It is true that a happy man tends not to be very compassionate, but a markedly unhappy man, even though born as a highly sensitive one, is almost wholly incapable of spontaneous and sensitive compassion. Develop this truth in its various parts and causes. (1 Sept. 1821.)
For p. 1448. Contemporary Christian festivals are genuinely popular, but they are useless today as regards sentiment, enthusiasm, etc., and hence uselessly popular. The people do not take part other than in the way they take part in performances, entertainments, etc., indeed, somewhat less, because, e.g., theatrical performances can stir, move, and leave some mark upon their minds, but after Christian festivals they go back home with a heart that is at rest, balanced, cold, and as unmoved as it was at the start. They are therefore no longer national festivals, nor festivals of sects or parties, etc. [1606] And the cause of this is as much the particular cooling of religious feeling, the work both of time in general and of this irreligious time in particular, as it is the general extinction of all lively faculties in the spirit of nations, and the present-day inability of peoples to be moved and uplifted in spirit except by things that are altogether extraordinary. With us in particular, it is also caused by the utter lack of resistance our religious opinions, and our religion in general, encounter by contrast with, e.g., England, and also France. (1 Sept. 1821.)
The soul of parties is hatred. Religion, political, academic, literary parties; patriotism, orders; everything collapses, everything languishes, lacks activity, love and care for oneself; everything in the end dissolves and is destroyed, or survives only in name, if it is not animated by hatred, or if the latter for whatever reason deserts it. The lack of enemies destroys parties, and by parties I also mean nations, etc. etc. (2 Sept. 1821.)
For p. 1602, end. And not only the vigor of the [1607] body but also that of the spirit is ordained to a singular degree by nature. At any rate, the early advances of the human spirit are always accompanied by a force (in every sense and definition of the term), which gradually begins to fade and be lost as civilization advances. Let the histories speak. See the previous thought, which also belongs to this one, because hatred is one of the most vigorous passions of the soul, and today it is either extinguished or so distorted that it is a source of anything else but force. See the following thought, too. (2 Sept. 1821.)
The movements and acts of men (and of creatures in general, in proportion to their respective qualities) are naturally very lively, especially in passion. Civilization mitigates them, tempers them, and goes so far that nowadays a large part of decorous conduct consists in not moving, as it does in speaking in a low voice, etc., and there is barely any outward sign by which to distinguish between the passionate man and the one who is indifferent. The civilized individual copies in himself the state to which society has been reduced by civilization much as a camera obscura copies a vast prospect on a miniature scale.1 There is no longer any movement in either the one or the [1608] other. This correspondence is neither accidental nor trivial. It is very important to note how the smallest effects derive from great causes, how large and small things harmonize together, how the nature of the age influences even the most trifling customs, how from the smallest, everyday observations one may make one’s way back to the largest and most general. The mind and body of civilized man is gradually rendered immobile by reason of the advances of civilization, and (what a great thing this perfecting of man is!) we are almost on our way to destroying the principal distinction that nature has put between animate and inanimate things, between life and death, namely, the faculty of movement.1 (2 Sept. 1821.)
Ideology contains the principles of all the sciences and branches of knowledge, and especially of the science of language. But conversely, one can say that the science of language contains all of ideology.2 (2 Sept. 1821.)
Such is the productive capacity of the Greek language, and such its wonderful disposition and capacity for any kind of innovation, [1609] that it may fairly be said that no sooner is an idea conceived, no matter how new it may be, than the new word expressing it has already been created. To enrich this language cost no more than to conceive of an idea, or the smallest part or modification of an idea that was in any way new. Whereas in other languages, when a new idea is conceived, you often have to move heaven and earth in order to express it. And this damages and greatly delays the clarity and precision of the conception itself, because it is fair to say that an idea is never clearly conceived, nor is it ever sharply defined and securely fixed in the intellect of its own discoverer, until he has found a word or phrase that corresponds exactly to it, and has managed to clearly express it and fix it by this means for himself, and so to speak enclose and embed it in that word. This is what the Greeks did immediately, and hence what I have said elsewhere [→Z 1350] is confirmed, namely, their superiority in philosophy, etc., among the ancients may in large part derive [1610] from the nature of their language. (2 Sept. 1821.)
It is generally said, and it is true, that hunchbacks have a lot of wit. The reason is clear. Another proof of how the development of the mental faculties depends on circumstances, habits, etc. The same may be said of coachmen, and other people used to dealing with all sorts, etc., who always get smart, animated, witty: their eyes are expressive and lively, etc. (2 Sept. 1821.)
The most learned, scholarly, literate man, possessed of the finest taste and judgment, the most fertile intelligence, etc. etc., but little used to dealing with the world, can be excellent and most inventive in his writing and not know how to talk, even about things to do with his studies. And not indeed simply out of embarrassment: he will actually lack the words and concepts. In man everything is exercise.1 And it is commonplace to see scholars who do not know how to speak, precisely because, being used to study, they are not accustomed to speaking but to remaining silent, aside from the fact that for this and for other reasons [1611] they often take on a character of taciturnity, which is likewise acquired. In any case, it is very mistaken to conclude, upon seeing someone who does not know how to speak, that he does not know how to think, that he is uncultivated, etc. One can speak like a blockhead, extremely coldly and trivially, etc., and be the foremost man of science, thinker, writer in the world. (2 Sept. 1821.)
In order to be what it should be, no kind of animal or thing had or has a need for one of its individuals to rise up equipped with particular prerogatives, whether natural or acquired, for a particular important discovery to occur, for such and such infinite combinations to come about, etc. etc. Nature, when forming it, was quite certain that it would be as it was supposed to be, and as it wished it to be. But mankind has needed and still needs all of that, in order to come to be (or so they say) what it must be. Now what I say is, why was perfection, that is, the true way of being of mankind alone, relinquished by nature to chance? Is this a privilege, or a huge handicap? [1612] It is certain that the faculties of the most privileged individual are a long way from sufficing to lead him to what is called perfection. Consequently, nature has not made provision for the perfection, that is to say, the well-being of man. —But he is made for society. —And yet it is not sufficient that he join this society. It has to endure for a very long series of generations, and extend so far that it becomes almost universal. Only then will man, and the individual, be able to approach that perfection we have not yet attained. Can all this really be necessary for the well-being of man? And can his perfection have been placed by nature au bout [at the end] of so long and difficult a course, which after six thousand years1 has still not been completed? Aside from the fact, as follows from what has been said above, that nature could not be certain that man would ever attain it, given that all the supposed advances that have been made were the work of circumstances that were never essential. (2 Sept. 1821.)
Furthermore, what will this perfection of [1613] man then be? When and how shall we be perfect, that is to say, true men? At what point, in what shall human perfection consist? What will its essence be? Every other kind of creature well knows what it
is. But our civilization will either make ever more advances, or it will regress. A limit, a goal cannot be seen (according to philosophers), and there isn’t one. Still less a midpoint. We shall therefore never know in all eternity what thing, and what manner of thing, man is properly supposed to be, nor if we are perfect or not, etc. etc. Everything is uncertain and lacks a norm and a model, once we distance ourselves from that of nature, the sole form and reason of the mode of being.1 (2 September 1821.)
Things are only as they are because they are so.2 A preexisting reason, whether of existence or of its mode, a reason prior to and independent of the being and mode of being of things, such a reason does not exist, nor can it be imagined. There is no necessity, therefore, either for any existence at all, or for such or such an existence, and one made thus or thus. How, then, do we imagine a necessary Being? What reason is there outside of him and before him for him to exist, and to exist in that mode, and to exist ab æterno? —The reason [1614] is in Himself, that is his infinite perfection. —What absolute reason is there for that mode of being which we ascribe to him to be perfection? For it to be more perfect than other possible modes? More perfect than other actually existing things and other modes of being? This reason must be absolute and independent of the mode in which things are, otherwise this Entity will not be absolutely necessary. Now no such reason can be found. —Its mode of being is perfection because it exists thus. —The same reason militates for all other things and modes of being. Therefore, all should be equally perfect, and all absolutely necessary. This is playing with words. We must find a reason why its mode of being, abstractly and independently of any actual thing, is more perfect than all other possible or existing modes; why a greater perfection is not possible; or another order of things altogether, in which that mode of being is not even good. In short, we must put ourselves outside the existing order and all possible orders, and thus find a [1615] reason why the qualities we ascribe to that Being should be absolutely and necessarily perfect, cannot be different, nor more perfect, cannot be such and not be the best, and be better than all other possible qualities.
Aseity1 is, in short, a dream or else it applies to all existing and possible things. They all have or do not have equally in themselves the reason for being and for being in that particular mode, and all are equally perfect.
But spirit is more perfect than matter —(1) What is spirit? How do you know that it exists, if you do not know what it is? If you cannot conceive the least form of being beyond matter? (2) Why is it more perfect than matter? —Because it cannot be destroyed, and because it does not have parts, etc. —Who told you that its not having parts is greater perfection than having them? Who told you that spirit does not have parts? That whether it has them or not, it cannot be destroyed, etc. etc.? How can you assert or deny anything concerning the qualities of something you do not even conceive, when you barely know whether it is possible? It’s all a story made up in your head, which can imagine a being at will. See another of my thoughts on this subject [→Z 601‒606, 629‒33]. (2 Sept. 1821.)
[1616] Nothing preexists things. Neither forms, nor ideas, neither necessity nor a reason for being, and being thus or thus, etc. etc. Everything is posterior to existence.1 (3 Sept. 1821.)
Regarding what I have said elsewhere [→Z 1339–42, 1461–63], namely, that once you do away with innate ideas, God is done away with, every truth, every absolute good or evil is done away with, every inequality of perfection, etc., between Beings is done away with, and the system that I call one of Optimism becomes necessary, see a fine passage in St. Augustine, in which, though admitting innate ideas, he acknowledges the truth I mention, in Dutens, Part 1, ch. 2, § 30.2 (3 Sept. 1821.)
As a matter of fact, we have no other reason for believing to be absolutely true what is such for us, and seems such to us, or for believing to be absolutely good or bad what is so for us, and in this order of things, save through our believing that our ideas have a reason, a foundation, a model, outside of that same order of things, one that is universal, eternal, immutable, independent of every actually existing thing; that they are impressed upon our minds as much through their essence as through that of our minds, and of the whole nature of things; that they are supernatural, that is to say [1617] independent of this particular nature such as it is, and of the mode in which things are, and that consequently the aforesaid ideas and notions of reason could not be different in any other nature of things, provided that the intellect was likewise capable of imagining them. Aside from this, and barring this, there remains no other reason to believe anything whatsoever to be absolutely good, bad, in short, true. But seeing that our ideas do not depend upon anything else but the mode in which things really are, that they do not have any reason either independent of it or outside of it, and hence could be wholly otherwise, and contrary; that they derive all in all from our sensations, habits, etc.; that hence our judgments in their essence do not have any universal, eternal, and immutable, etc., foundation; we are perforce obliged, through acknowledging everything to be relative, and relatively true, to renounce the vast number of opinions that are founded upon the false, albeit natural idea of the absolute, which, as I have said, no longer has any [1618] possible reason, since it is not innate, nor independent of things as they are, nor of existence. (3 Sept. 1821.)
The destruction of innate ideas also destroys the idea of the perfectibility of man.1 Just the opposite seems to be the case, because, if all his ideas are acquired, he is then less indebted to and dependent upon nature, and therefore can and must perfect himself. But animals’ ideas are acquired, too, and they are not perfectible. Once the idea of absolute perfection, along with innate ideas, has been destroyed, and relative perfection, that is, the state that is perfectly in accord with the nature of each kind of being, has been substituted for it, we start to give up on demented ideas of an increment in perfection, of the acquisition of additional good qualities (which are no longer good in themselves, as used to be believed), of a perfection modeled on false ideas of absolute and of absolutely greater or lesser good and evil, and we conclude that man is perfect as he is in nature, once his faculties have attained the degree of development that nature originally both ordained for him and pointed out to him. And [1619] he cannot help but be imperfect in any other state. Neither his own perfection, nor that of any other genus, can ever increase, although that of the individual certainly can, etc. (3 Sept. 1821.)
I do not believe that my observations regarding the falsity of every absolute must destroy the idea of God. Since things are, it seems that they must have a sufficient reason to be, and to be in their own mode, precisely because they could not be, or could be wholly otherwise, and are in no way necessary. Ego sum qui sum [I am who am],1 that is to say, I have my reason for being in myself: great and noteworthy words! I conceive the idea of God in this way. There may be a universal cause for all the things that are or could be and for their mode of being. —But what would the cause of that cause be? Since it cannot be necessary, as you have just demonstrated. —It is true that nothing preexists things. Necessity therefore does not preexist. But possibility does preexist. We cannot conceive of anything beyond matter. We therefore cannot deny aseity,2 although we deny the necessity of being. Within the bounds of matter, and in the order of things known to us, [1620] it seems to us that nothing can happen without sufficient reason, and that therefore a being that does not in itself have any reason and hence any absolute necessity to be, must have it outside of itself. And hence we deny that the world can be, and be as it is, without a cause lying outside of it. Up to this point, we are still within matter. But once we have left matter every faculty of the intellect is extinguished. We see only that nothing is absolute and hence necessary. But precisely because nothing is absolute, who has told us that things outside of matter cannot be without sufficient reason? That hence an all-powerful Being cannot subsist of itself ab æterno and have created all things, although, in an absolute sense, such a Being is not necessary? Just bec
ause nothing is absolutely true or false, is not everything wholly possible, as we have proved elsewhere? [→Z 1339‒42, 1461‒63, 1616‒18].
I therefore consider God to be not the best of all possible beings, since there is not an absolute better or worse, but as containing in himself all possibilities, and existing in all possible modes. This [1621] is possible. His relationships with men and with known creatures, befit them perfectly. They are therefore perfectly good, and better than those the other creatures have, not absolutely but because the relationships of the latter are less perfectly fitting. Thus the whole of Religion still stands, as does the infinite perfection of God, which is denied as absolute but affirmed as relative, and as perfection in the order of things which we know, where the qualities God has with regard to the world are, relative to it, good and perfect. And they are so, as much with regard to our universal order of things as with regard to the particular orders contained within it, and depending upon their subordinate differences in nature. The question then proves to be one of words.
God can have wholly different, and even opposed relationships with another order of things, but they would be perfectly good in relation to such orders, because he exists in all possible modes, and hence accords perfectly with all existences, and hence is essentially and perfectly good in all the orders of goodness, no matter how much at odds they may be with each other, because what is evil in one manner of being can be good in another.
[1622] Not only does this not spoil or alter the idea we have of God, but indeed, properly understood, it necessarily includes this notion. How can he be infinite, if he does not contain all possibles? How can he be infinitely perfect, indeed really perfect, if he is not so in that mode which to us is perfection? Are other infinite orders of things, and other modes of existence, possible or are they not? If, then, he is infinite, he exists in all possible modes. Did or did not our being created wholly different depend upon his will? And our having been created such as we are? Consequently, he could have created and can create other utterly different orders of things, and have with them relationships of whatever nature he chooses. Otherwise he would not be the author of nature, and we would perforce revert to Plato’s dream, which supposes the ideas and archetypes of things to be outside of God, and independent of him. If they exist in God, as St. Augustine says (see p. 1616), and if God has created them, he therefore does not embrace just the forms according to which he has created the things that we know, but all possible forms, and he contains all possibility, and can create things [1623] of whatever nature he pleases, and have with them whatever relation he pleases, even none, etc.
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