Philosophy of the Unconscious

by Eduard Von Hartmann

  If, however, wrong-doing increases the suffering of the world, on the other hand, right-doing is by no means able to diminish the same, for it is, indeed, nothing else but the maintenance of the status quo before the first wrong, thus no positive elevation above the level line. No one in possession of his clear sight will have any enjoyment therefrom, unless when the fear of wrong is taken away from him. He, however, who gives every one his due can have no motive for pleasure at all, for he has curbed his individual will, and yet has done no more than his duty. A genuine joy only the exercise of positive morality, of active charity, can afford; yet it will always be conjoined for the doer with the pain of sacrifice, for the receiver with the pain of shame at benefits received. This augmentation of the pleasure of the world through active charity is of no account in comparison with the mass of immorality. At all events, the positive morality of active charity is also only to be regarded as a necessary evil, which may serve to alleviate a still greater one. It is far worse that there are alms-receivers than it is good that there are alms-givers, and only the Talmud finds distress and poverty in order that the rich may have occasion to show their good works. Accordingly, all works of charity only soothe the greater or lesser woes springing from human necessity. Were man free from suffering, self-sufficient and without needs, like a god, what would he want with works of charity?

  8. Scientific and Art-Enjoyment. —As feels the wearied traveller, when, after long wandering in the desert, he at last espies an oasis, so do we feel when, on approaching Art and Science, at last a gleam of light appears in the night of struggle and suffering. When Schopenhauer himself in the “Parerga” (2 Aufl. ii. 448) insisted that the mental condition in artistic or scientific reception or production is mere painlessness, one might think that he had never known the state of ecstasy or rapture into which one may fall over a work of art or a newly opening sphere of science. But if he had seen the positive nature of such a state of supreme enjoyment, he could no longer have been able to assert that it was involuntary and unmotived, but he would have seen that it is the condition of supreme and perfect positive satisfaction, and satisfaction of what, if not of a will? Certainly not of the vulgar practical interest or will, but of the endeavour after knowledge, or after that harmony, after that unconscious logic under the veil of sensuous form; in short, after that somewhat in which beauty consists, no matter wherein it consists. That ecstatic rapture (e.g., over a performance of music, over a picture, a poem, a philosophical treatise) is certainly something extremely rare; even the capacity for it is only the endowment of favoured natures, and even these will not be able to boast of too many such moments in their life. This is as it were a compensation which falls to the lot of such sensitive natures for the pains of life, which they must feel far more strongly than other men, whose obtuseness makes much easier to them.

  Whether at the same time the latter do not on the whole fare better is hardly doubtful; for since pain so much preponderates in life, a blunter feeling for it would not be too highly paid by the deprivation of a pleasure never missed though great in itself, and in every case confined to a few moments of life. This is confirmed by the fact that men on the average think so much less of the value of life, the finer their feelings and the more intellectual they are. What holds good of the extreme case holds, however, just as well of the intermediate stages, which fill up the interval between the capacity for the highest ecstasy and insensibility to all and every art. From the circumstance that every one is indifferent to this or that art one can certainly not conclude in general to the obtuseness of his feelings, but certainly when anybody is indifferent to art in general.

  Now let any one ask himself what percentage of the earth’s inhabitants altogether are, in any degree worth mentioning, susceptible to artistic and scientific enjoyment, and one will cease to rate the importance of art and science for the world’s happiness in general too highly. Let one consider further how small a percentage of the recipients, again, are able to procure for themselves the enjoyment of personal creation, of artistic or scientific production, which considerably exceeds that of reception.

  In estimating this reception of the common people, one should, however, not forget to eliminate the causes of interest independent of art itself; thus, e.g., curiosity or pleasure in the horrible or gruesome, the interest in national singers or story-tellers, the delight in dancing stimulated by popular music, the regard for practical utility in the interest in scientific communications, &c. But among the educated classes many affect an interest, and consequently a capacity of enjoyment, in regard to art and science which they do not possess. One has only to remember how many are tempted to become artists and scholars by the prospect of a career which perhaps pleases them better on account of its freedom, without having any vocation for the same. If one rejected all the uncalled and untalented, the ranks of scholars and artists would sensibly melt away. The prospect of future position and the facilities of entrance (scholarships, &c.) tempt to the scholar’s career; the freedom of the vocation and the nature of the work, which appears more like sport, often, however, the mere hope of profit, entice to the artist’s life. Think of the unhappy girls who prepare themselves for becoming music-mistresses. Further, let one take into account everything that is not produced by pure love of art and science, but by ambition and vanity. Let once the artist or savant attain the certainty that no one will ever know the authorship of his works, although hereby ambition is by no means entirely disappointed, since a man’s name is something accidental and indifferent, especially for the future, yet more than the half of the pleasure in his performances will be taken away. Were there, however, a means of really at the same time depriving all artists and scholars of all ambition and vanity, assuredly production would almost cease, if it were not compelled to be mechanically continued for the sake of bread.

  But now the troop of dilettanti! How little sense and love for the subject, how terrible the want of all understanding, how dependent on fashion and pretentious show,—and yet this dilettante crowding of the arts and sciences! The riddle may thus be read: not for their own sake are the arts sought, but as showy tinsel to adorn one’s own dear self. The equally unintelligent critics are enraptured at the dress if the person pleases them, and despise it if they have no other ground for flattering the person; they then contemn the dilettante performance the more profoundly the more genuine value it possesses, because they think themselves bound to abash with fitting scorn the audacious assumption that any object may possess intrinsic merit. Of course, under such circumstances, the aim becomes to produce startling effects in as many directions as possible, in order to dazzle every blockhead in the easiest way.

  This is the principle of modern education, especially of girls; a couple of drawing-room pieces on the piano, a few songs, a little foliage-drawing and flower-painting, to chatter in a few modern languages and to read the literary scribble of the day, then they are “finished.” What else is it than systematic instruction in vanity, in every acceptation of the term? And with this juggling can one believe in delight in art? In aversion for art, rather, which reveals itself from the moment of marriage, when vanity no longer gets the better of love of ease. With boys it is not much better. They too must play the part of dilettanti for the sake of their parents’ vanity. And then in music, as universal instrument, the unlucky, encyclopædic, soulless piano! In science, likewise, ambition and vanity must aid. Only ambitious boys are able to go willingly to school; considering the subjects taught and our scholastic methods, ambition apart, learning is scarcely conceivable without extreme aversion.

  Add to this that in science, quite otherwise than in art, the enjoyment of reception is extremely small compared with that of production, because the ardent longing fails for that knowledge of whose sure and easy attainment one is beforehand convinced. Who to-day is still able to- have a tithe of the enjoyment from the knowledge of photography or the electric telegraph that the inventors had, or even as those who at the time of invention w
atched each new advance with eagerness?

  If now we deduct all the receptivity and enjoyment in art and science which depend on mere appearances or affectation, whether they are affected from ambition and vanity or for the sake of gain, or because such a career has once been adopted for other reasons, of the seeming enjoyment of art and science existing in the world a very considerable, I believe by far the larger part, will fall away. The remainder, however, does not exist, without being purchased by a certain displeasure, although I shall by no means dispute that the pleasure of enjoyment predominates. This is clearest in the pleasure of producing. As is well known, no master ever yet fell from heaven, and the study which is requisite before one is ripe for a remunerative productivity is disagreeable and toilsome and mostly brings little pleasure, unless through overcome difficulties and hope of the future. In every art the technique must first be acquired, and in science one has first to attain the height of the special department if production is not to lag behind what already exists. What wearisome books has one not to read only to conscientiously convince one self that there is nothing valuable in them, and others, again, to pick a grain of gold out of a heap of sand! Truly these are no small sacrifices. When one at last has advanced so far in one’s preparations and preliminary studies as to be able to produce, the really sweet moments are still only those of conception, succeeded by long periods of mechanical elaboration. And not always is one disposed for production. If it were not for the urgent wish to complete the work in a definite space of time; if ambition or love of fame did not act as an incentive, or outward circumstances compel execution; lastly, did not the gaping spectre of ennui lurk behind idleness, very frequently the pleasure to be expected from production would not conquer the love of ease; nay, in spite of all, one is tempted only too often to cease labouring at the precious work.

  The musician and scientific teacher, moreover, easily become disgusted with their calling through the monotony of their compulsory professional duties. The dilettante is still worse off with his production. His taste and understanding are usually in advance of his facility of performance, and hence his performances do not satisfy him, unless he be very vain and conceited.—Relatively less are the feelings of pain accompanying receptive enjoyment. In Science, however, they are far greater than in Art; e.g., the reading of a strictly scientific book is in itself a labour, the undergoing of which always costs a certain amount of effort—an effort which most people would never make for the sake of a possible enjoyment.

  Least fatiguing is the receptive enjoyment of Art, and I shall almost appear to trifle if I mention the disagreeables connected therewith; yet they are important, since with increasing love of ease (e.g., in age) they are, in fact, able to deter most receptive minds from obtaining the enjoyment of art. They are the visiting of the galleries, the heat and closeness of the theatres and concert-rooms, the risk of catching cold, the fatigue of seeing and hearing which is wont to be so severe, because payment has to be made for viewing the whole gallery or hearing the entire concert, whilst half of the entertainment were sufficient. Of the enjoyment of amateur performances and the subsequent debt of compliments I would rather be silent, as my readers may perhaps be amateurs themselves.

  The result then is, that of the few inhabitants of the earth who seem called to enjoy science or art, very few are really called, and most affect the call from ambition, vanity, the desire of gain, or other reasons; that those to whose lot such enjoyments really fall must yet pay for them with all kinds of less or greater sacrifice of pleasure; that thus, on the whole, the excess of pleasure which is produced by science and art as such in the world is exceedingly small compared with the sum of existing misery; and that this excess of pleasure is, moreover, distributed to those individuals who feel the pain of existence more profoundly than others—so much more profoundly than others that the pleasure they obtain is far from being a compensation. Lastly, it must be added that this species of enjoyment more than any other spiritual pleasure is limited to the present, whilst others usually are enjoyed in anticipation. This is connected with the peculiar circumstance previously discussed at length, that the same sense-perception which affords satisfaction also evokes the will which is satisfied.

  9. Sleep and Dreams. —So far as sleep is dreamless, it is a complete inactivity of the brain and brain-consciousness, for as soon as the brain becomes at all active, it begins to sport with images. Such an unconscious state renders also all pleasurable or painful feeling impossible; but if a nervous stimulation occur which must excite pleasure or pain, it also interrupts the inactive state of the brain. Unconscious sleep, therefore, as regards the properly human or brain-consciousness, must be considered as equal to the zero-point of sensation. This does not preclude other nerve-centres, like the spinal cord and ganglia, from continuing to be conscious; this is even necessary for the continuance of respiration, digestion, blood-circulation, &c.; but this is still merely a profoundly animal consciousness, occupying somewhat the level of an inferior fish or worm, which can have only very slight importance in the account of human happiness. But also in this animal consciousness of the lower nerve-centres alternate pleasure and pain; in the normal and undisturbed exercise of the vegetative functions a pleasure can only be felt in case that animal consciousness suffices for the perception of this pleasure. Every disturbance, however, is immediately felt as pain, and pain always procures for itself the degree of consciousness that is necessary for its perception.

  There is one source of error which may lead to our assuming a clearer satisfaction in unconscious sleep than can in fact exist; this is the comfortable feeling that one often detects on falling to sleep or awaking, i.e., in passing from the dormant to the waking state and conversely. But here the cerebral consciousness is still actual, and that satisfaction manifestly a perception of the cerebral consciousness; one therefore forgets that just this cerebral perception of satisfaction disappears in dreamless sleep. Of the satisfaction, however, which my lower nerve-centres feel I can form no conception, because I am simply and only my brain-consciousness. Yet, notwithstanding, unconscious sleep is the relatively happiest condition, because it is the only painless one known to us in normal life.

  As for dreams, all the troubles of the waking state are prolonged into the dormant condition, but not the one thing which may in a measure reconcile the cultivated with life—the pleasures of Science and Art. Add to that that a joy cannot well be otherwise expressed in dreams than as a pleasant, cheerful mood, e.g., the feeling of being disembodied, of floating, flying, and the like, whilst displeasure is expressed not only as mental mood, but also in all sorts of definite inconveniences, vexation, chagrin, quarrelling, and conflict, inability to accomplish one’s desires, or other cross purposes and disappointments. On the average, therefore, the verdict with regard, to the worth of dreams will be in accordance with that on the real life, but, on certain sides, will be far more unfavourable.

  Falling to sleep is, if one can fall quickly to sleep, a pleasure, but yet only because fatigue had made waking a torment, and falling to sleep frees me from this torment. Awakening is also said by many people to be pleasurable. I have, however, never found it so, and fancy that this assertion rests on a confusion with the pleasure which consists in not being obliged to rise when actually weary, but in being able to go on slumbering with semi-consciousness. But how few people are in a position to enjoy this pleasure! That an awakening quickly passing into a state of complete vigilance should be a pleasure to anybody I cannot believe; I regard it rather as a pain, since one has once more to exchange the ease of rest and sleep for the drudgery of the day. That on being wide-awake, and after a sufficient period of sleep, the fatigue of the past evening has disappeared and the status quo of capacity for work and enjoyment is restored, cannot possibly pass for positive pleasure, since only the level of sensation has been again attained. But it certainly is a decided pain when one rises fatigued, not having had one’s fill of sleep. In this position, inability to spare su
fficient time for sleep before work, we find, however, a large part of the poorer classes of all nations. Even of Westphalian peasants I have heard that the whole family, after the field-work of the day, is compelled to spin for some hours into the night, although this labour is worth little more than a farthing an hour.

  10. The Acquisitive Instinct and Comfort. —Under the acquisitive instinct I here mean especially the effort to possess beyond what is absolutely necessary, i.e., beyond dwelling, food, and clothing for self and family. I need hardly set myself to prove the small percentage of the population, even in civilised communities, for whom a satisfaction of this impulse is possible, as modern statistics speak both loudly and terribly. If we ask, however, what advantage a possession beyond the necessary can afford, it is especially this, that as a capital sum, and still more through its permanent investment, it protects from distress and removes the fear of future distress. But this utility is no positive one, it only secures from future and wards off present pain (fear and anxiety). In the second place, property gives the power of attaining positive gratifications; it begets the repute of possession; it confers power and influence over those who expect advantages from my possessions; it purchases the pleasures of the palate, and even the delights of love; in short, property, or its symbol, money, is the enchanter’s wand, which procures access to all the enjoyments of life. But now we already know that all these enjoyments not only rest on illusions, but even the endeavour after them on the whole always brings more pain than pleasure; that thus all endeavour after them is doubly foolish. The pleasures of the palate and the enjoyments of science and art are the only exceptions. The former, however, have again the disadvantage that their privation, when they are withdrawn by change of circumstances, is felt far more painfully than their possession was before found agreeable. To procure the gratifications of science and art, money is undoubtedly convenient, yet one cannot say that much is required. But as for the purchase of love, one should remember the two following points: first, what Goethe says—