated by their works; for 
most of them are taken only after their subjects 
have attained celebrity, generally depicting them 
as old and grey; more especially if philosophy has 
been the work of their lives. From the eudsemo- 
nistic standpoint, this is a very proper arrange 
ment ; as fame and youth are too much for a mortal 
at one and the same time. Life is such a poor busi 
ness that the strictest economy must be exercised 
in its good things. Youth has enough and to spare 
in itself, and must rest content with what it has. 
But when the delights and joys of life fall away 
in old age, as the leaves from a tree in autumn, 
fame buds forth opportunely, like a plant that is 
green in winter. Fame is, as it were, the fruit that 
must grow all the summer before it can be enjoyed 
at Yule. There is no greater consolation in age 
than the feeling of having put the whole force of 
one s youth into works which still remain young. 

Finally, let us examine a little more closely the 
kinds of fame which attach to various intellectual 
pursuits; for it is with fame of this sort that my 
remarks are more immediately concerned. 

I think it may be said broadly that the intellec 
tual superiority it denotes consists in forming 
theories, that is, new combinations of certain facts. 
These facts may be of very different kinds; but 
the better they are known, and the more they come 
within everyday experience, the greater and wider 
will be the fame which is to be won by theorizing 
about them. 

For instance, if the facts in question are numbers 
or lines or special branches of science, such as 
physics, zoology, botany, anatomy, or corrupt pas- 



THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

sages in ancient authors, or undecipherable inscrip 
tions, written, it may be, in some unknown alpha 
bet, or obscure points in history; the kind of fame 
that may be obtained by correctly manipulating 
such facts will not extend much beyond those who 
make a study of them a small number of persons, 
most of whom live retired lives and are envious of 
others who become famous in their special branch 
of knowledge. 

But if the facts be such as are known to every 
one, for example, the fundamental characteristics 
of the human mind or the human heart, which are 
shared by all alike; or the great physical agencies 
which are constantly in operation before our eyes, 
or the general course of natural laws; the kind of 
fame which is to be won by spreading the light of 
a new and manifestly true theory in regard to them, 
is such as in time will extend almost all over the 
civilized world: for if the facts be such as everyone 
can grasp, the theory also will be generally intel 
ligible. But the extent of the fame will depend 
upon the difficulties overcome; and the more gen 
erally known the facts are, the harder it will be 
to form a theory that shall be both new and true: 
because a great many heads will have been occupied 
with them, and there will be little or no possibility 
of saying anything that has not been said before. 

On the other hand, facts which are not accessible 
to everybody, and can be got at only after much 
difficulty and labor, nearly always admit of new 
combinations and theories ; so that, if sound under 
standing and judgment are brought to bear upon 
them qualities which do not involve very high in 
tellectual power a man may easily be so fortunate 
as to light upon some new theory in regard to them 
which shall be also true. But fame won on such 



FAME 123 

paths does not extend much beyond those who 
possess a knowledge of the facts in question. To 
solve problems of this sort requires, no doubt, a 
great deal of study and labor, if only to get at the 
facts; whilst on the path where the greatest and 
most widespread fame is to be won, the facts may 
be grasped without any labor at all. But just in 
proportion as less labor is necessary, more talent or 
genius is required; and between such qualities and 
the drudgery of research no comparison is possible, 
in respect either of their intrinsic value, or of the 
estimation in which they are held. 

And so people who feel that they possess solid 
intellectual capacity and a sound judgment, and 
yet cannot claim the highest mental powers, should 
not be afraid of laborious study ; for by its aid they 
may work themselves above the great mob of hu 
manity who have the facts constantly before their 
eyes, and reach those secluded spots which are 
accessible to learned toil. 

For this is a sphere where there are infinitely 
fewer rivals, and a man of only moderate capacity 
may soon find an opportunity of proclaiming a 
theory which shall be both new and true; nay, the 
merit of his discovery will partly, rest upon the dif 
ficulty of coming at the facts. But applause from 
one s fellow-students, who are the only persons with 
a knowledge of the subject, sounds very faint to the 
far-off multitude. And if we follow up this sort 
of fame far enough, we shall at last come to a point 
where facts very difficult to get at are in themselves 
sufficient to lay a foundation of fame, without any 
necessity for forming a theory; travels, for in 
stance, in remote and little-known countries, which 
make a man famous by what he has seen, not by 
what he has thought. The great advantage of this 



124 THE WISDOM OF LIFE 

kind of fame is that to relate what one has seen, 
is much easier than to impart one s thoughts, and 
people are apt to understand descriptions better 
than ideas, reading the one more readily than the 
other: for, as Asmus says, 

When one goes forth a-voyaging 
He has a tale to tell. 

And yet for all that, a personal acquaintance with 
celebrated travelers often remind us of a line from 
Horace new scenes do not always mean new 
ideas 

Ccelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt. 1 

But if a man finds himself in possession of great 
mental faculties, such as alone should venture on 
the solution of the hardest of all problems those 
which concern nature as a whole and humanity in 
its widest range, he will do well to extend his view 
equally in all directions, without ever straying too 
far amid the intricacies of various by-paths, or in 
vading regions little known; in other words, with 
out occupying himself with special branches of 
knowledge, to say nothing of their petty details. 
There is no necessity for him to seek out subjects 
difficult of access, in order to escape a crowd of 
rivals; the common objects of life will give him 
material for new theories at once serious and true; 
and the service he renders will be appreciated by 
all those and they form a great part of mankind 
who know the facts of which he treats. What a 
vast distinction there is between students of physics, 
chemistry, anatomy, mineralogy, zoology, philol 
ogy, history, and the men who deal with the great 
facts of human life, the poet and the philosopher! 

1 Epist. I. II. 



COUNSELS AND MAXIMS. 



Le bonheur n est pas chose aisee: il est 
tres difficile de le trouver en nous, et im 
possible de le trouver ailleurs. 

CHAMFORT 



CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER PAGE 

INTRODUCTION i 

I. GENERAL RULES 1 

II. OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 14 

III. OUR RELATION TO OTHERS 62 

IV. WORLDLY FORTUNE 99 

V. THE AGES OF LIFE. 114 



INTRODUCTION. 

IF my object in these pages were to present a 
complete scheme of counsels and maxims for the 
guidance of life, I should have to repeat the numer 
ous rules some of them excellent which have 
been drawn up by thinkers of all ages, from Theog- 
nis and Solomon 1 down to La Rochefoucauld ; and, 
in so doing, I should inevitably entail upon the 
reader a vast amount of well-worn commonplace. 
But the fact is that in this work I make still less 
claim to exhaust my subject than in any other of 
my writings. 

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

However, by way of introducing some sort of 
order into the great variety of matters upon which 

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



11 INTRODUCTION 

advice will be given in the following pages, I shall 
distribute what I have to say under the following 
heads: (1) general rules; (2) our relation to our 
selves; (3) our relation to others; and finally, (4) 
rules which concern our manner of life and our 
worldly circumstances. I shall conclude with some 
remarks on the changes which the various periods 
of life produce in us. 



COUNSELS AND MAXIMS. 
CHAPTER I. 

GENERAL RULES. SECTION 1. 

THE first and foremost rule for the wise conduct 
of life seems to me to be contained in a view to 
which Aristotle parenthetically refers in the Nicho- 
machean Ethics: 1 6 </ooVi/xo TO aXv-n-ov &w/<e t o\> TO ^Sv, or, 
as it may be rendered, not pleasure, but freedom 
from pain, is what the wise man will aim at. 

The truth of this remark turns upon the negative 
character of happiness, the fact that pleasure is 
only the negation of pain, and that pain is the 
positive element in life. Though I have given a 
detailed proof of this proposition in my chief work, 2 
I may supply one more illustration of it here, drawn 
from a circumstance of daily occurrence. Suppose 
that, with the exception of some sore or painful 
spot, we are physically in a sound and healthy con 
dition: the sore of this one spot, will completely 
absorb our attention, causing us to lose the sense of 
general well-being, and destroying all our comfort 
in life. In the same way, when all our affairs but 
one turn out as we wish, the single instance in which 
our aims are frustrated is a constant trouble to us, 
even though it be something quite trivial. We 
think a great deal about it, and very little about 
those other and more important matters in which 

1 vii. (12) 12. 

2 Welt als Wille und Vorstellung. Vol. I., p. 58. 



2 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

we have been successful. In both these cases what 
has met with resistance is the will; in the one case, 
as it is objectified in the organism, in the other, as 
it presents itself in the struggle of life ; and in both, 
it is plain that the satisfaction of the will consists 
in nothing else than that it meets with no resist 
ance. It is, therefore, a satisfaction which is not 
directly felt; at most, we can become conscious of 
it only when we reflect upon our condition. But 
that which checks or arrests the will is something 
positive; it proclaims its own presence. All pleas 
ure consists in merely removing this check in other 
words, in freeing us from its action; and hence 
pleasure is a state which can never last very long. 
This is the true basis of the above excellent rule 
quoted from Aristotle, which bids us direct our aim, 
not toward securing what is pleasurable and agree 
able in life, but toward avoiding, as far as possible, 
its innumerable evils. If this were not the right 
course to take, that saying of Voltaire s, Happiness 
is but a dream and sorrow is real, would be as false 
as it is, in fact, true. A man who desires to make 
up the book of his life and determine where the 
balance of happiness lies, must put down in his 
accounts, not the pleasures which he has enjoyed, 
but the evils which he has escaped. That is the 
true method of eudsemonology ; for all eudamion- 
ology must begin by recognizing that its very 
name is a euphemism, and that to live happily only 
means to live less unhappily to live a tolerable life. 
There is no doubt that life is given us, not to be 
enjoyed, but to be overcome to be got over. There 
are numerous expressions illustrating this such as 
degere vitam, vita defungi; or in Italian, si scampa 
cosl; or in German, man muss suchen durchzukom- 
men; er wird schon durch die Welt kommen, and 



GENERAL RULES 3 

so on. In old age it is indeed a consolation to think 
that the work of life is over and done with. The 
happiest lot is not to have experienced the keenest 
delights or the greatest pleasures, but to have 
brought life to a close without any very great pain, 
bodily or mental. To measure the happiness of a 
life by its delights or pleasures, is to apply a false 
standard. For pleasures are and remain something 
negative; that they produce happiness is a delu 
sion, cherished by envy to its own punishment. 
Pain is felt to be something positive, and hence its 
absence is the true standard of happiness. And if, 
over and above freedom from pain, there is also an 
absence of boredom, the essential conditions of 
earthly happiness are attained; for all else is chi 
merical. 

It follows from this that a man should never 
try to purchase pleasure at the cost of pain, or 
even at the risk of incurring it; to do so is to pay 
what is positive and real, for what is negative and 
illusory; while there is a net profit in sacrificing 
pleasure for the sake of avoiding pain. In either 
case it is a matter of indifference whether the pain 
follows the pleasure or precedes it. While it is a 
complete inversion of the natural order to try and 
turn this scene of misery into a garden of pleasure, 
to aim at joy and pleasure rather than at the great 
est possible freedom from pain and yet how many 
do it! there is some wisdom in taking a gloomy 
view, in looking upon the world as a kind of Hell, 
and in confining one s efforts to securing a little 
room that shall not be exposed to the fire. The 
fool rushes after the pleasures of life and finds him 
self their dupe; the wise man avoids its evils; and 
even if, notwithstanding his precautions, he falls 
into misfortunes, that is the fault of fate, not of his 



4 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

own folly. As far as he is successful in his en 
deavors, he cannot be said to have lived a life of 
illusion; for the evils which he shuns are very real. 
Even if he goes too far out of his way to avoid evils, 
and makes an unnecessary sacrifice of pleasure, he 
is, in reality, not the worse off for that; for all 
pleasures are chimerical, and to mourn for having 
lost any of them is a frivolous, and even ridiculous 
proceeding. 

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

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

A careless youth may think that the world is 
meant to be enjoyed, as though it were the abode 
of some real or positive happiness, which only those 
fail to attain who are not clever enough to over 
come the difficulties that lie in the way. This false 
notion takes a stronger hold on him when he comes 
to read poetry and romance, and to be deceived by 
outward show the hypocrisy that characterizes the 
world from beginning to end ; on which I shall have 
something to say presently. The result is that his 
life is the more or less deliberate pursuit of posi 
tive happiness ; and happiness he takes to be equiv- 



GENERAL RULES 5 

alent to a series of definite pleasures. In seeking 
for these pleasures he encounters danger a fact 
which should not be forgotten. He hunts for game 
that does not exist; and so he ends by suffering 
some very real and positive misfortune pain, dis 
tress, sickness, loss, care, poverty, shame, and all 
the thousand ills of life. Too late he discovers the 
trick that has been played upon him. 

But if the rule I have mentioned is observed, 
and a plan of life is adopted which proceeds by 
avoiding pain in other words, by taking measures 
of precaution against want, sickness, and distress 
in all its forms, the aim is a real one, and something 
may be achieved which will be great in proportion 
as the plan is not disturbed by striving after the 
chimera of positive happiness. This agrees with 
the opinion expressed by Goethe in the Elective 
Affinities, and there put into the mouth of Mittler 
the man who is always trying to make other 
people happy: To desire to get rid of an evil is a 
definite object, but to desire a better fortune than 
one lias is blind folly. The same truth is contained 
in that fine French proverb: le mieux est I ennemi 
du bien leave well alone. And, as I have remarked 
in my chief work, 1 this is the leading thought under 
lying the philosophical system of the Cynics. For 
what was it led the Cynics to repudiate pleasure in 
every form, if it was not the fact that pain is, in 
a greater or less degree, always bound up with 
pleasure? To go out of the way of pain seemed 
to them so much easier than to secure pleasure. 
Deeply impressed as they were by the negative na 
ture of pleasure and the positive nature of pain, 
they consistently devoted all their efforts to the 
avoidance of pain. The first step to that end was, 

1 Wft aZs Wille und Vorstellung, vol. ii., ch. 16. 



6 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

in their opinion, a complete and deliberate repudia 
tion of pleasure, as something which served only 
to entrap the victim in order that he might be de 
livered over to pain. 

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

If the teaching of experience bears fruit in us, 
We soon give up the pursuit of pleasure and happi 
ness, and think much more about making ourselves 
secure against the attacks of pain and suffering. 
We see that the best the world has to offer is an 
existence free from pain a quiet, tolerable life; 
and we confine our claims to this, as to something 
we can more surely hope to achieve. For the safest 
way of not being very miserable is not to expect 
to be very happy. Merck, the friend of Goethe s 
youth, was conscious of this truth when he wrote: 
It is the wretched way people have of setting up 
a claim to happiness and, that to, in a measure 
corresponding with their desires that ruins every- 



GENERAL RULES 7 

thing in this world. A man will make progress if 
he can get rid of this claim, 1 and desire nothing but 
what he sees before him. Accordingly it is advis 
able to put very moderate limits upon our expec 
tations of pleasure, possessions, rank, honor and so 
on; because it is just this striving and struggling 
to be happy, to dazzle the world, to lead a life full 
of pleasure, which entail great misfortune. It is 
prudent and wise, I say, to reduce one s claims, 
if only for the reason that it is extremely easy to 
be very unhappy; while to be very happy is not 
indeed difficult, but quite impossible. With justice 
sings the poet of life s wisdom: 

Auream quisquis mediocritatem 
Diligit, tutus caret obsoleti 
Sordibus tecti, caret invidenda 

Sobrius aula. 

Scsvius ventis agitatur ingens 
Pinus : et celsce graviori casu 
Decidunt turres; feriuntque summos 

Fulgura monies. 2 

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

He who has taken to heart the teaching of my 
philosophy who knows, therefore, that our whole 
existence is something which had better not have 
been, and that to disown and disclaim it is the high 
est wisdom he will have no great expectations 
from anything or any condition in life: he will 
spend passion upon nothing in the world, nor 
lament over-much if he fails in any of his under 
takings. He will feel the deep truth of what 

1 Letters to and frnm Merck. 2 Horace. Odes II. x. 



8 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

JL lato Says I ovre rt TU>V avOptDTTivw aiov ov 

nothing in human affairs is worth any great 
anxiety; or, as the Persian poet has it, 

Though from thy grasp all worldly things should flee, 
Grieve not for them, for they are nothing worth: 

And though a world in thy possession be, 
Joy not, for worthless are the things of earth. 

Since to that better world tis given to thee 
To pass, speed on, for this is nothing worth. 2 

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

1 Republic, x. 604. 

2 Translator s Note. From the Anvar-i Suhaili The Lights of 
Canopus being the Persian version of the Table of Bidpai. 
Translated by E. B. Eastwick, eh. iii. Story vi., p. 289. 



GENERAL RULES 9 

that outward show which I have described, is only 
an attempt to make people believe that it is really 
joy which has come to the festival; and to produce 
this impression upon the spectators is, in fact, the 
whole object of it. 

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

Take another example a roomful of guests in 
full dress, being received with great ceremony. 
You could almost believe that this is a noble and 
distinguished company; but, as a matter of fact, 
it is compulsion, pain and boredom who are the real 
guests. For where many are invited, it is a rabble 
even if they all wear stars. Really good society 
is everywhere of necessity very small. In brilliant 
festivals and noisy entertainments, there is always, 
at bottom, a sense of emptiness prevalent. A false 
tone is there: such gatherings are in strange con 
trast with the misery and barrenness of our exist 
ence. The contrast brings the true condition into 
greater relief. Still, these gatherings are effective 
from the outside; and that is just their purpose. 
Chamfort 1 makes the excellent remark that society 
les cercles, les salons, cc quon appelle le monde 

1 Translator s Note. Nicholas "Chamfort" (1741-94), a French 
miscellaneous writer, whose brilliant conversation, power of sar 
casm, and epigTammic force, coupled with an extraordinary 
career, render him one of the most interesting and remarkable 
men of his time. Schopenhauer undoubtedly owed much to this 
writer, to whom he constantly refers. 



10 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

is like a miserable play, or a bad opera, without any 
interest in itself, but supported for a time by me 
chanical aid, costumes and scenery. 

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

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

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



GENERAL RULES 11 

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

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

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



1 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

quid eternis minorem 
Consiliis animum fatigas? 1 

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

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

This is the thought that runs through Wilhelm 
Meister, like the bass in a piece of music. In this 
work of Goethe s, we have a novel of the intellectual 
kind, and, therefore, superior to all others, even to 
Sir Walter Scott s, which are, one and all, ethical; 
in other words, they treat of human nature only 
from the side of the will. So, too, in the Zauber- 
flote that grotesque, but still significant, and even 
hieroglyphic the same thought is symbolized, but 
in great, coarse lines, much in the way in which 
scenery is painted. Here the symbol would be com 
plete if Tamino were in the end to be cured of his 
desire to possess Tamina, and received, in her stead, 
initiation into the mysteries of the Temple of Wis- 
1 Odes II. xi. 



GENERAL RULES 13 

dom. It is quite right for Papageno, his necessary 
contrast, to succeed in getting his Papagena. 

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

Altro diletto che mparar, non provo. 

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

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



CHAPTER IL 

OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES. SECTION 4. 

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

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

Again, just as the traveler, on reaching a height, 
gets a connected view over the road he has taken, 

14 



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 15 

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

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

SECTION 5. Another important element in the 
wise conduct of life is to preserve a proper propor 
tion between our thought for the present and our 
thought for the future; in order not to spoil the 



16 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

one by paying over-great attention to the other. 
Many live too long in the present frivolous peo 
ple, I mean; others, too much in the future, ever 
anxious and full of care. It is seldom that a man 
holds the right balance between the two extremes. 
Those who strive and hope and live only in the 
future, always looking ahead and impatiently an 
ticipating what is coming, as something which will 
make them happy when they get it, are, in spite 
of their very clever airs, exactly like those donkeys 
one sees in Italy, whose pace may be hurried by 
fixing a stick on their heads with a wisp of hay 
at the end of it; this is always just in front of them, 
and they keep on trying to get it. Such people are 
in a constant state of illusion as to their whole exist 
ence ; they go on living ad interim, until at last they 
die. 

Instead, therefore, of always thinking about our 
plans and anxiously looking to the future, or of 
giving ourselves up to regret for the past, we should 
never forget that the present is the only reality, 
the only certainty; that the future almost always 
turns out contrary to our expectations; that the 
past, too, was very different from what we suppose 
it to have been. But the past and the future are, 
on the whole, of less consequence than we think. 
Distance, which makes objects look small to the 
outward eye, makes them look big to the eye of 
thought. The present alone is true and actual; it 
is the only time which possesses full reality, and our 
existence lies in it exclusively. Therefore we should 
always be glad of it, and give it the welcome it 
deserves, and enjoy every hour that is bearable by 
its freedom from pain and annoyance with a full 
consciousness of its value. We shall hardly be able 
to do this if we make a wry face over the failure 



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 17 

of our hopes in the past or over our anxiety for 
the future. It is the height of folly to refuse the 
present hour of happiness, or wantonly to spoil it 
by vexation at by-gones or uneasiness about what 
is to come. There is a time, of course, for fore 
thought, nay, even for repentance; but when it is 
over let us think of what is past as of something 
to which we have said farewell, of necessity subdu 
ing our hearts 



dXXct ra fjv irporfT^dai taffofjjev a,"x_v^i^voi irep 
dvfjubv tvl ffrrjOeffffi <pL\ov 8afjLd(ravTes 



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

dXX TJTOI (jj^v ro-vra. de&v kv yovvcurt /cetrat. 2 

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

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

1 Iliad, xix, 65. 2 Ibid, xvJi, 514. 



18 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

to happen, and the other as not likely to happen 
very soon. 

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

We should be more likely to appreciate and 
enjoy the present, if, in those good days when we 
are well and strong, we did not fail to reflect how, 
in sickness and sorrow, every past hour that was 
free from pain and privation seemed in our memory 
so infinitely to be envied as it were, a lost para 
dise, or some one who was only then seen to have 
acted as a friend. But we live through our days 
of happiness without noticing them ; it is only when 
evil comes upon us that we wish them back. A 
thousand gay and pleasant hours are wasted in ill- 
humor; we let them slip by unenjoyed, and sigh 
for them in vain when the sky is overcast. Those 



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 19 

present moments that are bearable, be they never 
so trite and common, passed by in indifference, 
or, it may be, impatiently pushed away, those are 
the moments we should honor; never failing to re 
member that the ebbing tide is even now hurrying 
them into the past, where memory will store them 
transfigured and shining with an imperishable 
light, in some after-time, and above all, when our 
days are evil, to raise the veil and present them as 
the object of our fondest regret. 

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

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

But even in the affairs of the intellect, limitation 
is necessary if we are to be happy. For the less 
the will is excited, the less we suffer. We have seen 



20 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

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

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

SECTION 7. Whether we are in a pleasant or a 
painful state depends, ultimately, upon the kind of 
matter that pervades and engrosses our conscious 
ness. In this respect, purely intellectual occupa- 



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 21 

tion, for the mind that is capable of it, will, as a 
rule, do much more in the way of happiness than 
any form of practical life, with its constant alter 
nations of success and failure, and all the shocks 
and torments it produces. But it must be confessed 
that for such occupation a pre-eminent amount of 
intellectual capacity is necessary. And in this con 
nection it may be noted that, just as a life devoted 
to outward activity will distract and divert a man 
from study, and also deprive him of that quiet con 
centration of mind which is necessary for such 
work; so, on the other hand, a long course of 
thought will make him more or less unfit for the 
noisy pursuits of real life. It is advisable, there 
fore, to suspend mental work for a while, if circum 
stances happen which demand any degree of energy 
in affairs of a practical nature. 

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

Experience of the world may be looked upon as 
a kind of text, to which reflection and knowledge 
form the commentary. Where there is great deal 
of reflection and intellectual knowledge, and very 
little experience, the result is like those books which 
have on each page two lines of text to forty lines 
of commentary. A great deal of experience with 
little reflection and scant knowledge, gives us 



22 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

books like those of the editio Bipontina* where 
there are no notes and much that is unintelligible. 

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

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

SECTION 9. To be self-sufficient, to be all in all 

1 Translator s Note. A series of Greek, Latin and French 
classics published at Zweibriicken in the Palatinate, from and 
after the year 1779. Cf. Butter, U.eber die Bipontiner und die 
editiones Bipontince. 



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 23 

to oneself, to want for nothing, to be able to say 
omnia mea mecum porto that is assuredly the 
chief qualification for happiness. Hence Aristotle s 
remark, fj evSai/xovta rw avrdpx^v ecrrt 1 to be happy 
means to be self-sufficient cannot be too often re 
peated. It is, at bottom, the same thought as is 
present in the very well-turned sentence from 
Chamf ort : 

Le bonheur n est pas chose aisee: il est tres difficile de le 
trouver en nous, et impossible de le trouver ailleurs. 

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

There is no more mistaken path to happiness than 
worldliness, revelry, high life: for the whole object 
of it is to transform our miserable existence into 
a succession of joys, delights and pleasures, a 
process which cannot fail to result in disappoint 
ment and delusion; on a par, in this respect, with 
its obligato accompaniment, the interchange of 
lies. 2 

All society necessarily involves, as the first con 
dition of its existence, mutual accommodation and 
restraint upon the part of its members. This means 
that the larger it is, the more insipid will be its tone. 
A man can be himself only so long as he is alone; 
and if he does not love solitude, he will not love 
freedom; for it is only when he is alone that he is 

l Eudem. Eth. VII. ii. 37. 

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



24 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

really free. Constraint is always present in society, 
like a companion of whom there is no riddance; 
and in proportion to the greatness of a man s in 
dividuality, it will be hard for him to bear the 
sacrifices which all intercourse with others demands. 
Solitude will be welcomed or endured or avoided, 
according as a man s personal value is large or 
small, the wretch feeling, when he is alone, the 
whole burden of his misery; the great intellect de 
lighting in its greatness; and everyone, in short, 
being just what he is. 

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

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

What offends a great intellect in society is the 
equality of rights, leading to equality of preten 
sions, which everyone enjoys; while at the same 
time, inequality of capacity means a corresponding 



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 25 

disparity of social power. So-called good society 
recognizes every kind of claim but that of intellect, 
which is a contraband article; and people are ex 
pected to exhibit an unlimited amount of patience 
towards every form of folly and stupidity, perver 
sity and dullness; whilst personal merit has to beg 
pardon, as it were, for being present, or else con 
ceal itself altogether. Intellectual superiority 
offends by its very existence, without any desire to 
do so. 

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



26 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

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

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

Let me speak plainly. However close the bond 
of friendship, love, marriage a man, ultimately, 
looks to himself, to his own welfare alone; at most. 
to his child s too. The less necessity there is for 
you to come into contact with mankind in general, 
in the relations whether of business or of personal 
intimacy, the better off you are. Loneliness and 
solitude have their evils, it is true ; but if you cannot 
feel them all at once, you can at least see where 
they lie; on the other hand, society is insidious in 
this respect; as in offering you what appears to be 



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 27 

the pastime of pleasing social intercourse, it works 
great and often irreparable mischief. The young 
should early be trained to bear being left alone; 
for it is a source of happiness and peace of mind. 

It follows from this that a man is best off if he 
be thrown upon his own resources and can be all 
in all to himself; and Cicero goes so far as to say 
that a man who is in this condition cannot fail to 
be very happy nemo potest non beatissimus esse 
qui est Lotus aptus ex sese, quique in se uno ponit 
O7iinia. 1 The more a man has in himself, the less 
others can be to him. The feeling of self-suf 
ficiency! it is that which restrains those whose per 
sonal value is in itself great riches, from such con 
siderable sacrifices as are demanded by intercourse 
with the world, let alone, then, from actually prac 
ticing self-denial by going out of their way to seek 
it. Ordinary people are sociable and complaisant 
just from the very opposite feeling; to bear 
others company is easier for them than to bear 
their own. Moreover, respect is not paid in this 
world to that which has real merit; it is reserved 
for that which has none. So retirement is at once 
a proof and a result of being distinguished by the 
possession of meritorious qualities. It will there 
fore show real wisdom on the part of any one who 
is worth anything in himself, to limit his require 
ments as may be necessary, in order to preserve 
or extend his freedom, and, since a man must 
come into some relations with his fellow-men to 
admit them to his intimacy as little as possible. 

I have said that people are rendered sociable by 
their ability to endure solitude, that is to say, their 
own society. They become sick of themselves. It 
5s this vacuity of soul which drives them to inter- 

a - Paradoxa Stoidorum : II. 



28 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

course with others, to travels in foreign countries. 
Their mind is wanting in elasticit}^ ; it has no move 
ment of its own, and so they try to give it some, 
by drink, for instance. How much drunkenness is 
due to this cause alone! They are always looking 
for some form of excitement, of the strongest kind 
they can bear the excitement of being with people 
of iike nature with themselves; and if they fail in 
this, their mind sinks by its own weight, and they 
fall into a grievous lethargy. 1 Such people, it may 
be said, possess only a small fraction of humanity 
in themselves ; and it requires a great many of them 
put together to make up a fair amount of it, 
to attain any degree of consciousness as men. A 
man, in the full sense of the word, a man par 
excellence does not represent a fraction, but a 
whole number: he is complete in himself. 

Ordinary society is, in this respect, very like the 
kind of music to be obtained from an orchestra com 
posed of Russian horns. Each horn has only one 
note; and the music is produced by each note com- 

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



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 29 

ing in just at the right moment. In the monotonous 
sound of a single horn, you have a precise illustra 
tion of the effect of most people s minds. How 
often there seems to be only one thought there! 
and no room for any other. It is easy to see why 
people are so bored ; and also why they are sociable, 
why they like to go about in crowds why mankind 
is so gregarious. It is the monotony of his own 
nature that makes a man find solitude intolerable. 
Omnis stultitia labor at fastidio sui: folly is truly 
its own burden. Put a great many men together, 
and you may get some result some music from 
your horns ! 

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

That mental vacuity and barrenness of soul to 



30 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

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

This is not the only point of view from which 
the social impulse may be regarded. On cold days 
people manage to get some warmth by crowding 
together ; and you can warm your mind in the same 
way by bringing it into contact with others. But 
a man who has a great deal of intellectual warmth 
in himself will stand in no need of such resources. 
I have written a little fable illustrating this : it may 
be found elsewhere. 1 As a general rule, it may be 

1 Translator s Note. The passage to which Schopenhauer 
refers is Parerga: vol. ii. $ 413 (4th edition). The fable is of 
certain porcupines, who huddled together for warmth on a cold 
day; but as they began to prick one another with their quills, 
they were obliged to disperse. However the cold drove them 
together again, when just the same thing happened. At last, 
after .many turns of huddling and dispersing, they discovered 
that they would be best off by remaining at a little distance 
from one another. In the same way, the need of society drives 
the human porcupines together only to be mutually repelled 
by the many prickly and disagreeable qualities of their nature. 
The moderate distance which they at last discover to be the only 
tolerable condition of intercourse, is the code of politeness and 
fine manners; and those who transgress it are roughly told 
in the English phrase to keep their distance. By this arrange 
ment the mutual need of warmth is only very moderately satis 
fied, but then people do not get pricked. A man who has some 



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 31 

said that a man s sociability stands very nearly in 
inverse ratio to his intellectual value: to say that 
"so and so" is very unsociable, is almost tantamount 
to saying that he is a man of great capacity. 

Solitude is doubly advantageous to such a man. 
Firstly, it allows him to be with himself, and, sec 
ondly, it prevents him being with others an ad 
vantage of great moment ; for how much constraint, 
annoyance, and even danger there is in all inter 
course with the world. Tout not re mat, says La 
Bruyere, vicnt de ne pouvoir etre seul. It is really 
a very risky, nay, a fatal thing, to be sociable; be 
cause it means contact with natures, the great 
majority of which are bad morally, and dull or per 
verse, intellectually. To be unsociable is not to 
care about such people ; and to have enough in one 
self to dispense with the necessity of their company 
is a great piece of good fortune; because almost all 
our sufferings spring from having to do with other 
people ; and that destroys the peace of mind, which, 
as I have said, comes next after health in the ele 
ments of happiness. Peace of mind is impossible 
without a considerable amount of solitude. The 
Cynics renounced all private property in order to 
attain the bliss of having nothing to trouble them; 
and to renounce society with the same object is the 
wisest thing a man can do. Bernardin dc Saint 
Pierre has the very excellent and pertinent remark 
that to be sparing in regard to food is a means of 
health; in regard to society, a means of tranquillity 
la diete dcs ailmens nous rend la sante du corps, 
et celle des liommes la tranquillite de Fame. To 
be soon on friendly, or even affectionate, terms with 
solitude is like winning a gold mine; but this is not 

heat in himself prefers to remain outside, where he will neither 
prick other people nor get pricked himself. 



32 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

something which everybody can do. The prime 
reason for social intercourse is mutual need ; and as 
soon as that is satisfied, boredom drives people to 
gether once more. If it were not for these two rea 
sons, a man would probably elect to remain alone; 
if only because solitude is the sole condition of life 
which gives full play to that feeling of exclusive 
importance which every man has in his own eyes, 
as if he were the only person in the world ! a feeling 
which, in the throng and press of real life, soon 
shrivels up to nothing, getting, at every step, a 
painful dementi. From this point of view it may 
be said that solitude is the original and natural state 
of man, where, like another Adam, he is as happy 
as his nature will allow. 

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

Speaking generally, sociability stands in inverse 
ratio with age. A little child raises a piteous cry of 
fright if it is left alone for only a few minutes ; and 
later on, to be shut up by itself is a great punish 
ment. Young people soon get on very friendly 
terms with one another; it is only the few among 
them of any nobility of mind who are glad now and 
then to be alone ; but to spend the whole day thus 
would be disagreeable. A grown-up man can easily 
do it ; it is little trouble to him to be much alone, and 
it becomes less and less trouble as he advances in 



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 33 

years. An old man who has outlived all his friends, 
and is either indifferent or dead to the pleasures 
of life, is in his proper element in solitude; and in 
individual cases the special tendency to retirement 
and seclusion will always be in direct proportion 
to intellectual capacity. 

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

Cercato ho sempre solitaria vita 

(Le rive il sanno, e le campagne e i boschi) 
Per fuggir quest ingegni storti e loschi 

Che la strada del del hanno smarri ta. 



34 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

He pursues the same strain in that delightful book 
of his, De Vita Solitaria, which seems to have given 
Zimmerman the idea of his celebrated work on 
Solitude. It is the secondary and indirect char 
acter of the love of seclusion to which Chamfort 
alludes in the following passage, couched in his 
sarcastic vein: On dit quelquefois d un homme qui 
vit seul, il naime pas la societe. C est souvent 
comme si on disait d un homme quil naime pas 
la promenade, sous le pretexte quil ne se promene 
pas volonticrs le soir dans le foret de Bondy. 

You will find a similar sentiment expressed by 
the Persian poet Sadi, in his Garden of Roses. 
Since that time, he says, we have taken leave of 
society, preferring the path of seclusion; for there 
is safety in solitude. Angelus Silesius, 1 a very 
gentle and Christian writer, confesses to the same 
feeling, in his own mythical language. Herod, he 
says, is the common enemy; and when, as with 
Joseph, God warns us of danger, we fly from the 
world to solitude, from Bethlehem to Egypt; or 
else suffering and death await us ! 

Herodes ist ein Feind; der Joseph der Verstand, 

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

Die Welt ist Bethlehem, Aegypten Einsamkeit, 

Fleucli, meine Seele! fleuch } sonst stirbest du vor Le*d. 

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

1 Translator s Note. Angelus Silesius, pseudonym for Johannes 
Scheffler, a physician and mystic poet of the seventeenth cen 
tury (1624-77). 



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 35 

Lo! then would I wander far off; 
I would lodge in the wilderness. 1 

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

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

Die Einsamkeit ist nnfh : doch sei nur nicht gemein, 
So Jcannst du uberall in einer Wiiste sein, 

1 Psalms, Iv. 7. 



30 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

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

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

Hor auf mit deinem Gram zu spielen, 
Der, wie ein Geier, dir am Leben frisst: 
Dte schlechteste Gesellschaft Idsst dich fiihlen 
Dass du ein Mensch mit Menschen bist* 

1 Goethe s Faust, Part I., 1281-5. 



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 37 

To be alone is the fate of all great minds a fate 
deplored at times, but still always chosen as the 
less grievous of two evils. As the years increase, 
it always becomes easier to say, Dare to be wise 
sapere aude. And after sixty, the inclination to be 
alone grows into a kind of real, natural instinct; 
for at that age everything combines in favor of it. 
The strongest impulse the love of woman s so 
ciety has little or no effect; it is the sexless con 
dition of old age which lays the foundation of a 
certain self-sufficiency, and that gradually absorbs 
all desire for others company. A thousand illu 
sions and follies are overcome; the active years of 
life are in most cases gone; a man has no more ex 
pectations or plans or intentions. The generation 
to which he belonged has passed away, and a new 
race has sprung up which looks upon him as essen 
tially outside its sphere of activity. And then the 
years pass more quickly as we become older, and 
we want to devote our remaining time to the intel 
lectual rather than to the practical side of life. 
For, provided that the mind retains its faculties, 
the amount of knowledge and experience we have 
acquired, together with the facility we have gained 
in the use of our powers, makes it then more than 
ever easy and interesting to us to pursue the study 
of any subject. A thousand things become clear 
which were formerly enveloped in obscurity, and 
results are obtained which give a feeling of dif 
ficulties overcome. From long experience of men, 
we cease to expect much from them; we find that, 
on the whole, people do not gain by a nearer 
acquaintance ; and that apart from a few rare and 
fortunate exceptions we have come across none 
but defective specimens of human nature which it 
is advisable to leave in peace. We are no more sub- 



38 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

ject to the ordinary illusions of life; and as, in in 
dividual instances, we soon see what a man is made 
of, we seldom feel any inclination to come into 
closer relations with him. Finally, isolation our 
own society has become a habit, as it were a sec 
ond nature to us, more especially if we have been 
on friendly terms with it from our youth up. The 
love of solitude which was formerly indulged only 
at the expense of our desire for society, has now 
come to be the simple quality of our natural dis 
position the element proper to our life, as water 
to a fish. This is why anyone who possesses a 
unique individuality unlike others and therefore 
necessarily isolated feels that, as he becomes older, 
his position is no longer so burdensome as when -he 
was young. 

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

There is another aspect of this inverse proportion 
between age and sociability the way in which it 
conduces to education. The younger that people 
are, the more in every respect they have to learn; 
and it is just in youth that Nature provides a sys 
tem of mutual education, so that mere intercourse 
with others, at that time of life, carries instruction 
with it. Human society, from this point of view, 
resembles a huge academy of learning, on the Bell 



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 39 

and Lancaster system, opposed to the system of 
education by means of books and schools, as some 
thing artificial and contrary to the institutions of 
Nature. It is therefore a very suitable arrange 
ment that, in his young days, a man should be a 
very diligent student at the place of learning pro 
vided by Nature herself. 

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

When you find human society disagreeable and 
feel yourself justified in flying to solitude, you can 
be so constituted as to be unable to bear the de 
pression of it for any length of time, which will 
probably be the case if you are young. Let me 
advise you, then, to form the habit of taking some 
of your solitude with you into society, to learn to 
be to some extent alone even though you are in 
company not to say at once what you think, and, 
on the other hand, not to attach too precise a mean- 



40 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

ing to what others say; rather, not to expect much 
of them, either morally or intellectually, and to 
strengthen yourself in the feeling of indifference 
to their opinion, which is the surest way of always 
practicing a praiseworthy toleration. If you do 
that, you will not live so much with other people, 
though you may appear to move amongst them: 
your relation to them will be of a purely objective 
character. This precaution will keep you from 
too close contact with society, and therefore secure 
you against being contaminated or even outraged 
by it. 1 Society is in this respect like a fire the 
wise man warming himself at a proper distance 
from it ; not coming too close, like the fool, who, on 
getting scorched, runs away and shivers in solitude, 
loud in his complaint that the fire burns. 

SECTION 10. Envy is natural to man; and still, 
it is at once a vice and a source of misery. 2 We 
should treat it as the enemy of our happiness, and 
stifle it like an evil thought. This is the advice 
given by Seneca; as he well puts it, we shall be 
pleased with what we have, if we avoid the self- 
torture of comparing our own lot with some other 
and happier one nostra nos sine comparatione de- 
lectent; nunquam erit felioc quern torquebit fe- 
licior. 3 And again, quum adspecoeris quot te 
antecedant, cogita quot sequantur* if a great 

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

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

3 De Ira: in., 30. 
4 Epist. xv. 



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 41 

many people appear to be better off than yourself, 
think how many there are in a worse position. It 
is a fact that if real calamity comes upon us, the 
most effective consolation though it springs from 
the same source as envy is just the thought of 
greater misfortunes than ours; and the next best 
is the society of those who are in the same luck as 
we the partners of our sorrows. 

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

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

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



42 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

to let you know this, that they betray how greatly 
they are conscious that the opposite is the truth. 

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

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

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



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 43 

which Goethe has translated thus: See well to 
your girths, and then ride on boldly. 1 

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

SECTION 12. In the case of a misfortune which 
has already happened and therefore cannot be 
altered, you should not allow yourself to think 
that it might have been otherwise; still less, that it 
might have been avoided by such and such means; 
for reflections of this kind will only add to your 
distress and make it intolerable, so that you will 
become a tormentor to yourself lavTovrt^wpov/xc^o?. It 
is better to follow the example of King David; 
who, as long as his son lay on the bed of sickness, 
assailed Jehovah with unceasing supplications and 
entreaties for his recovery; but when he was dead, 
snapped his fingers and thought no more of it. If 

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



44 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

you are not light-hearted enough for that, you can 
take refuge in fatalism, and have the great truth 
revealed to you that everything which happens is 
the result of necessity, and therefore inevitable. 

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

1S to Spoil the Child 6 fJir) Saptls av0/30>7ros ov TraiSeWai. 1 

SECTION 13. In all matters affecting our weal 
or woe, we should be careful not to let our imagi 
nation run away with us, and build no castles in 
the air. In the first place, they are expensive to 
build, because we have to pull them down again 
immediately, and that is a source of grief. We 
should be still more on our guard against distress 
ing our hearts by depicting possible misfortunes. 
If these were misfortunes of a purely imaginary 
kind, or very remote and unlikely, we should at once 
see, on awaking from our dream, that the whole 

1 Menander. Monost: 422. 



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 45 

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

The rule on which I am here insisting should 
be most carefully observed towards evening. For 
as darkness makes us timid and apt to see terrifying 



46 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

shapes everywhere, there is something similar in 
the effect of indistinct thought; and uncertainty 
always brings with it a sense of danger. Hence, 
towards evening, when our powers of thought and 
judgment are relaxed, at the hour, as it were, of 
subjective darkness, the intellect becomes tired, 
easily confused, and unable to get at the bottom 
of things; and if, in that state, we meditate on 
matters of personal interest to ourselves, they soon 
assume a dangerous and terrifying aspect. This 
is mostly the case at night, when we are in bed; 
for then the mind is fully relaxed, and the power 
of judgment quite unequal to its duties; but imag 
ination is still awake. Night gives a black look 
to everything, whatever it may be. This is why 
our thoughts, just before we go to sleep, or as 
we lie awake through the hours of the night, are 
usually such confusions and perversions of facts as 
dreams themselves; and when our thoughts at that 
time are concentrated upon our own concerns, they 
are generally as black and monstrous as possible. 
In the morning all such nightmares vanish like 
dreams: as the Spanish proverb has it, noche tinta, 
bianco el dia the night is colored, the day is white. 
But even towards nightfall, as soon as the candles 
are lit, the mind, like the eye, no longer sees things 
so clearly as by day: it is a time unsuitcd to serious 
meditation, especially on unpleasant subjects. The 
morning is the proper time for that as indeed for 
all efforts without exception, whether mental or 
bodily. For the morning is the youth of the day, 
when everything is bright, fresh, and easy of attain 
ment; we feel strong then, and all our faculties 
are completely at our disposal. Do not shorten the 
morning by getting up late, or waste it in unworthy 
occupations or in talk; look upon it as the quiri 



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 47 

tessence of life, as to a certain extent sacred. Even 
ing is like old age: we are languid, talkative, silly. 
Each day is a little life: every waking and rising 
a little birth, every fresh morning a little youth, 
every going to rest and sleep a little death. 

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

Nehmt die gute Slimmung wahr f 
Denn sie kommt so selten. 1 - 

We are not always able to form new ideas about 
our surroundings, or to command original thoughts : 
they come if they will, and when they will. And 
so, too, we cannot always succeed in completely 
considering some personal matter at the precise 
time at which we have determined beforehand to 
consider it, and just when we set ourselves to do 
so. For the peculiar train of thought which is 
favorable to it may suddenly become active with 
out any special call being made upon it, and we 
may then follow it up with keen interest. In this 
way reflection, too, chooses its own time. 

This reining-in of the imagination whi-.li 1 am 
recommending, will also forbid us to summon up 
the memory of the past misfortune, to paint a dark 
picture of the injustice or harm that has been done 
us, the Josses we have sustained, the insults, slights 
and annoyances to which we have been exposed: 
for to do that is to rouse into fresh life all those 

1 Goethe. 



48 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

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

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

SECTION 14. The sight of things which do not 
belong to us is very apt to raise the thought: Ah, 
if that were only mine! making us sensible of our 
privation. Instead of that we should do better by 
more frequently putting to ourselves the opposite 
case: Ah, if that were not mine. What I mean is 



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 49 

that we should sometimes try to look upon our 
possessions in the light in whieh they would appear 
if we had lost them; whatever they may be, prop 
erty, health, friends, a wife or child or someone 
else we love, our horse or our dog it is usually 
only when we have lost them that we begin to find 
out their value. But if we come to look at things 
in the way I recommend, we shall be doubly the 
gainers; we shall at once get more pleasure out of 
them than AVC did before, and we shall do everything 
in our power to prevent the loss of them; for in 
stance, by not risking our property, or angering 
our friends, or exposing our wives to temptation, 
or being careless about our children s health, and 
so on. 

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

It is less hurtful to take the chances of misfor 
tune as a theme for speculation; because, in doing 
so, we provide ourselves at once with measures of 
precaution against it, and a pleasant surprise when 
it fails to make its appearance. Is it not a fact 
that we always feel a marked improvement in our 
spirits when we begin to get over a period of 
anxiety? I may go further and say that there is 
some use in occasionally looking upon terrible mis 
fortunes such as might happen to us as though 
they had actually happened, for then the trivial re 
verses which subsequently come in reality, are much 
easier to bear. It is a source of consolation to look 
back upon those great misfortunes which 



50 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

happened. But in following out this rule, care 
must be taken not to neglect what I have said in 
the preceding section. 

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

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



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 51 

Of course for this as for so much else self- 
control is necessary; without it, we cannot manage 
ourselves in the way I have described. And self- 
control may not appear so very difficult, if we 
consider that every man has to submit to a great 
deal of very severe control on the part of his sur 
roundings, and that without it no form of existence 
is possible. Further, a little self-control at the 
right moment may prevent much subsequent com 
pulsion at the hands of others; just as a very small 
section of a circle close to the centre may correspond 
to a part near the circumference a hundred times 
as large. Xothing will protect us from external 
compulsion so much as the control of ourselves; 
and, as Seneca says, to submit yourself to reason 
is the way to make everything else submit to you 
si libi vis omnia subjicere, tc suhjice rationi. Self- 
control, too, is something which we have in our own 
power; and if the worst comes to the worst, and 
it touches us in a very sensitive part, we can always 
relax its severity. But other people will pay no 
regard to our feelings, if they have to use com 
pulsion, and we shall be treated without pity or 
mercy. Therefore it will be prudent to anticipate 
compulsion by self-control. 

SECTION 16. We must set limits to our wishes, 
curb our desires, moderate our anger, always re 
membering that an individual can attain only an 
infinitesimal share in anything that is worth hav 
ing; and that, on the other hand, everyone must 
incur many of the ills of life; in a word, we must 
bear and forbear abstinere ct sustinere; and if we 
fail to observe this rule, no position of wealth or 
power will prevent us from feeling wretched. This 
is what Horace means when he recommends us to 
study carefully and inquire diligently what will best 



5% COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

promote a tranquil life not to be always agitated 
by fruitless desires and fears and hopes for things, 
which, after all, are not worth very much: 

Inter cuncta leges et percontabere doctos 
Qua ratione queas traducere leniter cevum; 
Ne te semper inops agitet vexetque cupido, 
Ne pavor, et rerum mediocriter utilium spes. 1 

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

1 Epist. I. xviii. 97. 



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 53 

the higher the work, the greater pleasure it will 
give. 

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

Let everyone, then, do something, according to 
the measure of his capacities. To have no regular 
work, no set sphere of activity what a miserable 
thing it is! How often long travels undertaken 
for pleasure make a man downright unhappy; be 
cause the absence of anything that can be called 
occupation forces him, as it were, out of his right 
element. Effort, struggles with difficulties! that is 
as natural to a man as grubbing in the ground is 
to a mole. To have all his wants satisfied is some- 



54 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

thing intolerable the feeling of stagnation which 
comes from pleasures that last too long. To over 
come difficulties is to experience the full delight of 
existence, no matter where the obstacles are en 
countered; whether in the affairs of life, in com 
merce or business; or in mental effort the spirit 
of inquiry that tries to master its subject. There 
is always something pleasurable in the struggle and 
the victory. And if a man has no opportunity to 
excite himself, he will do what he can to -create 
one, and according to his individual bent, he will 
hunt or play Cup and Ball: or led on by this un 
suspected element in his nature, he will pick a quar 
rel with some one, or hatch a plot or intrigue, or 
take to swindling and rascally courses generally 
all to put an end to a state of repose which is in 
tolerable. As I have remarked, difficilis in otio 
quies it is difficult to keep quiet if you have noth 
ing to do. 

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

In one of Voltaire s or Diderot s romances, I 
forget the precise reference, the hero, standing 
like a young Hercules at the parting of ways, can 
see no other representation of Virtue than his old 
tutor holding a snuff-box in his left hand, from 



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 55 

which he takes a pinch and moralizes; whilst Vice 
appears in the shape of his mother s chambermaid. 
It is in youth, more especially, that the goal of our 
efforts comes to be a fanciful picture of happiness, 
which continues to hover before our eyes sometimes 
for half and even for the whole of our life a sort 
of mocking spirit; for when we think our dream 
is to be realized, the picture fades away, leaving us 
the knowledge that nothing of what it promised 
is actually accomplished. How often this is so with 
the visions of domesticity the detailed picture of 
what our home will be like; or, of life among our 
fellow-citizens or in society; or, again, of living in 
the country the kind of house we shall have, its 
surroundings, the marks of honor and respect that 
will be paid to us, and so on, whatever our hobby 
may be; chaque fou a sa marotte. It is often the 
same, too, with our dreams about one we love. And 
this is all quite natural; for the visions we conjure 
up affect us directly, as though they were real ob 
jects; and so they exercise a more immediate influ 
ence upon our will than an abstract idea, which 
gives merely a vague, general outline, devoid of 
details; and the details are just the real part of it. 
We can be only indirectly affected by an abstract 
idea, and yet it is the abstract idea alone which will 
do as much as it promises ; and it is the function of 
education to teach us to put our trust in it. Of 
course the abstract idea must be occasionally ex 
plained paraphrased, as it were by the aid of 
pictures; but discreetly, cum grano satis. 

SECTION 19. The preceding rule may be taken 
as a special case of the more general maxim, that a 
man should never let himself be mastered by the 
impressions of the moment, or indeed by outward 
Appearances at all, which are incomparablv more 



56 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

powerful in their effects than the mere play of 
thought or a train of ideas; not because these mo 
mentary impressions are rich in virtue of the data 
they supply, it is often just the contrary, but 
because they are something palpable to the senses 
and direct in their working; they forcibly invade 
our mind, disturbing our repose and shattering our 
resolutions. 

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

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



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 5? 

Leibnitz 1 tells of an Italian who managed to bear 
up under the tortures of the rack by never for a 
moment ceasing to think of the gallows which 
would have awaited him, had he revealed his secret ; 
he kept on crying out: I see it! I see it! after 
wards explaining that this was part of his plan. 

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

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

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

1 Nouveaux Essais. Liv. I. ch. 2. Sec. 11. 



58 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

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



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 59 

are forced upon it at the same moment, or at very 
short intervals. 

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

It is most important to allow the brain the full 
measure of sleep" which is required to restore it; 
for sleep is to a man s whole nature what winding 
up is to a clock. 1 This measure will vary directly 
with the development and activity of the brain; to 
overstep the measure is mere waste of time, because 
if that is done, sleep gains only so much in length 
as it loses in depth. 2 

It should be clearly understood that thought is 
nothing but the organic function of the brain; and 
it has to obey the same laws in regard to exertion 
and repose as any other organic function. The 
brain can be ruined by overstrain, just like the 
eyes. As the function of the stomach is to digest, 
so it is that of the brain to think. The notion of a 
soul, as something elementary and immaterial, 
merely lodging in the brain and needing nothing at 
all for the performance of its essential function, 

1 Cf. Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, 4th Edition. Bk. II. pp. 
236-40. 

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



60 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

which consists in always and umveariedly thinking 
has undoubtedly driven many people to foolish 
practices, leading to a deadening of the intellectual 
powers; Frederic!: the Great, even, once tried to 
form the habit of doing without sleep altogether. 
It would be well if professors of philosophy re 
frained from giving currency to a notion which is 
attended by practical results of a pernicious char 
acter; but then this is just what professorial phil 
osophy does, in its old-womanish endeavor to keep 
on good terms with the catechism. A man should 
accustom himself to view his intellectual capacities 
in no other light than that of physiological func 
tions, and to manage them accordingly nursing 
or exercising them as the case may be ; remembering 
that every kind of physical suffering, malady or 
disorder, in whatever part of the body it occurs, 
has its effect upon the mind. The best advice that 
I know on this subject is given by Cabanis in his 
Rapports du physique et du moral de rhomme. 1 

Through neglect of this rule, many men of 
genius and great scholars have become weak- 
minded and childish, or even gone quite mad, as 
they grew old. To take no other instances, there 
can be no doubt that the celebrated English poets 
of the early part of this century, Scott, Words 
worth, Southey, became intellectually dull and in 
capable towards the end of their days, nay, soon 
after passing their sixtieth 3 r ear; and that their im 
becility can be traced to the fact that, at that period 
of life, they were all led on, by the promise of high 
pay, to treat literature as a trade and to write for 

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



OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES 61 

money. This seduced them into an unnatural 
abuse of their intellectual powers; and a man who 
puts his Pegasus into harness, and urges on his 
Muse with the whip, will have to pay a penalty 
similar to that which is exacted hy the abuse of 
other kinds of power. 

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

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



CHAPTER III. 

Otna RELATION TO OTHERS. SECTION 21. 

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

No one who has to live amongst men should ab 
solutely discard any person who has his due place 
in the order of nature, even though he is very 
wicked or contemptible or ridiculous. He must 
accept him as an unalterable fact unalterable, be 
cause the necessary outcome of an eternal, funda 
mental principle; and in bad cases he should re 
member the words of Mephistopheles : es muss auch 
solche Kduze geben 1 there must be fools and 
rogues in the world. If he acts otherwise, he will 
be committing an injustice, and giving a challenge 
of life and death to the man he discards. No one 
can alter his own peculiar individuality, his moral 
character, his intellectual capacity, his tempera 
ment or physique; and if we go so far as to con 
demn a man from every point of view, there will 
be nothing left him but to engage us in deadly 
conflict; for we are practically allowing him the 
right to exist only on condition that he becomes 
another man which is impossible; his nature for 
bids it. 

So if you have to live amongst men, you must 
allow everyone the right to exist in accordance with 

1 Goethe s Faust. Part I. 
62 



OUR RELATION TO OTHERS 63 

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

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

SECTION 22. It is astonishing how easily and 
how quickly similarity, or difference of mind and 
disposition, makes itself felt between one man and 
another as soon as they begin to talk: every little 
trifle shows it. When two people of totally dif 
ferent natures are conversing, almost everything 
said by the one will, in a greater or less degree, 
displease the other, and in many cases produce 
positive annoyance; even though the conversation 
turn upon the most out-of-the-way subject, or one 



64 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

in which neither of the parties has any real interest. 
People of similar nature, on the other hand, im 
mediately come to feel a kind of general agreement ; 
and if they are cast very much in the same mould, 
complete harmony or even unison will flow from 
their intercourse. 

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

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

Take the case of a large number of people who 
have formed themselves into a league for the pur 
pose of carrying out some practical object; if there 
be two rascals among them, they will recognize each 
->ther as readily as if they bore a similar badge, 



OUR RELATION TO OTHERS 05 

and will at once conspire for some misfeasance or 
treachery. In the same way, if you can imagine 
per impossible a large company of very intelligent 
and clever people, amongst whom there are only 
two blockheads, these two will be sure to be drawn 
together by a feeling of sympathy, and each of 
them will very soon secretly rejoice at having found 
at least one intelligent person in the whole com 
pany. It is really quite curious to see how two 
such men, especially if they are morally and in 
tellectually of an inferior type, will recognize each 
other at first sight; with what zeal they will strive 
to become intimate; how affably and cheerily they 
will run to greet each other, just as though they 
were old friends; it is all so striking that one is 
tempted to embrace the Buddhist doctrine of me 
tempsychosis and presume that they were on fa 
miliar terms in some former state of existence. 

Still, in spite of all this general agreement, men 
are kept apart who might come together; or, in 
some cases, a passing discord springs up between 
them. This is due to diversity of mood. You will 
hardly ever see two people exactly in the same 
frame of mind; for that is something which varies 
with their condition of life, occupation, surround 
ings, health, the train of thought they are in at the 
moment, and so on. These differences give rise to 
discord between persons of the most harmonious 
disposition. To correct the balance properly, so 
as to remove the disturbance to introduce, as it 
were, a uniform temperature, is a work demand 
ing a very high degree of culture. The extent to 
which uniformity of mood is prductive of good- 
fellowship may be measured by its effects upon a 
large company. When, for instance, a great many 
people are gathered together and presented with 



66 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

some objective interest which works upon all alike 
and influences them in a similar way, no matter 
what it be a common danger or hope, some great 
news, a spectacle, a play, a piece of music, or any 
thing of that kind you will find them roused to 
a mutual expression of thought, and a display of 
sincere interest. There will be a general feeling 
of pleasure amongst them; for that which attracts 
their attention produces a unity of mood by over 
powering all private and personal interests. 

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

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



OUR RELATION TO OTHERS 67 

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

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

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

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

Consider how sordid, how stupid, in a word, how 
vulgar most men are, and you will see that it is 
impossible to talk to them without becoming vulgar 
yourself for the time being. Vulgarity is in this 
respect like electricity ; it is easily distributed. You 
will then fully appreciate the truth and propriety 
of the expression, to make yourself cheap; and you 
will be glad to avoid the society of people whose 
only possible point of contact with you is just that 
part of your nature of which you have least reason 



68 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

to be proud. So you will see that, in dealing with 
fools and blockheads, there is only one way of 
showing your intelligence by having nothing to do 
with them. That means, of course, that when you 
go into society, you may now and then feel like a 
good dancer who gets an invitation to a ball, and 
on arriving, finds that everyone is lame: with 
whom is he to dance? 

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

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

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

Their love is always selfish, though in very differ 
ent ways; and the means used to gain it are not 
always of a kind to make us proud. A man is 
loved by others mainly in the degree in which he 
moderates his claim on their good feeling and in 
telligence : but he must act genuinely in the matter 
and without dissimulation not merely out of for- 



OUR RELATION TO OTHERS 69 

bearance, which is at bottom a kind of contempt. 
This calls to mind a very true observation of Hel- 
vetius 1 : the amount of intellect necessary to please 
us, is a most accurate measure of the amount of 
intellect we have ourselves. With these remarks as 
premises, it is easy to draw the conclusion. 

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

SECTION 26. Most men are so thoroughly sub 
jective that nothing really interests them but them 
selves. They always think of their own case as 
soon as ever any remark is made, and their whole 
attention is engrossed and absorbed by the merest 
chance reference to anything which affects them 
personally, be it never so remote: with the result 
that they have no power left for forming an ob 
jective view of things, should the conversation take 
that turn; neither can they admit any validity in 
arguments which tell against their interest or their 
vanity. Hence their attention is easily distracted. 
They are so readily offended, insulted or annoyed, 
that in discussing any impersonal matter with them, 
no care is too great to avoid letting your remarks 
bear the slightest possible reference to the very 
worthy and sensitive individuals whom you have 

1 Translator s Note. Helvetius, Claude- Adrien (1715-71), a 
French philosophical writer much esteemed by Schopenhauer. 
His chief work, De I Esprit, excited great interest and opposi 
tion at the time of its publication, on account of the author s 
pronounced materialism. 



70 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

before you ; for anything you may say will perhaps 
hurt their feelings. People really care about noth 
ing that does not affect them personally. True 
and striking observations, fine, subtle and witty 
things are lost upon them: they cannot understand 
or feel them. But anything that disturbs their 
petty vanity in the most remote and indirect way, 
or reflects prejudicially upon their exceedingly 
precious selves to that, they are most tenderly 
sensitive. In this respect they are like the little 
dog whose toes you are so apt to tread upon in 
advertently you know it by the shrill bark it sets 
up: or, again, they resemble a sick man covered 
with sores and boils, with whom the greatest care 
must be taken to avoid unnecessary handling. And 
in some people this feeling reaches such a pass 
that, if they are talking with anyone, and he ex 
hibits, or does not sufficiently conceal, his intelli 
gence and discernment, they look upon it as a 
downright insult; although for the moment they 
hide their ill will, and the unsuspecting author of 
it afterwards ruminates in vain upon their conduct, 
and racks his brain to discover what he could pos 
sibly have done to excite their malice and hatred. 
But it is just as easy to flatter and win them 
over; and this is why their judgment is usually 
corrupt, and why their opinions are swayed, not 
by what is really true and right, but by the favor 
of the party or class to which they belong. And the 
ultimate reason of it all is, that in such people 
force of will greatly predominates over knowledge ; 
and hence their meagre intellect is wholly given 
up to the service of the will, and can never free 
itself from that service for a moment. 

Astrology furnishes a magnificent proof of this 
miserable subjective tendency in men, which leads 



OUR RELATION TO OTHERS 71 

them to see everything only as bearing upon them 
selves, and to think of nothing that is not straight 
way made into a personal matter. The aim of 
astrology is to bring the motions of the celestial 
bodies into relation with the wretched Ego, and to 
establish a connection between a comet in the sky 
and squabbles and rascalities on earth. 1 

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

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

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

Therefore it is well not to be too indulgent or 
charitable with anyone. You may take it as a 
general rule that you will not lose a friend by re 
fusing him a loan,. but that you are very likely to 
1 See, for instance, Stobasus, Eclog. I. xxii. 9. 



72 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

do so by granting it; and, for similar reasons, you 
will not readily alienate people by being somewhat 
proud and careless in your behaviour; but if you 
are very kind and complaisant towards them, you 
will often make them arrogant and intolerable, and 
so a breach will ensue. 

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

And in this view it is advisable to let everyone 
of your acquaintance whether man or woman 
feel now and then that you could very well dispense 
with their company. This will consolidate friend 
ship. Nay, with most people there will be no harm 
in occasionally mixing a grain of disdain with your 
treatment of them ; that will make them value your 
friendship all the more. Chi non istima vien 
stimalo, as a subtle Italian proverb has it to dis 
regard is to win regard. But if we really think 



OUR RELATION TO OTHERS 73 

very highly of a person, we should conceal it from 
him like a crime. This is not a very gratifying 
thing to do, but it is right. Why, a dog will not 
bear being treated too kindly, let alone a man! 

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

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

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



74 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

he will have to be extending and adding to the in 
ferior estimate he forms of them; and in the mean 
time he will commit a great many mistakes and do 
himself harm. 

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

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



OUR RELATION TO OTHERS 75 

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

In any case it is well to take care not to form 
a highly favorable opinion of a person whose ac 
quaintance you have only recently made, for other 
wise you are very likely to be disappointed; and 
then you will be ashamed of yourself and perhaps 
even suffer some injury. And while I am on the 
subject, there is another fact that deserves mention. 
It is this. A man shows his character just in the 
way in which he deals with trifles, for then he is 
off his guard. This will often afford a good 
opportunity of observing the boundless egoism of 
man s nature, and his total lack of consideration 
for others; and if these defects show themselves in 
small things, or merely in his general demeanor, 
you will find that they also underlie his action in 
matters of importance, although he may disguise 
the fact. This is an opportunity which should not 
be missed. If in the little affairs of every day, 
the trifles of life, those matters to which the rule 



76 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

de mini-mis non applies, a man is inconsiderate 
and seeks only what is advantageous or convenient 
to himself, to the prejudice of others rights; if he 
appropriates to himself that which belongs to all 
alike, you may be sure there is no justice in his 
heart, and that he would be a scoundrel on a whole 
sale scale, only that law and compulsion bind his 
hands. Do not trust him beyond your door. He 
who is not afraid to break the laws of his own 
private circle, will break those of the State when 
he can do so with impunity. 

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

If any person with whom we are associated or 
have to do, exhibits unpleasant or annoying quali 
ties, we have only to ask ourselves whether or not 
this person is of so much value to us that we can 
put up with frequent and repeated exhibitions of 
the same qualities in a somewhat aggravated form. 1 
In case of an affirmative answer to this question, 
there will not be much to be said, because talking 
is very little use. We must let the matter pass, 
with or without some notice; but we should never 
theless remember that we are thereby exposing 
ourselves to a repetition of the offence. If the 
answer is in the negative, we must break with our 
worthy friend at once and forever; or in the case 
of a servant, dismiss him. For he will inevitably 
repeat the offence, or do something tantamount to 

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



OUR RELATION TO OTHERS 77 

it, should the occasion return, even though for the 
moment he is deep and sincere in his assurances 
of the contrary. There is nothing, absolutely 
nothing, that a man cannot forget, but not him 
self, his own character. For character is incor 
rigible; because all a man s actions emanate from 
an inward principle, in virtue of which he must 
always do the same thing under like circumstances ; 
and he cannot do otherwise. Let me refer to my 
prize essay on the so-called Freedom of the Will, 
the perusal of which will dissipate any delusions the 
reader may have on this subject. 

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

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



78 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

which he will be placed, and the extent to which 
they will conflict with his character. 

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

Of course there are some facts which are very 
exceptional, and it is difficult to understand how 
they arise, and how it is that there come to be such 
enormous differences between man and man; but, 
in general, what was said long ago is quite true, 
and the world is in a very bad way. In savage 
countries they eat one another, in civilized they de 
ceive one another; and that is what people call the 
way of the world! What are States and all the 
elaborate systems of political machinery, and the 
rule of force, whether in home or in foreign affairs, 
what are they but barriers against the boundless 
iniquity of mankind? Does not all history show 
that whenever a king is firmly planted on a throne, 
and his people reach some degree of prosperity, 
he uses it to lead his army, like a band of robbers, 
against adjoining countries? Are not almost all 



OUR RELATION TO OTHERS 79 

wars ultimately undertaken for purposes of plun 
der? In the most remote antiquity, and to some 
extent also in the Middle Ages, the conquered be 
came slaves, in other words, they had to work for 
those who conquered them; and where is the differ 
ence between that and paying war-taxes, which 
represent the product of our previous work? 

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

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

Naturam expelles furca, tamen usque recurret. 

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



80 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

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

There is a maxim attributed to the Emperor 
Napoleon, which expresses this relation between 
acquired and innate character and confirms what 
I have said : everything that is unnatural is imper- 
fect; a rule of universal application, whether in 
the physical or in the moral sphere. The only ex 
ception I can think of to this rule is aventurine, 1 

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



OUR RELATION TO OTHERS 81 

a substance known to mineralogists, which in its 
natural state cannot compare with the artificial 
preparation of it. 

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



82 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

Seneca; 1 ficta cito in naturam suam reddunt no 
one can persevere long in a fictitious character; for 
nature will soon reassert itself. 

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

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

The same rule applies in the case of style and 

*De Clementia, I. 1. 



OUR RELATION TO OTHERS 83 

fine writing. If, instead of condemning, you ap 
plaud some new folly in these matters, you will 
imitate it. That is just why literary follies have 
such vogue in Germany. The Germans are a very 
tolerant people everybody can see that! Their 
maxim is Hanc veniam damns petimusque vicis- 
sim. 

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

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



84 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

simply that in this world of ours misery and need 
are the chief features: therefore it is everywhere 
the essential and paramount business of life to de 
vise the means of alleviating them. 

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

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

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

Still, in many cases, there is a grain of true and 
genuine friendship in the relation of man to man, 
though generally, of course, some secret personal 
interest is at the bottom of them some one among 
the many forms that selfishness can take. But in 
a world where all is imperfect, this grain of true 
feeling is such an ennobling influence that it gives 
some warrant for calling those relations by the 
name of friendship, for they stand far above the 
ordinary friendships that prevail amongst man 
kind. The latter are so constituted that, were you 



OUR RELATION TO OTHERS 85 

to hear how your dear friends speak of you behind 
your back, you would never say another word to 
them. 

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

Distance and long absence are always prejudi 
cial to friendship, however disinclined a man may 
be to admit. Our regard for people whom we do 
not see even though they be our dearest friends 
gradually dries up in the course of years, and they 
become abstract notions; so that our interest in 
them grows to be more and more intellectual, nay, 
it is kept up only as a kind of tradition; whilst we 
retain a lively and deep interest in those who are 
constantly before our eyes, even if they be only 
pet animals. This shows how much men are lim- 



86 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

ited by their senses, and how true is the remark that 
Goethe makes in Tasso about the dominant influ 
ence of the present moment: 

Die Gegenwart ist eine mdchtige Gottin. 1 

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

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

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

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

What actually takes place is this. A man feels 
and perceives that the person with whom he is con 
versing is intellectually very much his superior. 2 

1 Act iv., sc. 4. 

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



OUR RELATION TO OTHERS 87 

He thereupon secretly and half unconsciously con 
cludes that his interlocutor must form a propor 
tionately low and limited estimate of his abilities. 
That is a method of reasoning an enthymeme 
which rouses the bitterest feelings of sullen and 
rancorous hatred. And so Gracian is quite right 
in saying that the only way to win affection from 
people is to show the most animal-like simplicity 
of demeanor para ser bien quisto, el unico medio 
vestirse la piel del mas simple de los brutos. 1 

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

1 Translator s Note. Balthazar Gracian, Oraculo manual, y 
arte de prudencia, 240. Gracian (1584-1658) was a Spanish 
prose writer and Jesuit, whose works deal chiefly with the obser 
vation of character in the various phenomena of life. Schopen 
hauer, among others, had a great admiration for his worldly 
philosophy, and translated his Oraculo manual a system of rules 
for the conduct of life into German. The same book was trans 
lated into English towards the close of the seventeenth century. 



88 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

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

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

Consider how kindly and heartily a girl who is 
passably pretty will welcome one who is downright 
ugly. Physical advantages are not thought so 



OUR RELATION TO OTHERS 89 

much of in the case of man, though I suppose you 
would rather a little man sat next to you than one 
who was bigger than yourself. This is why, 
amongst men, it is the dull and ignorant, and 
amongst women, the ugly, who are always popular 
and in request. 1 It is likely to be said of such 
people that they are extremely good-natured, be 
cause every one wants to find a pretext for caring 
about them a pretext which will blind both him 
self and other people to the real reason why he 
likes them. This is also why mental superiority 
of any sort always tends to isolate its possessor; 
people run away from him out of pure hatred, and 
say all manner of bad things about him by way of 
justifying their action. Beauty, in the case of 
women, has a similar effect: very pretty girls have 
no friends of their own sex, and they even find it 
hard to get another girl to keep them company. 
A handsome woman should always avoid applying 
for a position as companion, because the moment 
she enters the room, her prospective mistress will 

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

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



90 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

scowl at her beauty, as a piece of folly with which, 
both for her own and for her daughter s sake, she 
can very well dispense. But if the girl has ad 
vantages of rank, the case is very different ; because 
rank, unlike personal qualities which work by the 
force of mere contrast, produces its effect by a 
process of reflection; much in the same way as the 
particular hue of a person s complexion depends 
upon the prevailing tone of his immediate surround 
ings. 

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

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

SECTION 36. Politeness, which the Chinese 
hold to be a cardinal virtue, is based upon two 
considerations of policy. I have explained one of 
these considerations in my Ethics; the other is 
as follows: Politeness is a tacit agreement that 
people s miserable defects, whether moral or intel 
lectual, shall on either side be ignored and not 
made the subject of reproach; and since these de 



OUR RELATION TO OTHERS 91 

fects are thus rendered somewhat less obtrusive, 
the result is mutually advantageous. 1 

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

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

Of course, it is no easy matter to be polite; in 
so far, I mean, as it requires us to show great re 
spect for everybody, whereas most people deserve 
none at all; and again in so far as it demands that 

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



92 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

we should feign the most lively interest in people, 
when we must be very glad that we have nothing 
to do with them. To combine politeness with pride 
is a masterpiece of wisdom. 

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

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

The outcome of this is that originality cannot be 



OUR RELATION TO OTHERS 93 

dispensed with in practical matters : otherwise, what 
a man does will not accord with what he is. 

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

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

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

The man who comes into the world with the no 
tion that he is really going to instruct in matters 
of the highest importance, may thank his stars if 
he escapes with a whole skin. 

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

SECTION 40. Even when you are fully justified 
in praising yourself, you should never be seduced 
into doing so. For vanity is so very common, and 



94 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

merit so very uncommon, that even if a man ap 
pears to be praising himself, though very indirectly, 
people will be ready to lay a hundred to one that 
he is talking out of pure vanity, and that he has 
not sense enough to see what a fool he is making 
of himself. 

Still, for all that, there may be some truth in 
Bacon s remark that, as in the case of calumny, if 
you throw enough dirt, some of it will stick, so it 
it also in regard to self-praise; with the conclusion 
that self-praise, in small doses, is to be recom 
mended. 1 

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

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

SECTION 42. You should regard all your private 
affairs as secrets, and, in respect of them, treat your 
acquaintances, even though you are on good terms 
with them, as perfect strangers, letting them know 
nothing more than they can see for themselves. 
For in course of time, and under altered circum- 

1 Translator s Note. Schopenhauer alludes to the following 
passage in Bacon s De Augmentis Soientiarum, Bk. viii., ch. 2: 
Sicut enim did solet de calumnia, audacter calumniare, semper 
aliquid haeret; sic did potest de jactantia, (nisi plane deformis 
fuerit et ridicula), audacter te vendita, semper aliquid haeret. 
Haerebit eerie apud populum, licet prudentiores subrideant, 
Itaque existimatio parta apud plurimos paucorum fastidium 
abunde compensabit. 



OUR RELATION TO OTHERS 95 

stances, you may find it a disadvantage that they 
know even the most harmless things about you. 

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

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

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

But it should not be forgotten how clever people 
are in regard to affairs which do not concern them, 
even though they show no particularly sign of 



6 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

acuteness in other matters. This is a kind of al 
gebra in which people are very proficient: give 
them a single fact to go upon, and they will solve 
the most complicated problems. So, if you wish to 
relate some event that happened long ago, without 
mentioning any names, or otherwise indicating the 
persons to whom you refer, you should be very care 
ful not to introduce into your narrative anything 
that might point, however distantly, to some definite 
fact, whether it is a particular locality, or a date, 
or the name of some one who was only to a small 
extent implicated, or anything else that was even 
remotely connected with the event; for that at once 
gives people something positive to go upon, and 
by the aid of their talent for this sort of algebra, 
they will discover all the rest. Their curiosity in 
these matters becomes a kind of enthusiasm: their 
will spurs on their intellect, and drives it forward 
to the attainment of the most remote results. For 
however unsusceptible and different people may be 
to general and universal truths, they are very 
ardent in the matter of particular details. 

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

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

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

The tree of silence bears the fruit of peace. 



OUR RELATION TO OTHERS 97 

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

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

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

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

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

SECTION 46. To speak "vithout emphasizing your 
words parler sans accent is an old rule with 
those who are wise in the world s ways. It means 
that you should leave other people to discover what 
it is that you have said; and as their minds are 
slow, you can make your escape in time. On the 
other hand, to emphasize your meaning parler 
avec accent is to address their feelings; and the 



98 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

result is always the opposite of what you expect. 
If you are polite enough in your manner and 
courteous in your tone there are many people whom 
you may abuse outright, and yet run no immediate 
risk of offending them. 



CHAPTER IV. 

WORLDLY FORTUNE. SECTION 47. 

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

SECTION 48. An ancient writer says, very truly, 
that there are three great powers in the world; 
Sagacity, Strength, and Luck, o-weros, Kpdros. rvxy. 
I think the last is the most efficacious. 

A man s life is like the voyage of a ship, where 
luck secunda aut adversa fortuna acts the part 
of the wind, and speeds the vessel on its way or 
drives it far out of its course. All that the man 
can do for himself is 01 little avail ; like the rudder, 
which, if worked hard and continuously, may help 
in the navigation of the ship; and yet all may be 
lost again by a sudden squall. But if the wind is 
only in the right quarter, the ship will sail on so 

99 



100 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

as not to need any steering. The power of luck is 
nowhere better expressed than in a certain Spanish 
proverb : Da Ventura a tu hi jo, y echa lo en el mar 
give your son luck and throw him into the sea. 

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

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



WORLDLY FORTUNE 101 

which he thinks he ought to go, he will often have 
occasion to tack. 

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

Terence makes the remark that life is like a game 
at dice, where if the number that turns up is not 
precisely the one you want, you can still contrive 
to use it equally: in vita est hominum quasi cum 
ludas tesseris; si illud quod maooime opus est jactu 
non cadit, illud quod cecidit forte, id arte ut cor- 
rigas. 1 Or, to put the matter more shortly, life is 
a game of cards, when the cards are shuffled and 
dealt by fate. But for my present purpose, the 
most suitable simile would be that of a game of 
chess, where the plan we determined to follow is 
conditioned by the play of our rival, in life, by 
the caprice of fate. We are compelled to modify 
our tactics, often to such an extent that, as we carry 
them out, hardly a single feature of the original 
plan can be recognized. 

But above and beyond all this, there is another 
influence that makes itself felt in our lives. It is a 
trite saying only too frequently true that we are 
often more foolish than we think. On the other 
hand, we are often wiser than we fancy ourselves 
to be. This, however, is a discovery which only 
those can make, of whom it is really true; and it 

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



102 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

takes them a long time to make it. Our brains are 
not the wisest part of us. In the great moments of 
life, when a man decides upon an important step, 
his action is directed not so much by any clear 
knowledge of the right thing to do, as by an inner 
impulse you may almost call it an instinct pro 
ceeding from the deepest foundations of his being. 
If, later on, he attempts to criticise his action by 
the light of hard and fast ideas of what is right in 
the abstract those unprofitable ideas which are 
learnt by rote, or, it may be, borrowed from other 
people; if he begins to apply general rules, the 
principles which have guided others, to his own 
case, without sufficiently weighing the maxim that 
one man s meat is another s poison, then he will run 
great risk of doing himself an injustice. The result 
will show where the right course lay. It is only 
when a man has reached the happy age of wisdom 
that he is capable of just judgment in regard either 
to his own actions or to those of others. 

It may be that this impulse or instinct is the un 
conscious effect of a kind of prophetic dream which 
is forgotten when we awake lending our life a 
uniformity of tone, a dramatic unity, such as could 
never result from the unstable moments of con 
sciousness, when we are so easily led into error, so 
liable to strike a false note. It is in virtue of some 
such prophetic dream that a man feels himself 
called to great achievements in a special sphere, and 
works in that direction from his youth up out of 
an inner and secret feeling that that is his true path, 
just as by a similar instinct the bee is led to build 
up its cells in the comb. This is the impulse which 
Balthazar Gracian calls la gran sinderesis? the 

1 Translator s Note. This obscure word appears to be derived 
from the Greek ffwryptQ (N. T. and Polyb.) meaning "to observe 



WORLDLY FORTUNE 103 

great power of moral discernment : it is something 
that a man instinctively feels to be his salvation 
without which he were lost. 

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

SECTION 49. That Time works great changes, 
and that all things are in their nature fleeting 
these are truths that should never be forgotten. 
Hence, in whatever case you may be, it is well to 
picture to yourself the opposite: in prosperity, to 
be mindful of misfortune; in friendship, of enmity; 
in good weather, of days when the sky is overcast; 

strictly." It occurs in The Doctor and Student, a series of dia 
logues between a doctor of divinity and a student on the laws 
of England, first published in 1518; and is there (Dialog. I. 
eh. 13) explained as "a natural power of the soule, set in the 
highest part thereof, moving and stirring it to good, and abhor- 
ing evil." This passage is copied into Milton s Commonplace 
Book, edit. Horwood, % 79. The word is also found in the 
Dictionary of the Spanish Academy (vol. vi. of the year 1739) 
in the sense of an innate discernment of moral principles, where 
a quotation is given from Madre Maria de Jesus, abbess of the 
convent of the Conception at Agreda, a mystical writer of the 
seventeenth century, frequently consulted by Philip IV., and 
again in the Bolognese Dictionary of 1824, with a similar mean 
ing, illustrated from the writings of Salvini (1653-1729). For 
these references I am indebted to the kindness of Mr. Norman 
Maccoll. 



104 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

in love, of hatred; in moments of trust, to imagine 
the betrayal that will make you regret your con 
fidence; and so, too, when you are in evil plight, to 
have a lively sense of happier times what a lasting 
source of true worldly wisdom were there! We 
should then always reflect, and not be so very easily 
deceived; because, in general, we should anticipate 
the very changes that the years will bring. 

Perhaps in no form of knowledge is personal ex 
perience so indispensable as in learning to see that 
all things are unstable and transitory in this world. 
There is nothing that, in its own place and for the 
time it lasts, is not a product of necessity, and there 
fore capable of being fully justified; and it is this 
fact that makes circumstances of every year, every 
month, even of every day, seem as though they 
might maintain their right to last to all eternity. 
But we know that this can never be the case, and 
that in a world where all is fleeting, change alone 
endures. He is a prudent man who is not only 
undeceived by apparent stability, but is able to 
forecast the lines upon which movement will take 
place. 1 

But people generally think that present circum 
stances will last, and that matters will go on in the 
future as they have done in the past. Their mis 
takes arises from the fact that they do not under- 

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



WORLDLY FORTUNE 105 

stand the cause of the things they see causes 
which, unlike the effects they produce, contain in 
themselves the germ of future change. The effects 
are all that people know, and they hold fast to them 
on the supposition that those unknown causes, 
which were sufficient to bring them about, will also 
be able to maintain them as they are. This is a very 
common error; and the fact that it is common is 
not without its advantage, for it means that people 
always err in unison; and hence the calamity which 
results from the error affects all alike, and is there 
fore easy to bear; whereas, if a philosopher makes 
a mistake, he is alone in his error, and so at a double 
disadvantage. 1 

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

1 1 may remark, parenthetically, that all this is a confirmation 
of the principle laid down in Die Welt als Wille und VorsteUung 
(Bk. I. p. 94: 4th edit.), that error always consists in making 
a wrong inference, that is, in ascribing a given effect to some 
thing that did not cause it. 



06 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

at thirty, and Time may give him the loan for 
which he asks; but the interest he will have to pay 
comes out of the strength of his later years; nay, 
it is part of his very life itself. 

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

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

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

SECTION 50. In the daily affairs of life, you will 



WORLDLY FORTUNE 107 

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

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

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

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

Almost every one in his turn has lamented over 
something which afterwards turned out to be the 



108 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

very best thing for him that could have happened 
or rejoiced at an event which became the source 
of his greatest sufferings. The right state of mind 
has been finely portrayed by Shakespeare : 

I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief 
That the first face of neither, on the start, 
Can woman me unto t. 1 

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

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

It should never be forgotten that misfortune, be 
it great or small, is the element in which we live. 
But that is no reason why a man should indulge in 
fretful complaints, and, like Beresford, 2 pull a long 

1 All s Well that Ends Well, Act. ii. Sc. 2. 

2 Translator s Note. Rev. James Beresford (1764-1840), mis 
cellaneous writer. The full title of this, his chief work, is "The 
Miseries of Human Life; or the last groans of Timothy Testy 
and Samuel Sensitive, with a few supplementary sighs from 
Mrs. Testy." 



WORLDLY FORTUNE 109 

face over the Miseries of Human Life, and not 
a single hour is free from them; or still less, call 
upon the Deity at every flea-bite in pulicis morsu 
Deum invocare. Our aim should be to look well 
about us, to ward off misfortune by going to meet 
it, to attain such perfection and refinement in avert 
ing the disagreeable things of life, whether they 
come from our fellow-men or from the physical 
world, that, like a clever fox, we may slip out of 
the way of every mishap, great or small; remem 
bering that a mishap is generally only our own awk 
wardness in disguise. 

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

There is nothing that better fits us to endure the 



HIT COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

misfortunes of life with composure, than to know 
for certain that everything that happens from the 
smallest up to the greatest facts of existence hap 
pens of necessity? A man soon accommodates him 
self to the inevitable to something that must be; 
and if he knows that nothing can happen except 
of necessity, he will see that things cannot be other 
that they are, and that even the strangest chances 
in the world are just as much a product of necessity 
as phenomena which obey well-known rules and 
turn out exactly in accordance with expectation. 
Let me here refer to what I have said elsewhere on 
the soothing effect of the knowledge that all things 
are inevitable and a product of necessity. 2 

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

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

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

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



WORLDLY FORTUNE 111 

SECTION 52. What people commonly call Pate 
is, as a general rule, nothing but their own stupid 
and foolish conduct. There is a fine passage in 
Homer, 1 illustrating the truth of this remark, 
where the poet praises /wjrw shrewd council; and 
his advice is worthy of all attention. For if wicked 
ness is atoned for only in another world, stupidity 
gets its reward here although, now and then, 
mercy may be shown to the offender. 

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

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

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

In this world, where the game is played with 
loaded dice, a man must have a temper of iron, 
with armor proof to the blows of fate, and weapons 
to make his way against men. Life is one long 
battle ; we have to fight at every step ; and Voltaire 
very rightly says that if we succeed, it is at the 
point of the sword, and that we die with the weapon 
in our hand on ne reussit dans ce monde qua la 
pointe de Yepee s et on meurt les armes a la main. 
It is a cowardly soul that shrinks or grows faint 
and despondent as soon as the storm begins to 
gather, or even when the first cloud appears on the 
horizon. Our motto should be 2Vo Surrender; and 

1 Iliad, xxiii. 313, sqq. 



COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

far from yielding to the ills of life, let us take fresh 
courage from misfortune : 

Tu ne cede mails sed contra audentior ito. 1 

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

Si fractus illdbatur orbis 
Impavi dum ferient mince. 2 

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

Quocirca viwte fortes 
Fortiaque adversis opponite pectora rebus. 

Still, it is possible for courage to be carried to an 
excess and to degenerate into rashness. It may 
even be said that some amount of fear is necessary, 
if we are to exist at all in the world, and cowardice 
is only the exaggerated form of it. This truth has 
been very well expressed by Bacon, in his account 
of Terror Panicus; and the etymological account 
which he gives of its meaning, is very superior 
to the ancient explanation preserved for us by 
Plutarch. 3 He connects the expression with Pan 

1 Virgil, JEneid, vi. 95. 2 Horace, Odes iii. 3. 

3 De I side et Osiride, ch. 14. 



WORLDLY FORTUNE 113 

the personification of Nature 1 ; and observes that 
fear is innate in every living thing, and, in fact, 
tends to its preservation, but that it is apt to come 
into play without due cause, and that man is espe 
cially exposed to it. The chief feature of this 
Panic Terror is that there is no clear notion of any 
definite danger bound up with it; that it presumes 
rather than knows that danger exists; and that, in 
case of need, it pleads fright itself as the reason 
/for being afraid. 

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



CHAPTER V. 

THE AGES OF LIFE. 

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

Qui n a pas I esprit de son age, 
De son age atout le malheur. 

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

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

I have elsewhere stated that in childhood we are 
more given to using our intellect than our mil; and 
I have explained why this is so. 1 It is just for this 

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

114 



THE AGES OF LIFE 115 

reason that the first quarter of life is so happy: as 
we look back upon it in after years, it seems a sort 
of lost paradise. In childhood our relations with 
others are limited, our wants are few, in a word, 
there is little stimulus for the will ; and so our chief 
concern is the extension of our knowledge. The 
intellect like the brain, which attains its full size 
in the seventh year, 1 is developed early, though it 
takes time to mature; and it explores the whole 
world of its surroundings in its constant search 
for nutriment: it is then that existence is in itself 
an ever fresh delight, and all things sparkle with 
the charm of novelty. 

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

It may be thought that my remarks are opposed 
to fact, and that the child is never occupied with 
anything beyond the individual objects or events 
which are presented to it from time to time, and 
then only in sq far as they interest and excite its 
will for the moment; but this is not really the case. 
In those early years, life in the full meaning of 
the word, is something so new and fresh, and its 

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



116 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

sensations are so keen and unblunted by repetition, 
that, in the midst of all its pursuits and without 
any clear consciousness of what it is doing, the child 
is always silently occupied in grasping the nature 
of life itself, in arriving at its fundamental char 
acter and general outline by means of separate 
scenes and experiences ; or, to use Spinoza s phrase 
ology, the child is learning to see the things and 
persons about it sub specie aeternitatis, as par 
ticular manifestations of universal law. 

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

In this way the earliest years of a man s life lay 
the foundation of his view of the world, whether it 
be shallow or deep ; and although this view may be 
extended and perfected later on, it is not materially 
altered. It is an effect of this purely objective and 
therefore poetical view of the world, essential to 
the period of childhood and promoted by the as yet 
undeveloped state of the volitional energy that, 
as children, we are concerned much more with the 
acquisition of pure knowledge than with exercising 
the power of will. Hence that grave, fixed look 
observable in so many children, of which Raphael 



THE AGES OF LIFE 117 

makes such a happy use in his depiction of cherubs, 
especially in the picture of the Sistine Madonna. 
The years of childhood are thus rendered so full 
of bliss that the memory of them is always coupled 
with longing and regret. 

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

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

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



118 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

I have said elsewhere 1 that the world, considered 
as object, in other words, as it is presented to us 
objectively, wears in general a pleading aspect; 
but that in the world, considered as subject, that 
is, in regard to its inner nature, which is will, 
pain and trouble predominate. I may be allowed 
to express the matter, briefly, thus: the world is 
glorious to look at, but dreadful in reality. 

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

A little later, this state of mind gives birth to 
a thirst for real life the impulse to do and suffer 
which drives a man forth into the hurly-burly of 
the world. There he learns the other side of ex 
istence the inner side, the will, which is thwarted 
at every step. Then comes the great period of 
disillusion, a period of very gradual growth; but 
once it has fairly begun, a man will tell you that 
he has got over all his false notions I dge des illu 
sions est passe; and yet the process is only begin- 

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



THE AGES OF LIFE 119 

ning, and it goes on extending its sway and apply 
ing more and more to the whole of life. 

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

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

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

It would be a great advantage to a young man 
if his early training could eradicate the idea that 
the world has a great deal to offer him. But the 
usual result of education is to strengthen this delu- 



120 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

sion; and our first ideas of life are generally taken 
from fiction rather than from fact. 

In the bright dawn of our youthful days, the 
poetry of life spreads out a gorgeous vision before 
us, and we torture ourselves by longing to see it 
realized. We might as well wish to grasp the rain 
bow! The youth expects his career to be like an 
interesting romance ; and there lies the germ of that 
disappointment which I have been describing. 1 
What lends a charm to all these visions is just the 
fact that they are visionary and not real, and that 
in contemplating them we are in the sphere of pure 
knowledge, which is sufficient in itself and free 
from the noise and struggle of life. To try and 
realize those visions is to make them an object of 
will a process which always involves pain. 2 

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

In my young days, I was always pleased to hear 
a ring at my door: ah! thought I, now for something 
pleasant. But in later life my feelings on such 

1 Cf. loc. cit., p. 428. 

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



THE AGES OF LIFE 

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

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

The chief result gained by experience of life is 
clearness of view. This is what distinguishes the 
man of mature age, and makes the world wear such 
a different aspect from that which it presented in 
his youth or boyhood. It is only then that he sees 
things quite plain, and takes them for that which 
they really are: while in earlier years he saw a 
phantom-world, put together out of the whims and 
crotchets of his own mind, inherited prejudice and 
strange delusion: the real world was hidden from 



COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

him, or the vision of it distorted. The first thing 
that experience finds to do is to free us from the 
phantoms of the brain those false notions that 
have been put into us in youth. 

To prevent their entrance at all would, of course, 
be the best form of education, even though it were 
only negative in aim : but it would be a task full of 
difficulty. At first the child s horizon would have 
to be limited as much as possible, and yet within 
that limited sphere none but clear and correct no 
tions would have to be given; only after the child 
had properly appreciated everything within it, 
might the sphere be gradually enlarged; care being 
always taken that nothing was left obscure, or half 
or wrongly understood. The consequence of this 
training would be that the child s notions of men 
and things would always be limited and simple in 
their character; but, on the other hand, they would 
be clear and correct, and only need to be extended, 
not to be rectified. The same line might be pursued 
on into the period of youth. This method of edu 
cation would lay special stress upon the prohibition 
of novel reading; and the place of novels woulcf 
be taken by suitable biographical literature the 
life of Franklin, for instance, or Moritz Anton 
Reiser* 

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

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



THE AGES OF LIFE 123 

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

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

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



124 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

marks upon this kind of misanthropy in his Critique 
of the Faculty of Judgment? 

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

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

From the standpoint of youth, life seems to 
stretch away into an endless future ; from the stand 
point of old age, to go back but a little way into 
the past; so that, at the beginning, life presents us 
with a picture in which the objects appear a great 

1 Kritik der Urtheilskraft, Part I., 29, Note ad fin. 



THE AGES OF LIFE 125 

way off, as though we had reversed our telescope; 
while in the end everything seems so close. To see 
how short life is, a man must have grown old, that 
is to say, he must have lived long. 

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

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

But why is it that to an old man his past life 
appears so short? For this reason: his memory is 
short; and so he fancies that his life has been short 
too. He no longer remembers the insignificant 
parts of it, and much that was unpleasant is now 
forgotten; how little, then, there is left! For, in 
general, a man s memory is as imperfect as his 
intellect ; and he must make a practice of reflecting 
upon the lessons he has learned and the events he 
has experienced, if he does not want them both to 
sink gradually into the gulf of oblivion. Now, we 
are unaccustomed to reflect upon matters of no 
importance, or, as a rule, upon things that we have 
found disagreeable, and yet that is necessary if 
the memory of them is to be preserved. But the 



126 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

class of things that may be called insignificant is 
continually receiving fresh additions: much that 
wears an air of importance at first, gradually be 
comes of no consequence at all from the fact of 
its frequent repetition; so that in the end we actu 
ally lose count of the number of times it happens. 
Hence we are better able to remember the events 
of our early than of our later years. The longer 
we live, the fewer are the things that we can call 
important or significant enough to deserve further 
consideration, and by this alone can they be fixed 
in the memory; in other words, they are forgotten 
as soon as they are past. Thus it is that time runs 
on, leaving always fewer traces of its passage. 

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

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

Again, it sometimes happens that memory and 
imagination will call up some long past scene as 
vividly as if it had occurred only yesterday; so 
that the event in question seems to stand very near 
to the present time. The reason of this is that 
; t is impossible to call up all the intervening period 



THE AGES OF LIFE 127 

in the same vivid way, as there is no one figure 
pervading it which can be taken in at a glance ; and 
besides, most of the things that happened in that 
period are forgotten, and all that remains of it is 
the general knowledge that we have lived through 
it a mere notion of abstract existence, not a direct 
vision of some particular experience. It is this that 
causes some single event of long ago to appear as 
though it took place but yesterday : the intervening 
time vanishes, and the whole of life looks incredibly 
short. Nay, there are occasional moments in old 
age w r hen we can scarcely believe that we are so 
advanced in years, or that the long past lying be 
hind us has had any real existence a feeling which 
is mainly due to the circumstance that the present 
always seems fixed and immovable as we look at it. 
These and similar mental phenomena are ultimately 
to be traced to the fact that it is not our nature in 
itself, but only the outward presentation of it, that 
lies in time, and that the present is the point of 
contact between the world as subject and the world 
as object. 1 

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

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



128 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

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

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

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

Up to our thirty-sixth year, we may be compared, 
in respect of the way in which we use our vital 
energy, to people who live on the interest of their 
money: what they spend to-day, they have again 
to-morrow. But from the age of thirty-six on 
wards, our position is like that of the investor who 
begins to entrench upon his capital. At first he 
hardly notices any difference at all, as the greater 
part of his expenses is covered by the interest of 
his securities ; and if the deficit is but slight, he pays 



THE AGES OF LIFE 129 

no attention to it. But the deficit goes on increas 
ing, until he awakes to the fact that it is becoming 
more serious every day: his position becomes less 
and less secure, and he feels himself growing poorer 
and poorer, while he has no expectation of this 
drain upon his resources coming to an end. His 
fall from wealth to poverty becomes faster every 
moment like the fall of a solid body in space, until 
at last he has absolutely nothing left. A man is 
truly in a woeful plight if both the terms of this 
comparison his vital energy and his wealth 
really begin to melt away at one and the same time. 
It is the dread of this calamity that makes love of 
possession increase with age. 

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

Nevertheless, a man should economize his 
strength even when he is young. Aristotle 1 ob 
serves that amongst those who were victors at 
Olympia only two or three gained a prize at two 
different periods, once in boyhood and then again 
when they came to be men; and the reason of this 
was that the premature efforts which the training 
involved, so completely exhausted their powers that 
they failed to last on into manhood. As Uiis is 
true of muscular, so it is still more true of nervous 

1 Politics. 



130 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

energy, of which all intellectual achievements are 
the manifestation. Hence, those infant prodigies 
ingenia praecocia the fruit of a hot-house edu 
cation, who surprise us by their cleverness as chil 
dren, afterwards turn out very ordinary folk. Nay, 
the manner in which boys are forced into an early 
acquaintance with the ancient tongues may, per 
haps, be to blame for the dullness and lack of 
judgment which distinguish so many learned per 
sons. 

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

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

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

It has already been remarked that the older a 
man becomes, the fewer are the traces left in his 



THE AGES OF LIFE 131 

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

As life becomes more and more unconscious, the 
nearer it approaches the point at which all con 
sciousness ceases, the course of time itself seems to 
increase in rapidity. In childhood all the things 
and circumstances of life are novel; and that is 
sufficient to awake us to the full consciousness of 
existence : hence, at that age, the day seems of such 
immense length. The same thing happens when 
we are traveling: one month seems longer then than 
four spent at home. Still, though time seems to 
last longer when we are young or on a journey, 
the sense of novelty does not prevent it from now 
and then in reality hanging heavily upon our hands 
under both these circumstances, at any rate more 
than is the case when we are old or staying at home. 
But the intellect gradually becomes so rubbed down 
and blunted by long habituation to such impres 
sions that things have a constant tendency to pro 
duce less and less impression upon us as they pass 
by; and this makes time seem increasingly less im 
portant, and therefore shorter in duration : the hours 
of the boy are longer than the days of the old man. 
Accordingly, time goes faster and faster the longer 
we live, like a ball rolling down a hill. Or, to 



132 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

take another example: as in a revolving disc, the 
further a point lies from the centre, the more rapid 
is its rate of progression, so it is in the wheel of 
life; the further you stand from the beginning, the 
faster time moves for you. Hence it may be said 
that as far as concerns the immediate sensation that 
time makes upon our minds, the length of any given 
year is in direct proportion to the number of times 
it will divide our whole life: for instance, at the 
age of fifty the year appears to us only one-tenth 
as long as it did at the age of five. 

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



THE AGES OF LIFE 133 

immediately preceding the weakness and troubles 
of old age, receives the name of a man s best years. 

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

In youth it is the outward aspect of things that 
most engages us ; while in age, thought or reflection 
is the predominating quality of the mind. Hence, 
youth is the time for poetry, and age is more in 
clined to philosophy. In practical affairs it is the 
same: a man shapes his resolutions in youth more 
by the impression that the outward world makes 
upon him; whereas, when he is old, it is thought 
that determines his actions. This is partly to be 
explained by the fact that it is only when a man 
is old that the results of outward observation are 
present in sufficient numbers to allow of their being 



134 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

classified according to the ideas they represent, 
a process which in its turn causes those ideas to 
be more fully understood in all their bearings, and 
the exact value and amount of trust to be placed 
in them, fixed and determined; while at the same 
time he has grown accustomed to the impressions 
produced by the various phenomena of life, and 
their effects on him are no longer what they were. 

Contrarily, in youth, the impressions that things 
make, that is to say, the outward aspects of life, 
are so overpoweringly strong, especially in the case 
of people of lively and imaginative disposition, that 
they view the world like a picture; and their chief 
concern is the figure they cut in it, the appearance 
they present; nay, they are unaware of the extent 
to which this is the case. It is a quality of mind 
that shows itself if in no other way in that per 
sonal vanity, and that love of fine clothes, which 
distinguish young people. 

There can be no doubt that the intellectual 
powers are most capable of enduring great and sus 
tained efforts in youth, up to the age of thirty-five 
at latest; from which period their strength begins 
to decline, though very gradually. Still, the later 
years of life, and even old age itself, are not without 
their intellectual compensation. It is only then that 
a man can be said to be really rich in experience or 
in learning; he has then had time and opportunity 
enough to enable him to see and think over life from 
all its sides; he has been able to compare one thing 
with another, and to discover points of contact and 
connecting links, so that only then are the true 
relations of things rightly understood. Further, in 
old age there comes an increased depth in the 
knowledge that was acquired in youth; a man has 
now many more illustrations of any ideas he may 



THE AGES OF LIFE 135 

have attained; things which he thought he knew 
when he was young, he now knows in reality. And 
besides, his range of knowledge is wider; and in 
whatever direction it extends, it is thorough, and 
therefore formed into a consistent and connected 
whole; whereas in youth knowledge is always de 
fective and fragmentary. 

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

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

Every generation, no matter how paltry its char 
acter, thinks itself much wiser than the one im 
mediately preceding it, let alone those that are 
more remote. It is just the same with the different 



136 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

periods in a man s life; and yet often, in the one 
case no less than in the other, it is a mistaken opin 
ion. In the years of physical growth, when our 
powers of mind and our stores of knowledge are 
receiving daily additions, it becomes a habit for 
to-day to look down with contempt upon yesterday. 
The habit strikes root, and remains even after the 
intellectual powers have begun to decline, when 
to-day should rather look up with respect to yester 
day. So it is that we often unduly depreciate the 
achievements as well as the judgments of our youth. 
This seems the place for making the general ob 
servation, that, although in its main qualities a 
man s intellect or head, as well as his character or 
heart, is innate, yet the former is by no means so 
unalterable in its nature as the latter. The fact is 
that the intellect is subject to very many trans 
formations, which, as a rule, do not fail to make 
their actual appearance; and this is so, partly be 
cause the intellect has a deep foundation in the 
physique, and partly because the material with 
which it deals is given in experience. And so, from 
a physical point of view, we find that if a man has 
any peculiar power, it first gradually increases in 
strength until it reaches its acme, after which it 
enters upon a path of slow decadence, until it ends 
in imbecility. But, on the other hand, we must not 
lose sight of the fact that the material which gives 
employment to a man s powers and keeps them in 
activity, the subject-matter of thought and knowl 
edge, experience, intellectual attainments, the prac 
tice of seeing to the bottom of things, and so a 
perfect mental vision, form in themselves a mass 
which continues to increase in size, until the time 
comes when weakness shows itself, and the man s 
powers suddenly fail. The way in which these two 



THE AGES OF LIFE 137 

distinguishable elements combine in the same na 
ture, the one absolutely unalterable, and the other 
subject to change in two directions opposed to each 
other explains the variety of mental attitude and 
the dissimilarity of value which attach to a man at 
different periods of life. 

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

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

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



138 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

quate notion of the baseness of the world, and that 
he set up a higher aim for himself than was fol 
lowed by the rest of mankind. 

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

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

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

So far from youth being the happiest period of 
life, there is much more truth in the remark made 
by Plato, at the beginning of the Republic, that the 
prize should rather be given to old age, because 
then at last a man is freed from the animal passion 
which has hitherto never ceased to disquiet him. 
Nay, it may even be said that the countless and 
manifold humors which have their source in this 



THE AGES OF LIFE 139 

passion, and the emotions that spring from it, pro 
duce a mild state of madness; and this lasts as long 
as the man is subject to the spell of the impulse 
this evil spirit, as it were, of which there is no rid 
dance so that he never really becomes a reasonable 
being until the passion is extinguished. 

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

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

However that may be, youth is the period of 
unrest, and age of repose; and from that very cir 
cumstance, the relative degree of pleasure belonging 
to each may be inferred. The child stretches out 
its little hands in the eager desire to seize all the 
pretty things that meet its sight, charmed by the 
world because all its senses are still so young and 
fresh. Much the same thing happens with the 
youth, and he displays greater energy in his quest. 
HJ, too, is charmed by all the pretty things and 



140 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

the many pleasing shapes that surround him; and 
forthwith his imagination conjures up pleasures 
which the world can never realize. So he is filled 
with an ardent desire for he knows not what de 
lights robbing him of all rest and making happi 
ness impossible. But when old age is reached, all 
this is over and done with, partly because the blood 
runs cooler and the senses are no longer so easily 
allured; partly because experience has shown the 
true value of things and the futility of pleasure, 
whereby illusion has been gradually dispelled, and 
the strange fancies and prejudices which previously 
concealed or distorted a free and true view of the 
world, have been dissipated and put to flight; with 
the result that a man can now get a juster and 
clearer view, and see things as they are, and also 
in a measure attain more or less insight into the 
nullity of all things on this earth. 

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

In these later years, and not before, a man comes 
to a true appreciation of Horace s maxim: Nil 
admirari. He is directly and sincerely convinced 
of the vanity of everything and that all the glories 
of the world are as nothing: his illusions are gone. 
He is no more beset with the idea that there is any 



THE AGES OF LIFE 141 

particular amount of happiness anywhere, in the 
palace or in the cottage, any more than he himself 
enjoys when he is free from bodily or mental pain. 
The worldly distinctions of great and small, high 
and low, exist for him no longer; and in this bliss 
ful state of mind the old man may look down with 
a smile upon all false notions. He is completely 
undeceived, and knows that whatever may be done 
to adorn human life and deck it out in finery, its 
paltry character will soon show through the glitter 
of its surroundings; and that, paint and be jewel 
it as one may, it remains everywhere much the 
same, an existence which has no true value except 
in freedom from pain, and is never to be estimated 
by the presence of pleasure, let alone, then, of 
display. 1 

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

It is often said that the common lot of old age 
is disease and weariness of life. Disease is by no 
means essential to old age ; especially where a really 
long span of years is to be attained ; for as life goes 
on, the conditions of health and disorder tend to 
increase crescente vita, crescit sanitas et morbus. 

x Cf. Horace, Epist. I. 12, 1-4, 



142 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

And as far as weariness or boredom is concerned, 
I have stated above why old age is even less ex 
posed to that form of evil than youth. Nor is 
boredom by any means to be taken as a necessary 
accompaniment of that solitude, which, for reasons 
that do not require to be explained, old age cer 
tainly cannot escape ; it is rather the fate that awaits 
those who have never known any other pleasures 
but the gratification of the senses and the delights 
of society who have left their minds unenlight 
ened and their faculties unused. It is quite true 
that the intellectual faculties decline with the ap 
proach of old age; but where they were originally 
strong, there will always be enough left to combat 
the onslaught of boredom. And then again, as I 
have said, experience, knowledge, reflection, and 
skill in dealing with men, combine to give an old 
man an increasingly accurate insight into the ways 
of the world; his judgment becomes keen and he 
attains a coherent view of life: his mental vision 
embraces a wider range. Constantly finding new 
uses for his stores of knowledge and adding to them 
at every opportunity, he maintains uninterrupted 
that inward process of self-education, which gives 
employment and satisfaction to the mind, and thus 
forms the due reward of all its efforts. 

All this serves in some measure as a compensa 
tion for decreased intellectual power. And besides, 
Time, as I have remarked, seems to go much more 
quickly when we are advanced in years; and this 
is in itself a preventive of boredom. There is no 
great harm in the fact that a man s bodily strength 
decreases in old age, unless, indeed, he requires it 
to make a living. To be poor when one is old, is 
a great misfortune. If a man is secure from that, 
and retains his health, old age may be a very pass- 



THE AGES OF LIFE 143 

able time of life. Its chief necessity is to be com 
fortable and well off; and, in consequence, money 
is then prized more than ever, because it is a sub 
stitute for failing strength. Deserted by Venus, 
the old man likes to turn to Bacchus to make him 
merry. In the place of wanting to see things, to 
travel and learn, comes the desire to speak and 
teach. It is a piece of good fortune if the old man 
retains some of his love of study or of music or of 
the theatre, if, in general, he is still somewhat 
susceptible to the things about him; as is, indeed, 
the case with some people to a very late age. At 
that time of life, what a man has in himself is of 
greater advantage to him that ever it was before. 

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

It is certainly a very melancholy thing that all 
a man s faculties tend to waste away as he grows 
old, and at a rate that increases in rapidity : but 
still, this is a necessary, nay, a beneficial arrange 
ment, as otherwise death, for which it is a prepara 
tion, would be too hard to bear. So the greatest 
boon that follows the attainment of extreme old 



144 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

age is euthanasia, an easy death, not ushered in 
by disease, and free from all pain and struggle. 1 
For let a man live as long as he may, he is never 
conscious of any moment but the present, one and 
indivisible; and in those late years the mind loses 
more every day by sheer forgetfulness than ever 
it gains anew. 

The main difference between youth and age will 
always be that youth looks forward to life, and old 
age to death; and that while the one has a short 
past and a long future before it, the case is just the 
opposite with the other. It is quite true that when 
a man is old, to die is the only thing that awaits 
him; while if he is young, he may expect to live; 
and the question arises which of the two fates is 
the more hazardous, and if life is not a matter 
which, on the whole, it is better to have behind one 
than before? Does not the Preacher say: the day 
of death [is better] than the day of one s birth. 2 
It is certainly a rash thing to wish for long life 3 ; 

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

2 Ecclesiastes vii. 1. 

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

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

Now the Old Testament (Psalms xc. 10) puts the limit of 
human life at seventy, and if it is very long, at eighty years; 
what is more noticeable still, Herodotus (i. 32 and iii. 22) 



THE AGES OF LIFE 145 

for as the Spanish proverb has it, it means to see 
much evil, Quien larga vida vive mucho mal vide. 

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

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

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

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



146 COUNSELS AND MAXIMS 

is necessary for him to know; and his wife his 
Juno rules as the mistress of his house. 

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

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

But old folks, many feign as they were dead; 
Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead. 

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

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







OHH 



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Schopenhauer, Arthur 
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1910 
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