Chapter 8 – Philosophy of Freedom

Chapter VIII

The Factors of Life

The world faces man as a multiplicity, as a mass of separate details. One of these separate things, one entity among others, is man himself.

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This form in which the world appears we simply call the given, and inasmuch as we do not produce it by conscious activity, but just find it, we call it percept.

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Within this world of percepts we perceive ourselves.

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This something which emerges is no longer merely percept; neither is it, like percepts, simply given. It is produced by our activity. To begin with, it appears to be bound up with what we perceive as our own self. In its inner significance, however, it transcends the self.

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It adds conceptual definitions to the single percepts. These conceptual elements relate to each other and form a whole. It defines conceptually what we gain through self-perception in the same way as it defines all other perceptions, and places it as subject, or 'I', over against the objects.

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This something is thinking, and the conceptual elements are the concepts and ideas.

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Thinking, therefore, first reveals itself in the percept of the self. But it is not merely subjective, for the self characterises itself as subject only with the help of thinking.

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This relationship in thought of the self to itself is what, in life, determines our personality. Through it we lead an existence based purely in ideas. Through it we feel ourselves to be thinking beings.

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As we have already seen, we do not relate
percepts to ourselves only through concepts, but also through our feelings. Therefore we are not beings with solely a conceptual content to our existence.

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To begin with, feeling is exactly the same, on the subjective side, as the percept is on the objective side. From the basic principle of naive realism - that everything that can be perceived is real - it follows that it is feeling which confirms the reality of one's own personality.

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This is why, in life, feelings, like percepts, always appear prior to knowledge.

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At first, we have merely a feeling of existence; and it is only in the course of our gradual development that we attain to the point at which the concept of self emerges from within our dimly felt existence. However, what for us appears only later, is from the first indissolubly bound up with our feeling.

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Since a feeling is something entirely individual, something equivalent to a percept, the philosopher of Feeling is making a universal principle out of something that has significance only within his own personality. He attempts to permeate the whole world with his own self. What the monist, in the sense we have described, strives to grasp through concepts, the philosopher of Feeling tries to attain through feelings, and he regards this kind of connection with the objects as the more direct.

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The tendency just described, the philosophy of Feeling, is often called mysticism. The error in a mystical outlook based upon mere feeling is that it wants to experience directly what it ought to gain through knowledge; that it wants to raise feeling, which is individual, into a universal principle.

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Feeling is a purely individual affair; it is the relation of the external world to ourself as subject, in so far as this relation finds expression in a merely subjective experience.

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The I, through its thinking, shares the life of the world in general. In this manner, in a purely ideal way (that is, conceptually), it relates the percepts to itself, and itself to the percepts. In feeling, it has direct experience of a relation of the objects to itself as subject. In the will, the case is reversed. In willing, we are concerned once more with a percept, namely, that of the individual relation of our self to what is objective.

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Whatever there is in willing that is not a purely conceptual element, is just as much mere object of perception as is any object in the external world.

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The difficulty of grasping the essential nature of thinking by observation lies in this, that it has all too easily eluded the introspecting soul by the time the soul tries to bring it into the focus of attention. Nothing then remains to be inspected but the lifeless abstraction, the corpse of the living thinking.

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But if we once succeed in really finding life in thinking, we shall know that swimming in mere feelings, or being intuitively aware of the will element, cannot even be compared with the inner wealth and the self-sustaining yet ever moving experience of this life of thinking, let alone be ranked above it.

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No other activity of the human soul is so easily misunderstood as thinking.

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This immersion is brought about by a power flowing through the activity of thinking itself - the power of love in its spiritual form.

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If we turn towards thinking in its essence, we find in it both feeling and will, and these in the depths of their reality; if we turn away from thinking towards 'mere' feeling and will, we lose from these their true reality

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Source Text

Michael Wilson
Michael Lipson

Chapter 15: “The Consequences of Monism”

This is the final chapter of the main text, where Steiner draws together the threads of the entire book and spells out the broader worldview implications of the “monism” he’s been developing since Chapter 10.

Key points:

Steiner restates his central thesis: reality is one unified whole, accessible to thinking, with no unbridgeable gaps — between percept and concept (Chapters 4–7), between nature and freedom (Chapter 10), or between the individual and the general (Chapter 14). This monism stands opposed to any philosophy positing hidden, unknowable realms (metaphysical dualism) or reducing everything to blind mechanism (materialism).
He clarifies the practical ethical consequence: moral life is not about following external commandments, whether religious, social, or based on abstract moral laws, but about each individual bringing forth, through free thinking, their own concrete moral intuitions suited to unique situations (recapping Chapters 9, 11, 12, and 14). This is his mature statement of ethical individualism.
He addresses the worry that this leads to moral chaos or anarchy. Steiner argues the opposite: because true moral intuitions arise from thinking that grasps genuinely universal, objective concepts (not arbitrary personal preference), free individuals acting from real insight will not be in fundamental, chaotic conflict with one another. Mutual understanding between free individuals is possible precisely because they’re all drawing on the same universal conceptual world (echoing Chapter 6’s account of individuality), even though each accesses and applies it uniquely.
He distinguishes his ethical individualism from mere selfishness or subjectivism. Acting from one’s own free insight is not the same as acting on impulse or self-interest — true moral intuition, arrived at through disciplined thinking, has objective validity, even though its origin is individual. Freedom, for Steiner, is compatible with — indeed is the highest form of — moral seriousness, not a license for caprice.
He revisits the relationship between the “world of ideas” and the human being one final time, emphasizing that thinking is how the universe becomes conscious of itself in the human being — cognition isn’t an isolated subjective add-on to reality but reality’s own process of coming to self-understanding through us. This grounds his monism metaphysically: the human “I,” in thinking, participates directly in the same reality that constitutes the world, rather than standing over against it as a separate, merely observing subject.
He closes by affirming that genuine freedom is rare and hard-won, not automatic — most human action remains driven by instinct, feeling, convention, or unreflective habit (as laid out in the hierarchy in Chapter 9). Full freedom, achieved through pure moral intuition, represents a real but demanding possibility and ideal for human development — something to be striven for and increasingly realized, both individually and, implicitly, over the course of human history (echoing the developmental view of morality from Chapter 12).

This chapter functions as the book’s summation: it reasserts the unity of reality against dualism and materialism, restates ethical individualism as the practical heart of the whole inquiry, and affirms that free, self-determined moral action is both possible and the highest expression of human nature — bringing the argument begun with the simple question “Is the human being free?” in Chapter 1 to its full conclusion.

Chapter 14: “Individuality and Genus (Individuality and Species)”

This chapter addresses a tension implicit in everything before it: if human beings are studied by science as members of a species (biologically, sociologically, psychologically classified and typed), how does this square with Steiner’s picture of the person as a free, self-determining individual whose thinking and moral intuitions are unique to them?

Key points:

Steiner acknowledges that human beings are, in many respects, members of a genus (species/type), just like other living things. Biology, anthropology, and social science can meaningfully classify people by race, nationality, family type, character type, and so on — and much of human life and behavior is indeed explicable in these general terms (physical form, many instincts, inherited traits, cultural conditioning).
But he argues the human being is not exhausted by their membership in any general category. Unlike animals, which (in his view) are essentially fully defined by their species-type, each human individual has the capacity — through the free thinking and moral intuition described earlier — to transcend general type and produce something genuinely unique: their own concepts, insights, and moral responses tailored to unrepeatable, particular situations.
He distinguishes two directions of explanation: one can explain a great deal about a person by reference to what’s general (their species, culture, upbringing, psychological “type”) — but the free core of a person’s action, the moment where they generate a fresh moral intuition through their own thinking, cannot be derived from or reduced to any general category. That act is irreducibly individual.
This is why Steiner insists that a truly free deed cannot be predicted or fully explained by any science of general types, no matter how sophisticated — because science of this kind, by its nature, deals with what’s repeatable and general, while free action (per Chapters 9 and 12) arises fresh, from unrepeatable individual insight into an unrepeatable situation.
He uses this to push back against deterministic sociology/biology/psychology that would claim to fully explain (and thus explain away) human action purely in terms of type, heredity, environment, or social conditioning. Such explanations capture the non-free portion of human behavior (which, Steiner readily admits, is often the greater part in practice) but cannot, even in principle, capture the free portion — because the free portion is, by definition, not an instance of a general law but a unique act of individual thinking.
This affirms the human being’s status as simultaneously a natural being (subject to general laws, like any species member) and a spiritual/free being (capable, at least potentially, of acts that escape those general laws through self-generated thought). Both are real and coexist; Steiner isn’t denying the reality of type/heredity/social conditioning, only insisting they don’t tell the whole story.

This chapter reinforces and generalizes the ethical individualism developed in Chapters 9–12, defending it now against reduction by empirical/scientific classification. It sets up the book’s concluding chapters — Chapter 15 (“The Consequences of Monism”), where Steiner draws together the practical and worldview implications of everything argued so far, and the Final Appendices/Additions, where he responds to critics.

Chapter 13: “The Value of Life (Optimism and Pessimism)”

Having established how free moral action actually works (Chapter 12), Steiner now pauses to address a challenge that could undercut the whole project: if life is fundamentally full of suffering and without worth, why would the pursuit of free, self-directed action even matter? This chapter engages critically with philosophical pessimism, especially as represented by Schopenhauer and Eduard von Hartmann.

Key points:

Steiner lays out the pessimist argument. Pessimist philosophers argued that pain and desire structurally outweigh pleasure and satisfaction in life — that wanting is endless and its fulfillment always temporary or illusory, so existence, weighed honestly, comes out net negative. Some (like von Hartmann) argued that the highest ethical response to this is to work toward the negation or overcoming of the will to live/desire itself.
He also presents the optimist counter-position — that pleasure genuinely outweighs pain, and that life, weighed honestly, is worth affirming — while noting that this position, argued on the same terms as pessimism (tallying pleasure against pain), is just as vulnerable to dispute, since such calculations are inherently subjective and unprovable one way or the other.
Steiner’s key move: he rejects the entire framework of weighing pleasure against pain as the basis for valuing life. Both optimism and pessimism, as usually argued, assume that the worth of life must be judged by totaling up feelings of pleasure versus displeasure. Steiner argues this is the wrong measure entirely — it treats human beings as passive recipients of feeling-states to be tallied, rather than as active agents whose worth and meaning come from doing, not merely feeling.
He relocates the value of life in activity/action itself, not in the balance of felt pleasure. For Steiner, what gives life worth isn’t whether pleasant sensations outnumber painful ones, but whether the individual is engaged in real, self-directed, purposeful activity — the kind of free action described in Chapters 9–12. A life devoted to bringing forth one’s own moral intuitions into deeds has worth intrinsic to that activity, regardless of the pleasure/pain ledger.
He argues pessimism, taken to its logical conclusion, would undermine the will to act at all — but observes that even confirmed pessimists (like von Hartmann) don’t actually stop acting or willing; in practice they still pursue goals and engage in life, which Steiner takes as evidence that the theoretical pessimist calculus doesn’t actually match lived human experience.
This defends the free, active human being (his book’s central figure) against the charge that such striving is pointless. By shifting the ground of value from felt pleasure to the intrinsic worth of free, self-determined activity, Steiner secures a reason to affirm the pursuit of freedom and moral action regardless of how the pleasure/pain balance sheet might come out.

This chapter functions as a kind of defense-in-passing — clearing away pessimism as an obstacle — before Steiner moves to the final chapters, where he addresses individuality and its social/species dimension. This sets up Chapter 14, “Individuality and Genus (Individuality and Species),” which examines how the free individual relates to the general categories (species, type, social role) that biology and sociology tend to subsume people under.

Chapter 12: “Moral Imagination (Darwinism and Morality)”

This chapter gets concrete: having argued that free action springs from self-generated moral intuition (Chapter 9) rather than external purpose (Chapter 11), Steiner now explains the actual psychological mechanism by which an abstract moral intuition becomes a specific deed in the real world.

Key points:

Steiner introduces the concept of “moral imagination.” A moral intuition on its own is general — it grasps what’s right in principle for a situation. But translating this into a concrete act requires imagination: the capacity to picture how the general intuition applies to this particular set of circumstances, and to envision the specific action that would realize it. Moral imagination is the bridge between abstract insight and concrete deed.
He pairs this with “moral technique” — the practical, skillful knowledge of the world (how things work, cause and effect, human affairs) needed to actually carry out the imagined action effectively. Good intentions alone aren’t enough; free moral action also requires competence in dealing with the real, physical and social world.
He explicitly rejects the idea that morality can be reduced to fixed, universal rules or laws (moral abstractionism). Ethical systems that try to lay down general commandments in advance (“always do X,” “never do Y”) fail to account for the fact that every situation is unique, and genuine moral insight must be freshly generated for each specific case through intuition and imagination — not mechanically applied from a rulebook.
He engages with Darwinism and evolutionary ethics directly. Some thinkers of his time argued that morality is simply a product of evolutionary development — moral feelings and rules exist because they proved useful for survival, and so ethics is ultimately reducible to biological/social utility. Steiner pushes back: while he doesn’t deny that moral customs have a developmental history, he denies that this history explains away or exhausts the content of true moral intuitions. Evolution can explain the emergence of moral conventions and instincts over time, but the free, individual moral intuitions of the ethically mature person are not merely inherited biological drives — they’re generated anew by thinking, as previously established.
He proposes a developmental view of morality itself. Just as individual freedom is something achieved rather than automatically given (Chapter 9), moral life as a whole has evolved from instinct-driven, custom-bound behavior toward increasingly individualized, intuition-based ethical action. Humanity is gradually moving from morality-as-external-law toward morality-as-free-individual-insight — with Steiner’s “ethical individualism” representing the höher, more evolved stage of this development, not a rejection of moral seriousness but its fulfillment.
This chapter reinforces that free action is not lawless or arbitrary. Because moral imagination must still answer to real moral intuitions (which are not private whims, as clarified in Chapter 11) and must be carried out through genuine competence in the world (moral technique), free action remains disciplined and effective — not a matter of pure caprice.

This chapter fills in the practical, psychological “how” of free ethical action, complementing the more abstract “what” and “why” given in Chapters 9–11. It leads into Chapter 13, “The Value of Life (Optimism and Pessimism),” where Steiner shifts to examine whether life, understood along these lines, is something to be affirmed — engaging with pessimist philosophy (Schopenhauer, von Hartmann) regarding whether existence has worth.

Chapter 11: “World Purpose and Life Purpose (The Purpose of Life)”

Having defended his monistic view of freedom in Chapter 10, Steiner now turns to examine a different but related question: the idea of purpose — does the world, or human life, have an inherent purpose imposed on it from outside, and how does this relate to the freedom he’s been describing?

Key points:

Steiner critiques the traditional idea of an external, predetermined purpose governing nature and human life. The common view (often theological or teleological) holds that the world unfolds according to a fixed plan or goal set by some higher power, and that individual human lives likewise have a preordained purpose they’re meant to fulfill. Steiner finds this picture incompatible with genuine freedom — if my life’s purpose is fixed in advance by an external design, my actions are ultimately just the execution of someone else’s plan, not truly my own.
He distinguishes between purpose imposed from without and purpose/meaning generated from within. Rather than nature or human life having a single, universal goal dictated externally, Steiner argues that meaning and purpose arise through the activity of thinking individuals themselves — each person, through their own concepts and moral intuitions (as described in Chapter 9), generates the purposes that inform their actions, rather than discovering a purpose already fully written into the fabric of the cosmos.
He extends this critique to nature itself. Just as human action doesn’t need an externally imposed goal to be meaningful, natural processes don’t require a hidden cosmic “purpose” to be explained — their lawfulness (as revealed through thinking’s grasp of percept and concept, from earlier chapters) is sufficient. Imposing purpose onto nature from outside is, for Steiner, an illegitimate carryover of human intention onto processes that don’t require it.
This reinforces his ethical individualism. If purpose isn’t a fixed, universal blueprint but something each thinking individual actively brings forth through insight into particular situations, then the “purpose of life” isn’t a single answer valid for everyone — it’s something each person must discover and create through their own free, thinking activity. This directly continues the trajectory from Chapters 9–10: freedom isn’t obedience to an external plan (whether natural law, moral code, or cosmic purpose) but the self-generated activity of the thinking individual.
He’s careful to distinguish this from arbitrary relativism. Rejecting a single externally fixed purpose doesn’t mean “anything goes” — because, as established earlier, genuine moral intuitions are still grounded in real, universally valid concepts (not mere private whim); it’s the origin of the insight (self-generated through thinking) rather than its validity that makes it free.

This chapter clears away the notion of a ready-made cosmic or life purpose waiting to be discovered, reinforcing that meaning and purpose — like freedom itself — are achievements of the thinking individual. This leads naturally into Chapter 12, “Moral Imagination (Darwinism and Morality),” where Steiner explains concretely how an individual translates a moral intuition into a specific, real-world action.

Chapter 10: “Philosophy of Freedom and Monism”

With the positive account of free action laid out in Chapter 9, Steiner now defends and situates his theory against rival philosophical positions — particularly materialism and traditional metaphysical dualism — while explaining what he means by “monism.”

Key points:

Steiner positions his view as a form of monism, meaning he rejects any philosophy that splits reality into two fundamentally separate, unbridgeable realms — e.g., mind versus matter, the knowable world of appearances versus an unknowable “thing-in-itself,” or spirit versus nature. His monism holds that reality is fundamentally one connected whole, and that thinking is the activity through which this unity becomes apparent to us (tying back directly to Chapters 4–7).
He distinguishes his monism sharply from materialism. A materialist explains thinking and consciousness as mere by-products of physical/chemical processes in the brain — ultimately reducible to matter in motion. Steiner rejects this, arguing it cannot account for the self-transparency of thinking established in Chapter 3: thinking is the one activity we observe directly from the inside, and this direct, non-physical self-evidence can’t be explained away as an epiphenomenon of neural mechanics without contradiction.
He also distinguishes it from spiritualistic or metaphysical dualism (positions that posit a hidden “spirit world” or transcendent realm as the true reality standing behind, and inaccessible to, ordinary experience). Steiner insists there’s no need to posit any hidden metaphysical realm beyond the perceptible/thinkable world — reality is fully available to us through the union of percept and concept already described; nothing essential is left over, hidden, or transcendent.
He extends this monism to the ethical/free will question. Just as there’s no unbridgeable gap between percept and concept in general knowledge, there’s no unbridgeable gap between “natural necessity” and “freedom” in human action. Free action, for Steiner, isn’t a miraculous exception that breaks the causal order of nature — it’s what happens when a human being, as a natural being capable of thinking, generates the motivating concept for an action through their own insight rather than through blind mechanism. Freedom and lawfulness aren’t opposites; an action can be fully “caused” by the agent’s own thinking and still be free, because that thinking is the person’s own activity, not an external compulsion.
This directly answers the classical objection that determinism and freedom are mutually exclusive. Critics assume freedom must mean “uncaused” or “random,” while determinists assume all causation is external/mechanical. Steiner’s monism dissolves this by locating the causal origin of free action within the thinking activity of the individual — a cause, yes, but a self-produced one, not an external, alien compulsion.
He briefly touches on the ethical implications: since true freedom (per Chapter 9) is achieved only through pure moral intuition — thinking that grasps what a unique situation genuinely calls for — Steiner’s monism implies that moral life is not about obeying fixed rules or laws imposed from outside, but about each individual’s capacity to discover, through their own thinking, the right concept/action for each concrete situation. This anticipates the ethical individualism he develops more fully in later chapters (particularly Chapter 9’s continuation into “moral imagination” and the book’s later chapters on ethics).

This chapter essentially defends the coherence of Steiner’s whole project: by insisting reality is one unified whole graspable through thinking, he shows why freedom doesn’t need to be smuggled in from outside nature — it’s a natural (if rare and effortful) achievement of a being whose essence includes self-transparent thought.

Chapter 9: “The Idea of Freedom”

This is the pivotal chapter where Steiner finally returns to the question posed in Chapter 1 and begins building his actual case for freedom, using everything established about thinking, percept, concept, feeling, and the I.

Key points:

Steiner distinguishes his approach from both “naive” determinism and vague talk of free will. He insists the question can only be answered by observing how a concrete action actually comes about — tracing, step by step, what happens between a motive arising and a deed being carried out.
He introduces the crucial distinction between the “impulse to act” (or motive/driving force) and the “characterological disposition” that determines which motive becomes decisive. Not every thought that occurs to us leads to action — only those that connect with our will. Steiner analyzes the machinery by which a concept becomes a motive powerful enough to issue in a deed.
He distinguishes different levels at which human action can be determined:
- Purely instinctual action (driven by organic desires/drives, like an animal or infant) — here there’s no freedom, just necessity.
- Action driven by feeling or emotion (acting because something feels right, without full clarity about why) — a step up, but still not fully free, since the person hasn’t consciously penetrated their own motive.
- Action based on reasoned deliberation using concepts and principles adopted from outside (custom, authority, convention, an inherited moral code accepted without independent insight) — more conscious, but still not free, because the governing concept wasn’t self-generated; it was taken over ready-made.
- Action based on pure moral intuition — where the individual, through thinking, grasps the specific concept appropriate to a unique situation, generated freshly by their own insight rather than borrowed from habit or external authority. This, for Steiner, is the only level at which genuine freedom is possible.
This is where Steiner’s key move happens: he locates freedom not in the mere ability to act on a desire, but in the origin of the motivating concept itself. An action is free to the degree that its motivating idea springs from the individual’s own thinking — from real insight into what this specific situation calls for — rather than being imposed by physical drives, unreflective emotion, or unquestioned external rules.
He is careful to note this isn’t a description of how most people act most of the time. Fully free action, in this strict sense, is presented as something of an ideal or achievement — something humans are capable of and move toward, not something automatically guaranteed by simply having a rational mind. Freedom, for Steiner, is thus not a fixed property everyone equally possesses, but a capacity that can be more or less realized depending on how much genuine, self-produced thinking actually informs one’s actions.
This reframes the free will debate itself as a false dilemma. The old argument (“either everything is determined by prior causes, or actions are random/uncaused”) misses a third option: an action can be lawfully grounded (in a real concept, grasped through thinking) while still being free, because the individual’s own thinking — not an external chain of causation — was what actually produced that concept in that moment.

This chapter lays down the heart of Steiner’s positive theory of freedom. The following chapter, “Freedom — Philosophy and Monism,” goes on to defend this account against objections (e.g., from a strictly scientific/deterministic worldview) and situates it within Steiner’s broader monistic outlook.

Chapter 8: “The Factors of Life”

Having secured that thinking can genuinely reach reality (Chapter 7), Steiner now turns from epistemology toward the human being as a whole, concrete individual — asking what elements actually make up our full conscious experience beyond just percept and concept.

Key points:

Steiner introduces additional “factors” of human experience beyond percept and concept. So far the discussion centered on percepts (given data) and concepts (thought-content). Now he adds two more crucial elements: feeling and the “I” (self) as the center that has percepts, forms concepts, and experiences feelings.
Feeling is presented as a distinctive, third element of reality alongside percept and concept. When a concept unites with a percept, the result isn’t purely intellectual — it’s typically accompanied by an inner, felt response (pleasure, interest, aversion, etc.). Feeling is how the union of percept and concept registers within the subject, giving experience its personal, inner coloring. Unlike concepts (universal) or percepts (external), feelings are intimately bound to the individual’s inner life.
He distinguishes feeling from thinking in terms of clarity. Thinking, as established earlier, is uniquely transparent to self-observation — we can watch ourselves think with full clarity. Feeling, by contrast, is more like an inner percept: it presents itself to us similarly to how outer percepts do (as a given), and it likewise needs thinking to be understood and brought to clarity. Left merely felt, without being thought through, feeling remains as murky and unexplained as an unprocessed outer percept.
The “I” emerges as the being who unites all of this. Percepts, concepts, and feelings don’t just float freely — they belong to a subject, the “I,” which stands as the unifying center of experience. Steiner emphasizes that the I is not just another abstract concept but is directly and immediately experienced by each person as the ground of their own activity — most clearly in the act of thinking, where the I actively produces the concept rather than passively receiving it.
This sets up the crucial move toward the will. With percept, concept, feeling, and the I now on the table, Steiner has assembled the full inventory of factors that make up conscious human life. This positions him to ask the next, decisive question: what is willing, and how does it relate to these factors? That question — central to the whole book — is what Chapter 9, “The Idea of Freedom,” will tackle directly, finally returning full-circle to the problem posed in Chapter 1.

This chapter is essentially the last piece of preparatory groundwork — rounding out Steiner’s picture of the human being’s inner life so that the analysis of free will in the chapters ahead has a complete foundation (percept, concept, feeling, and I) to draw on.

Chapter 7: “Are There Limits to Knowledge?”

This chapter is a direct confrontation with a major obstacle to everything Steiner has argued so far: the widespread (largely Kantian) view that human cognition can never reach the true nature of reality — that there’s always an unknowable “thing-in-itself” lying beyond what our minds can grasp. If this view is correct, Steiner’s whole picture of thinking as capable of uniting with percepts to reveal full reality collapses.

Key points:

He identifies the source of the “limits of knowledge” doctrine. Philosophers who hold this view typically assume that what we perceive is only an effect produced in us by some external, unknowable cause — the real object supposedly stays hidden behind the veil of our subjective sensations, forever inaccessible. On this account, percepts are just symbols or signs of a reality we can never directly touch.
Steiner argues this whole picture rests on a flawed premise. It illegitimately treats the process of perception (e.g., light waves triggering nerve responses, physiological/psychological accounts of how sensation arises) as if it told us something about the relationship between percept and reality itself. But these causal, physiological explanations are themselves products of thinking about percepts — so they can’t be used to prove that thinking is powerless to reach reality, since they already depend on thinking having grasped something true about the world (nerves, waves, causation) in the first place. The argument is self-undermining.
He reiterates the core claim from Chapters 4–5: the percept is incomplete, not falsified, on its own. The apparent “gap” between us and reality isn’t a gap between appearance and hidden truth — it’s simply the natural incompleteness of perception before thinking supplies the concept that completes it. Once percept and concept are united, there’s no further hidden “thing-in-itself” left over demanding to be known — the concept isn’t a symbol pointing at reality from outside, it’s a genuine constituent of reality itself, grasped by thinking.
He distinguishes appearance from illusion. Percepts are indeed one-sided and dependent on our organization (a color looks the way it does because of how our eyes work) — but this doesn’t make them unreal or deceptive. It just means the full nature of the thing only reveals itself when percept and concept join. Reality isn’t “behind” the percept; it’s completed through the percept plus its concept.
The upshot: there is no fundamentally unknowable residue. Whatever isn’t yet known is simply not-yet-thought-through — a temporary limitation of the individual’s current knowledge, not a permanent, in-principle boundary built into the structure of cognition itself. Human thinking, when it does its proper work, has no impassable “wall” between itself and the real.

This chapter is important groundwork because it clears away any lingering doubt that thinking is capable of full contact with reality — which is essential before Steiner turns, in Chapter 8, to apply all of this specifically to human action and self-knowledge, asking: is the same directness and freedom from hidden limits available when we try to know ourselves, particularly our own willing? That’s the transition into the book’s second half, where the freedom question proper (from Chapter 1) gets picked back up in earnest.

Chapter 6: “Human Individuality”

Having shown that knowledge is the union of percept and concept, Steiner now asks: where does this leave the individual human being? If concepts are universal (the same triangle-concept for everyone), why isn’t all human experience and thought identical? This chapter locates individuality within the framework built so far.

Key points:

Concepts are universal, but each of us grasps them from a particular standpoint. The concept “triangle” or “cause” doesn’t differ from thinker to thinker in its content — but the specific combination of percepts each person encounters, and the way they’re worked through by that person’s own organization, is unique to them. Individuality doesn’t lie in having private concepts, but in the distinctive vantage point from which the same universal world of concepts is accessed and applied.
The human being is a “special individualization” of thinking itself. Steiner describes each person as an organ through which universal thinking becomes concretely activated in a particular time, place, and set of circumstances. My thinking is genuinely mine — arising through my own activity — even though what I think (the concept itself) is not privately mine but universally valid and shared by all who grasp it correctly.
This resolves an apparent tension. If concepts were purely private (subjective idealism), there’d be no possibility of shared objective knowledge or communication between people. If concepts left no room for individuality (naive realism/rigid rationalism), everyone would think identically, and personal character, perspective, and creativity would be illusions. Steiner’s solution: the content of true concepts is universal, but the organization that produces and applies them — each person’s percept-stream, memory, interests, and mode of connecting concept to percept — is individual.
He uses this to explain why people perceive and understand the world differently despite sharing the same conceptual/logical structure of reality. Differences between people arise not because truth itself is relative, but because each person is working with a different slice of percepts and a unique organizational history to which they apply the shared conceptual world.
This chapter is pivotal for the freedom argument to come. By locating individuality in the activity of thinking (rather than in arbitrary private opinion, or in being a passive vessel for universal law), Steiner prepares the ground for arguing that free action can be genuinely both individual (arising from this person, here, now) and rationally grounded (accessing real, universal concepts) rather than being either random caprice or mechanical necessity.

This sets up Chapter 7, “Are There Limits to Cognition?”, where Steiner will confront and refute the Kantian-influenced view that reality (the “thing-in-itself”) is fundamentally unknowable to human thought — a view that, if true, would undercut everything argued so far about thinking’s capacity to grasp reality.

Chapter 4: “The World as Percept” (also translated “The World as Perception”)

Having established thinking as a unique, self-transparent activity in Chapter 3, Steiner now turns to examine its counterpart: perception. He wants to understand exactly what the “given,” pre-thought world actually consists of, before thinking gets to work on it.

Key points:

Steiner defines the “percept” carefully. A percept is whatever presents itself to us through the senses or inner experience before we’ve applied any concept to it — the raw color, sound, warmth, or feeling, prior to being identified, named, or explained. It’s the world exactly as given, with no interpretation added yet.
He stresses that this pure percept is, strictly speaking, never actually experienced in isolation by adults. In practice, the moment something is perceived, thinking is already at work weaving concepts into it (we don’t just see “a patch of color,” we immediately see “a tree”). So the “pure percept” is something we arrive at only through a kind of deliberate philosophical abstraction — mentally stripping away everything that thinking has already contributed, to isolate what perception alone provides.
This exposes a problem with naive realism. Ordinary consciousness assumes that the world we perceive is simply “the real world,” complete and finished as it appears. Steiner challenges this: what we actually perceive, before thinking supplies connections and explanations, is fragmentary, chaotic, and disconnected — a swarm of isolated impressions with no inherent order. The coherent, orderly world we take for granted is already a joint product of percept and concept, not perception alone.
He also distances himself from subjective idealism. Some philosophers conclude from the incompleteness of percepts that the “real” world must be purely a construction of the mind, with nothing existing independently. Steiner rejects this too — for him, the percept is genuinely given, not invented by the perceiver; it’s just incomplete on its own and requires thinking to reveal its full reality.
This reframes the task of knowledge. If the percept alone is fragmentary and thinking alone is a formal, connecting activity, then neither one by itself is “the real world.” Knowledge, for Steiner, must involve bringing the two together — using thinking to supply what’s genuinely missing from bare perception, not to invent an arbitrary picture layered on top of it.

This chapter essentially clears the ground conceptually: by rigorously defining what a “percept” is (and isn’t), Steiner sets up the crucial next move — showing how concepts (the product of thinking) relate to percepts to jointly constitute full reality, which is the subject of Chapter 5 (“The Act of Knowing the World”).

Chapter 5: “The Act of Knowing the World” (also translated “Knowing the World” or “The Act of Cognition”)

This chapter brings together the two threads from Chapters 3 and 4 — thinking and perceiving — to show how genuine knowledge actually comes about through their interaction.

Key points:

Knowledge arises from the meeting of percept and concept. Neither the raw percept (fragmentary, disconnected sense-data) nor the bare concept (an empty, abstract form of thought) constitutes reality on its own. Steiner argues that the act of knowing is precisely the process of bringing a percept together with its corresponding concept — only then does the “what” of a thing become intelligible, revealing what it actually is, not just that it appears.
This explains our felt need to explain things. We are driven to seek concepts for our percepts because, until a concept is added, a percept remains external and alien to us — a mere impression we haven’t yet understood. Finding the right concept for a percept is experienced as a kind of satisfaction or resolution, because it restores the connectedness that perception alone lacks (echoing the “duality” problem raised in Chapter 2).
Steiner uses the analogy of the world appearing “split” into two halves — the given, and the “thought-out.” Cognition is the activity of reuniting them. What we call “reality” or “actuality” is never percept alone or concept alone, but their union: the concept restores to the percept the connectedness and meaning it originally had within the whole of existence, but which is destroyed for us in the mere act of perceiving separately through our senses.
He addresses why this union feels like an achievement rather than automatic. Because our organization as perceiving beings inherently fragments reality into disconnected sensory bits (this is the price of having a subjective vantage point at all), the work of thinking to reunite percept and concept is a real, active task — not a passive mirroring. Cognition is productive, not merely reproductive.
This lays crucial groundwork for objectivity. Since concepts are not arbitrary inventions of the individual mind but the very thing needed to complete percepts and reveal their true nature, Steiner argues that thinking, though it happens “in” an individual, is not merely subjective. The concepts we grasp are the same for all thinkers — pointing toward a shared, universal element in cognition that transcends personal, private experience.

This chapter effectively resolves the epistemological groundwork of the book: percept and concept together constitute full reality, and knowing is the real activity of uniting them. With this established, Steiner is now positioned to ask a sharper question — what exactly is the human being’s own relationship to this process (i.e., where does the human standpoint fit in), which becomes the focus of Chapter 6, “The Human Individuality.”

Chapter 3: “Thinking in the Service of Knowlesge”

This chapter begins Steiner’s close examination of thinking itself — treating it not just as one mental faculty among others, but as the key to resolving the split between self and world introduced in Chapter 2.

Key points:

Steiner insists we must start from observation, not preconceived theory. Just as a natural scientist observes plants or minerals, Steiner says philosophy must begin by simply observing thinking as it actually occurs — watching how we produce concepts and ideas, rather than assuming in advance some theory about what thinking “really is” (materialist, idealist, or otherwise).
Thinking is unlike any other object of observation. Normally, when we observe something (a rock, an animal, a feeling), the act of observing is separate from the thing observed. But when we observe thinking, the observer and the observed activity are the same — we are using thinking to observe thinking itself. Steiner identified this as a uniquely privileged situation: nowhere else do we have such direct, intimate access to the very process we’re studying.
He distinguishes thinking from perceiving. Perception gives us the raw, disconnected picture of the world — separate sensations, colors, sounds, objects standing side by side without inherent connection. Thinking is the activity that supplies the connections — it relates one perception to another, uncovers concepts, and knits isolated impressions into a coherent, intelligible whole. When we think about a perception, we’re not just receiving it passively; we’re actively producing something (a concept) that reveals what the perception means in relation to everything else.
This is why thinking can bridge the separation identified in Chapter 2. Because thinking’s very nature is to unify disconnected elements, it’s naturally suited to restore the unity between the human being and the world that mere perception cannot achieve.
Thinking has a special status compared to all other human activities and mental content. It isn’t just another subjective process happening “in here,” but is the means by which the world’s own inherent order and connections become manifest. Because we can watch ourselves think, in a way we cannot watch ourselves perceive or feel, thinking offers a foothold for genuinely objective self-knowledge — which will become essential to the later argument for freedom.

In short, this chapter establishes thinking as a unique object of study — the one thing we can observe from the inside — and positions it as the active, connecting force that turns the raw, scattered data of perception into a meaningful, unified picture of the world.

Chapter 2: The Fundamental Desire Knowledge

Having framed the question of freedom at the end of Chapter 1, Steiner steps back to pose the more basic question: why do human beings seek knowledge and explanations at all? He will go on to argue that we can’t get anywhere on the freedom question without first understanding what drives us to think and know in the first place.

Key points:

The world presents itself to us as a riddle. The phenomena of the world appear as gievn to the senses. At the same time we feel compelled to find the underlying connections that might explain the phenolmena. Something remains hidden from us which makes us aware of our antithesis to the given world or perception.
This split is felt as a kind of inner discord. Steiner describes human beings as standing in a peculiar position: we are part of nature, yet we experience ourselves as set over against it, observing and questioning it as if from outside. We feel at once at one with the world and estranged from it — and this tension is precisely what drives philosophical reflection. If we simply fit seamlessly into nature the way a stone or a plant does, the urge to explain things would never arise.
Striving for knowledge is a necessary consequnce born of this duality. Because we experience ourselves as separate from the world of appearances, we are compelled to find the connection again through thinking. Explanation is essentially the act of restoring a unity that perception alone does not give us. This ultimately underlies all scientific, religious and artistic endeavour.
Neither Dualism nor Monism can overcome the separation. Dualism fails to find an anchor point from which to bridge the antithesis between I and World. Monism simply tries to overlook this separation that is present to our consciousness.
This sets the stage for his epistemology. By establishing that the human being’s fundamental relationship to the world is one of separation needing resolution through thought, Steiner prepares to examine how thinking achieves this. This becomes the subject in the following chapters leading into his treatment of thinking as an activity which gives us direct access to reality, not just a subjective picture of it.

In essence, this chapter argues that the drive to seek knowledge stems from a felt duality between ourselves and the world, and that resolving this duality through thinking is the deeper task philosophy must undertake — a task that will ultimately circle back to illuminate the question of human freedom.

Chapter 1: “Conscious Human Action” sets up the central problem to be examined in this book: is the human being free, or are our thoughts and actions determined by natural necessity in the same way physical and chemical processes are?

Key points made by Steiner:

This isn’t just an abstract puzzle. Steiner point sout that the question of freedom has real practical consequences – it forms our sense of dignity, our feeling of responsibility for our actions, and how we judge others’ conduct. If everything we do is strictly necessitated, notions like moral responsibility and guilt lose any objective foundation.
He challenges the popular definition of freedom. Most people equate being “free” with being able to do what they want, or with acting on impulse without external compulsion. Steiner says this is too shallow, because it ignores where the wanting itself comes from.
He separates two different questions:
1. Can I carry out what I have decided to do? (freedom of action — often blocked by external circumstance)
2. Is the decision itself — the willing, the motive – freely arrived at, or is it simply the product of prior causes (upbringing, character, desires, physical drives) I had no hand in choosing?
Steiner insists the deeper philosophical question of freedom is about the second point: the origin of our motives, not merely our ability to act on them.
He points to gradations of inner freedom. A small child acting on a whim, an animal following instinct, and a mature person acting from carefully considered reasons are not equally “free” even if all three are doing what they want. This suggests freedom, if it exists at all, has to do with the degree to which our willing is illuminated by conscious insight rather than blind impulse.
He resists settling the question prematurely. Rather than declaring humans simply free or simply determined, Steiner insists the matter has to be investigated through careful observation of our own inner life — how thoughts, motives, and decisions actually arise in consciousness. This sets up the method for the rest of the book, which builds toward his account of “moral intuition” as the real ground of free action.

In short, this chapter is mostly diagnostic: it clears away superficial ideas of freedom (freedom as “doing what I please”) and reframes the real question as one about the origin and nature of our motives — preparing the ground for the later argument that true freedom is achieved through thinking that penetrates to the ideal grounds of our actions.

15. Ultimate Questions – The Consequences of Monism – 1

The uniform explanation of the world, that is, the monism we have described, derives the principles that it needs for the explanation of the world from human experience. In the same way, it looks for the sources of action within the world of observation, that is, in that part of human nature which is accessible to our self-knowledge, more particularly in moral imagination.

Monism refuses to infer in an abstract way that the ultimate causes of the world that is presented to our perceiving and thinking are to be found in a region outside this world. For monism, the unity that thoughtful observation — which we can experience — brings to the manifold multiplicity of percepts is the same unity that man’s need for knowledge demands, and through which it seeks entry into the physical and spiritual regions of the world. Whoever seeks another unity behind this one only proves that he does not recognise the identity of what is discovered by thinking and what is demanded by the urge for knowledge.

The single human individual is not actually cut off from the universe. He is a part of it, and between this part and the totality of the cosmos there exists a real connection which is broken only for our perception. At first we take this part of the universe as something existing on its own, because we do not see the belts and ropes by which the fundamental forces of the cosmos keep the wheel of our life revolving.

Whoever remains at this standpoint sees a part of the whole as if it were actually an independently existing thing, a monad which receives information about the rest of the world in some way from without. Monism, as here described, shows that we can believe in this independence only so long as the things we perceive are not woven by our thinking into the network of the conceptual world. As soon as this happens, all separate existence turns out to be mere illusion due to perceiving.

Man can find his full and complete existence in the totality of the universe only through the experience of intuitive thinking. Thinking destroys the illusion due to perceiving and integrates our individual existence into the life of the cosmos. The unity of the conceptual world, which contains all objective percepts, also embraces the content of our subjective personality. Thinking gives us reality in its true form as a self-contained unity, whereas the multiplicity of percepts is but a semblance due to the way we are organised.

To recognise true reality, as against the illusion due to perceiving, has at all times been the goal of human thinking. Scientific thought has made great efforts to recognise reality in percepts by discovering the systematic connections between them. Where, however, it was believed that the connections ascertained by human thinking had only subjective validity, the true basis of unity was sought in some entity lying beyond our world of experience (an inferred God, will, absolute spirit, etc.).

On the strength of this belief, the attempt was made to obtain, in addition to the knowledge accessible to experience, a second kind of knowledge which transcends experience and shows how the world that can be experienced is connected with the entities that cannot (a metaphysics arrived at by inference, and not by experience).

It was thought that the reason why we can grasp the connections of things in the world through disciplined thinking was that a primordial being had built the world upon logical laws, and, similarly, that the grounds for our actions lay in the will of such a being. What was not realised was that thinking embraces both the subjective and the objective in one grasp, and that through the union of percept with concept the full reality is conveyed. Only as long as we think of the law and order that permeates and determines the percept as having the abstract form of a concept, are we in fact dealing with something purely subjective. But the content of a concept, which is added to the percept by means of thinking, is not subjective. This content is not taken from the subject, but from reality.

It is that part of the reality that cannot be reached by the act of perceiving. It is experience, but not experience gained through perceiving. If someone cannot see that the concept is something real, he is thinking of it only in the abstract form in which he holds it in his mind. But only through our organisation is it present in such isolation, just as in the case of the percept.

After all, the tree that one perceives has no existence by itself, in isolation. It exists only as a part of the immense machinery of nature, and can only exist in real connection with nature. An abstract concept taken by itself has as little reality as a percept taken by itself. The percept is the part of reality that is given objectively, the concept the part that is given subjectively (through intuition).

Our mental organisation tears the reality apart into these two factors. One factor presents itself to perception, the other to intuition. Only the union of the two, that is, the percept fitting systematically into the universe, constitutes the full reality. If we take mere percepts by themselves, we have no reality but rather a disconnected chaos; if we take by itself the law and order connecting the percepts, then we have nothing but abstract concepts. Reality is not contained in the abstract concept; it is, however, contained in thoughtful observation, which does not one-sidedly consider either concept or percept alone, but rather the union of the two.

That we live in reality (that we are rooted in it with our real existence) will not be denied by even the most orthodox of subjective idealists. He will only deny that we reach the same reality with our knowing, with our ideas, as the one we actually live in. Monism, on the other hand, shows that thinking is neither subjective nor objective, but is a principle that embraces both sides of reality.

When we observe with our thinking, we carry out a process which itself belongs to the order of real events. By means of thinking, within the experience itself, we overcome the one-sidedness of mere perceiving. We cannot argue out the essence of reality by means of abstract conceptual hypotheses (through pure conceptual reflection), but in so far as we find the ideas that belong to the percepts, we are living in the reality.

Monism does not seek to add to experience something non-experienceable (transcendental), but finds the full reality in concept and percept. It does not spin a system of metaphysics out of mere abstract concepts, because it sees in the concept by itself only one side of the reality, namely, the side that remains hidden from perception, and only makes sense in connection with the percept. Monism does, however, give man the conviction that he lives in the world of reality and has no need to look beyond this world for a higher reality that can never be experienced. It refrains from seeking absolute reality anywhere else but in experience, because it is just in the content of experience that it recognises reality.

Monism is satisfied by this reality, because it knows that thinking has the power to guarantee it. What dualism seeks only beyond the observed world, monism finds in this world itself. Monism shows that with our act of knowing we grasp reality in its true form, and not as a subjective image that inserts itself between man and reality. For monism, the conceptual content of the world is the same for all human individuals.

According to monistic principles, one human individual regards another as akin to himself because the same world content expresses itself in him. In the unitary world of concepts there are not as many concepts of the lion as there are individuals who think of a lion, but only one. And the concept that A fits to his percept of the lion is the same that B fits to his, only apprehended by a different perceiving subject. Thinking leads all perceiving subjects to the same ideal unity in all multiplicity.

The unitary world of ideas expresses itself in them as in a multiplicity of individuals. As long as a man apprehends himself merely by means of self-perception, he sees himself as this particular man; as soon as he looks at the world of ideas that lights up within him, embracing all that is separate, he sees within himself the absolute reality living and shining forth. Dualism defines the divine primordial Being as that which pervades and lives in all men.

Monism finds this divine life, common to all, in reality itself. The ideas of another human being are in substance mine also, and I regard them as different only as long as I perceive, but no longer when I think. Every man embraces in his thinking only a part of the total world of ideas, and to that extent individuals differ even in the actual content of their thinking. But all these contents are within a self-contained whole, which embraces the thought contents of all men.

Hence every man, in his thinking, lays hold of the universal primordial Being which pervades all men. To live in reality, filled with the content of thought, is at the same time to live in God. A world beyond, that is merely inferred and cannot be experienced, arises from a misconception on the part of those who believe that this world cannot have the foundation of its existence within itself.

They do not realise that through thinking they find just what they require for the explanation of the percept. This is the reason why no speculation has ever brought to light any content that was not borrowed from the reality given to us. The God that is assumed through abstract inference is nothing but a human being transplanted into the Beyond; Schopenhauer’s Will is human will-power made absolute; Hartmann’s Unconscious, a primordial Being made up of idea and will, is but a compound of two abstractions drawn from experience. Exactly the same is true of all other transcendental principles based on thought that has not been experienced.

15. Ultimate Questions – The Consequences of Monism – 2

The truth is that the human spirit never transcends the reality in which we live, nor has it any need to do so, seeing that this world contains everything the human spirit requires in order to explain it. If philosophers eventually declare themselves satisfied with the deduction of the world from principles they borrow from experience and transplant into an hypothetical Beyond, then it should be just as possible to be satisfied when the same content is allowed to remain in this world, where for our thinking as experienced it does belong.

All attempts to transcend the world are purely illusory, and the principles transplanted from this world into the Beyond do not explain the world any better than those which remain within it. If thinking understands itself it will not ask for any such transcendence at all, since every content of thought must look within the world and not outside it for a perceptual content, together with which it forms something real. The objects of imagination, too, are no more than contents which become justified only when transformed into mental pictures that refer to a perceptual content. Through this perceptual content they become an integral part of reality.

A concept that is supposed to be filled with a content lying beyond our given world is an abstraction to which no reality corresponds. We can think out only the concepts of reality; in order to find reality itself, we must also have perception. A primordial world being for which we invent a content is an impossible assumption for any thinking that understands itself. Monism does not deny ideal elements, in fact, it considers a perceptual content without an ideal counterpart as not fully real; but in the whole realm of thinking it finds nothing that could require us to step outside the realm of our thinking’s experience by denying the objective spiritual reality of thinking itself.

Monism regards a science that limits itself to a description of percepts without penetrating to their ideal complements as incomplete. But it regards as equally incomplete all abstract concepts that do not find their complements in percepts, and that fit nowhere into the conceptual network that embraces the whole observable world. Hence it knows no ideas that refer to objective factors lying beyond our experience and which are supposed to form the content of a purely hypothetical system of metaphysics. All that mankind has produced in the way of such ideas monism regards as abstractions borrowed from experience, the fact of borrowing having been overlooked by the originators.

Just as little, according to monistic principles, can the aims of our action be derived from an extra-human Beyond. In so far as we think them, they must stem from human intuition. Man does not take the purposes of an objective (transcendental) primordial Being and make them his own, but he pursues his own individual purposes given him by his moral imagination.

The idea that realises itself in an action is detached by man from the unitary world of ideas and made the basis of his will. Therefore it is not the commandments injected into this world from the Beyond that live in his action, but human intuitions belonging to this world itself. Monism knows no such world-dictator who sets our aims and directs our actions from outside. Man finds no such primal ground of existence whose counsels he might investigate in order to learn from it the aims to which he has to direct his actions. He is thrown back upon himself. It is he himself who must give content to his action. If he looks outside the world in which he lives for the grounds determining his will, he will look in vain. If he is to go beyond merely satisfying his natural instincts, for which Mother Nature has provided, then he must seek these grounds in his own moral imagination, unless he finds it more convenient to let himself be determined by the moral imaginations of others; in other words, either he must give up action altogether, or else he must act for reasons that he gives himself out of his world of ideas or that others select for him out of theirs.

If he advances beyond merely following his life of sensuous instincts or carrying out the commands of others, then he will be determined by nothing but himself. He must act out of an impulse given by himself and determined by nothing else. It is true that this impulse is determined ideally in the unitary world of ideas; but in practice it is only by man that it can be taken from that world and translated into reality. The grounds for the actual translation of an idea into reality by man, monism can find only in man himself. If an idea is to become action, man must first want it, before it can happen. Such an act of will therefore has its grounds only in man himself. Man is then the ultimate determinant of his action. He is free.

Author’s additions, 1918
In the second part of this book the attempt has been made to demonstrate that freedom is to be found in the reality of human action. For this purpose it was necessary to single out from the whole sphere of human conduct those actions in which, on the basis of unprejudiced self-observation, one can speak of freedom. These are actions that represent the realisation of ideal intuitions.

No other actions will be called free by an unprejudiced observer. Yet just by observing himself in an unprejudiced way, man will have to see that it is in his nature to progress along the road towards ethical intuitions and their realisation. But this unprejudiced observation of the ethical nature of man cannot, by itself, arrive at a final conclusion about freedom. For were intuitive thinking to originate in anything other than itself, were its essence not self-sustaining, then the consciousness of freedom that flows from morality would prove to be a mere illusion. But the second part of this book finds its natural support in the first part. This presents intuitive thinking as man’s inwardly experienced spiritual activity. To understand this nature of thinking by experiencing it amounts to a knowledge of the freedom of intuitive thinking. And once we know that this thinking is free, we can also see to what region of the will freedom may be ascribed. We shall regard man as a free agent if, on the basis of inner experience, we may attribute a self-sustaining essence to the life of intuitive thinking.

Whoever cannot do this will never be able to discover a path to the acceptance of freedom that cannot be challenged in any way. This experience, to which we have attached such importance, discovers intuitive thinking within consciousness, although the reality of this thinking is not confined to consciousness. And with this it discovers freedom as the distinguishing feature of all actions proceeding from the intuitions of consciousness.

The argument of this book is built upon intuitive thinking which may be experienced in a purely spiritual way and through which, in the act of knowing, every percept is placed in the world of reality. This book aims at presenting no more than can be surveyed through the experience of intuitive thinking. But we must also emphasise what kind of thought formation this experience of thinking demands.
It demands that we shall not deny that intuitive thinking is a self-sustaining experience within the process of knowledge. It demands that we acknowledge that this thinking, in conjunction with the percept, is able to experience reality instead of having to seek it in an inferred world lying beyond experience, compared to which the activity of human thinking would be something purely subjective.
Thus thinking is characterised as that factor through which man works his way spiritually into reality. (And, actually, no one should confuse this world conception that is based on the direct experience of thinking with mere rationalism.) On the other hand, it should be evident from the whole spirit of this argument that for human knowledge the perceptual element only becomes a guarantee of reality when it is taken hold of in thinking. Outside thinking there is nothing to characterise reality for what it is. Hence we must not imagine that the kind of reality guaranteed by sense perception is the only one.
Whatever comes to us by way of percept is something that, on our journey through life, we simply have to await. The only question is, would it be right to expect, from the point of view that this purely intuitively experienced thinking gives us, that man could perceive spiritual things as well as those perceived with the senses? It would be right to expect this. For although, on the one hand, intuitively experienced thinking is an active process taking place in the human spirit, on the other hand it is also a spiritual percept grasped without a physical sense organ.
It is a percept in which the perceiver is himself active, and a self-activity which is at the same time perceived. In intuitively experienced thinking man is carried into a spiritual world also as perceiver. Within this spiritual world, whatever confronts him as percept in the same way that the spiritual world of his own thinking does will be recognised by him as a world of spiritual perception. This world of spiritual perception could be seen as having the same relationship to thinking that the world of sense perception has on the side of the senses. Once experienced, the world of spiritual perception cannot appear to man as something foreign to him, because in his intuitive thinking he already has an experience which is purely spiritual in character.
Such a world of spiritual perception is discussed in a number of writings which I have published since this book first appeared. The Philosophy of Freedom forms the philosophical foundation for these later writings. For it tries to show that the experience of thinking, when rightly understood, is in fact an experience of spirit. Therefore it appears to the author that no one who can in all seriousness adopt the point of view of The Philosophy of Freedom will stop short before entering the world of spiritual perception.
It is certainly not possible to deduce what is described in the author’s later books by logical inference from the contents of this one. But a living comprehension of what is meant in this book by intuitive thinking will lead quite naturally to a living entry into the world of spiritual perception.

15. Final Questions – The Consequences of Monism – 1

The unitary explanation of the world—the monism portrayed here—takes the principles needed to explain the world from human experience. It also looks for the sources of action in the observable world: that is, in the human nature accessible to our self-cognition, particularly in moral imagination.

Monism refuses to seek the ultimate causes of the world that appear to our perceiving and thinking by making abstract inferences about something outside that world. For monism, the unity brought to the manifold multiplicity of percepts through the experience of thinking observation is both what our human urge for cognition demands, and the means by which this urge for cognition seeks entry into the physical and spiritual regions of the universe. Those who seek another unity behind the one sought in this way merely prove that they do not recognize the correspondence between what is discovered through thinking and what is demanded by our drive for knowledge.

The single human individual is not, in fact, cut off from the world. The individual is a part of the world, and has a real connection with the whole cosmos, which is broken only for our perception. At first, because we do not see the ropes and pulleys by which the fundamental powers of the cosmos turn the wheel of our own lives, we see our individual part as an entity existing by itself.

Whoever remains at this standpoint sees a part of the whole as an actually independent entity, as a monad, that somehow receives information about the rest of the world from outside. The monism advocated here shows how such independence will be believed in only as long as thinking does not weave what has been perceived into the network of the conceptual world. Once this happens, the existence of separate parts is unmasked as a mere illusion of perceiving. Only through the experience of intuitive thinking can we can find our total, self-contained existence within the universe. Thinking destroys the illusion of perceiving and integrates our individual existence into the life of the cosmos. The unity of the conceptual world, which contains objective percepts, also includes the content of our subjective personality. Thinking gives us the true form of reality, as a unity enclosed within itself, while the multiplicity of percepts is only an illusion conditioned by our organization.

In every age, cognition of the real, as opposed to the illusion of perceiving, has constituted the goal of human thinking. Science has striven to recognize percepts as reality by discovering the lawful connections among them. But wherever it has been believed that the connections transmitted by human thinking have merely subjective significance, the actual ground of unity has been sought in an object set beyond our world of experience (an inferred God, Will, absolute Spirit, etc.).

And, based on this opinion, attempts were then made to achieve—in addition to knowledge of connections recognizable through experience—a second kind of knowledge, based not on experience but on metaphysical inference. This kind of knowledge went beyond experience and revealed a connection between experience and entities that are no longer directly available to us.

On this basis, then, it was believed that we can understand the coherence of the world through orderly thinking because a primal Being built the world according to logical laws. The reason for our actions was also seen in the will of this Being. Yet it was not recognized that thinking simultaneously encompasses the subjective and the objective, and that full reality is conveyed in the union of percept with concept. Only as long as we regard the laws that permeate and determine percepts in the form of abstract concepts are we dealing with something purely subjective. The content of a concept, joined to a percept by thinking, is not subjective. For the content of this concept is taken not from the subject, but from reality.

It is the part of reality that perceiving cannot reach. It is experience, but not experience transmitted by perceiving. Those who cannot imagine that a concept is something real are thinking only of the abstract form in which they hold concepts in their mind. But concepts, like percepts, are present only in this separated form because of our organization.

The tree that we see has likewise no separate existence by itself. The tree is only a part in the great system of nature, and is only possible in real connection with nature. An abstract concept, by itself, has just as little reality as a percept by itself. Percepts are the part of reality that is given objectively, concepts are the part that is given subjectively (through intuition).

Our mental organization tears reality into these two factors. One factor is apparent to perceiving; the other to intuition. Only the union of the two—the percept integrating itself lawfully into the universe—is full reality. If we consider mere perception alone, we do not have reality, only disconnected chaos; if, on the other hand, we consider only the lawfulness of percepts, we are dealing merely with abstract concepts. Abstract concepts contain no reality. Reality lies in thinking observation that does not one-sidedly examine either concepts or percepts by themselves, but rather considers the union of both.

Not even the most orthodox subjective idealist denies that we live in reality and are rooted in it by our real existence. Such idealists only deny that our cognition—our ideas—can reach that real life. Monism, in contrast, shows that thinking is neither subjective nor objective, but a principle that spans both sides of reality.

When we observe with thinking, we execute a process that itself belongs to the order of real events. Through thinking, we overcome, in experience itself, the one-sidedness of mere perceiving. We cannot piece together the essence of reality with abstract, conceptual hypotheses (purely conceptual reflections); we live in reality by finding ideas to match our percepts. Monism does not seek to add anything to experience that is not experienceable (transcendental), but it sees the Real in concepts and percepts.

Monism spins no metaphysics from merely abstract concepts. For, in the concepts by themselves, it recognizes only one side of reality, which remains hidden to perceiving and makes sense only in connection with the percept. Monism evokes the conviction in us that we live in the world of reality, and that we need not seek outside our world for a higher reality that we cannot experience. Because it recognizes the content of experience itself as reality, it seeks absolute reality nowhere but in experience.

It is satisfied by that reality, because it knows that thinking has the power to guarantee it. What the dualist looks for only behind the observable world, a monist finds within this world itself. Monism shows that, in cognizing, we grasp reality in its true form, not in a subjective picture that interposes itself between ourselves and reality. For monism, the conceptual content of the world is the same for all human individuals.

According to monistic principles, one human individual considers another human individual to be of the same kind, because the same world content expresses itself in both. In the unitary world of concepts, there are not, for example, as many concepts of the lion as there are individuals who think about a lion; there is only one concept. The concept that A adds to the percept of the lion is the same as that of B, only it is grasped by means of a different perceptual subject. Thinking leads all perceptual subjects to the common conceptual unity within all multiplicity.

The unitary world of ideas expresses itself in them as in a multiplicity of individuals. As long as we understand ourselves merely through self-perception, we see ourselves as the separate human beings that we are; as soon as we notice the world of ideas that lights up in us, embracing everything separate, we see what is absolutely real light up livingly within us. Dualism fixes on the divine, primordial Being as that which permeates all humans and lives within them all.

Monism finds this universal divine life in reality itself. The conceptual content of another human being is also my own conceptual content, and I see the other as other only as long as I am perceiving, and not once I am thinking. Each person’s thinking embraces only a part of the total world of ideas and, to that extent, individuals also differ through the actual content of their thinking. But the contents exist within a self-enclosed whole that contains the thought contents of all human beings.

The universal, primordial Being permeating all humanity thus takes hold of us through our thinking. Life within reality, filled with thought content, is at the same time life in God. The merely inferred, not-to-be-experienced transcendent realm is based on a misunderstanding by those who believe that what is manifest does not bear within itself the reason for its existence.

They do not realize that, through thinking, they can find the explanation for perception that they seek. This is why no speculation has ever brought to light a content that was not borrowed from the reality given to us. The God derived through abstract inference is only the human being displaced to the Beyond. Schopenhauer’s “Will” is human willpower made absolute. Von Hartmann’s “unconscious primordial Being,” composed of Idea and Will, is a combination of two abstractions of our experience. Exactly the same can be said of all transcendent principles based on thinking that has not been experienced.

15. Final Questions – The Consequences of Monism – 2

In truth, the human spirit never moves beyond the reality in which we live. Nor does it need to, for everything needed to explain the world lies within it. If philosophers declare themselves content in the end with the derivation of the world from principles borrowed from experience and displaced into a hypothetical Beyond, then such satisfaction should also be possible if the same content is left here, where it must be for the kind of thinking that we can experience. Every transcendence beyond this world is only apparent; and the principles transposed outside the world explain the world no better than those lying within it. Nor does thinking that understands itself demand any such transcendence, since it is only within the world, not outside it, that a thought content must seek a perceptual content together with which it can form something real. The objects of imagination, too, are merely contents; they find their justification only in becoming mental pictures that point to a perceptual content. Through that perceptual content, the objects of imagination integrate themselves into reality. A concept supposedly filled with a content, and lying outside the world given to us, is an abstraction and corresponds to no reality. We can think only the concepts of reality; to find reality itself, we also need to perceive. For thinking that understands itself, a primordial essence of the world whose content is invented is an impossible assumption. Monism does not deny the conceptual. On the contrary, it even regards a perceptual content lacking its conceptual counterpart as falling short of the complete reality. Yet it finds nothing in the whole realm of thinking that could require us to step outside of the realm of its experience by denying the objective, spiritual reality of thinking. According to monism, a science that limits itself to describing percepts without penetrating to their conceptual complements is only half complete. But it also sees as incomplete all abstract concepts that find no complement in percepts and that cannot fit into the conceptual network that spans the observable world. Therefore, it recognizes no ideas that refer to something lying objectively beyond our experience and that are supposed to form the content of a merely hypothetical metaphysics. For monism, all such humanly created ideas are abstractions borrowed from experience—an act of borrowing that is simply overlooked by the borrowers.

Just as little, according to monist principles, can the goals of our actions be taken from an extra-human Beyond. To the extent they are in our thought, they must stem from human intuition. Human beings do not make the purposes of an objective (transcendent) primordial Being their own individual purposes, but follow the purposes given to them by their moral imaginations. A person detaches the idea that realizes itself in an action from the single world of ideas and sets it at the base of his or her will. Thus, our actions express not commands from the Beyond injected into our world, but human intuitions that belong to this world. Monism recognizes no world dictator, who would assign aim and direction to our acts from outside ourselves. Human beings find no such primal source of existence whose advice could be sought to learn the goals that we must give our actions. We are returned to ourselves. We ourselves must give our actions their content. We seek in vain if we seek directives for our will outside the world in which we live. If we go beyond the satisfaction of natural drives for which Mother Nature has provided, we must seek such directives in our own moral imaginations, unless we find it easier to let ourselves be directed by the moral imagination of others. That is, we must either forego all action or act according to reasons that either we give ourselves from the world of our ideas or others give us from the same source. If we move beyond our sense-bound life of instinct and execution of the commands of other human beings, then we are determined by nothing other than ourselves. We must act out of an impulse that we set ourselves, and that is determined by nothing else. To be sure, this impulse is conceptually determined in the one world of ideas. But, in fact, it can be drawn down from this world and translated into reality only through a human being. It is only within human beings themselves that monism can find a basis for the human translation of ideas into reality. Before an idea can become an action, a human being must first want it. Therefore, such wanting has its source in human beings themselves. Human beings are thus the ultimate determinants of their actions. They are free.

Addenda to the new edition (1918)
The second part of this book has sought to establish that freedom is to be found in the reality of human action. For this, it was necessary to separate out from the whole realm of human actions those aspects about which, from unprejudiced self-observation, one can speak of freedom. These are actions that realize conceptual intuitions. Other actions, when viewed without prejudice, cannot be called free. Yet precisely through unprejudiced self-observation we should consider ourselves well equipped to progress along the path toward ethical intuitions and their realization. But this unprejudiced observation of human ethical nature cannot by itself offer a final decision about freedom. For, if intuitive thinking itself sprang from some other entity—if its own essence were not self-sustaining—then the consciousness of freedom flowing from morality would prove to be an illusion. The second part of this book, however, finds natural support in the first. The first presents intuitive thinking as an inner spiritual activity of the human being that is actually experienced. But to understand this essence of thinking experientially, is equivalent to knowing the freedom of intuitive thinking. If one knows that this thinking is free, then one also sees the region of the will to which freedom is attributable. We will consider human acts to be free if, on the basis of direct inner encounter, we can ascribe a self-sustaining being to the experience of intuitive thinking. Those who cannot do so will also be unable to find an incontestable path to the acceptance of freedom. The experience emphasized here finds in consciousness the intuitive thinking that also has reality beyond consciousness. With this, it discovers freedom to be characteristic of actions flowing from the intuitions of consciousness.

The content of this book is built on intuitive thinking that can be experienced purely spiritually, and through which every percept is placed within reality during the act of cognition. No more was to be presented than can be surveyed from an experience of intuitive thinking. But we must also emphasize what kind of thought formation the experience of thinking demands. It demands that intuitive thinking not be denied as a self-sustaining experience within the process of cognition. It also demands that we acknowledge its capacity, in conjunction with percepts, to experience reality, instead of seeking reality only in an inferred world outside experience, in the face of which the human activity of thinking would be merely subjective.

Here, then, thinking is characterized as the element through which we, as human beings, enter spiritually into reality (and no one should confuse this world view, based on the experience of thinking, with a mere rationalism). But, on the other hand, it follows from the whole spirit of this portrayal that the element of perception can be considered as real for human cognition only if it is grasped in thinking. The characterization of something as reality cannot occur outside thinking. Therefore, we should not assume that sense perception is the only guarantee of reality. We can only wait for the percepts that emerge in the course of our lives. The only question is whether we can, from the viewpoint of intuitively experienced thinking alone, await perception not only of what is sensory, but also of what is spiritual? We can indeed wait for this. For even if, on one hand, intuitively experienced thinking is an active process performed within the human spirit, on the other hand, it is also a spiritual percept grasped with no sensory organ. It is a percept in which the perceiver himself or herself is active; and it is an activity of one’s self that is simultaneously perceived. In intuitive thinking, human beings are also transferred into a spiritual world as perceivers. What approaches us in that world as a percept, in the same way as the spiritual world of our own thinking, we recognize as the world of spiritual perception. This perceptual world would have the same relation to thinking as does the sensory perceptual world on the side of our senses. As soon as we experience it, the spiritual perceptual world cannot be anything strange to us as human beings, because we already have in intuitive thinking an experience of a purely spiritual character. A number of my later writings discuss such a world of spiritual perception. This book, Intuitive Thinking as a Spiritual Path: The Philosophy of Freedom is their philosophical foundation. In this book an attempt is made to show that the experience of thinking, properly understood, is already an experience of spirit. Therefore, it seems to me that whoever can adopt the point of view of this book in earnest will not stop short of entering the world of spiritual perception. To be sure, what is portrayed in my later books cannot be logically derived—inferred—from the contents of this book. But a living grasp of what is meant in this book by intuitive thinking will naturally lead onward to a living entry into the world of spiritual perception.

XV. Die letzten Fragen – Die Konsequenzen des Monismus – 2

Der menschliche Geist kommt in Wahrheit nie über die Wirklichkeit hinaus, in der wir leben, und er hat es auch nicht nötig, da alles in dieser Welt liegt, was er zu ihrer Erklärung braucht. Wenn sich die Philosophen zuletzt befriedigt erklären mit der Herleitung der Welt aus Prinzipien, die sie der Erfahrung entlehnen und in ein hypothetisches Jenseits versetzen, so muß eine solche Befriedigung auch möglich sein, wenn der gleiche Inhalt im Diesseits belassen wird, wohin er für das erlebbare Denken gehört. Alles Hinausgehen über die Welt ist nur ein scheinbares, und die aus der Welt hinausversetzten Prinzipien erklären die Welt nicht besser, als die in derselben liegenden. Das sich selbst verstehende Denken fordert aber auch gar nicht zu einem solchen Hinausgehen auf, da ein Gedankeninhalt nur innerhalb der Welt, nicht außerhalb derselben einen Wahrnehmungsinhalt suchen muß, mit dem zusammen er ein Wirkliches bildet. Auch die Objekte der Phantasie sind nur Inhalte, die ihre Berechtigung erst haben, wenn sie zu Vorstellungen werden, die auf einen Wahrnehmungsinhalt hinweisen. Durch diesen Wahrnehmungsinhalt gliedern sie sich der Wirklichkeit ein. Ein Begriff, der mit einem Inhalt erfüllt werden sollte, der außerhalb der uns gegebenen Welt liegen soll, ist eine Abstraktion, der keine Wirklichkeit entspricht. Ersinnen können wir nur die Begriffe der Wirklichkeit; um diese selbst zu finden, bedarf es auch noch des Wahrnehmens. Ein Urwesen der Welt, für das ein Inhalt erdacht wird, ist für ein sich selbst verstehendes Denken eine unmögliche Annahme. Der Monismus leugnet nicht das Ideelle, er sieht sogar einen Wahrnehmungsinhalt, zu dem das ideelle Gegenstück fehlt, nicht für volle Wirklichkeit an; aber er findet im ganzen Gebiet des Denkens nichts, das nötigen könnte, aus dem Erlebnisbereich des Denkens durch Verleugnung der objektiv geistigen Wirklichkeit des Denkens herauszutreten. Der Monismus sieht in einer Wissenschaft, die sich darauf beschränkt, die Wahrnehmungen zu beschreiben, ohne zu den ideellen Ergänzungen derselben vorzudringen, eine Halbheit. Aber er betrachtet ebenso als Halbheiten alle abstrakten Begriffe, die ihre Ergänzung nicht in der Wahrnehmung finden und sich nirgends in das die beobachtbare Welt umspannende Begriffsnetz einfügen. Er kennt daher keine Ideen, die auf ein jenseits unserer Erfahrung liegendes Objektives hindeuten, und die den Inhalt einer bloß hypothetischen Metaphysik bilden sollen. Alles, was die Menschheit an solchen Ideen erzeugt hat, sind ihm Abstraktionen aus der Erfahrung, deren Entlehnung aus derselben von ihren Urhebern nur übersehen wird.

Ebensowenig können nach monistischen Grundsätzen die Ziele unseres Handelns aus einem außermenschlichen Jenseits entnommen werden. Sie müssen, insofern sie gedacht sind, aus der menschlichen Intuition stammen. Der Mensch macht nicht die Zwecke eines objektiven (jenseitigen) Urwesens zu seinen individuellen Zwecken, sondern er verfolgt seine eigenen, ihm von seiner moralischen Phantasie gegebenen. Die in einer Handlung sich verwirklichende Idee löst der Mensch aus der einigen Ideenwelt los und legt sie seinem Wollen zugrunde. In seinem Handeln leben sich also nicht die aus dem Jenseits dem Diesseits eingeimpften Gebote aus, sondern die der diesseitigen Welt angehörigen menschlichen Intuitionen. Der Monismus kennt keinen solchen Weltenlenker, der außerhalb unserer selbst unseren Handlungen Ziel und Richtung setzte. Der Mensch findet keinen solchen jenseitigen Urgrund des Daseins, dessen Ratschlüsse er erforschen könnte, um von ihm die Ziele zu erfahren, nach denen er mit seinen Handlungen hinzusteuern hat. Er ist auf sich selbst zurückgewiesen. Er selbst muß seinem Handeln einen Inhalt geben. Wenn er außerhalb der Welt, in der er lebt, nach Bestimmungsgründen seines Wollens sucht, so forscht er vergebens. Er muß sie, wenn er über die Befriedigung seiner natürlichen Triebe, für die Mutter Natur vorgesorgt hat, hinausgeht, in seiner eigenen moralischen Phantasie suchen, wenn es nicht seine Bequemlichkeit vorzieht, von der moralischen Phantasie anderer sich bestimmen zu lassen, das heißt er muß alles Handeln unterlassen oder nach Bestimmungsgründen handeln, die er sich selbst aus der Welt seiner Ideen heraus gibt, oder die ihm andere aus derselben heraus geben. Er wird, wenn er über sein sinnliches Triebleben und über die Ausführung der Befehle anderer Menschen hinauskommt, durch nichts, als durch sich selbst bestimmt. Er muß aus einem von ihm selbst gesetzten, durch nichts anderes bestimmten Antrieb handeln. Ideell ist dieser Antrieb allerdings in der einigen Ideenwelt bestimmt; aber faktisch kann er nur durch den Menschen aus dieser abgeleitet und in Wirklichkeit umgesetzt werden. Für die aktuelle Umsetzung einer Idee in Wirklichkeit durch den Menschen kann der Monismus nur in dem Menschen selbst den Grund finden. Daß eine Idee zur Handlung werde, muß der Mensch erst wollen, bevor es geschehen kann. Ein solches Wollen hat seinen Grund also nur in dem Menschen selbst. Der Mensch ist dann das letzte Bestimmende seiner Handlung. Er ist frei.

Zusatz zur Neuausgabe (1918)
Im zweiten Teile dieses Buches wurde versucht, eine Begründung dafür zu geben, daß die Freiheit in der Wirklichkeit des menschlichen Handelns zu finden ist. Dazu war notwendig, aus dem Gesamtgebiete des menschlichen Handelns diejenigen Teile auszusondern, denen gegenüber bei unbefangener Selbstbeobachtung von Freiheit gesprochen werden kann. Es sind diejenigen Handlungen, die sich als Verwirklichungen ideeller Intuitionen darstellen. Andere Handlungen wird kein unbefangenes Betrachten als freie ansprechen. Aber der Mensch wird eben bei unbefangener Selbstbeobachtung sich für veranlagt halten müssen zum Fortschreiten auf der Bahn nach ethischen Intuitionen und deren Verwirklichung. Diese unbefangene Beobachtung des ethischen Wesens des Menschen kann aber für sich keine letzte Entscheidung über die Freiheit bringen. Denn wäre das intuitive Denken selbst aus irgendeiner andern Wesenheit entspringend, wäre seine Wesenheit nicht eine auf sich selbst ruhende, so erwiese sich das aus dem Ethischen fließende Freiheitsbewußtsein als ein Scheingebilde. Aber der zweite Teil dieses Buches findet seine naturgemäße Stütze in dem ersten. Dieser stellt das intuitive Denken als erlebte innere Geistbetätigung des Menschen hin. Diese Wesenheit des Denkens erlebend verstehen, kommt aber der Erkenntnis von der Freiheit des intuitiven Denkens gleich. Und weiß man, daß dieses Denken frei ist, dann sieht man auch den Umkreis des Wollens, dem die Freiheit zuzusprechen ist. Den handelnden Menschen wird für frei halten derjenige, welcher dem intuitiven Denkerleben eine in sich ruhende Wesenheit auf Grund der inneren Erfahrung zuschreiben darf. Wer solches nicht vermag, der wird wohl keinen irgendwie unanfechtbaren Weg zur Annahme der Freiheit finden können. Die hier geltend gemachte Erfahrung findet im Bewußtsein das intuitive Denken, das nicht bloß im Bewußtsein Wirklichkeit hat. Und sie findet damit die Freiheit als Kennzeichen der aus den Intuitionen des Bewußtseins fließenden Handlungen.

Die Darstellung dieses Buches ist aufgebaut auf dem rein geistig erlebbaren intuitiven Denken, durch das eine jegliche Wahrnehmung in die Wirklichkeit erkennend hineingestellt wird. Es sollte in dem Buche mehr nicht dargestellt werden, als sich von dem Erlebnis des intuitiven Denkens aus überschauen läßt. Aber es sollte auch geltend gemacht werden, welche Gedankengestaltung dieses erlebte Denken erfordert. Und es fordert, daß es im Erkenntnisvorgang als in sich ruhendes Erlebnis nicht verleugnet werde. Daß ihm die Fähigkeit nicht abgesprochen werde, zusammen mit der Wahrnehmung die Wirklichkeit zu erleben, statt diese erst zu suchen in einer außerhalb dieses Erlebens liegenden, zu erschließenden Welt, der gegenüber die menschliche Denkbetätigung nur ein Subjektives sei.
Damit ist in dem Denken das Element gekennzeichnet, durch das der Mensch in die Wirklichkeit sich geistig hineinlebt (Und niemand sollte eigentlich diese auf das erlebte Denken gebaute Weltanschauung mit einem bloßen Rationalismus verwechseln.) Aber andrerseits geht doch wohl aus dem ganzen Geiste dieser Darlegungen hervor, daß das Wahrnehmungselement für die menschliche Erkenntnis eine Wirklichkeitsbestimmung erst erhält, wenn es im Denken ergriffen wird. Außer dem Denken kann die Kennzeichnung als Wirklichkeit nicht liegen. Also darf nicht etwa vorgestellt werden, daß die sinnliche Art des Wahrnehmens die einzige Wirklichkeit verbürge. Was als Wahrnehmung auftritt, das muß der Mensch auf seinem Lebenswege schlechterdings erwarten. Es könnte sich nur fragen: darf aus dem Gesichtspunkte, der sich bloß aus dem intuitiv erlebten Denken ergibt, berechtigt erwartet werden, daß der Mensch außer dem Sinnlichen auch Geistiges wahrnehmen könne? Dies darf erwartet werden. Denn, wenn auch einerseits das intuitiv erlebte Denken ein im Menschengeiste sich vollziehender tätiger Vorgang ist, so ist es andererseits zugleich eine geistige, ohne sinnliches Organ erfaßte Wahrnehmung. Es ist eine Wahrnehmung, in der der Wahrnehmende selbst tätig ist, und es ist eine Selbstbetätigung, die zugleich wahrgenommen wird. Im intuitiv erlebten Denken ist der Mensch in eine geistige Welt auch als Wahrnehmender versetzt. Was ihm innerhalb dieser Welt als Wahrnehmung so entgegentritt wie die geistige Welt seines eigenen Denkens, das erkennt der Mensch als geistige Wahrnehmungswelt. Zu dem Denken hätte diese Wahrnehmungswelt dasselbe Verhältnis wie nach der Sinnenseite hin die sinnliche Wahrnehmungswelt. Die geistige Wahrnehmungswelt kann dem Menschen, sobald er sie erlebt, nichts Fremdes sein, weil er im intuitiven Denken schon ein Erlebnis hat, das rein geistigen Charakter trägt. Von einer solchen geistigen Wahrnehmungswelt sprechen eine Anzahl der von mir nach diesem Buche veröffentlichten Schriften. Diese «Philosophie der Freiheit» ist die philosophische Grundlegung für diese späteren Schriften. Denn in diesem Buche wird versucht, zu zeigen, daß richtig verstandenes Denk-Erleben schon Geist-Erleben ist. Deshalb scheint es dem Verfasser, daß derjenige nicht vor dem Betreten der geistigen Wahrnehmungswelt haltmachen wird, der in vollem Ernste den Gesichtspunkt des Verfassers dieser «Philosophie der Freiheit» einnehmen kann. Logisch ableiten – durch Schlußfolgerungen – läßt sich aus dem Inhalte dieses Buches allerdings nicht, was in des Verfassers späteren Büchern dargestellt ist. Vom lebendigen Ergreifen des in diesem Buche gemeinten intuitiven Denkens wird sich aber naturgemäß der weitere lebendige Eintritt in die geistige Wahrnehmungswelt ergeben.

XV. Die letzten Fragen – Die Konsequenzen des Monismus – 1

Die einheitliche Welterklärung oder der hier gemeinte Monismus entnimmt der menschlichen Erfahrung die Prinzipien, die er zur Erklärung der Welt braucht. Die Quellen des Handelns sucht er ebenfalls innerhalb der Beobachtungswelt, nämlich in der unserer Selbsterkenntnis zugänglichen menschlichen Natur, und zwar in der moralischen Phantasie. Er lehnt es ab, durch abstrakte Schlußfolgerungen die letzten Gründe für die dem Wahrnehmen und Denken vorliegende Welt außerhalb derselben zu suchen. Für den Monismus ist die Einheit, welche die erlebbare denkende Beobachtung zu der mannigfaltigen Vielheit der Wahrnehmungen hinzubringt, zugleich diejenige, die das menschliche Erkenntnisbedürfnis verlangt und durch die es den Eingang in die physischen und geistigen Weltbereiche sucht. Wer hinter dieser so zu suchenden Einheit noch eine andere sucht, der beweist damit nur, daß er die Übereinstimmung des durch das Denken Gefundenen mit dem vom Erkenntnistrieb Geforderten nicht erkennt. Das einzelne menschliche Individuum ist von der Welt nicht tatsächlich abgesondert. Es ist ein Teil der Welt, und es besteht ein Zusammenhang mit dem Ganzen des Kosmos der Wirklichkeit nach, der nur für unsere Wahrnehmung unterbrochen ist. Wir sehen fürs erste diesen Teil als für sich existierendes Wesen, weil wir die Riemen und Seile nicht sehen, durch welche die Bewegung unseres Lebensrades von den Grundkräften des Kosmos bewirkt wird. Wer auf diesem Standpunkt stehen bleibt, der sieht den Teil eines Ganzen für ein wirklich selbständig existierendes Wesen, für die Monade an, welches die Kunde von der übrigen Welt auf irgendeine Weise von außen erhält. Der hier gemeinte Monismus zeigt, daß die Selbständigkeit nur so lange geglaubt werden kann, als das Wahrgenommene nicht durch das Denken in das Netz der Begriffswelt eingespannt wird. Geschieht dies, so entpuppt sich die Teilexistenz als ein bloßer Schein des Wahrnehmens. Seine in sich geschlossene Totalexistenz im Universum kann der Mensch nur finden durch intuitives Denkerlebnis. Das Denken zerstört den Schein des Wahrnehmens und gliedert unsere individuelle Existenz in das Leben des Kosmos ein. Die Einheit der Begriffswelt, welche die objektiven Wahrnehmungen enthält, nimmt auch den Inhalt unserer subjektiven Persönlichkeit in sich auf. Das Denken gibt uns von der Wirklichkeit die wahre Gestalt, als einer in sich geschlossenen Einheit, während die Mannigfaltigkeit der Wahrnehmungen nur ein durch unsere Organisation bedingter Schein ist. Die Erkenntnis des Wirklichen gegenüber dem Schein des Wahrnehmens bildete zu allen Zeiten das Ziel des menschlichen Denkens. Die Wissenschaft bemühte sich, die Wahrnehmungen durch Aufdeckung der gesetzmäßigen Zusammenhänge innerhalb derselben als Wirklichkeit zu erkennen. Wo man aber der Ansicht war, daß der von dem menschlichen Denken ermittelte Zusammenhang nur eine subjektive Bedeutung habe, suchte man den wahren Grund der Einheit in einem jenseits unserer Erfahrungswelt gelegenen Objekte (erschlossener Gott, Wille, absoluter Geist usw.). – Und, auf diese Meinung gestützt, bestrebte man sich zu dem Wissen über die innerhalb der Erfahrung erkennbaren Zusammenhänge noch ein zweites zu gewinnen, das über die Erfahrung hinausgeht, und den Zusammenhang derselben mit den nicht mehr erfahrbaren Wesenheiten aufdeckt (nicht durch Erleben, sondern durch Schlußfolgerung gewonnene Metaphysik). Den Grund, warum wir durch geregeltes Denken den Weltzusammenhang begreifen, sah man von diesem Standpunkte aus darin, daß ein Urwesen nach logischen Gesetzen die Welt aufgebaut hat, und den Grund für unser Handeln sah man in dem Wollen des Urwesens. Doch erkannte man nicht, daß das Denken Subjektives und Objektives zugleich umspannt, und daß in dem Zusammenschluß der Wahrnehmung mit dem Begriff die totale Wirklichkeit vermittelt wird. Nur solange wir die die Wahrnehmung durchdringende und bestimmende Gesetzmäßigkeit in der abstrakten Form des Begriffes betrachten, solange haben wir es in der Tat mit etwas rein Subjektivem zu tun. Subjektiv ist aber nicht der Inhalt des Begriffes, der mit Hilfe des Denkens zu der Wahrnehmung hinzugewonnen wird. Dieser Inhalt ist nicht aus dem Subjekte, sondern aus der Wirklichkeit genommen. Er ist der Teil der Wirklichkeit, den das Wahrnehmen nicht erreichen kann. Er ist Erfahrung, aber nicht durch das Wahrnehmen vermittelte Erfahrung. Wer sich nicht vorstellen kann, daß der Begriff ein Wirkliches ist, der denkt nur an die abstrakte Form, wie er denselben in seinem Geiste festhält. Aber in solcher Absonderung ist er ebenso nur durch unsere Organisation vorhanden, wie die Wahrnehmung es ist. Auch der Baum, den man wahrnimmt, hat abgesondert für sich keine Existenz. Er ist nur innerhalb des großen Räderwerkes der Natur ein Glied, und nur in realem Zusammenhang mit ihr möglich. Ein abstrakter Begriff hat für sich keine Wirklichkeit, ebensowenig wie eine Wahrnehmung für sich. Die Wahrnehmung ist der Teil der Wirklichkeit, der objektiv, der Begriff derjenige, der subjektiv (durch Intuition) gegeben wird. Unsere geistige Organisation reißt die Wirklichkeit in diese beiden Faktoren auseinander. Der eine Faktor erscheint dem Wahrnehmen, der andere der Intuition. Erst der Zusammenhang der beiden, die gesetzmäßig sich in das Universum eingliedernde Wahrnehmung, ist volle Wirklichkeit. Betrachten wir die bloße Wahrnehmung für sich, so haben wir keine Wirklichkeit, sondern ein zusammenhangloses Chaos; betrachten wir die Gesetzmäßigkeit der Wahrnehmungen für sich, dann haben wir es bloß mit abstrakten Begriffen zu tun. Nicht der abstrakte Begriff enthält die Wirklichkeit; wohl aber die denkende Beobachtung, die weder einseitig den Begriff, noch die Wahrnehmung für sich betrachtet, sondern den Zusammenhang beider.

Daß wir in der Wirklichkeit leben (mit unserer realen Existenz in derselben wurzeln), wird selbst der orthodoxeste subjektive Idealist nicht leugnen. Er wird nur bestreiten, daß wir ideell mit unserem Erkennen auch das erreichen, was wir real durchleben. Demgegenüber zeigt der Monismus, daß das Denken weder subjektiv, noch objektiv, sondern ein beide Seiten der Wirklichkeit umspannendes Prinzip ist. Wenn wir denkend beobachten, vollziehen wir einen Prozeß, der selbst in die Reihe des wirklichen Geschehens gehört. Wir überwinden durch das Denken innerhalb der Erfahrung selbst die Einseitigkeit des bloßen Wahrnehmens. Wir können durch abstrakte, begriffliche Hypothesen (durch rein begriffliches Nachdenken) das Wesen des Wirklichen nicht erklügeln, aber wir leben, indem wir zu den Wahrnehmungen die Ideen finden, in dem Wirklichen. Der Monismus sucht zu der Erfahrung kein Unerfahrbares (Jenseitiges), sondern sieht in Begriff und Wahrnehmung das Wirkliche. Er spinnt aus bloßen abstrakten Begriffen keine Metaphysik, weil er in dem Begriffe an sich nur die eine Seite der Wirklichkeit sieht, die dem Wahrnehmen verborgen bleibt und nur im Zusammenhang mit der Wahrnehmung einen Sinn hat. Er ruft aber in dem Menschen die Überzeugung hervor, daß er in der Welt der Wirklichkeit lebt und nicht außerhalb seiner Welt eine unerlebbare höhere Wirklichkeit zu suchen hat. Er hält davon ab, das Absolut-Wirkliche anderswo als in der Erfahrung zu suchen, weil er den Inhalt der Erfahrung selbst als das Wirkliche erkennt. Und er ist befriedigt durch diese Wirklichkeit, weil er weiß, daß das Denken die Kraft hat, sie zu verbürgen. Was der Dualismus erst hinter der Beobachtungswelt sucht, das findet der Monismus in dieser selbst. Der Monismus zeigt, daß wir mit unserem Erkennen die Wirklichkeit in ihrer wahren Gestalt ergreifen, nicht in einem subjektiven Bilde, das sich zwischen den Menschen und die Wirklichkeit einschöbe. Für den Monismus ist der Begriffsinhalt der Welt für alle menschlichen Individuen derselbe. Nach monistischen Prinzipien betrachtet ein menschliches Individuum ein anderes als seinesgleichen, weil es derselbe Weltinhalt ist, der sich in ihm auslebt. Es gibt in der einigen Begriffswelt nicht etwa so viele Begriffe des Löwen, wie es Individuen gibt, die einen Löwen denken, sondern nur einen. Und der Begriff, den A zu der Wahrnehmung des Löwen hinzufügt, ist derselbe, wie der des B, nur durch ein anderes Wahrnehmungssubjekt aufgefaßt. Das Denken führt alle Wahrnehmungssubjekte auf die gemeinsame ideelle Einheit aller Mannigfaltigkeit. Die einige Ideenwelt lebt sich in ihnen als in einer Vielheit von Individuen aus. Solange sich der Mensch bloß durch Selbstwahrnehmung erfaßt, sieht er sich als diesen besonderen Menschen an; sobald er auf die in ihm aufleuchtende, alles Besondere umspannende Ideenwelt blickt, sieht er in sich das absolut Wirkliche lebendig aufleuchten. Der Dualismus bestimmt das göttliche Urwesen als dasjenige, was alle Menschen durchdringt und in ihnen allen lebt. Der Monismus findet dieses gemeinsame göttliche Leben in der Wirklichkeit selbst. Der ideelle Inhalt eines andern Menschen ist auch der meinige, und ich sehe ihn nur so lange als einen andern an, als ich wahrnehme, nicht mehr aber, sobald ich denke. Jeder Mensch umspannt mit seinem Denken nur einen Teil der gesamten Ideenwelt, und insofern unterscheiden sich die Individuen auch durch den tatsächlichen Inhalt ihres Denkens. Aber diese Inhalte sind in einem in sich geschlossenen Ganzen, das die Denkinhalte aller Menschen umfaßt. Das gemeinsame Urwesen, das alle Menschen durchdringt, ergreift somit der Mensch in seinem Denken. Das mit dem Gedankeninhalt erfüllte Leben in der Wirklichkeit ist zugleich das Leben in Gott. Das bloß erschlossene, nicht zu erlebende Jenseits beruht auf einem Mißverständnis derer, die glauben, daß das Diesseits den Grund seines Bestandes nicht in sich hat. Sie sehen nicht ein, daß sie durch das Denken das finden, was sie zur Erklärung der Wahrnehmung verlangen. Deshalb hat aber auch noch keine Spekulation einen Inhalt zutage gefördert, der nicht aus der uns gegebenen Wirklichkeit entlehnt wäre. Der durch abstrakte Schlußfolgerung angenommene Gott ist nur der in ein Jenseits versetzte Mensch; der Wille Schopenhauers die verabsolutierte menschliche Willenskraft; das aus Idee und Wille zusammengesetzte unbewußte Urwesen Hartmanns eine Zusammensetzung zweier Abstraktionen aus der Erfahrung. Genau dasselbe ist von allen anderen auf nicht erlebtem Denken ruhenden jenseitigen Prinzipien zu sagen.

14. Individuality and Genus

The view that man is destined to become a complete, self-contained, free individuality seems to be contested by the fact that he makes his appearance as a member of a naturally given totality (race, people, nation, family, male or female sex) and also works within a totality (state, church, and so on). He bears the general characteristics of the group to which he belongs, and he gives to his actions a content that is determined by the position he occupies among many others.

This being so, is individuality possible at all? Can we regard man as a totality in himself, seeing that he grows out of one totality and integrates himself into another?

Each member of a totality is determined, as regards its characteristics and functions, by the whole totality. A racial group is a totality and all the people belonging to it bear the characteristic features that are inherent in the nature of the group. How the single member is constituted, and how he will behave, are determined by the character of the racial group. Therefore the physiognomy and conduct of the individual have something generic about them. If we ask why some particular thing about a man is like this or like that, we are referred back from the individual to the genus. The genus explains why something in the individual appears in the form we observe.

Man, however, makes himself free from what is generic. For the generic features of the human race, when rightly understood, do not restrict man’s freedom, and should not artificially be made to do so. A man develops qualities and activities of his own, and the basis for these we can seek only in the man himself. What is generic in him serves only as a medium in which to express his own individual being.

He uses as a foundation the characteristics that nature has given him, and to these he gives a form appropriate to his own being. If we seek in the generic laws the reasons for an expression of this being, we seek in vain. We are concerned with something purely individual which can be explained only in terms of itself. If a man has achieved this emancipation from all that is generic, and we are nevertheless determined to explain everything about him in generic terms, then we have no sense for what is individual.

It is impossible to understand a human being completely if one takes the concept of genus as the basis of one’s judgment. The tendency to judge according to the genus is at its most stubborn where we are concerned with differences of sex. Almost invariably man sees in woman, and woman in man, too much of the general character of the other sex and too little of what is individual. In practical life this does less harm to men than to women.

The social position of women is for the most part such an unworthy one because in so many respects it is determined not as it should be by the particular characteristics of the individual woman, but by the general picture one has of woman’s natural tasks and needs. A man’s activity in life is governed by his individual capacities and inclinations, whereas a woman’s is supposed to be determined solely by the mere fact that she is a woman. She is supposed to be a slave to what is generic, to womanhood in general.

As long as men continue to debate whether a woman is suited to this or that profession “according to her natural disposition”, the so-called woman’s question cannot advance beyond its most elementary stage. What a woman, within her natural limitations, wants to become had better be left to the woman herself to decide. If it is true that women are suited only to that profession which is theirs at present, then they will hardly have it in them to attain any other. But they must be allowed to decide for themselves what is in accordance with their nature. To all who fear an upheaval of our social structure through accepting women as individuals and not as females, we must reply that a social structure in which the status of one half of humanity is unworthy of a human being is itself in great need of improvement.

Anyone who judges people according to generic characters gets only as far as the frontier where people begin to be beings whose activity is based on free self-determination. Whatever lies short of this frontier may naturally become matter for academic study. The characteristics of race, people, nation and sex are the subject matter of special branches of study. Only men who wish to live as nothing more than examples of the genus could possibly conform to a general picture such as arises from academic study of this kind. But none of these branches of study are able to advance as far as the unique content of the single individual. Determining the individual according to the laws of his genus ceases where the sphere of freedom (in thinking and acting) begins. The conceptual content which man has to connect with the percept by an act of thinking in order to have the full reality cannot be fixed once and for all and bequeathed ready-made to mankind. The individual must get his concepts through his own intuition. How the individual has to think cannot possibly be deduced from any kind of generic concept. It depends simply and solely on the individual. Just as little is it possible to determine from the general characteristics of man what concrete aims the individual may choose to set himself. If we would understand the single individual we must find our way into his own particular being and not stop short at those characteristics that are typical.

In this sense every single human being is a separate problem. And every kind of study that deals with abstract thoughts and generic concepts is but a preparation for the knowledge we get when a human individuality tells us his way of viewing the world, and on the other hand for the knowledge we get from the content of his acts of will. Whenever we feel that we are dealing with that element in a man which is free from stereotyped thinking and instinctive willing, then, if we would understand him in his essence, we must cease to call to our aid any concepts at all of our own making. The act of knowing consists in combining the concept with the percept by means of thinking.

With all other objects the observer must get his concepts through his intuition; but if we are to understand a free individuality we must take over into our own spirit those concepts by which he determines himself, in their pure form (without mixing our own conceptual content with them). Those who immediately mix their own concepts into every judgment about another person, can never arrive at the understanding of an individuality. Just as the free individuality emancipates himself from the characteristics of the genus, so must the act of knowing emancipate itself from the way in which we understand what is generic.

Only to the extent that a man has emancipated himself in this way from all that is generic, does he count as a free spirit within a human community. No man is all genus, none is all individuality. But every man gradually emancipates a greater or lesser sphere of his being, both from the generic characteristics of animal life and from domination by the decrees of human authorities.

As regards that part of his nature where a man is not able to achieve this freedom for himself, he constitutes a part of the whole organism of nature and spirit. In this respect he lives by copying others or by obeying their commands. But only that part of his conduct that springs from his intuitions can have ethical value in the true sense. And those moral instincts that he possesses through the inheritance of social instincts acquire ethical value through being taken up into his intuitions.

It is from individual ethical intuitions and their acceptance by human communities that all moral activity of mankind originates. In other words, the moral life of mankind is the sum total of the products of the moral imagination of free human individuals. This is the conclusion reached by monism.

14. Individuality and Genus

The view that human beings are capable of self-enclosed, free individuality seems to be contradicted by the fact that, as human beings, we both appear as parts within a natural whole (race, tribe, people, family, male or female gender) and act within that whole (state, church, and so forth). We bear the general characteristics of the community to which we belong and we give to our actions a content that is determined by the place that we occupy within a larger group.

Given all this, is individuality possible at all? If human beings grow out of one totality and integrate themselves within another, can we consider separate human beings as wholes unto themselves?

The qualities and the functions of a part are determined by the whole. An ethnic group is a whole, and all who belong to it bear the characteristics determined by the nature of the group. How the individual is constituted and how the individual behaves are determined by the character of the group. Thus, the physiognomy and the activity of the individual have a generic quality. If we ask why this or that about a person is this or that way, we must refer back from the individual to the genus. This explains to us why something about the individual appears in the form we observe.

But human beings free themselves from what is generic. If we experience it properly, what is humanly generic does not limit our freedom, nor should it be made to do so artificially. As human beings, we develop qualities and functions of our own, whose source can only be sought within ourselves. What is generic about us serves only as a medium through which we can express our own distinct being. We use the characteristics nature gives us as a basis, and we give these the form that corresponds to our own being. We look in vain to the laws of the genus for an explanation of that being’s actions. We are dealing with an individual, and individuals can be explained only individually. If a human being has achieved such emancipation from the generic, and we still want to explain everything about that person in generic terms, then we have no sense for what is individual.

It is impossible to understand a human being fully if one bases one’s judgment on a generic concept. We are most obstinate in judging according to type when it is a question of a person’s sex. Man almost always sees in woman, and woman in man, too much of the general character of the other sex and too little of what is individual. In practical life, this does less harm to men than it does to women. The social position of women is unworthy, for the most part, because it is at many points determined not, as it should be, by the individual characteristics of an individual woman, but by the general mental picture that others form of the natural duties and needs of the female. The activity of a man in life is determined by his individual capacities and inclinations; that of a woman is supposed to be determined exclusively by the fact that she is, precisely, a woman. Woman is supposed to be a slave of the generic, of what is universally womanish. As long as men debate whether women are suited to this or that profession “according to their natural disposition,” the so-called woman question cannot evolve beyond its most elementary stage. What women are capable of according to their nature should be left to women to decide. If it is true that women are suited only to the profession that is currently allotted to them, then they will hardly be able to attain any other on their own. But they must be allowed to decide for themselves what is appropriate to their nature. Anyone who fears a cataclysm in our social conditions if women are accepted not as generic entities but as individuals should be told that social conditions in which one half of humanity leads an existence unworthy of human beings are conditions that stand in great need of improvement.

Those who judge human beings according to generic characteristics stop before the boundary beyond which people begin to be beings whose activity is based on free self-determination. What lies short of that boundary can, of course, be an object of scientific investigation. Racial, tribal, national, and sexual characteristics form the content of specific sciences. Only persons who want to live merely as examples of a genus can fit themselves into a generic picture derived from such scientific investigation. But all these sciences together cannot penetrate to the specific content of single individuals. Where the region of freedom (in thinking and action) begins, determination of individuals by the laws of the genus comes to an end. The conceptual content that, in order to have full reality, human beings must connect with a percept through thinking cannot be fixed once and for all, and bequeathed in finished form to humanity. Individuals must gain their concepts through their own individual intuitions. How an individual should think cannot be derived from some generic concept. Each individual must set the standard all alone. Nor is it possible to tell, from general human traits, which concrete goals an individual chooses to seek. Anyone who wishes to understand a particular individual must penetrate to that individual’s particular being, not remain at the level of typical characteristics. In this sense, every single human being is a separate problem. All science concerned with abstract thoughts and generic concepts is only a preparation for the kind of cognition imparted to us when a human individuality communicates to us its way of viewing the world. And all such science is only preparatory for the kind of cognition we attain from the content of a human individuality’s willing. When we have the sense that we are dealing with the aspect of a person that is free from typical styles of thought and generic desires, then we must make use of no concept from our own mind if we want to understand that person’s essence. Cognition consists in linking a concept with a percept through thinking. For all other objects, the observer must penetrate to the concept by means of his or her own intuition. Understanding a free individuality is exclusively a question of bringing over into our own spirit in a pure form (unmixed with our own conceptual content) those concepts by which the individuality determines itself. People who immediately mix their own concepts into any judgment of others can never attain understanding of an individuality. Just as a free individuality frees itself from the characteristics of the genus, cognition must free itself from the approach appropriate to understanding what is generic.

People can be considered free spirits within the human community only to the degree that they free themselves from the generic in this way. No human is all genus; none is all individuality. But all human beings gradually free a greater or lesser sphere of their being both from what is generic to animal life and from the controlling decrees of human authorities.

Our remaining part, where we have yet to win such freedom, still constitutes an element within the total organism of nature and mind. In this regard, we live as we see others live or as they command. Only the part of our action that springs from our intuitions has moral value in the true sense. And what we have in the way of moral instincts through inheritance of social instincts becomes something ethical through our taking it up into our intuitions. All the moral activity of humanity arises from individual ethical intuitions and their acceptance in human communities. We could also say that the ethical life of humanity is the sum total of what free human individuals have produced through their moral imagination. This is the conclusion reached by monism.

13. The Value of Life (Pessimism and Optimism) – 2

If pessimistic ethicists believe that, by proving that pain exceeds pleasure, they are paving the way for selfless devotion to the work of culture, they are not taking into account that human will, by its very nature, is not influenced by this knowledge. Human striving is governed by the quantity of possible satisfaction after all difficulties have been overcome. Hope of such satisfaction is the basis of all human activity. The work of each individual and the whole work of culture springs from this hope. Pessimistic ethics believes it must present the human pursuit of happiness as impossible, so that people will devote themselves to the proper ethical tasks. But these ethical tasks are nothing other than our actual natural and spiritual drives, and their satisfaction will be striven for despite the accompanying pain. The pursuit of happiness that pessimism wishes to eliminate is quite non-existent. We perform the tasks we must because, once we have really recognized their nature, it is in our very nature to want to perform them.

Pessimistic ethics asserts that we can devote ourselves to what we recognize as our life’s task only once we have abandoned the pursuit of happiness. But no ethics can invent any life tasks other than realizing what human desires demand and fulfilling our ethical ideals. No ethics can take away our pleasure in the fulfillment of our desires. If the pessimist says, “Do not strive for pleasure, you can never attain it, but strive for what you recognize to be your task,” the response must be: “But this is how human beings already are.” The claim that humans strive merely for happiness is the invention of a philosophy gone astray. We strive for satisfaction of what our essential nature desires, and we have in view the concrete objects of this striving and not some abstract “happiness.” Fulfillment of such striving is a pleasure. When pessimistic ethics demands that you strive, not for pleasure, but for what you have recognized as your life’s task, it is pointing to what humans by their nature want. Human beings do not need to be turned upside down by philosophy; they do not need to throw away their nature in order to be ethical. Morality lies in striving for a goal recognized as just; and it is human nature to pursue the goal as long as the pain involved does not cripple the desire for it. This is the nature of all real willing. Ethics is not based on the extirpation of all striving for pleasure so that bloodless, abstract ideas can assert their dominance unchallenged by a strong yearning for enjoyment in life. Ethics is based on strong will, borne by conceptual intuitions, that attains its goal even if the path is thorny.

Ethical ideas spring from human moral imagination. Their realization depends upon their being desired strongly enough to overcome pain and suffering. Ethical ideals are human intuitions, the driving forces that our own spirit harnesses. We want them because their realization is our highest pleasure. We do not need ethics to forbid us to strive for pleasure and then tell us what we should strive for. We shall strive for ethical ideals if our moral imagination is active enough to endow us with intuitions that give our willing the strength to make its way against the obstacles—including the unavoidable pain— lying within our organization.

Those who strive toward ideals of sublime greatness do so because such ideals are the content of their being, and to realize them brings an enjoyment compared with which the pleasure that pettiness derives from satisfying everyday drives is trivial. Idealists revel spiritually in the transformation of their ideals into reality.

Whoever would extirpate the pleasure in fulfilling human longing must first make humans into slaves who act not because they want to, but only because they ought to. For the achievement of what we want gives pleasure. What is called “the Good,” is not what we ought to do, but what we want to do when we express our full, true human nature. Those who do not recognize this must first drive out of us what we want and then must impose from without the content we are to give to what we want.

We value the fulfillment of a desire because it springs from our own being. What we have attained has value because it is wanted. If we deny any value to the goal of human willing as such, then we must find valued goals that have value in something that human beings do not want.

The ethics built upon pessimism springs from a neglect of moral imagination. Only those who consider the individual human spirit incapable of providing itself with the content of its striving can see the totality of what we want in the yearning for pleasure. The person without imagination creates no ethical ideas. Such a person must receive these ideas from without. Our physical nature ensures that we strive after satisfaction of our lower desires. But development of the whole human being also includes desire originating in the spirit. Only if we believe that human beings have no such desires can we claim that they must be received from without. We would then be justified in saying that we are duty bound to do something that we do not want. Every ethics that requires us to repress what we want in order to fulfill tasks that we do not want, fails to reckon with the whole human being and reckons instead with a human being devoid of the capacity for spiritual desire. For harmoniously developed human beings, so called ideas of the Good lie not without but within the circle of their being. Ethical conduct lies not in the elimination of a one-sided self-will but in full development of human nature. Anyone who considers ethical ideals attainable only if we kill off our self-will is unaware that such ideals are wanted by human beings just as we want satisfaction of the so-called animal drives.

There is no denying that the views sketched here may easily be misunderstood. Immature people, with no moral imagination, like to see the instincts of their own half-developed natures as the full content of humanity and dismiss all ethical ideals not of their own making, so that they can “express themselves” undisturbed. It is obvious that what is right for the complete human being does not apply to half-developed human nature. What we would expect of mature human beings cannot also be expected of those who still need to be educated for their ethical nature to pierce the husk of their lower passions. But I have not tried to show here what must be impressed on an unevolved human being, but rather what lies within the nature of a mature human being. The goal was to demonstrate the possibility of freedom, and freedom does not appear in acts based on sensory or psychic constraint, but in acts borne by spiritual intuitions.

Mature human beings assign themselves their own value. They do not strive for pleasure, handed to them as a gift of grace by nature or by the creator; nor do they fulfill an abstract duty that they recognize as such after having renounced the striving for pleasure. They act as they want to—that is, according to the standard of their ethical intuitions—and they feel their true joy in life to be the achievement of what they want. They determine the value of life by comparing what has been achieved with what was attempted. The ethics that replaces want with should—that replaces inclination with duty—logically determines the value of a human being by comparing what duty requires with how he or she fulfilled it. It measures people by a yardstick that lies outside their own being.

The view developed here returns us to ourselves. It recognizes as the true value of life only what we individually regard as such according to the measure of what we want. It knows of no value in life that is not recognized by the individual, just as it knows of no life goal that does not spring from the individual. It sees our own master and our own assessor in the essential individuality of each of us, seen into from all sides.

Addendum to the new edition (1918)
If one clings to the apparent objection that human willing, as such, is irrational and that we must show people this—so that they will see that the goal of ethical striving lies ultimately in liberation from human willing—then what has been presented in this chapter can be misunderstood. Just such an apparent objection was raised to me by a competent critic, who said that it is the business of a philosopher to consider what the thoughtlessness of beasts and most people neglects—namely, to draw up the real balance sheet of life. But whoever raises this objection fails to see the main point. If freedom is to be realized, then the willing within human nature must be sustained by intuitive thinking. At the same time, certainly, willing can be determined by other things than intuitions; yet morality and moral value come about only in the free realization of intuition flowing from the human essence. Ethical individualism is suited to portray ethics at its full worth, for it does not take the position that there is anything truly ethical in what brings about an outward agreement between our willing and a given norm, but rather in what arises from out of human beings when they develop ethical willing as an element of their full natures. To do something immoral appears to them then as a maiming, a crippling of their essence.

13. The Value of Life (Pessimism and Optimism) – 1

A counterpart to the question of life’s purpose or vocation is that of life’s value. In relation to this question, we encounter two opposed views, together with every conceivable attempt at compromise between them.

One view says that this world is the best that could conceivably exist, and that life and action in it are gifts of inestimable value. Everything exhibits harmonious and purposeful cooperation, and everything is worthy of admiration. Even what is apparently bad and evil may be recognized as good from a higher standpoint: it represents a beneficial counterpart to what is good. We value the good all the more for its contrast with evil. Nor is evil something truly real; we merely sense as evil what is a lesser degree of good. Evil is the absence of good, not something significant in itself.

The other view claims that life is full of trial and tribulation; everywhere unpleasure outweighs pleasure, pain outweighs joy. Existence is a burden, and in all circumstances nonexistence would be preferable to existence.

The main proponents of the first view—optimism—are Shaftesbury and Leibniz1; of the second view—pessimism—the main proponents are Schopenhauer and Eduard von Hartmann.

Leibniz believes this is the best of all possible worlds. A better one is impossible, for God is good and wise. A good God wants to create the best of all worlds; a wise God knows what is best. Such a God can distinguish the best from all other (worse) possibilities. Only an evil or unwise God could create a world worse than the best possible.

Anyone who starts from this viewpoint finds it easy to prescribe the direction that human activity must take to contribute its share to the greatest good of the world. A human being must only discover the counsels of God and act accordingly. If we know what God intends for the world and the human race, then we shall also do what is right. And we will gladly add our own good to the good of the world. From the optimistic standpoint, then, life is worth living. It must stimulate us to cooperative participation.

Schopenhauer pictures the matter differently. He thinks of the ground of the universe not as an allwise and allgood being, but as blind drive or will. The fundamental trait of all willing is eternal striving, ceaseless yearning for satisfaction that can, however, never be attained. For as soon as we attain the goal of our striving, a new need arises, and so on. Satisfaction lasts less than an instant. The whole remaining content of our life is unsatisfied craving—that is, dissatisfaction, suffering. If our blind urge is finally dulled, then we become contentless, and infinite boredom fills our existence. Therefore, the best course is to stifle wishes and needs, to extirpate our wanting. Schopenhauer’s pessimism leads to inactivity; his ethical goal is universal sloth.

By a fundamentally different method, von Hartmann tries to found pessimism and then use it for ethics. Following a favored tendency of our time, von Hartmann attempts to found his worldview on experience. From observation of life, he seeks to discover whether pleasure or pain predominates in the world. Reviewing everything that appears good or fortunate to us in the light of reason, he shows that all supposed contentment proves on closer inspection to be illusion. It is illusory to believe that we have sources of happiness and satisfaction in health, youth, freedom, adequate income, love (sexual pleasure), compassion, friendship and family life, self esteem, honor, fame, power, religious education, pursuit of science and art, hope of life hereafter, or participation in cultural evolution. Soberly considered, every pleasure brings much more evil and suffering into the world than pleasure. The displeasure of a hangover is always greater than the pleasure of intoxication. Pain predominates in the world. No human being, not even the relatively happiest, would, if asked, choose to endure this miserable life a second time. And yet, since von Hartmann does not deny the presence of conceptuality (wisdom) in the world, but rather accords it a validity equal to blind urge (or will), he can attribute the world’s creation to his Primordial Being only if he can make the pain of the world serve a wise world-purpose. The pain of the world’s creatures, however, is none other than God’s pain, for the life of the world as a whole is identical with the life of God. An all-wise being, however, can only have as its goal liberation from suffering and, since all existence is suffering, that means liberation from existence. Thus, the aim of world-creation is to carry being over into the far better state of non-being. The world process is a continual struggle against God’s pain and ends finally in the annihilation of all existence. Hence human morality is participation in the annihilation of existence. God created the world to free Himself through the world from His infinite pain. According to von Hartmann, that pain must “be considered in a certain way as an itching rash on the Absolute.” Through this itching eruption, the unconscious healing power of the Absolute frees itself from an inner illness; or else we must think of it “as a painful poultice that the all-one Being applies to itself, in order first to draw an inner pain outward and then remove it altogether.” Human beings are integral members of the world. God suffers in them. He created them to disperse His infinite pain. The pain that each one of us suffers is only a drop in the infinite ocean of God’s pain.

Human beings must steep themselves in the awareness that the quest for individual satisfaction (egoism) is foolish. All they need to do is dedicate themselves through selfless devotion to the world process—the redemption of God. Thus, in contrast to Schopenhauer’s pessimism, Hartmann’s pessimism leads to devoted activity in a lofty task.

But what about the claim that this view is based on experience?

To strive for satisfaction is to reach, in one’s life activity, beyond life’s given content. A creature is hungry: that is, when the furtherance of its organic functions requires new life content in the form of nourishment, it strives to be filled. To strive for honor means to regard one’s personal actions and omissions as valuable only when they are recognized from without. The striving for knowledge arises when, before we have understood it, something seems missing from the world we see, hear, and so on. Fulfillment of striving creates pleasure in the striving individual; lack of fulfillment creates pain. It is important to note here that pleasure or pain depend only on the fulfillment or nonfulfillment of striving. Striving itself can in no way count as pain. If it turns out that, in the moment one striving is fulfilled, a new striving immediately appears, I cannot say that, for me, pleasure has given birth to pain, because enjoyment always creates a desire for its repetition or for new pleasure. I can speak of pain only when this desire hits up against the impossibility of its fulfillment. Even when an enjoyment that I have experienced creates a longing for a greater or more refined experience of pleasure, I can speak of it as pain created by the earlier pleasure only if I lack the means to experience that greater or more refined pleasure. Only when pain appears as a natural consequence of enjoyment (as when a woman’s sexual pleasure is followed by the suffering of childbirth and the cares of child rearing) can I consider enjoyment the creator of pain. If striving by itself evoked pain, then every reduction of striving should be accompanied by pleasure. But the opposite is the case. A lack of striving in our lives produces boredom, which is connected with displeasure. Since striving can, in the nature of things, last a long time before receiving any fulfillment and since, for the moment, it remains content with that hope, it must be acknowledged that pain has nothing to do with striving as such, but depends merely on its nonfulfillment. Schopenhauer, then, is certainly wrong when he holds desire or striving in itself (the will) to be the source of pain.

In reality, it is just the reverse. Striving (desiring), as such, brings joy. Who does not know the enjoyment offered by hope of a goal that is distant, but intensely desired? This joy is the companion of work whose fruits will come our way only in the future. Such pleasure is quite independent of attaining our goal. If this goal is finally attained, the pleasure of fulfillment is then added, as something new, to the pleasure of striving. But if anyone claims that the pain of disappointed hope adds to the pain of an unattained goal, and makes the pain of unfulfillment greater in the end than the pleasure there might have been in the fulfillment, we would have to reply that the opposite can also occur. The recollection of pleasure will just as often have a mitigating effect on the pain of unfulfillment. Anyone who cries out, in the face of shattered hopes, “I have done all that I could!” is proof of this. The blissful sense of having tried to do one’s best is overlooked by those who, with every unfulfilled desire, assert that not only is the joy of fulfillment absent, but even the enjoyment of desiring itself is destroyed.

Fulfillment of desire evokes pleasure, and nonfulfillment evokes pain. But we must not conclude from this that pleasure is satisfaction of desire and pain is its nonsatisfaction. Both pleasure and pain can be present in someone without being a consequence of desire. Illness is pain that is not preceded by desire. Anyone claiming that illness is an unsatisfied desire for health errs in seeing the obvious wish not to become sick, a wish that is never brought into awareness, as a positive desire. If we inherit a legacy from a rich relative of whose existence we had no notion, it fills us with a pleasure that had no preceding desire.

Those who wish to investigate whether there is an excess on the side of pleasure or pain must take into account the pleasure of desiring—the pleasure of the fulfillment of desire—and the pleasure that comes to us without effort. On the other side of the ledger, they must put the displeasure of boredom, that of unfulfilled striving, and finally, what encounters us apart from our desires. To this column belongs the pain caused by work imposed upon us that we have not chosen for ourselves.

The question now arises: what is the right method for reckoning the balance of these credits and debits? Eduard von Hartmann believes that it is reason that weighs them.

To be sure, he also says, “Pain and pleasure exist only to the extent that they are felt.” It follows from this that there is no other yardstick for pleasure than the subjective one of feeling. I must feel whether the sum of my pleasurable and unpleasurable emotions results in a balance of joy or pain within me. Regardless of this, von Hartmann claims

Though the value of every creature’s life can be found only by looking at its own subjective yardstick, this is not to say that every creature calculates the total emotional contents of life correctly or, in other words, that its total estimate of its own life is correct with regard to its subjective experiences.

Thereby, rational judgment about feeling is made once more into the proper evaluator.

Those who adhere more or less exactly to the views of such thinkers as Eduard von Hartmann might believe that, to evaluate life properly, they have to clear away the factors that falsify our judgment about the balance of pleasure and pain. There are two ways that they can try to do this.

First, they can show that our desire (drive, will) interferes negatively with a sober evaluation of our feelings. For example, while we ought to realize that sexual enjoyment is a source of troubles, the power of the sexual drive seduces us, promising greater pleasure than it delivers. We want the enjoyment, and so do not admit to ourselves that it makes us suffer.

Second, adherents of this view can submit feelings to a critique and try to demonstrate, in the light of reason, that the objects to which our feelings attach are illusory, and that they are destroyed as soon as our ever growing intelligence sees through the illusions.

In other words, they can consider the question in the following way. If an ambitious man, for instance, wants to know whether pleasure or pain has played the greater part in his life thus far, he must free himself from two sources of error in judgment. Since he is ambitious, this fundamental character trait will make him magnify the joys over the recognition of his achievements and diminish the humiliations caused by his setbacks. But when he actually experienced the setbacks, he felt the humiliations deeply, precisely because he is ambitious. In memory, however, these setbacks appear in a milder light; while the joys of recognition, to which he is so susceptible, engrave themselves all the deeper. Certainly, for the ambitious man, it is a real benefit that this should be so.

Illusion diminishes his displeasure in the moment of self-observation. Yet his judgment is false. The sufferings over which a veil is drawn for him had to be really experienced in all their strength, and so he actually enters them incorrectly on his life’s balance sheet. To arrive at a proper judgment, the ambitious man would have to rid himself of his ambition at the moment of contemplation. He would have to review his life with no colored glass before his spiritual eyes. Otherwise, he is like a merchant who enters his own business zeal in the credit column.

Holders of this view can go still further, however. They can say that the ambitious man must also realize that the recognition for which he strives is worthless. Either on his own or with the help of others, he will realize that recognition by others can have no importance for a rational person— after all, we can always be sure that “the majority is wrong and the minority is right in all such matters that are not fundamental questions of evolution or have not already been completely solved by science,” so that “whoever makes ambition his guiding star places his happiness in life at the mercy of such a judgment.” If the ambitious man can say all this to himself, then he must characterize as illusion what his ambition pictured as reality. And therefore he must also characterize as illusion the feelings that attach to these illusions. On this basis, it may be said that the feelings of pleasure resulting from illusion must also be stricken from the balance. What is left, then, represents the illusion-free sum of pleasure, and this is so small in comparison with the sum of pain that life is joyless, and nonbeing is preferable to being.

But, while it is immediately obvious that the interference of ambition deceives us into false calculations concerning pleasure, what has been said about recognizing the illusory character of pleasure’s objects must still be challenged. It would be an error to remove from the calculation of life’s pleasure all feelings of pleasure attached to real or supposed illusions. For the ambitious man has really enjoyed the admiration of the masses, regardless of whether he himself, or someone else, later recognizes this admiration as illusory. This process does not in the least diminish the feeling of pleasure that was enjoyed. Elimination of all such “illusory” feelings from life’s balance does not set right our judgment about feelings, but rather erases from life feelings that were really present.

And why should those feelings be eliminated? Whoever has these feelings experiences pleasure through them; whoever has conquered them experiences through that conquest (not through feeling, in a self-satisfied way, “What a wonderful person I am!” but through the objective sources of pleasure that lie within the conquest itself) a pleasure that is spiritualized, to be sure, but no less significant. If feelings are struck from the pleasure column because they attach to objects that turn out to be illusory, then the value of life is made dependent on not the quantity but the quality of pleasure, and that, in turn, is made dependent on the value of the things that cause the pleasure. However, if I want to determine the value of life only from the quantity of pleasure or pain, then I must not presuppose something else by which I first determine the value or valuelessness of the pleasure. If I say, “I want to compare the quantity of pleasure with the quantity of pain to see which is greater,” then I must also bring into the calculation all pleasure and pain in their actual amounts, quite apart from whether they are based on illusion or not. Anyone who ascribes less lifevalue to a pleasure based on illusion than to one that is justifiable by reason is making the value of life dependent on factors other than pleasure.

The person who estimates pleasure at a lower rate because it attaches to a worthless object is like a merchant who enters in his ledger the considerable profits of a toy factory at a quarter of their worth, on the grounds that the factory produces mere playthings for children.

If it is merely a question of weighing the relative quantities of pleasure and pain, then the illusory character of the objects of certain feelings of pleasure should be left completely out of the picture.

With its reasoned consideration of the quantities of pleasure and pain created by life, the path recommended by von Hartmann therefore brings us to this point: we know how we are to set up our accounts; we know what we have to place on each side of our ledger. But how should the calculation now be made? Is reason, in fact, equipped to reckon the balance?

If the calculated profit does not equal a business’s demonstrable past profits or future gains, then the merchant has made an error. The philosopher, too, will certainly have made an error of assessment if it is impossible to demonstrate that a cleverly calculated surplus of pleasure or pain is actually felt.

For the moment, I shall not review the calculations of the pessimists who support their opinions with a rationalist worldview; still, anyone deciding whether or not to carry on with the business of life will first demand to be shown where the calculated surplus of pain is to be found.

Here we touch the point where reason by itself is not in a position to determine the surplus of pleasure or pain, but must rather demonstrate that surplus as a percept in life. For human beings cannot attain reality solely through concepts, but only through the interpenetration, mediated by thinking, of concepts and percepts (and feelings are percepts). A merchant, likewise, will close his business only if the loss calculated by his accountant is confirmed by the facts. If that does not happen, he will have the accountant calculate again. We conduct the business of life in just the same way. If a philosopher wants to prove that pain is much more common than pleasure, and yet we do not feel this to be so, then we say: you have made a mistake in your brooding; think it through again! But, if, at a given moment, a business really suffers such losses that its credit can no longer satisfy the creditors, then bankruptcy results even if the merchant’s bookkeeping obscures the state of his affairs. In the same way, if, at a certain moment, the quantity of a person’s pain is so great that no hope (credit) of future pleasure can offer solace, then this must lead to bankruptcy in the business of life.

Yet the number of suicides is still relatively small in proportion to the multitude of those who live bravely on. Only very few people give up the business of life because of the presence of pain. What follows from this? Either it is incorrect to say that the quantity of pain is greater than the quantity of pleasure, or else we simply do not make continuation of life dependent on the quantity of pleasure or pain that we feel.

Eduard von Hartmann’s pessimism is unique in explaining life as worthless (because pain predominates), and yet maintaining that we must go through it nonetheless. We must do so because the world purpose mentioned above (p. 197) can be achieved only through ceaseless, devoted human labor. But, as long as human beings still pursue their egotistical desires, they are unsuited to such selfless labor. They can devote themselves to their true task only if they have convinced themselves, through experience and reason, that the pleasures in life striven for by egotism cannot be attained. In this way, the conviction of pessimism is supposed to be a source of selflessness. An education based on pessimism is supposed to eradicate egotism by presenting it with its own hopelessness.

In von Hartmann’s view, the striving for pleasure is originally based in human nature. Only insight into the impossibility of fulfillment makes this striving yield to higher tasks for humanity.

But one cannot say that egotism is truly overcome by an ethical worldview that seeks to achieve devotion to non-egotistical life aims by the acceptance of pessimism. Ethical ideals are said to be strong enough to master the will only if a person has seen that a selfish striving for pleasure cannot bring satisfaction. We human beings, whose selfishness has yearned for the grapes of pleasure, find them sour because we cannot reach them. Therefore, we leave them and devote ourselves to a selfless way of life. In the pessimist’s view, moral ideals are not strong enough to overcome egotism. Instead, pessimists base their dominion on the ground previously cleared for them by the recognition of the hopelessness of self-seeking.

If human beings strove for pleasure by nature and were unable to attain it, then annihilation of existence and salvation through nonexistence would be the only rational goal. But if we hold that God is the actual bearer of the world’s suffering, then human beings have to make it their task to bring about God’s salvation. Attainment of that goal is hindered, not furthered, by suicide of the individual. Rationally, God can have created human beings only in order for them to bring about His salvation by their actions. Otherwise, creation would be pointless. And this kind of worldview does think in terms of extra-human goals. Each of us must contribute our specific labor to the universal work of salvation. If we withdraw from this labor through suicide, what we ourselves were meant to do must be undertaken by others who have to bear the torment of existence in our stead. And since God resides in each being as the actual bearer of pain, the suicide does nothing to diminish God’s suffering; rather, it imposes on God the new difficulty of creating a substitute.

All of this presupposes that pleasure is the measure of life’s worth. Life is expressed through a number of drives (needs). If the value of life depended on whether it brought more pleasure or pain, any drive bringing its bearer a surplus of pain would be considered worthless. Let us now look at drives and pleasures to see whether the former can be measured by the latter. To avoid the suspicion that we consider that life begins with “the aristocracy of intellect,” we shall begin with a “purely animal” need: hunger.

Hunger arises when our organs can no longer function properly without a new supply of nourishment. What hungry persons strive for first is to satisfy their hunger. As soon as sufficient nourishment has been supplied and hunger ceases, everything striven for by the drive for food has been attained. In this case, the enjoyment that attaches to satisfaction consists initially in the removal of the pain caused by hunger. But an additional need joins itself to the mere drive to satisfy hunger. The person does not want only to bring the disturbed organic functions back into good order through the intake of nourishment, nor simply to overcome the pain of hunger; the person also wants this to be accompanied by pleasant sensations of taste. When we are hungry and half an hour remains before a tasty meal, we might even keep away from less interesting fare that could satisfy our hunger in order to avoid spoiling our pleasure in what is to come. We need hunger to have the full enjoyment of our meal. In this way, hunger becomes the occasion of pleasure for us. If all the hunger in the world could be quieted, it would result in the full measure of enjoyment attributable to the presence of the need for food. But to this we would still have to add the special enjoyment at which gourmets aim through an extraordinary cultivation of the palate.

This kind of enjoyment would have the greatest imaginable value if the need for it never went unsatisfied, and if, along with the enjoyment, we did not have to accept a certain quantity of pain into the bargain.

Modern science holds that nature produces more life than it can maintain; that is, nature creates more hunger than it is in a position to satisfy. In the struggle for existence, the excess life that is produced must perish painfully. Granted, in each moment, the needs of life are greater than the available means of satisfying them, and therefore the pleasure of life is compromised. Yet this in no way diminishes the pleasure in life that is actually present. Wherever desire finds satisfaction, there is a corresponding quantity of enjoyment—even if there exists, in this creature or others, a huge number of unsatisfied drives. What is diminished is the value of the enjoyment of life. If only a portion of the needs of a living creature find satisfaction, the creature has a corresponding degree of enjoyment. The smaller the enjoyment is in proportion to the total demands of life in the sphere of the desires in question, the less value that enjoyment will have. We can imagine the value represented by a fraction whose numerator is the enjoyment actually present and whose denominator is the total sum of the needs. When the numerator and the denominator are equal, that is, when all needs are satisfied, then the fraction has a value of one. It becomes greater than one when more pleasure is present in a living creature than its desires demand; it is smaller if the quantity of enjoyment lags behind the sum of desires. But as long as the numerator (the enjoyment) has even the slightest value, the fraction can never equal zero. If, before dying, I were to make a final account, and mentally distribute over my whole life both the quantity of enjoyment related to a particular drive (for example, hunger) and the demands of that drive, then the pleasure experienced might have a very slight value, but it can never be quite valueless. Given a constant quantity of enjoyment, a creature’s increased needs diminish the value of the pleasure in life. The same applies to the totality of life in nature. The greater the total number of creatures in relation to the number whose drives are fully satisfied, the lower is the average value of the pleasure in life. Our shares in life’s pleasure in the form of instincts fall in value when we cannot hope to cash them in for the full amount. If I have enough to eat for three days and then must go hungry for the next three, the pleasure of those three days of eating is not diminished. But I must then think of it as distributed over the six days, so that its value in terms of my food drive is reduced to one half. It is the same with the amount of pleasure in relation to the degree of my need. If I have enough hunger for two pieces of buttered bread but I only get one, then the pleasure derived from it has only half of the value that it would have if I had been satisfied by that one piece alone. This is how the value of pleasure in life is determined. It is measured against life’s needs. Our desires are the yardstick; pleasure is what we measure. The enjoyment of being satisfied has value only because of the existence of hunger. It has value of a specific magnitude depending on its relation to the magnitude of the existing hunger.

Unfulfilled demands in life cast a shadow even over desires that are satisfied and thus diminish the value of pleasurable hours. But we can also speak of the present value of a feeling of pleasure. The smaller a pleasure in relation to the duration and the intensity of our desire, the less the present value of a feeling of pleasure will be.

A quantity of pleasure has full value for us when its duration and degree exactly coincide with our desire. When it is smaller than our desire, the value of a given quantity of pleasure is diminished; when the pleasure is greater, we have an undesired surplus, which is felt as pleasure only for as long as we can heighten our desire during the enjoyment itself. If we are in no position to keep the growth of our desire in step with the increase of pleasure, then pleasure turns into displeasure. The object that would otherwise content us assails us without our wanting it, and we suffer from it. This is one proof that pleasure has value for us only as long as we can measure it against our desire. An excess of pleasant feeling changes into pain. We can observe this especially in persons whose desire for any kind of pleasure is very slight. In persons whose drive for food is stunted, eating quickly leads to nausea. Again, we can see from this that desire is the yardstick for the value of pleasure.

Pessimists might say that an unsatisfied drive for food brings into the world not merely displeasure because of lost enjoyment, but also positive pain, suffering, and misery. They can appeal here to the nameless misery of those who are starving, and to the totality of pain arising indirectly, for such people, from lack of food. And, if pessimists want to extend their claim to nonhuman nature as well, they can point to the sufferings of animals who starve at certain times of the year because of lack of nourishment. Pessimists claim that such ills far outweigh the quantity of enjoyment brought into the world by the drive for food.

Doubtless, we can compare pleasure and pain and determine the surplus of one or the other, just as we can with profit and loss. But, if pessimists believe that an excess exists in the column of displeasure, and infer the worthlessness of life from that, then they err in making a calculation that is never made in real life.

In a given instance, our desire is oriented toward a specific object. As we have seen, the greater our pleasure is in relation to our desire, the greater is the value of pleasure in satisfying the desire.

But the quantity of pain that we are willing to accept in order to attain the pleasure also depends on the magnitude of our desire. We compare the magnitude of the pain not with the pleasure, but with the magnitude of our desire. Someone who takes great pleasure in eating will, because of enjoyment in better times, be able to sustain a period of hunger better than someone who lacks this joy in eating. A woman who wants children does not compare the pleasure of having one to the quantity of pain in pregnancy, childbirth, child rearing, and so forth, but to her desire to have a child.

We never strive for an abstract pleasure of a certain magnitude but for concrete satisfaction in a very specific way. If we strive for a pleasure that must be satisfied by a specific object or sensation, then we cannot be satisfied by another object or sensation that would offer a pleasure of the same magnitude. For someone who is striving to satisfy hunger, the pleasure in so doing cannot be replaced with an equally pleasurable walk. Only if our desire were for a specific quantity of pleasure in the abstract would it disappear as soon as the price of achieving it turned out to be a greater quantity of pain. But, since satisfaction is sought in a specific way, the pleasure of fulfillment arises even if a pain that outweighs the pleasure must also be taken with it. Because the instincts of living creatures move in a specific direction, and aim at a concrete goal, it is impossible to reckon as an equivalent factor the quantities of pain that may obstruct the path to this goal. Provided that the desire is strong enough to be present to some degree after overcoming the pain—however great this may be in absolute terms—the pleasure of satisfaction can still be tasted to its full extent. Thus, desire does not compare pain directly with the attained pleasure; it indirectly compares its own (relative) magnitude with that of the pain. It is not a question of whether the pleasure or the pain involved will be greater, but rather whether the desire for the goal or the hindrance of pain will be greater. If the hindrance is greater than the desire, then the latter bows to the inevitable, weakens, and strives no further.

Since satisfaction is always demanded in a specific way, the pleasure associated with it acquires such a significance that, after satisfaction has occurred, we must take the unavoidable quantity of pain into account only to the extent that it has diminished the quantity of our desire. If I am a passionate devotee of beautiful views, I never calculate how much pleasure I will get from the view from a mountain peak and compare it with the pain of the laborious ascent and descent. I consider only whether, after overcoming these difficulties, my desire for the view will still be sufficiently lively. Only indirectly, through the intensity of the desire, do pleasure and pain together yield a result. The question is never whether pleasure or pain is present in surplus but whether the will for the pleasure is great enough to overcome the pain.

A proof for the correctness of this assertion is the fact that we put a higher value on pleasure when it must be purchased at the cost of great pain than when it falls into our lap like a gift from heaven. If pain and torment have diminished our desire, and the goal is nevertheless attained, then the pleasure is that much greater in proportion to the remaining quantity of desire. Now, as I have, it is this proportional relationship that represents the value of the pleasure. Further proof is provided by the fact that living creatures (including human beings) express their drives as long as they are in a position to bear the pains and torments that they encounter. The struggle for existence is but a consequence of this fact. Living creatures strive to fulfill themselves; only those whose desires are smothered by the force of the opposing difficulties give up the struggle. Every living creature seeks nourishment until lack of nourishment destroys its life. Human beings, too, only take their own lives if they believe (rightly or wrongly) that the goals of life worth striving for are unattainable. As long as we believe in the possibility of achieving what seems to us to be worth striving for, we will struggle against all torment and pain. Philosophy would have to convince us that wanting makes sense only if the pleasure is greater than the pain; by nature, we want to achieve the objects of our desire if only we can bear the necessary pain, however great it might be. But such philosophy would be in error, because it makes human will dependent on a circumstance (surplus of pleasure over pain) that is originally foreign to us. The original measure of our will is desire, and desire asserts itself as long as it can.

The calculation of the pleasure and pain of satisfying a desire that is set up by life—not by rational philosophy— can be looked at in the following way. Suppose that, when buying a certain quantity of apples, I am obliged to take twice as many bad apples as good ones, because the seller wants to unload his merchandise. If the value I place on the smaller quantity of good apples is so high that, in addition to the purchase price, I am willing to assume the cost of disposing of the bad apples, then I will not hesitate for a moment to take the bad apples. This example illustrates the relationship between the quantities of pleasure and pain coming from any of our drives. I determine the value of the good apples not by subtracting their number from that of the bad ones, but by seeing whether, despite the presence of the bad ones, the good ones still retain some value.

Just as I disregard the bad apples when I enjoy the good ones, so I give myself up to the satisfaction of a desire after having shaken off the unavoidable suffering.

Even if pessimism were correct in its claim that there is more pain than pleasure in the world, this would have no influence on our willing, for living creatures would still strive after whatever pleasure remains. Empirical proof that pain outweighs joy (if it could be given) would indeed demonstrate the fruitlessness of the philosophical position that sees the value of life in a surplus of pleasure (eudemonism), but it could not demonstrate that our will is itself unreasonable; for our will aims not at a surplus of pleasure, but at the quantity of pleasure that remains after the pain has been endured. This always appears as a goal worth striving for.

Attempts have been made to refute pessimism by asserting that it is impossible to calculate the surplus of pleasure or pain in the world. Calculation is possible only if we can compare the magnitudes of the elements of the calculation. Every pain or pleasure has a specific magnitude (intensity and duration). We can even compare the approximate magnitudes of different kinds of pleasurable sensation. We know whether a good cigar or a good joke gives us more pleasure. There can be no objection to comparing different kinds of pleasure and pain with regard to their magnitudes. Researchers who make it their business to determine the surplus of pleasure or pain in the world proceed from thoroughly justifiable premises. We may assert the incorrectness of pessimistic conclusions, but we may question neither the possibility of a scientific estimation of the quantities of pleasure and pain, nor therefore the determination of the balance of pleasure. Yet it is wrong to claim that the results of such calculation have some bearing on human volition. We really evaluate our actions according to whether pleasure or pain predominates only when we are indifferent to the objects of our activity. If it is a matter merely of deciding between enjoying a game or a light conversation after a day’s work, and I am indifferent as to which of the two I choose, then I shall ask myself which brings me the greater surplus of pleasure. I shall certainly abandon an activity if the scale dips toward the side of pain. When we buy a toy for a child, our choice depends on what we think will give the most pleasure. In all other circumstances, however, we do not base our decisions exclusively on the balance of pleasure.

XIII. Der Wert des Lebens (Pessimismus und Optimismus) -2

Wenn also die pessimistischen Ethiker der Ansicht sind, durch den Nachweis, daß die Unlust in größerer Menge vorhanden ist als die Lust, den Boden für die selbstlose Hingabe an die Kulturarbeit zu bereiten, so bedenken sie nicht, daß sich das menschliche Wollen seiner Natur nach von dieser Erkenntnis nicht beeinflussen läßt. Das Streben der Menschen richtet sich nach dem Maße der nach Überwindung aller Schwierigkeiten möglichen Befriedigung. Die Hoffnung auf diese Befriedigung ist der Grund der menschlichen Betätigung. Die Arbeit jedes einzelnen und die ganze Kulturarbeit entspringt aus dieser Hoffnung. Die pessimistische Ethik glaubt dem Menschen die Jagd nach dem Glücke als eine unmögliche hinstellen zu müssen, damit er sich seinen eigentlichen sittlichen Aufgaben widme. Aber diese sittlichen Aufgaben sind nichts anderes als die konkreten natürlichen und geistigen Triebe; und die Befriedigung derselben wird angestrebt trotz der Unlust, die dabei abfällt. Die Jagd nach dem Glücke, die der Pessimismus ausrotten will, ist also gar nicht vorhanden. Die Aufgaben aber, die der Mensch zu vollbringen hat, vollbringt er, weil er sie kraft seines Wesens, wenn er ihr Wesen wirklich erkannt hat, vollbringen will. Die pessimistische Ethik behauptet, der Mensch könne erst dann sich dem hingeben, was er als seine Lebensaufgabe erkennt, wenn er das Streben nach Lust aufgegeben hat. Keine Ethik aber kann je andere Lebensaufgaben ersinnen als die Verwirklichung der von den menschlichen Begierden geforderten Befriedigungen und die Erfüllung seiner sittlichen Ideale. Keine Ethik kann ihm die Lust nehmen, die er an dieser Erfüllung des von ihm Begehrten hat. Wenn der Pessimist sagt: strebe nicht nach Lust, denn du kannst sie nie erreichen; strebe nach dem, was du als deine Aufgabe erkennst, so ist darauf zu erwidern: das ist Menschenart, und es ist die Erfindung einer auf Irrwegen wandelnden Philosophie, wenn behauptet wird, der Mensch strebe bloß nach dem Glücke. Er strebt nach Befriedigung dessen, was sein Wesen begehrt und hat die konkreten Gegenstände dieses Strebens im Auge, nicht ein abstraktes ‘Glück’; und die Erfüllung ist ihm eine Lust. Was die pessimistische Ethik verlangt nicht Streben nach Lust, sondern nach Erreichung dessen, was du als deine Lebensaufgabe erkennst, so trifft sie damit dasjenige, was der Mensch seinem Wesen nach will.. Der Mensch braucht durch die Philosophie nicht erst umgekrempelt zu werden, er braucht seine Natur nicht erst abzuwerfen, um sittlich zu sein. Sittlichkeit liegt in dem Streben nach einem als berechtigt erkannten Ziel; ihm zu folgen, liegt im Menschenwesen, solange eine damit verknüpfte Unlust die Begierde danach nicht lähmt. Und dieses ist das Wesen alles wirklichen Wollens. Die Ethik beruht nicht auf der Ausrottung alles Strebens nach Lust, damit bleichsüchtige abstrakte Ideen ihre Herrschaft da aufschlagen können, wo ihnen keine starke Sehnsucht nach Lebensgenuß entgegensteht, sondern auf dem starken, von ideeller Intuition getragenen Wollen, das sein Ziel erreicht, auch wenn der Weg dazu ein dornenvoller ist.

Die sittlichen Ideale entspringen aus der moralischen Phantasie des Menschen. Ihre Verwirklichung hängt davon ab, daß sie von dem Menschen stark genug begehrt werden, um Schmerzen und Qualen zu überwinden. Sie sind seine Intuitionen, die Triebfedern, die sein Geist spannt; er will sie, weil ihre Verwirklichung seine höchste Lust ist. Er hat es nicht nötig, sich von der Ethik erst verbieten zu lassen, daß er nach Lust strebe, um sich dann gebieten zu lassen, wonach er streben soll. Er wird nach sittlichen Idealen streben, wenn seine moralische Phantasie tätig genug ist, um ihm Intuitionen einzugeben, die seinem Wollen die Stärke verleihen, sich gegen die in seiner Organisation liegenden Widerstände, wozu auch notwendige Unlust gehört, durchzusetzen.

Wer nach Idealen von hehrer Größe strebt, der tut es, weil sie der Inhalt seines Wesens sind, und die Verwirklichung wird ihm ein Genuß sein, gegen den die Lust, welche die Armseligkeit aus der Befriedigung der alltäglichen Triebe zieht, eine Kleinigkeit ist. Idealisten schwelgen geistig bei der Umsetzung ihrer Ideale in Wirklichkeit. Wer die Lust an der Befriedigung des menschlichen Begehrens ausrotten will, muß den Menschen erst zum Sklaven machen, der nicht handelt, weil er will, sondern nur, weil er soll. Denn die Erreichung des Gewollten macht Lust. Was man das Gute nennt, ist nicht das, was der Mensch soll, sondern das, was er will, wenn er die volle wahre Menschennatur zur Entfaltung bringt. Wer dies nicht anerkennt, der muß dem Menschen erst das austreiben, was er will, und ihm dann von außen das vorschreiben lassen, was er seinem Wollen zum Inhalt zu geben hat.

Der Mensch verleiht der Erfüllung einer Begierde einen Wert, weil sie aus seinem Wesen entspringt. Das Erreichte hat seinen Wert, weil es gewollt ist. Spricht man dem Ziel des menschlichen Wollens als solchem seinen Wert ab, dann muß man die wertvollen Ziele von etwas nehmen, das der Mensch nicht will.

Die auf den Pessimismus sich aufbauende Ethik entspringt aus der Mißachtung der moralischen Phantasie. Wer den individuellen Menschengeist nicht für fähig hält, sich selbst den Inhalt seines Strebens zu geben, nur der kann die Summe des Wollens in der Sehnsucht nach Lust suchen. Der phantasielose Mensch schafft keine sittlichen Ideen. Sie müssen ihm gegeben werden. Daß er nach Befriedigung seiner niederen Begierden strebt: dafür aber sorgt die physische Natur. Zur Entfaltung des ganzen Menschen gehören aber auch die aus dem Geiste stammenden Begierden. Nur wenn man der Meinung ist, daß diese der Mensch überhaupt nicht hat, kann man behaupten, daß er sie von außen empfangen soll. Dann ist man auch berechtigt, zu sagen, daß er verpflichtet ist, etwas zu tun, was er nicht will. Jede Ethik, die von dem Menschen fordert, daß er sein Wollen zurückdränge, um Aufgaben zu erfüllen, die er nicht will, rechnet nicht mit dem ganzen Menschen, sondern mit einem solchen, dem das geistige Begehrungsvermögen fehlt. Für den harmonisch entwickelten Menschen sind die sogenannten Ideen des Guten nicht außerhalb, sondern innerhalb des Kreises seines Wesens. Nicht in der Austilgung eines einseitigen Eigenwillens liegt das sittliche Handeln, sondern in der vollen Entwickelung der Menschennatur. Wer die sittlichen Ideale nur für erreichbar hält, wenn der Mensch seinen Eigenwillen ertötet, der weiß nicht, daß diese Ideale ebenso von dem Menschen gewollt sind, wie die Befriedigung der sogenannten tierischen Triebe.

Es ist nicht zu leugnen, daß die hiermit charakterisierten Anschauungen leicht mißverstanden werden können. Unreife Menschen ohne moralische Phantasie sehen gerne die Instinkte ihrer Halbnatur für den vollen Menschheitsgehalt an, und lehnen alle nicht von ihnen erzeugten sittlichen Ideen ab, damit sie ungestört «sich ausleben» können. Daß für die halbentwickelte Menschennatur nicht gilt, was für den Vollmenschen richtig ist, ist selbstverständlich. Wer durch Erziehung erst noch dahin gebracht werden soll, daß seine sittliche Natur die Eischalen der niederen Leidenschaften durchbricht: von dem darf nicht in Anspruch genommen werden, was für den reifen Menschen gilt. Hier sollte aber nicht verzeichnet werden, was dem unentwickelten Menschen einzuprägen ist, sondern das, was in dem Wesen des ausgereiften Menschen liegt. Denn es sollte die Möglichkeit der Freiheit nachgewiesen werden; diese erscheint aber nicht an Handlungen aus sinnlicher oder seelischer Nötigung, sondern an solchen, die von geistigen Intuitionen getragen sind. Dieser ausgereifte Mensch gibt seinen Wert sich selbst. Nicht die Lust erstrebt er, die ihm als Gnadengeschenk von der Natur oder von dem Schöpfer gereicht wird; und auch nicht die abstrakte Pflicht erfüllt er, die er als solche erkennt, nachdem er das Streben nach Lust abgestreift hat. Er handelt, wie er will, das ist nach Maßgabe seiner ethischen Intuitionen; und er empfindet die Erreichung dessen, was er will, als seinen wahren Lebensgenuß. Den Wert des Lebens bestimmt er an dem Verhältnis des Erreichten zu dem Erstrebten. Die Ethik, welche an die Stelle des Wollens das bloße Sollen, an die Stelle der Neigung die bloße Pflicht setzt, bestimmt folgerichtig den Wert des Menschen an dem Verhältnis dessen, was die Pflicht fordert, zu dem, was er erfüllt. Sie mißt den Menschen an einem außerhalb seines Wesens gelegenen Maßstab. – Die hier entwickelte Ansicht weist den Menschen auf sich selbst zurück. Sie erkennt nur das als den wahren Wert des Lebens an, was der einzelne nach Maßgabe seines Wollens als solchen ansieht. Sie weiß ebensowenig von einem nicht vom Individuum anerkannten Wert des Lebens wie von einem nicht aus diesem entsprungenen Zweck des Lebens. Sie sieht in dem allseitig durchschauten wesenhaften Individuum seinen eigenen Herrn und seinen eigenen Schätzer.

Zusatz zur Neuausgabe 1918.
Verkennen kann man das in diesem Abschnitt Dargestellte, wenn man sich festbeißt in den scheinbaren Einwand: das Wollen des Menschen als solches ist eben das Unvernünftige; man müsse ihm diese Unvernünftigkeit nachweisen, dann wird er einsehen, daß in der endlichen Befreiung von dem Wollen das Ziel des ethischen Strebens liegen müsse. Mir wurde von berufener Seite allerdings ein solcher ScheinEinwand entgegengehalten, in dem mir gesagt wurde, es sei eben die Sache des Philosophen, nachzuholen, was die Gedankenlosigkeit der Tiere und der meisten Menschen versäumt, eine wirkliche Lebensbilanz zu ziehen. Doch wer diesen Einwand macht, sieht eben die Hauptsache nicht: soll Freiheit sich verwirklichen, so muß in der Menschennatur das Wollen von dem intuitiven Denken getragen sein; zugleich aber ergibt sich, daß ein Wollen auch von anderem als von der Intuition bestimmt werden kann, und nur in der aus der Menschenwesenheit erfließenden freien Verwirklichung der Intuition ergibt sich das Sittliche und sein Wert. Der ethische Individualismus ist geeignet, die Sittlichkeit in ihrer vollen Würde darzustellen, denn er ist nicht der Ansicht, daß wahrhaft sittlich ist, was in äußerer Art Zusammenstimmung eines Wollens mit einer Norm herbeiführt, sondern was aus dem Menschen dann ersteht, wenn er das sittliche Wollen als ein Glied seines vollen Wesens in sich entfaltet, so daß das Unsittliche zu tun ihm als Verstümmelung, Verkrüppelung seines Wesens erscheint.

XIII. Der Wert des Lebens (Pessimismus und Optimismus) -1

Ein Gegenstück zu der Frage nach dem Zwecke oder der Bestimmung des Lebens ist die nach dessen Wert. Zwei entgegengesetzten Ansichten begegnen wir in dieser Beziehung, und dazwischen allen denkbaren Vermittlungsversuchen. Eine Ansicht sagt Die Welt ist die denkbar beste, die es geben kann, und das Leben und Handeln in derselben ein Gut von unschätzbarem Werte. Alles bietet sich als harmonisches und zweckmäßiges Zusammenwirken dar und ist der Bewunderung wert. Auch das scheinbar Böse und Üble ist von einem höheren Standpunkte als gut erkennbar; denn es stellt einen wohltuenden Gegensatz zum Guten dar; wir können dies um so besser schätzen, wenn es sich von jenem abhebt. Auch ist das Übel kein wahrhaft wirkliches; wir empfinden nur einen geringeren Grad des Wohles als Übel. Das Übel ist Abwesenheit des Guten; nichts was an sich Bedeutung hat.

Die andere Ansicht ist die, welche behauptet: das Leben ist voll Qual und Elend, die Unlust überwiegt überall die Lust, der Schmerz die Freude. Das Dasein ist eine Last, und das Nichtsein wäre dem Sein unter allen Umständen vorzuziehen.

Als die Hauptvertreter der ersteren Ansicht, des Optimismus, haben wir Shaftesbury und Leibniz, als die der zweiten, des Pessimismus, Schopenhauer und Eduard von Hartmann aufzufassen.

Leibniz meint, die Welt ist die beste, die es geben kann. Eine bessere ist unmöglich. Denn Gott ist gut und weise. Ein guter Gott will die beste der Welten schaffen; ein weiser kennt sie; er kann sie von allen anderen möglichen schlechteren unterscheiden. Nur ein böser oder unweiser Gott könnte eine schlechtere als die bestmögliche Welt schaffen.

Wer von diesem Gesichtspunkte ausgeht, wird leicht dem menschlichen Handeln die Richtung vorzeichnen können, die es einschlagen muß, um zum Besten der Welt das Seinige beizutragen. Der Mensch wird nur die Ratschlüsse Gottes zu erforschen und sich danach zu benehmen haben. Wenn er weiß, was Gott mit der Welt und dem Menschengeschlecht für Absichten hat, dann wird er auch das Richtige tun. Und er wird sich glücklich fühlen, zu dem andern Guten auch das Seinige hinzuzufügen. Vom optimistischen Standpunkt aus ist also das Leben des Lebens wert. Es muß uns zur mitwirkenden Anteilnahme anregen.

Anders stellt sich Schopenhauer die Sache vor. Er denkt sich den Weltengrund nicht als allweises und allgütiges Wesen, sondern als blinden Drang oder Willen. Ewiges Streben, unaufhörliches Schmachten nach Befriedigung, die doch nie erreicht werden kann, ist der Grundzug alles Wollens. Denn ist ein erstrebtes Ziel erreicht, so entsteht ein neues Bedürfnis und so weiter. Die Befriedigung kann immer nur von verschwindend kleiner Dauer sein. Der ganze übrige Inhalt unseres Lebens ist unbefriedigtes Drängen, das ist Unzufriedenheit, Leiden. Stumpft sich der blinde Drang endlich ab, so fehlt uns jeglicher Inhalt; eine unendliche Langeweile erfüllt unser Dasein. Daher ist das relativ Beste, Wünsche und Bedürfnisse in sich zu ersticken, das Wollen zu ertöten. Der Schopenhauersche Pessimismus führt zur Tatenlosigkeit, sein sittliches Ziel ist Universalfaulheit

In wesentlich anderer Art sucht Hartmann den Pessimismus zu begründen und für die Ethik auszunutzen. Hartmann sucht, einem Lieblingsstreben unserer Zeit folgend, seine Weltanschauung auf Erfahrung zu begründen. Aus der Beobachtung des Lebens will er Aufschluß darüber gewinnen, ob die Lust oder die Unlust in der Welt überwiege. Er läßt, was den Menschen als Gut und Glück erscheint, vor der Vernunft Revue passieren, um zu zeigen, daß alle vermeintliche Befriedigung bei genauerem Zusehen sich als Illusion erweist. Illusion ist es, wenn wir glauben, in Gesundheit, Jugend, Freiheit, auskömmlicher Existenz, Liebe (Geschlechtsgenuß), Mitleid, Freundschaft und Familienleben, Ehrgefühl, Ehre, Ruhm, Herrschaft, religiöser Erbauung, Wissenschaftsund Kunstbetrieb, Hoffnung auf jenseitiges Leben, Beteiligung am Kulturfortschritt – Quellen des Glückes und der Befriedigung zu haben. Vor einer nüchternen Betrachtung bringt jeder Genuß viel mehr Übel und Elend als Lust in die Welt. Die Unbehaglicbkeit des Katzenjammers ist stets größer als die Behaglichkeit des Rausches. Die Unlust überwiegt bei weitem in der Welt. Kein Mensch, auch der relativ glücklichste, würde, gefragt, das elende Leben ein zweites Mal durchmachen wollen. Da nun aber Hartmann die Anwesenheit des Ideellen (der Weisheit) in der Welt nicht leugnet, ihm vielmehr eine gleiche Berechtigung neben dem blinden Drange (Willen) zugesteht, so kann er seinem Urwesen die Schöpfung der Welt nur zumuten, wenn er den Schmerz der Welt in einen weisen Weltzweck auslaufen läßt. Der Schmerz der Weltwesen sei aber kein anderer als der Gottesschmerz selbst, denn das Leben der Welt als Ganzes ist identisch mit dem Leben Gottes. Ein allweises Wesen kann aber sein Ziel nur in der Befreiung vom Leid sehen, und da alles Dasein Leid ist, in der Befreiung vom Dasein. Das Sein in das weit bessere Nichtsein überzuführen, ist der Zweck der Weltschöpfung. Der Weltprozeß ist ein fortwährendes Ankämpfen gegen den Gottesschmerz, das zuletzt mit der Vernichtung alles Daseins endet. Das sittliche Leben der Menschen wird also sein: Teilnahme an der Vernichtung des Daseins. Gott hat die Welt erschaffen, damit er sich durch dieselbe von seinem unendlichen Schmerze befreie. Diese ist «gewissermaßen wie ein juckender Ausschlag am Absoluten zu betrachten», durch den dessen unbewußte Heilkraft sich von einer innern Krankheit befreit, «oder auch als ein schmerzhaftes Zugpflaster, welches das all-eine Wesen sich selbst appliziert, um einen innern Schmerz zunächst nach außen abzulenken und für die Folge zu beseitigen». Die Menschen sind Glieder der Welt. In ihnen leidet Gott. Er hat sie geschaffen, um seinen unendlichen Schmerz zu zersplittern. Der Schmerz, den jeder einzelne von uns leidet, ist nur ein Tropfen in dem unendlichen Meere des Gottesschmerzes (Hartmann, Phänomenologie des sittlichen Bewußtseins, S. 866 ff.).

Der Mensch hat sich mit der Erkenntnis zu durchdringen, daß das Jagen nach individueller Befriedigung (der Egoismus) eine Torheit ist, und hat sich einzig von der Aufgabe leiten zu lassen, durch selbstlose Hingabe an den Weltprozeß der Erlösung Gottes sich zu widmen. Im Gegensatz zu dem Schopenhauers führt uns Hartmanns Pessimismus zu einer hingebenden Tätigkeit für eine erhabene Aufgabe.

Wie steht es aber mit der Begründung auf Erfahrung?

Streben nach Befriedigung ist Hinausgreifen der Lebenstätigkeit über den Lebensinhalt. Ein Wesen ist hungrig, das heißt, es strebt nach Sättigung, wenn seine organischen Funktionen zu ihrem weiteren Verlauf Zuführung neuen Lebensinhaltes in Form von Nahrungsmitteln verlangen. Das Streben nach Ehre besteht darin, daß der Mensch sein persönliches Tun und Lassen erst dann für wertvoll ansieht, wenn zu seiner Betätigung die Anerkennung von außen kommt. Das Streben nach Erkenntnis entsteht, wenn dem Menschen zu der Welt, die er sehen, hören usw. kann, solange etwas fehlt, als er sie nicht begriffen hat. Die Erfüllung des Strebens erzeugt in dem strebenden Individuum Lust, die Nichtbefriedigung Unlust. Es ist dabei wichtig zu beobachten, daß Lust oder Unlust erst von der Erfüllung oder Nichterfüllung meines Strebens abhängt. Das Streben selbst kann keineswegs als Unlust gelten. Wenn es sich also herausstellt, daß in dem Momente des Erfüllens einer Bestrebung sich sogleich wieder eine neue einstellt, so darf ich nicht sagen, die Lust hat für mich Unlust geboren, weil unter allen Umständen der Genuß das Begehren nach seiner Wiederholung oder nach einer neuen Lust erzeugt. Erst wenn dieses Begehren auf die Unmöglichkeit seiner Erfüllung stößt, kann ich von Unlust sprechen. Selbst dann, wenn ein erlebter Genuß in mir das Verlangen nach einem größeren oder raffinierteren Lusterlebnis erzeugt, kann ich von einer durch die erste Lust erzeugten Unlust erst in dem Augenblicke sprechen, wenn mir die Mittel versagt sind, die größere oder raffiniertere Lust zu erleben. Nur dann, wenn als naturgesetzliche Folge des Genusses Unlust eintritt, wie etwa beim Geschlechtsgenuß des Weibes durch die Leiden des Wochenbettes und die Mühen der Kinderpflege, kann ich in dem Genuß den Schöpfer des Schmerzes finden. Wenn Streben als solches Unlust hervorriefe, so müßte jede Beseitigung des Strebens von Lust begleitet sein. Es ist aber das Gegenteil der Fall. Der Mangel an Streben in unserem Lebensinhalte erzeugt Langeweile, und diese ist mit Unlust verbunden. Da aber das Streben naturgemäß lange Zeit dauern kann, bevor ihm die Erfüllung zuteil wird und sich dann vorläufig mit der Hoffnung auf dieselbe zufrieden- gibt, so muß anerkannt werden, daß die Unlust mit dem Streben als solchem gar nichts zu tun hat, sondern lediglich an der Nichterfüllung desselben hängt. Schopenhauer hat also unter allen Umständen unrecht, wenn er das Begehren oder Streben (den Willen) an sich für den Quell des Schmerzes hält.

In Wahrheit ist sogar das Gegenteil richtig. Streben (Begehren) an sich macht Freude. Wer kennt nicht den Genuß, den die Hoffnung auf ein entferntes, aber stark begehrtes Ziel bereitet? Diese Freude ist die Begleiterin der Arbeit, deren Früchte uns in Zukunft erst zuteil werden sollen. Diese Lust ist ganz unabhängig von der Erreichung des Zieles.

Wenn dann das Ziel erreicht ist, dann kommt zu der Lust des Strebens die der Erfüllung als etwas Neues hinzu. Wer aber sagen wollte: zur Unlust durch ein nichtbefriedigtes Ziel kommt auch noch die über die getäuschte Hoffnung und mache zuletzt die Unlust an der Nichterfüllung doch größer, als die etwaige Lust an der Erfüllung, dem ist zu erwidern: es kann auch das Gegenteil der Fall sein; der Rückblick auf den Genuß in der Zeit des unerfüllten Begehrens wird ebenso oft lindernd auf die Unlust durch Nichterfüllung wirken. Wer im Anblicke gescheiterter Hoffnungen ausruft: Ich habe das Meinige getan! der ist ein Beweisobjekt für diese Behauptung. Das beseligende Gefühl, nach Kräften das Beste gewollt zu haben, übersehen diejenigen, welche an jedes nichterfüllte Begehren die Behauptung knüpfen, daß nicht nur allein die Freude an der Erfüllung ausgeblieben, sondern auch der Genuß des Begehrens selbst zerstört ist.

Erfüllung eines Begehrens ruft Lust und Nichterfüllung eines solchen Unlust hervor. Daraus darf nicht geschlossen werden: Lust ist Befriedigung eines Begehrens, Unlust Nichtbefriedigung. Sowohl Lust wie Unlust können sich in einem Wesen einstellen, auch ohne daß sie Folgen eines Begehrens sind. Krankheit ist Unlust, der kein Begehren vorausgeht. Wer behaupten wollte: Krankheit sei unbefriedigtes Begehren nach Gesundheit, der beginge den Fehler, daß er den selbstverständlichen und nicht zum Bewußtsein gebrachten Wunsch, nicht krank zu werden, für ein positives Begehren hielte. Wenn jemand von einem reichen Verwandten; von dessen Existenz er nicht die geringste Ahnung hatte, eine Erbschaft macht, so erfüllt ihn diese Tatsache ohne vorangegangenes Begehren mit Lust.

Wer also untersuchen will, ob auf Seite der Lust oder der Unlust ein Überschuß zu finden ist, der muß in Rechnung bringen: die Lust am Begehren, die an der Erfüllung des Begehrens, und diejenige, die uns unerstrebt zuteil wird. Auf die andere Seite des Kontobuches wird zu stehen kommen: Unlust aus Langeweile, solche aus nicht erfülltem Streben, und endlich solche, die ohne unser Begehren an uns herantritt. Zu der letzteren Gattung gehört auch die Unlust, die uns aufgedrängte, nicht selbst gewählte Arbeit verursacht.

Nun entsteht die Frage: welches ist das rechte Mittel, um aus diesem Soll und Haben die Bilanz zu erhalten? Eduard von Hartmann ist der Meinung, daß es die abwägende Vernunft ist. Er sagt zwar (Philosophie des Unbewußten, 7. Auflage 11. Band, S. 290): «Schmerz und Lust sind nur, insofern sie empfunden werden.» Hieraus folgt, daß es für die Lust keinen andern Maßstab gibt als den subjektiven des Gefühles. Ich muß empfinden, ob die Summe meiner Unlustgefühle zusammengestellt mit meinen Lustgefühlen in mir einen Überschuß von Freude oder Schmerz ergibt. Dessen ungeachtet behauptet Hartmann: «Wenn …der Lebenswert jedes Wesens nur nach seinem eigenen subjektiven Maßstäbe in Anschlag gebracht werden kann …, so ist doch damit keineswegs gesagt, daß jedes Wesen aus den sämtlichen Affektionen seines Lebens die richtige algebraische Summe ziehe, oder mit anderen Worten, daß sein Gesamturteil über sein eigenes Leben ein in bezug auf seine subjektiven Erlebnisse richtiges sei.» Damit wird doch wieder die vernunftgemäße Beurteilung des Gefühles zum Wertschätzer gemacht. (1)

Wer sich der Vorstellungsrichtung solcher Denker wie Eduard von Hartmann mehr oder weniger genau anschließt, der kann glauben, er müsse, um zu einer richtigen Bewertung des Lebens zu kommen, die Faktoren aus dem Wege räumen, die unser Urteil über die Lust- und Unlustbilanz verfälschen. Er kann das auf zwei Wegen zu erreichen suchen. Erstens indem er nachweist, daß unser Begehren (Trieb, Wille) sich störend in unsere nüchterne Beurteilung des Gefühlswertes einmischt. Während wir uns zum Beispiel sagen müßten, daß der Geschlechtsgenuß eine Quelle des Übels ist, verführt uns der Umstand, daß der Geschlechtstrieb in uns mächtig ist, dazu, uns eine Lust vorzugaukeln, die in dem Maße gar nicht da ist. Wir wollen genießen; deshalb gestehen wir uns nicht, daß wir unter dem Genusse leiden. Zweitens indem er die Gefühle einer Kritik unterwirft und nachzuweisen sucht, daß die Gegenstände, an die sich die Gefühle knüpfen, vor der Vernunfterkenntnis sich als Illusionen erweisen, und daß sie in dem Augenblicke zerstört werden, wenn unsere stets wachsende Intelligenz die Illusionen durchschaut.

Er kann sich die Sache folgendermaßen denken. Wenn ein Ehrgeiziger sich darüber klar werden will, ob bis zu dem Augenblicke, in dem er seine Betrachtung anstellt, die Lust oder die Unlust den überwiegenden Anteil an seinem Leben gehabt hat, dann muß er sich von zwei Fehlerquellen bei seiner Beurteilung frei machen. Da er ehrgeizig ist, wird dieser Grundzug seines Charakters ihm die Freuden über Anerkennung seiner Leistungen durch ein Vergrößerungsglas, die Kränkungen durch Zurücksetzungen aber durch ein Verkleinerungsglas zeigen. Damals, als er die Zurücksetzungen erfuhr, fühlte er die Kränkungen, gerade weil er ehrgeizig ist; in der Erinnerung erscheinen sie in milderem Lichte, während sich die Freuden über Anerkennungen, für die er so zugänglich ist, um so tiefer einprägen. Nun ist es zwar für den Ehrgeizigen eine wahre Wohltat, daß es so ist. Die Täuschung vermindert sein Unlustgefühl in dem Augenblicke der Selbstbeobachtung. Dennoch ist seine Beurteilung eine falsche. Die Leiden, über die sich ihm ein Schleier breitet, hat er wirklich durchmachen müssen in ihrer ganzen Stärke, und er setzt sie somit in das Kontobuch seines Lebens tatsächlich falsch ein. Um zu einem richtigen Urteile zu kommen, müßte der Ehrgeizige für den Moment seiner Betrachtung sich seines Ehrgeizes entledigen. Er müßte ohne Gläser vor seinem geistigen Auge sein bisher abgelaufenes Leben betrachten. Er gleicht sonst dem Kaufmanne, der beim Abschluß seiner Bücher seinen Geschäftseifer mit auf die Einnahmeseite setzt.

Er kann aber noch weiter gehen. Er kann sagen: Der Ehrgeizige wird sich auch klarmachen, daß die Anerkennungen, nach denen er jagt, wertlose Dinge sind. Er wird selbst zur Einsicht kommen, oder von andern dazu gebracht werden, daß einem vernünftigen Menschen an der Anerkennung von seiten der Menschen nichts liegen könne, da man ja «in allen solchen Sachen, die nicht Lebensfragen der Entwicklung, oder gar von der Wissenschaft schon endgültig gelöst sind», immer darauf schwören kann, «daß die Majoritäten unrecht und die Minoritäten recht haben». «Einem solchen Urteile gibt derjenige sein Lebensglück in die Hände, welcher den Ehrgeiz zu seinem Leitstern macht.» (Philosophie des Unbewußten, 11. Band, S. 332.) Wenn sich der Ehrgeizige das alles sagt, dann muß er als eine Illusion bezeichnen, was ihm sein Ehrgeiz als Wirklichkeit vorgestellt hat, folglich auch die Gefühle, die sich an die entsprechenden Illusionen seines Ehrgeizes knüpfen. Aus diesem Grunde könnte dann gesagt werden: es muß auch noch das aus dem Konto der Lebenswerte gestrichen werden, was sich an Lustgefühlen aus Illusionen ergibt; was dann übrig bleibt, stelle die illusionsfreie

Lustsumme des Lebens dar, und diese sei gegen die Unlustsumme so klein, daß das Leben kein Genuß, und Nichtsein dem Sein vorzuziehen sei.

Aber während es unmittelbar einleuchtend ist, daß die durch Einmischung des ehrgeizigen Triebes bewirkte Täuschung bei Aufstellung der Lustbilanz ein falsches Resultat bewirkt, muß das von der Erkenntnis des illusorischen Charakters der Gegenstände der Lust Gesagte jedoch bestritten werden. Ein Ausscheiden aller an wirkliche oder vermeintliche Illusionen sich knüpfenden Lustgefühle von der Lustbilanz des Lebens würde die letztere geradezu verfälschen. Denn der Ehrgeizige hat über die Anerkennung der Menge wirklich seine Freude gehabt, ganz gleichgültig, ob er selbst später, oder ein anderer diese Anerkennung als Illusion erkennt. Damit wird die genossene freudige Empfindung nicht um das geringste kleiner gemacht. Die Ausscheidung aller solche «illusorischen» Gefühle aus der Lebensbilanz stellt nicht etwa unser Urteil über die Gefühle richtig, sondern löscht wirklich vorhandene Gefühle aus dem Leben aus.

Und warum sollen diese Gefühle ausgeschieden werden? Wer sie hat, bei dem sind sie eben lustbereitend; wer sie überwunden hat, bei dem tritt durch das Erlebnis der Überwindung (nicht durch die selbstgefällige Empfindung: Was bin ich doch für ein Mensch! – sondern durch die objektiven Lustquellen, die in der Überwindung liegen) eine allerdings vergeistigte, aber darum nicht minder bedeutsame Lust ein. Wenn Gefühle aus der Lustbilanz gestrichen werden, weil sie sich an Gegenstände heften, die sich als Illusionen entpuppen, so wird der Wert des Lebens nicht von der Menge der Lust, sondern von der Qualität der Lust und diese von dem Werte der die Lust verursachenden Dinge abhängig gemacht. Wenn ich den Wert des Lebens aber erst aus der Menge der Lust oder Unlust bestimmen will, das es mir bringt, dann darf ich nicht etwas anderes voraussetzen, wodurch ich erst wieder den Wert oder Unwert der Lust bestimme. Wenn ich sage: ich will die Lustmenge mit der Unlustmenge vergleichen und sehen, welche größer ist, dann muß ich auch alle Lust und Unlust in ihren wirklichen Größen in Rechnung bringen, ganz abgesehen davon, ob ihnen eine Illusion zugrunde liegt oder nicht. Wer einer auf Illusion beruhenden Lust einen geringeren Wert für das Leben zuschreibt, als einer solchen, die sich vor der Vernunft rechtfertigen läßt, der macht eben den Wert des Lebens noch von anderen Faktoren abhängig als von der Lust.

Wer die Lust deshalb geringer veranschlägt, weil sie sich an einen eitlen Gegenstand knüpft, der gleicht einem Kaufmanne, der das bedeutende Erträgnis einer Spielwarenfabrik deshalb mit dem Viertel des Betrages in sein Konto einsetzt, weil in derselben Gegenstände zur Tändelei für Kinder produziert werden.

Wenn es sich bloß darum handelt, die Lust- und Unlustmenge gegeneinander abzuwägen, dann ist also der illusorische Charakter der Gegenstände gewisser Lustempfindungen völlig aus dem Spiele zu lassen.

Der von Hartmann empfohlene Weg vernünftiger Betrachtung der vom Leben erzeugten Lust- und Unlustmenge hat uns also bisher so weit geführt, daß wir wissen, wie wir die Rechnung aufzustellen haben, was wir auf die eine, was auf die andere Seite unseres Kontobuches zu setzen haben. Wie soll aber nun die Rechnung gemacht werden? Ist die Vernunft auch geeignet, die Bilanz zu bestimmen?

Der Kaufmann hat in seiner Rechnung einen Fehler gemacht, wenn der berechnete Gewinn sich mit den durch das Geschäft nachweislich genossenen oder noch zu genießenden Gütern nicht deckt. Auch der Philosoph wird unbedingt einen Fehler in seiner Beurteilung gemacht haben, wenn er den etwa ausgeklügelten Überschuß an Lust beziehungsweise Unlust in der Empfindung nicht nachweisen kann. Ich will vorläufig die Rechnung der auf vernunftgemäße Weltbetrachtung sich stützenden Pessimisten nicht kontrollieren; wer aber sich entscheiden soll, ob er das Lebensgeschäft weiterführen soll oder nicht, der wird erst den Nachweis verlangen, wo der berechnete Überschuß an Unlust steckt.

Hiermit haben wir den Punkt berührt, wo die Vernunft nicht in der Lage ist, den Überschuß an Lust oder Unlust allein von sich aus zu bestimmen, sondern wo sie diesen Überschuß im Leben als Wahrnehmung zeigen muß. Nicht in dem Begriff allein, sondern in dem durch das Denken vermittelten Ineinandergreifen von Begriff und Wahrnehmung (und Gefühl ist Wahrnehmung) ist dem Menschen das Wirkliche erreichbar. Der Kaufmann wird ja auch sein Geschäft erst dann aufgeben, wenn der von seinem Buchhalter berechnete Verlust an Gütern sich durch die Tatsachen bestätigt. Wenn das nicht der Fall ist, dann läßt er den Buchhalter die Rechnung nochmals machen. Genau in derselben Weise wird es der im Leben stehende Mensch machen. Wenn der Philosoph ihm beweisen will, daß die Unlust weit größer ist als die Lust, er jedoch das nicht empfindet, dann wird er sagen: du hast dich in deinem Grübeln geirrt, denke die Sache nochmals durch. Sind aber in einem Geschäfte zu einem bestimmten Zeitpunkte wirklich solche Verluste vorhanden, daß kein Kredit mehr ausreicht, um die Gläubiger zu befriedigen, so tritt auch dann der Bankerott ein, wenn der Kaufmann es vermeidet, durch Führung der Bücher Klarheit über seine Angelegenheiten zu haben. Ebenso müßte es, wenn das Unlustquantum bei einem Menschen in einem bestimmten Zeitpunkte so groß würde, daß keine Hoffnung (Kredit) auf künftige Lust ihn über den Schmerz hinwegsetzen könnte, zum Bankerott des Lebensgeschäftes führen.

Nun ist aber die Zahl der Selbstmörder doch eine relativ geringe im Verhältnis zu der Menge derjenigen, die mutig weiterleben. Die wenigsten Menschen stellen das Lebensgeschäft der vorhandenen Unlust willen ein. Was folgt daraus? Entweder, daß es nicht richtig ist, zu sagen, die Unlustmenge sei größer als die Lustmenge, oder daß wir unser Weiterleben gar nicht von der empfundenen Lust- oder Unlustmenge abhängig machen.

Auf eine ganz eigenartige Weise kommt der Pessimismus Eduard von Hartmanns dazu, das Leben wertlos zu erklären, weil darinnen der Schmerz überwiegt, und doch die Notwendigkeit zu behaupten, es durchzumachen. Diese Notwendigkeit liegt darin, daß der oben (S. 207 f.) angegebene Weltzweck nur durch rastlose, hingebungsvolle Arbeit der Menschen erreicht werden kann. Solange aber die Menschen noch ihren egoistischen Gelüsten nachgehen, sind sie zu solcher selbstlosen Arbeit untauglich. Erst wenn sie sich durch Erfahrung und Vernunft überzeugt haben, daß die vom Egoismus erstrebten Lebensgenüsse nicht erlangt werden können, widmen sie sich ihrer eigentlichen Aufgabe. Auf diese Weise soll die pessimistische Überzeugung der Quell der Selbstlosigkeit sein. Eine Erziehung auf Grund des Pessimismus soll den Egoismus dadurch ausrotten, daß sie ihm seine Aussichtslosigkeit vor Augen stellt.

Nach dieser Ansicht liegt also das Streben nach Lust ursprünglich in der Menschennatur begründet. Nur aus Einsicht in die Unmöglichkeit der Erfüllung dankt dieses Streben zugunsten höherer Menschheitsaufgaben ab.

Von der sittlichen Weltanschauung, die von der Anerkennung des Pessimismus die Hingabe an unegoistische Lebensziele erhofft, kann nicht gesagt werden, daß sie den Egoismus im wahren Sinne des Wortes überwinde. Die sittlichen Ideale sollen erst dann stark genug sein, sich des Willens zu mächtigen, wenn der Mensch eingesehen hat, daß das selbstsüchtige Streben nach Lust zu keiner Befriedigung führen kann. Der Mensch, dessen Selbstsucht nach den Trauben der Lust begehrt, findet sie sauer, weil er sie nicht er- reichen kann: er geht von ihnen und widmet sich einem selbstlosen Lebenswandel. Die sittlichen Ideale sind, nach der Meinung der Pessimisten, nicht stark genug, den Egoismus zu überwinden; aber sie errichten ihre Herrschaft auf dem Boden, den ihnen vorher die Erkenntnis von der Aussichtslosigkeit der Selbstsucht frei gemacht hat.

Wenn die Menschen ihrer Naturanlage nach die Lust erstrebten, sie aber unmöglich erreichen können, dann wäre Vernichtung des Daseins und Erlösung durch das Nichtsein das einzig vernünftige Ziel. Und wenn man der Ansicht ist, daß der eigentliche Träger des Weltschmerzes Gott sei, so müßten die Menschen es sich zur Aufgabe machen, die Erlösung Gottes herbeizuführen. Durch den Selbstmord des einzelnen wird die Erreichung dieses Zieles nicht gefördert, sondern beeinträchtigt. Gott kann vernünftigerweise die Menschen nur geschaffen haben, damit sie durch ihr Handeln seine Erlösung herbeiführen. Sonst wäre die Schöpfung zwecklos. Und an außermenschliche Zwecke denkt eine solche Weltansicht. Jeder muß in dem allgemeinen Erlösungswerke seine bestimmte Arbeit verrichten. Entzieht er sich derselben durch den Selbstmord, so muß die ihm zugedachte Arbeit von einem andern verrichtet werden. Dieser muß statt ihm die Daseinsqual ertragen. Und da in jedem Wesen Gott steckt als der eigentliche Schmerzträger, so hat der Selbstmörder die Menge des Gottesschmerzes nicht im geringsten vermindert, vielmehr Gott die neue Schwierigkeit auferlegt, für ihn einen Ersatzmann zu schaffen.

Dies alles setzt voraus, daß die Lust ein Wertmaßstab für das Leben sei. Das Leben äußert sich durch eine Summe von Trieben (Bedürfnissen). Wenn der Wert des Lebens davon abhinge, ob es mehr Lust oder Unlust bringt, dann ist der Trieb als wertlos zu bezeichnen, der seinem Träger einen Überschuß der letzteren einträgt. Wir wollen einmal Trieb und Lust daraufhin ansehen, ob der erste durch die zweite gemessen werden kann. Um nicht den Verdacht zu erwecken, das Leben erst mit der Sphäre der «Geistesaristokratie» anfangen zu lassen, beginnen wir mit einem «rein tierischen» Bedürfnis, dem Hunger.

Der Hunger entsteht, wenn unsere Organe ohne neue Stoffzufuhr nicht weiter ihrem Wesen gemäß funktionieren können. Was der Hungrige zunächst erstrebt, ist die Sättigung. Sobald die Nahrungszufuhr in dem Maße erfolgt ist, daß der Hunger aufhört, ist alles erreicht, was der Ernährungstrieb erstrebt. Der Genuß, der sich an die Sättigung knüpft, besteht fürs erste in der Beseitigung des Schmerzes, den der Hunger bereitet. Zu dem bloßen Ernährungstriebe tritt ein anderes Bedürfnis. Der Mensch will durch die Nahrungsaufnahme nicht bloß seine gestörten Organfunktionen wieder in Ordnung bringen, beziehungsweise den Schinerz des Hungers überwinden: er sucht dies auch unter Begleitung angenehmer Geschmacksempfindungen zu bewerkstelligen. Er kann sogar, wenn er Hunger hat und eine halbe Stunde vor einer genußreichen Mahlzeit steht, es vermeiden, durch minderwertige Kost, die ihn früher befriedigen könnte, sich die Lust für das Bessere zu verderben. Er braucht den Hunger, um von seiner Mahlzeit den vollen Genuß zu haben. Dadurch wird ihm der Hunger zugleich zum Veranlasser der Lust. Wenn nun aller in der Welt vorhandene Hunger gestillt werden könnte, dann ergäbe sich die volle Genußmenge, die dem Vorhandensein des Nahrungsbedürfnisses zu verdanken ist. Hinzuzurechnen wäre noch der besondere Genuß, den Leckermäuler durch eine über das Gewöhnliche hinausgehende Kultur ihrer Geschmacksnerven erzielen.

Den denkbar größten Wert hätte diese Genußmenge, wenn kein auf die in Betracht kommende Genußart hinzielendes Bedürfnis unbefriedigt bliebe, und wenn mit dem Genuß nicht zugleich eine gewisse Menge Unlust in den Kauf genommen werden müßte.

Die moderne Naturwissenschaft ist der Ansicht, daß die Natur mehr Leben erzeugt, als sie erhalten kann, das heißt, auch mehr Hunger hervorbringt, als sie zu befriedigen in der Lage ist. Der Überschuß an Leben, der erzeugt wird, muß unter Schmerzen im Kampf ums Dasein zugrunde gehen. Zugegeben: die Lebensbedürfnisse seien in jedem Augenblicke des Weltgeschehens größer, als den vorhandenen Befriedigungsmitteln entspricht, und der Lebensgenuß werde dadurch beeinträchtigt. Der wirklich vorhandene einzelne Lebensgenuß wird aber nicht um das geringste kleiner gemacht. Wo Befriedigung des Begehrens eintritt, da ist die entsprechende Genußmenge vorhanden, auch wenn es in dem begehrenden Wesen selbst oder in andern daneben eine reiche Zahl unbefriedigter Triebe gibt. Was aber dadurch vermindert wird, ist der Wert des Lebensgenusses. Wenn nur ein Teil der Bedürfnisse eines Lebewesens Befriedigung findet, so hat dieses einen dementsprechenden Genuß. Dieser hat einen um so geringeren Wert, je kleiner er ist im Verhältnis zur Gesamtforderung des Lebens im Gebiete der in Frage kommenden Begierden. Man kann sich diesen Wert durch einen Bruch dargestellt denken, dessen Zähler der wirklich vorhandene Genuß und dessen Nenner die Bedürfnissumme ist. Der Bruch hat den Wert 1, wenn Zähler und Nenner gleich sind, das heißt, wenn alle Bedürfnisse auch befriedigt werden. Er wird größer als 1, wenn in einem Lebewesen mehr Lust vorhanden ist, als seine Begierden fordern; und er ist kleiner als 1, wenn die Genußmenge hinter der Summe der Begierden zurückbleibt. Der Bruch kann aber nie Null werden, solange der Zähler auch nur den geringsten Wert hat. Wenn ein Mensch vor seinem Tode den Rechnungsabschluß machte, und die auf einen bestimmten Trieb (zum Beispiel den Hunger) kommende Menge des Genusses sich über das ganze Leben mit allen Forderungen dieses Triebes verteilt dächte, so hätte die erlebte Lust vielleicht nur einen geringen Wert; wertlos aber kann sie nie werden. Bei gleichbleibender Genußmenge nimmt mit der Vermehrung der Bedürfnisse eines Lebewesens der Wert der Lebenslust ab. Ein gleiches gilt für die Summe alles Lebens in der Natur. Je größer die Zahl der Lebewesen ist im Verhältnis zu der Zahl derer, die volle Befriedigung ihrer Triebe finden können, desto geringer ist der durchschnittliche Lustwert des Lebens. Die Wechsel auf den Lebensgenuß, die uns in unseren Trieben ausgestellt sind, werden eben billiger, wenn man nicht hoffen kann, sie für den vollen Betrag einzulösen. Wenn ich drei Tage lang genug zu essen habe und dafür dann weitere drei Tage hungern muß, so wird der Genuß an den drei Eßtagen dadurch nicht geringer. Aber ich muß mir ihn dann auf sechs Tage verteilt denken, wodurch sein Wert für meinen Ernährungstrieb auf die Hälfte herabgemindert wird. Ebenso verhält es sich mit der Größe der Lust im Verhältnis zum Grade meines Bedürfnisses. denn ich Hunger für zwei Butterbrote habe, und nur eines bekommen kann, so hat der aus dem einen gezogene Genuß nur die Hälfte des Wertes, den er haben würde, wenn ich nach der Aufzehrung satt wäre. Dies ist die Art, wie im geben der Wert einer Lust bestimmt wird. Sie wird bemessen an den Bedürfnissen des Lebens. Unsere Begierden sind der Maßstab; die Lust ist das Gemessene. Der Sättigungsgenuß erhält nur dadurch einen Wert, daß Hunger vorhanden ist; und er erhält einen Wert von bestimmter Größe durch das Verhältnis, in dem er zu der Größe des vorhandenen Hungers steht.

Unerfüllte Forderungen unseres Lebens werfen ihre Schatten auch auf die befriedigten Begierden und beeinträchtigen den Wert genußreicher Stunden. Man kann aber auch von dem gegenwärtigen Wert eines Lustgefühles sprechen. Dieser Wert ist um so geringer, je kleiner die Lust im Verhältnis zur Dauer und Stärke unserer Begierde ist.

Vollen Wert hat für uns eine Lustmenge, die an Dauer und Grad genau mit unserer Begierde übereinstimmt. Eine genuiner unserem Begehren kleinere Lustmenge vermindert den Lustwert; eine größere erzeugt einen nicht verlangten Überschuß, der nur so lange als Lust empfunden wird, als wir während des Genießens unsere Begierde zu steigern vermögen. Sind wir nicht imstande, in der Steigerung unseres Verlangens mit der zunehmenden Lust gleichen Schritt zu halten, so verwandelt sich die Lust in Unlust. Der Gegenstand, der uns sonst befriedigen würde, stürmt auf uns ein, ohne daß wir es wollen, und wir leiden darunter. Dies ist ein Beweis dafür, daß die Lust nur so lange für uns einen Wert hat, als wir sie an unserer Begierde messen können. Ein Übermaß von angenehmem Gefühl schlägt in Schmerz um. Wir können das besonders bei Menschen beobachten, deren Verlangen nach irgendeiner Art von Lust sehr gering ist. Leuten, deren Nahrungstrieb abgestumpft ist, wird das Essen leicht zum Ekel. Auch daraus geht hervor, daß die Begierde der Wertmesser der Lust ist.

Nun kann der Pessimismus sagen: der unbefriedigte Nahrungstrieb bringe nicht nur die Unlust über den entbehrten Genuß, sondern positive Schmerzen, Qual und Elend in die Welt. Er kann sich hierbei berufen auf das namenlose Elend der von Nahrungssorgen heimgesuchten Menschen; auf die Summe von Unlust, die solchen Menschen mittelbar aus dem Nahrungsmangel erwächst. Und wenn er seine Behauptung auch auf die außermenschliche Natur anwenden will, kann er hinweisen auf die Qualen der Tiere, die in gewissen Jahreszeiten aus Nahrungsmangel verhungern. Von diesen Übeln behauptet der Pessimist, daß sie die durch den Nahrungstrieb in die Welt gesetzte Genußmenge reichlich überwiegen.

Es ist ja zweifellos, daß man Lust und Unlust miteinander vergleichen und den Überschuß der einen oder der andern bestimmen kann, wie das bei Gewinn und Verlust geschieht. Wenn aber der Pessimismus glaubt, daß auf Seite der Unlust sich ein Überschuß ergibt, und er daraus auf die Wertlosigkeit des Lebens schließen zu können meint, so ist er schon insofern im Irrtum, als er eine Rechnung macht, die im wirklichen Leben nicht ausgeführt wird.

Unsere Begierde richtet sich im einzelnen Falle auf einen bestimmten Gegenstand. Der Lustwert der Befriedigung wird, wie wir gesehen haben, um so größer sein, je größer die Lustmenge im Verhältnis zur Größe unseres Begehrens ist. (2) Von der Größe unseres Begehrens hängt es aber auch ab, wie groß die Menge der Unlust ist, die wir mit in Kauf nehmen wollen, um die Lust zu erreichen. Wir vergleichen die Menge der Unlust nicht mit der der Lust, sondern mit der Größe unserer Begierde. Wer große Freude am Essen hat, der wird wegen des Genusses in besseren Zeiten sich leichter über eine Periode des Hungers hinweghelfen, als ein anderer, dem diese Freude an der Befriedigung des Nahrungstriebes fehlt. Das Weib, das ein Kind haben will, vergleicht nicht die Lust, die ihm aus dessen Besitz erwächst, mit den Unlustmengen, die aus Schwangerschaft, Kindbett, Kinderpflege und so weiter sich ergeben, sondern mit seiner Begierde nach dem Besitz des Kindes.

Wir erstreben niemals eine abstrakte Lust von bestimmter Größe, sondern die konkrete Befriedigung in einer ganz bestimmten Weise. Wenn wir nach einer Lust streben, die durch einen bestimmten Gegenstand oder eine bestimmte Empfindung befriedigt werden muß, so können wir nicht dadurch befriedigt werden, daß uns ein anderer Gegenstand oder eine andere Empfindung zuteil wird, die uns eine Lust von gleicher Größe bereitet. Wer nach Sättigung strebt, dem kann man die Lust an derselben nicht durch eine gleich große, aber durch einen Spaziergang erzeugte ersetzen. Nur wenn unsere Begierde ganz allgemein nach einem bestimmten Lustquantum strebte, dann müßte sie sofort verstummen, wenn diese Lust nicht ohne ein sie an Größe überragendes Unlustquantum zu erreichen wäre. Da aber die Befriedigung auf eine bestimmte Art erstrebt wird, so tritt die Lust mit der Erfüllung auch dann ein, wenn mit ihr eine sie überwiegende Unlust in Kauf genommen werden muß. Dadurch, daß sich die Triebe der Lebewesen in einer bestimmten Richtung bewegen und auf ein konkretes Ziel losgehen, hört die Möglichkeit auf, die auf dem Wege zu diesem Ziele sich entgegenstellende Unlustmenge als gleichgeltenden Faktor mit in Rechnung zu bringen. Wenn die Begierde nur stark genug ist, um nach Überwindung der Unlust – und sei sie absolut genommen noch so groß – noch in irgendeinem Grade vorhanden zu sein, so kann die Lust an der Befriedigung doch noch in voller Größe durchgerostet werden. Die Begierde bringt also die Unlust nicht direkt in Beziehung zu der erreichten Lust, sondern indirekt, indem sie ihre eigene Größe (im Verhältnis) zu der der Unlust in eine Beziehung bringt. Nicht darum handelt es sich, ob die zu erreichende Lust oder Unlust größer ist, sondern darum, ob die Begierde nach dem erstrebten Ziele oder der Widerstand der entgegentretenden Unlust größer ist. Ist dieser Widerstand größer als die Begierde, dann ergibt sich die letztere in das Unvermeidliche, erlahmt und strebt nicht weiter. Dadurch, daß Befriedigung in einer bestimmten Art verlangt wird, gewinnt die mit ihr zusammenhängende Lust eine Bedeutung, die es ermöglicht, nach eingetretener Befriedigung das notwendige Unlustquantum nur insofern in die Rechnung einzustellen, als es das Maß unserer Begierde verringert hat. Wenn ich ein leidenschaftlicher Freund von Fernsichten bin, so berechne ich niemals: wieviel Lust macht mir der Blick von dem Berggipfel aus, direkt verglichen mit der Unlust des mühseligen Auf- und Abstiegs. Ich überlege aber: ob nach Überwindung der Schwierigkeiten meine Begierde nach der Fernsicht noch lebhaft genug sein wird. Nur mittelbar durch die Größe der Begierde können Lust und Unlust zusammen ein Ergebnis liefern. Es fragt sich also gar nicht, ob Lust oder Unlust im Übermaße vorhanden ist, sondern ob das Wollen der Lust stark genug ist, die Unlust zu überwinden.

Ein Beweis für die Richtigkeit dieser Behauptung ist der Umstand, daß der Wert der Lust höher angeschlagen wird, wenn sie durch große Unlust erkauft werden muß, als dann, wenn sie uns gleichsam wie ein Geschenk des Himmels in den Schoß fällt. Wenn Leiden und Qualen unsere Begierde herabgestimmt haben, und dann das Ziel doch noch erreicht wird, dann ist eben die Lust im Verhältnis zu dem noch übriggebliebenen Quantum der Begierde um so größer. Dieses Verhältnis stellt aber, wie ich gezeigt habe, den Wert der Lust dar. Ein weiterer Beweis ist dadurch gegeben, daß die Lebewesen (einschließlich des Menschen) ihre Triebe so lange zur Entfaltung bringen, als sie imstande sind, die entgegenstehenden Schmerzen und Qualen zu er- tragen. Und der Kampf ums Dasein ist nur die Folge dieser Tatsache. Das vorhandene Leben strebt nach Entfaltung, und nur derjenige Teil gibt den Kampf auf, dessen Begierden durch die Gewalt der sich auftürmenden Schwierigkeiten erstickt werden. Jedes Lebewesen sucht so lange nach Nahrung, bis der Nahrungsmangel sein Leben zerstört. Und auch der Mensch legt erst Hand an sich selber, wenn er (mit Recht oder Unrecht) glaubt, die ihm erstrebenswerten Lebensziele nicht erreichen zu können. Solange er aber noch an die Möglichkeit glaubt, das nach seiner Ansicht Erstrebenswerte zu erreichen, kämpft er gegen alle Qualen und Schmerzen an. Die Philosophie müßte dem Menschen erst

die Meinung beibringen, daß Wollen nur dann einen Sinn hat, wenn die Lust größer als die Unlust ist; seiner Natur nach will er die Gegenstände seines Begehrens erreichen, wenn er die dabei notwendig werdende Unlust ertragen kann, sei sie dann auch noch so groß. Eine solche Philosophie wäre aber irrtümlich, weil sie das menschliche Wollen von einem Umstande abhängig macht (Überschuß der Lust über die Unlust), der dem Menschen ursprünglich fremd ist. Der ursprüngliche Maßstab des Wollens ist die Begierde, und diese setzt sich durch, solange sie kann. Man kann die Rechnung, welche das Leben, nicht eine verstandesmäßige Philosophie, anstellt, wenn Lust und Unlust bei Befriedigung eines Begehrens in Frage kommen, mit dem folgenden vergleichen. Wenn ich gezwungen bin, beim Einkaufe eines bestimmten Quantums Apfel doppelt so viele schlechte als gute mitzunehmen – weil der Verkäufer seinen Platz frei bekommen will – so werde ich mich keinen Moment besinnen, die schlechten Apfel mitzunehmen, wenn ich den Wert der geringeren Menge guter für mich so hoch veranschlagen darf, daß ich zu dem Kaufpreis auch noch die Auslagen für Hinwegschaffung der schlechten Ware auf mich nehmen will. Dies Beispiel veranschaulicht die Beziehung zwischen den durch einen Trieb bereiteten Lust- und Unlustmengen. Ich bestimme den Wert der guten Apfel nicht dadurch, daß ich ihre Summe von der der schlechten subtrahiere, sondern danach, ob die ersteren trotz des Vorhandenseins der letzteren noch einen Wert behalten.

Ebenso wie ich bei dem Genuß der guten Apfel die schlechten unberücksichtigt lasse, so gebe ich mich der Befriedigung einer Begierde hin, nachdem ich die notwendigen Qualen abgeschüttelt habe.

Wenn der Pessimismus auch recht hätte mit seiner Behauptung, daß in der Welt mehr Unlust als Lust vorhanden ist: auf das Wollen wäre das ohne Einfluß, denn die Lebewesen streben nach der übrigbleibenden Lust doch. Der empirische Nachweis, daß der Schmerz die Freude überwiegt, wäre, wenn er gelänge, zwar geeignet, die Aussichtslosigkeit jener philosophischen Richtung zu zeigen, die den Wert des Lebens in dem Überschuß der Lust sieht (Eudämonismus), nicht aber das Wollen überhaupt als unvernünftig hinzustellen; denn dieses geht nicht auf einen Überschuß von Lust, sondern auf die nach Abzug der Unlust noch übrigbleibende Lustmenge. Diese erscheint noch immer als ein erstrebenswertes Ziel.

Man hat den Pessimismus dadurch zu widerlegen versucht, daß man behauptete, es sei unmöglich, den Überschuß von Lust oder Unlust in der Welt auszurechnen. Die Möglichkeit einer jeden Berechnung beruht darauf, daß die in Rechnung zu stellenden Dinge ihrer Größe nach miteinander verglichen werden können. Nun hat jede Unlust und jede Lust eine bestimmte Größe (Stärke und Dauer). Auch Lustempfindungen verschiedener Art können wir ihrer Größe nach wenigstens schätzungsweise vergleichen. Wir wissen, ob uns eine gute Zigarre oder ein guter Witz mehr Vergnügen macht Gegen die Vergleichbarkeit verschiedener Lust- und Unlustsorten, ihrer Größe nach, läßt sich somit nichts einwenden. Und der Forscher, der es sich zur Aufgabe macht, den Lust- oder Unlustüberschuß in der Welt zu bestimmen, geht von durchaus berechtigten Voraussetzungen aus. Man kann die Irrtümlichkeit der pessimistischen Resultate behaupten, aber man darf die Möglichkeit einer wissenschaftlichen Abschätzung der Lust- und Unlustmengen und damit die Bestimmung der Lustbilanz nicht anzweifeln. Unrichtig aber ist es, wenn behauptet wird, daß aus dem Ergebnisse dieser Rechnung für das menschliche Wollen etwas folge. Die Fälle, wo wir den Wert unserer Betätigung wirklich davon abhängig machen, ob die Lust oder die Unlust einen Überschuß zeigt, sind die, in denen uns die Gegenstände, auf die unser Tun sich richtet, gleichgültig sind. Wenn es sich mir darum handelt, nach meiner Arbeit mir ein Vergnügen durch ein Spiel oder eine leichte Unterhaltung zu bereiten, und es mir völlig gleichgültig ist, was ich zu diesem Zwecke tue, so frage ich mich: was bringt mir den größten Überschuß an Lust? Und ich unterlasse eine Betätigung unbedingt, wenn sich die Waage nach der Unlustseite hin neigt. Bei einem Kinde, dem wir ein Spielzeug kaufen wollen, denken wir bei der Wahl nach, was ihm die meiste Freude bereitet. In allen anderen Fällen bestimmen wir uns nicht ausschließlich nach der Lustbilanz.

13. The Value of Life (Optimism and Pessimism) – 2

Therefore, if the pessimists believe that by showing pain to be present in greater quantity than pleasure they are preparing the ground for unselfish devotion to the work of civilisation, they forget that the human will, by its very nature, does not allow itself to be influenced by this knowledge. Human striving is directed towards the measure of satisfaction that is possible after all difficulties are overcome. Hope of such satisfaction is the foundation of all human activity. The work of every individual and of the whole of civilisation springs from this hope. Pessimistic ethics believes that it must present the pursuit of happiness as an impossibility for man in order that he may devote himself to his proper moral tasks. But these moral tasks are nothing but the concrete natural and spiritual instincts; and man strives to satisfy them in spite of the incidental pain.

The pursuit of happiness which the pessimist would eradicate is therefore nowhere to be found. But the tasks which man has to fulfill, he does fulfill, because from the very nature of his being he wants to fulfill them, once he has properly recognised their nature. Pessimistic ethics declares that only when a man has given up the quest for pleasure can he devote himself to what he recognises as his task in life. But no system of ethics can ever invent any life tasks other than the realisation of the satisfactions that human desires demand and the fulfillment of man’s moral ideals. No ethics can deprive man of the pleasure he experiences in the fulfillment of his desires.

When the pessimist says, “Do not strive for pleasure, for you can never attain it; strive rather for what you recognise to be your task,” we must reply, “But this is just what man does, and the notion that he strives merely for happiness is no more than the invention of an errant philosophy.” He aims at the satisfaction of what he himself desires, and he has in view the concrete objects of his striving, not “happiness” in the abstract; and fulfillment is for him a pleasure. When pessimistic ethics demands, “Strive not for pleasure, but for the attainment of what you see as your life’s task,” it hits on the very thing that man, in his own being, wants.

Man does not need to be turned inside out by philosophy, he does not need to discard his human nature, before he can be moral. Morality lies in striving for a goal that one recognises as justified; it is human nature to pursue it as long as the pain incurred does not inhibit the desire for it altogether. This is the essence of all genuine will. Ethical behaviour is not based upon the eradication of all striving for pleasure to the end that bloodless abstract ideas may establish their dominion unopposed by any strong yearnings for the enjoyment of life, but rather upon a strong will sustained by ideal intuitions, a will that reaches its goal even though the path be thorny.

Moral ideals spring from the moral imagination of man. Their realisation depends on his desire for them being intense enough to overcome pain and misery. They are his intuitions, the driving forces which his spirit harnesses; he wants them, because their realisation is his highest pleasure. He needs no ethics to forbid him to strive for pleasure and then to tell him what he shall strive for. He will strive for moral ideals if his moral imagination is sufficiently active to provide him with intuitions that give his will the strength to make its way against all the obstacles inherent in his constitution, including the pain that is necessarily involved.

If a man strives for sublimely great ideals, it is because they are the content of his own being, and their realisation will bring him a joy compared to which the pleasure that a limited outlook gets from the gratification of commonplace desires is a mere triviality. Idealists revel, spiritually, in the translation of their ideals into reality.

Anyone who would eradicate the pleasure brought by the fulfillment of human desires will first have to make man a slave who acts not because he wants to but only because he must. For the achievement of what one wanted to do gives pleasure. What we call good is not what a man must do but what he will want to do if he develops the true nature of man to the full. Anyone who does not acknowledge this must first drive out of man all that man himself wants to do, and then, from outside, prescribe the content he is to give to his will.

Man values the fulfillment of a desire because the desire springs from his own being. What is achieved has its value because it has been wanted. If we deny any value to what man himself wants, then aims that do have value will have to be found in something that man does not want.

An ethics built on pessimism arises from the disregard of moral imagination. Only if one considers that the individual human spirit is itself incapable of giving content to its striving can one expect the craving for pleasure to account fully for all acts of will. A man without imagination creates no moral ideas. They must be given to him. Physical nature sees to it that he strives to satisfy his lower desires. But the development of the whole man also includes those desires that originate in the spirit.

Only if one believes that man has no such spiritual desires can one declare that he must receive them from without. Then one would also be entitled to say that it is man’s duty to do what he does not want. Every ethical system that demands of man that he should suppress his own will in order to fulfill tasks that he does not want, reckons not with the whole man but with one in which the faculty of spiritual desire is lacking. For a man who is harmoniously developed, the so-called ideals of virtue lie, not without, but within the sphere of his own being. Moral action consists not in the eradication of a one-sided personal will but in the full development of human nature. Those who hold that moral ideals are attainable only if man destroys his own personal will, are not aware that these ideals are wanted by man just as he wants the satisfaction of the so-called animal instincts.

It cannot be denied that the views here outlined may easily be misunderstood. Immature people without moral imagination like to look upon the instincts of their half-developed natures as the fullest expression of the human race, and reject all moral ideas which they have not themselves produced, in order that they may “live themselves out” undisturbed. But it goes without saying that what is right for a fully developed human being does not hold good for half-developed human natures. Anyone who still needs to be educated to the point where his moral nature breaks through the husk of his lower passions, will not have the same things expected of him as of a mature person. However, it was not my intention to show what needs to be impressed upon an undeveloped person, but what lies within the essential nature of a mature human being. My intention was to demonstrate the possibility of freedom, and freedom is manifested not in actions performed under constraint of sense or soul but in actions sustained by spiritual intuitions.

The mature man gives himself his own value. He does not aim at pleasure, which comes to him as a gift of grace on the part of Nature or of the Creator; nor does he fulfill an abstract duty which he recognises as such after he has renounced the striving for pleasure. He acts as he wants to act, that is, in accordance with the standard of his ethical intuitions; and he finds in the achievement of what he wants the true enjoyment of life. He determines the value of life by measuring achievements against aims. An ethics which replaces “would” with mere “should”, inclination with mere duty, will consequently determine the value of man by measuring his fulfillment of duty against the demands that it makes. It measures man with a yardstick external to his own being.

The view which I have here developed refers man back to himself. It recognises as the true value of life only what each individual regards as such, according to the standard of his own will. It no more acknowledges a value of life that is not recognised by the individual than it does a purpose of life that has not originated in him. It sees in the individual who knows himself through and through, his own master and his own assessor.

Author’s addition, 1918
The argument of this chapter will be misunderstood if one is caught by the apparent objection that the will, as such, is the irrational factor in man and that once this irrationality is made clear to him he will see that the goal of his ethical striving must lie in ultimate emancipation from the will. An apparent objection of exactly this kind was brought against me from a reputable quarter in that I was told that it is the business of the philosopher to make good just what lack of thought leads animals and most men to neglect, namely, to strike a proper balance of life’s account. But this objection just misses the main point.

If freedom is to be realised, the will in human nature must be sustained by intuitive thinking; at the same time, however, we find that an act of will may also be determined by factors other than intuition, though only in the free realisation of intuitions issuing from man’s essential nature do we find morality and its value. Ethical individualism is well able to present morality in its full dignity, for it sees true morality not in what brings about the agreement of an act of will with a standard of behaviour in an external way, but in what arises in man when he develops his moral will as an integral part of his whole being so that to do what is not moral appears to him as a stunting and crippling of his nature.

13. The Value of Life (Optimism and Pessimism) – 1

A Counterpart to the question concerning the purpose of life, or the ordering of its destiny (see Chapter 11), is the question concerning its value. We meet here with two mutually opposed views, and between them all conceivable attempts at compromise. One view says that this world is the best that could conceivably exist, and that to live and to act in it is a blessing of untold value. Everything that exists displays harmonious and purposeful co-operation and is worthy of admiration.

Even what is apparently bad and evil may, from a higher point of view, be seen to be good, for it represents an agreeable contrast with the good; we are the more able to appreciate the good when it is clearly contrasted with evil. Moreover, evil is not genuinely real; what we feel as evil is only a lesser degree of good. Evil is the absence of good; it has no significance in itself.

The other view maintains that life is full of misery and want; everywhere pain outweighs pleasure, sorrow outweighs joy. Existence is a burden, and non-existence would in all circumstances be preferable to existence.

The chief representatives of the former view, optimism, are Shaftesbury and Leibnitz; those of the latter, pessimism, are Schopenhauer and Eduard von Hartmann.

Leibnitz believes the world is the best of all possible worlds. A better one is impossible. For God is good and wise. A good God wants to create the best possible world; a wise God knows which is the best possible — He is able to distinguish the best from all other possible worse ones. Only an evil or an unwise God would be able to create a world worse than the best possible.

Whoever starts from this point of view will find it easy to lay down the direction that human action must follow in order to make its contribution to the greatest good of the world. All that man need do is to find out the counsels of God and to behave in accordance with them. If he knows what God’s intentions are concerning the world and mankind, he will be able to do what is right. And he will be happy in the feeling that he is adding his share to the other good in the world. From this optimistic standpoint, then, life is worth living. It must stimulate us to co-operative participation.

Schopenhauer pictures things quite differently. He thinks of the foundation of the world not as an all-wise and all-beneficent being, but as blind urge or will. Eternal striving, ceaseless craving for satisfaction which is ever beyond reach, this is the fundamental characteristic of all active will. For no sooner is one goal attained, than a fresh need springs up, and so on. Satisfaction, when it occurs, lasts only for an infinitesimal time.

The entire remaining content of our life is unsatisfied craving, that is, dissatisfaction and suffering. If at last blind craving is dulled, then all content is gone from our lives; an infinite boredom pervades our existence. Hence the best we can do is to stifle all wishes and needs within us and exterminate the will. Schopenhauer’s pessimism leads to complete inactivity; his moral aim is universal idleness.

By a very different argument von Hartmann attempts to establish pessimism and to make use of it for ethics. He attempts, in keeping with a favourite tendency of our times, to base his world view on experience. From the observation of life he hopes to discover whether pleasure or pain outweighs the other in the world. He parades whatever appears to men as blessing and fortune before the tribunal of reason, in order to show that all alleged satisfaction turns out on closer inspection to be illusion.

It is illusion when we believe that in health, youth, freedom, sufficient income, love (sexual satisfaction), pity, friendship and family life, self-respect, honour, fame, power, religious edification, pursuit of science and of art, hope of a life hereafter, participation in the progress of civilisation — that in all these we have sources of happiness and satisfaction. Soberly considered, every enjoyment brings much more evil and misery into the world than pleasure. The disagreeableness of the hangover is always greater than the agreeableness of getting drunk. Pain far outweighs pleasure in the world. No man, even though relatively the happiest, would, if asked, wish to live through this miserable life a second time. Now, since Hartmann does not deny the presence of an ideal factor (wisdom) in the world, but rather gives it equal standing with blind urge (will), he can credit his primal Being with the creation of the world only if he allows the pain in the world to serve a wise world-purpose.

The pain of created beings is, however, nothing but God’s pain itself, for the life of the world as a whole is identical with the life of God. An all-wise Being can, however, see his goal only in release from suffering, and, since all existence is suffering, in release from existence. To transform existence into the far better state of non-existence is the purpose of all creation. The course of the world is a continuous battle against God’s pain, which ends at last with the annihilation of all existence.

The moral life of men, therefore, will consist in taking part in the annihilation of existence. God has created the world so that through it He may free Himself from His infinite pain. The world is “to be regarded, more or less, as an itching eruption upon the Absolute,” by means of which the unconscious healing power of the Absolute rids itself of an inward disease, “or even as a painful poultice which the All-One applies to himself in order first to divert the inner pain outwards, and then to get rid of it altogether.” Human beings are integral parts of the world. In them God suffers. He has created them in order to disperse His infinite pain. The pain which each one of us suffers is but a drop in the infinite ocean of God’s pain.

Man has to permeate his whole being with the recognition that the pursuit of individual satisfaction (egoism) is a folly, and that he ought to be guided solely by the task of dedicating himself to the redemption of God by unselfish devotion to the progress of the world. Thus, in contrast to Schopenhauer’s, von Hartmann’s pessimism leads us to activity devoted to a sublime task.

But is it really based on experience?

To strive for satisfaction means that our activity reaches out beyond the actual content of our lives. A creature is hungry, that is, it strives for repletion, when its organic functions, if they are to continue, demand the supply of fresh means of life in the form of nourishment. The striving for honour means that a man only regards what he personally does or leaves undone as valuable when his activity is approved by others.

The striving for knowledge arises when a man finds that something is missing from the world that he sees, hears, and so on, as long as he has not understood it. The fulfillment of the striving creates pleasure in the striving individual, failure creates pain. It is important here to observe that pleasure and pain are dependent only upon the fulfillment or non-fulfillment of my striving.

The striving itself can by no means be counted as pain. Hence, if it happens that in the very moment in which a striving is fulfilled a new striving at once arises, this is no ground for saying that, because in every ease enjoyment gives rise to a desire for its repetition or for a fresh pleasure, my pleasure has given birth to pain. I can speak of pain only when desire runs up against the impossibility of fulfillment.

Even when an enjoyment that I have had creates in me the desire for the experience of greater or more refined pleasure, I cannot speak of this desire as a pain created by the previous pleasure until the means of experiencing the greater or more refined pleasure fail me. Only when pain appears as a natural consequence of pleasure, as for instance when a woman’s sexual pleasure is followed by the suffering of childbirth and the cares of a family, can I find in the enjoyment the originator of the pain. If striving by itself called forth pain, then each reduction of striving would have to be accompanied by pleasure. But the opposite is the case. To have no striving in one’s life creates boredom, and this is connected with displeasure.

Now, since it may be a long time before striving meets with fulfillment, and since, in the interval, it is content with the hope of fulfillment, we must acknowledge that the pain has nothing whatever to do with the striving as such, but depends solely on the non-fulfillment of the striving. Schopenhauer, then, is in any case wrong to take desiring or striving (will) as being in itself the source of pain.

In fact, just the opposite is correct. Striving (desiring) in itself gives pleasure. Who does not know the enjoyment given by the hope of a remote but intensely desired goal? This joy is the companion of all labour that gives us its fruits only in the future. It is a pleasure quite independent of the attainment of the goal. For when the goal has been reached, the pleasure of fulfillment is added as something new to the pleasure of striving.

If anyone were to argue that the pain caused by an unsatisfied aim is increased by the pain of disappointed hope, and that thus, in the end, the pain of non-fulfillment will eventually outweigh the possible pleasure of fulfillment, we shall have to reply that the reverse may be the case, and that the recollection of past enjoyment at a time of unfulfilled desire will just as often mitigate the pain of non-fulfillment. Whoever exclaims in the face of shattered hopes, “I have done my part,” is a proof of this assertion. The blissful feeling of having tried one’s best is overlooked by those who say of every unsatisfied desire that not only is the joy of fulfillment absent but the enjoyment of the desiring itself has been destroyed.

The fulfillment of a desire brings pleasure and its non-fulfillment brings pain. But from this we must not conclude that pleasure is the satisfaction of a desire, and pain its non-satisfaction. Both pleasure and pain can be experienced without being the consequence of desire. Illness is pain not preceded by desire. If anyone were to maintain that illness is unsatisfied desire for health, he would be making the mistake of regarding the unconscious wish not to fall ill, which we all take for granted, as a positive desire. When someone receives a legacy from a rich relative of whose existence he had not the faintest idea, this fills him with pleasure without any preceding desire.

Hence, if we set out to enquire whether the balance is on the side of pleasure or of pain, we must take into account the pleasure of desiring, the pleasure at the fulfillment of a desire, and the pleasure which comes to us without any striving. On the other side of the account we shall have to enter the displeasure of boredom, the pain of unfulfilled striving, and lastly the pain which comes to us without any desiring on our part. Under this last heading we shall have to put also the displeasure caused by work, not chosen by ourselves, that has been forced upon us.

This leads to the question: What is the right method for striking the balance between these credit and debit columns? Eduard von Hartmann believes that it is reason that holds the scales. It is true that he says, “Pain and pleasure exist only in so far as they are actually felt.” It follows that there can be no yardstick for pleasure other than the subjective one of feeling.

I must feel whether the sum of my disagreeable feelings together with my agreeable feelings leaves me with a balance of pleasure or of pain. But for all that, von Hartmann maintains that, “though the value of the life of every person can be set down only according to his own subjective measure, yet it by no means follows that every person is able to arrive at the correct algebraic sum from all the collected emotions in his life — or, in other words, that his total estimate of his own life, with regard to his subjective experiences, would be correct.” With this, the rational estimation of feeling is once more made the evaluator (see fn 3).

Anyone who follows fairly closely the line of thought of such thinkers as Eduard von Hartmann may believe it necessity, in order to arrive at a correct valuation of life, to clear out of the way those factors which falsify our judgement about the balance of pleasure and pain. He can try to do this in two ways. Firstly, by showing that our desire (instinct, will) interferes with our sober estimation of feeling values in a disturbing way. Whereas, for instance, we ought to say to ourselves that sexual enjoyment is a source of evil, we are misled by the fact that the sexual instinct is very strong in us into conjuring up the prospect of a pleasure which just is not there in that degree at all.

We want to enjoy ourselves; hence we do not admit to ourselves that we suffer under the enjoyment. Secondly, he can do it by subjecting feelings to a critical examination and attempting to prove that the objects to which our feelings attach themselves are revealed as illusions by the light of reason, and that they are destroyed from the moment that our ever growing intelligence sees through the illusions.

He can think of the matter in the following way. If an ambitious man wants to determine clearly whether, up to the moment of his enquiry, there has been a surplus of pleasure or of pain in his life, then he has to free himself from two sources of error that may affect his judgment. Being ambitious, this fundamental feature of his character will make him see the joys due to the recognition of his achievements through a magnifying glass, and the humiliations due to his rebuffs through a diminishing glass. At the time when he suffered the rebuffs he felt the humiliations just because he was ambitious; in recollection they appear to him in a milder light, whereas the joys of recognition to which he is so susceptible leave a far deeper impression.

Now, for an ambitious man it is an undeniable blessing that it should be so. The deception diminishes his pain in the moment of self-analysis. None the less, his judgment is wrong. The sufferings over which a veil is now drawn were actually experienced by him in all their intensity, and hence he enters them at a wrong valuation in his life’s account book. In order to arrive at a correct estimate, an ambitious man would have to lay aside his ambition for the time of his enquiry. He would have to review his past life without any distorting glasses before his mind’s eye. Otherwise he would resemble a merchant who, in making up his books, enters among the items on the credit side his own zeal in business.

But the holder of this view can go even further. He can say: The ambitious man will even make clear to himself that the recognition he pursues is a worthless thing. Either by himself, or through the influence of others, he will come to see that for an intelligent man recognition by others counts for very little, seeing that “in all such matters, other than those that are questions of sheer existence or that are already finally settled by science,” one can be quite sure “that the majority is wrong and the minority right…. Whoever makes ambition the lode-star of his life puts his life’s happiness at the mercy of such a judgment.”

If the ambitious man admits all this to himself, then he must regard as illusion what his ambition had pictured as reality, and thus also the feelings attached to these illusions of his ambition. On this basis it could then be said that such feelings of pleasure as are produced by illusion must also be struck out of the balance sheet of life’s values; what then remains represents the sum total of life’s pleasures stripped of all illusion, and this is so small compared with the sum total of pain that life is no joy and non-existence preferable to existence.

But while it is immediately evident that the deception produced by the instinct of ambition leads to a false result when striking the balance of pleasure, we must none the less challenge what has been said about the recognition of the illusory character of the objects of pleasure. The elimination from the credit side of life of all pleasurable feelings which accompany actual or supposed illusions would positively falsify the balance of pleasure and pain. For an ambitious man has genuinely enjoyed the acclamations of the multitude, irrespective of whether subsequently he himself, or some other person, recognises that this acclamation is an illusion.

The pleasant sensation he has had is not in the least diminished by this recognition. The elimination of all such “illusory” feelings from life’s balance does not make our judgment about our feelings more correct, but rather obliterates from life feelings which were actually there.

And why should these feelings be eliminated? For whoever has them, they are certainly pleasuregiving; for whoever has conquered them, a purely mental but none the less significant pleasure arises through the experience of self-conquest (not through the vain emotion: What a noble fellow I am! but through the objective sources of pleasure which lie in the self-conquest).

If we strike out feelings from the pleasure side of the balance on the ground that they are attached to objects which turn out to have been illusory, we make the value of life dependent not on the quantity but on the quality of pleasure, and this, in turn, on the value of the objects which cause the pleasure. But if I want to determine the value of life in the first place by the quantity of pleasure or pain which it brings, I may nor presuppose something else which already determines the positive or negative value of the pleasure.

If I say I want to compare the quantity of pleasure with the quantity of pain in order to see which is greater, I am bound to bring into my account all pleasures and pains in their actual intensities, whether they are based on illusions or not. Whoever ascribes a lesser value for life to a pleasure which is based on an illusion than to one which can justify itself before the tribunal of reason, makes the value of life dependent on factors other than pleasure.

Whoever puts down pleasure as less valuable when it is attached to a worthless object, resembles a merchant who enters the considerable profits of a toy factory in his account at a quarter of their actual amount on the ground that the factory produces nothing but playthings for children.

If the point is simply to weigh quantity of pleasure against quantity of pain, then the illusory character of the objects causing certain feelings of pleasure must be left right out of the question.

The method recommended by von Hartmann, that is, rational consideration of the quantities of pleasure and pain produced by life, has thus led us to the point where we know how we are to set out our accounts, what we are to put down on the one side of our book and what on the other. But how is the calculation now to be made? Is reason actually capable of striking the balance?

A merchant has made a mistake in his reckoning if his calculated profit does not agree with the demonstrable results or expectations of his business. Similarly, the philosopher will undoubtedly have made a mistake in his estimate if he cannot demonstrate in actual feeling the surplus of pleasure, or pain, that he has somehow extracted from his accounts.

For the present I shall not look into the calculations of those pessimists whose opinion of the world is measured by reason; but if one is to decide whether to carry on the business of life or not, one will first demand to be shown where the alleged surplus of pain is to be found.

Here we touch the point where reason is not in a position to determine by itself the surplus of pleasure or of pain, but where it must demonstrate this surplus as a percept in life. For man reaches reality not through concepts alone but through the interpenetration of concepts and percepts (and feelings are percepts) which thinking brings about. A merchant, after all, will give up his business only when the losses calculated by his accountant are confirmed by the facts. If this does not happen, he gets his accountant to make the calculation over again. That is exactly what a man will do in the business of life.

If a philosopher wants to prove to him that the pain is far greater than the pleasure, but he himself does not feel it to be so, then he will reply, “You have gone astray in your reckoning; think it all out again.” But should there come a time in a business when the losses are really so great that the firm’s credit no longer suffices to satisfy the creditors, then bankruptcy will result if the merchant fails to keep himself informed about the state of his affairs by careful accounting. Similarly, if the quantity of pain in a man’s life became at any time so great that no hope of future pleasure (credit) could help him to get over the pain, then the bankruptcy of life’s business would inevitably follow.

Now the number of those who kill themselves is relatively unimportant when compared with the multitude of those who live bravely on. Only very few men give up the business of life because of the pain involved. What follows from this? Either that it is untrue to say that the quantity of pain is greater than the quantity of pleasure, or that we do not at all make the continuation of life dependent on the quantity of pleasure or pain that is felt.

In a very curious way, Eduard von Hartmann’s pessimism comes to the conclusion that life is valueless because it contains a surplus of pain and yet affirms the necessity of going on with it. This necessity lies in the fact that the world purpose mentioned above (page 177) can be achieved only by the ceaseless, devoted labour of human beings. But as long as men still pursue their egotistical cravings they are unfit for such selfless labour. Not until they have convinced themselves through experience and reason that the pleasures of life pursued by egoism cannot be attained, do they devote themselves to their proper tasks. In this way the pessimistic conviction is supposed to be the source of unselfishness. An education based on pessimism should exterminate egoism by making it see the hopelessness of its case.

According to this view, then, the striving for pleasure is inherent in human nature from the outset. Only when fulfillment is seen to be impossible does this striving retire in favour of higher tasks for mankind.

It cannot be said that egoism is overcome in the true sense of the word by an ethical world conception that expects a devotion to unselfish aims in life through the acceptance of pessimism. The moral ideals are said not to be strong enough to dominate the will until man has learnt that selfish striving after pleasure cannot lead to any satisfaction. Man, whose selfishness desires the grapes of pleasure, finds them sour because he cannot reach them, and so he turns his back on them and devotes himself to an unselfish way of life. Moral ideals, then, according to the opinion of pessimists, are not strong enough to overcome egoism; but they establish their dominion on the ground previously cleared for them by the recognition of the hopelessness of egoism.

If men by nature were to strive after pleasure but were unable to reach it, then annihilation of existence, and salvation through non-existence, would be the only rational goal. And if one holds the view that the real bearer of the pain of the world is God, then man’s task would consist in bringing about the salvation of God. Through the suicide of the individual, the realisation of this aim is not advanced, but hindered. Rationally, God can only have created men in order to bring about his salvation through their actions.

Otherwise creation would be purposeless. And it is extra-human purposes that such a world conception has in mind. Each one of us has to perform his own particular task in the general work of salvation. If he withdraws from the task by suicide, then the work which was intended for him must be done by another. Somebody else must bear the torment of existence in his stead. And since within every being it is God who actually bears all pain, the suicide does not in the least diminish the quantity of God’s pain, but rather imposes upon God the additional difficulty of providing a substitute.

All this presupposes that pleasure is the yardstick for the value of life. Now life manifests itself through a number of instinctive desires (needs). If the value of life depended on its producing more pleasure than pain, an instinct which brought to its owner a balance of pain would have to be called valueless. Let us, therefore, examine instinct and pleasure to see whether the former can be measured by the latter. In order not to arouse the suspicion that we consider life to begin only at the level of “aristocracy of the intellect”, we shall begin with the “purely animal” need, hunger.

Hunger arises when our organs are unable to continue their proper function without a fresh supply of food. What a hungry man wants first of all is to satisfy his hunger. As soon as the supply of nourishment has reached the point where hunger ceases, everything that the instinct for food craves has been attained. The enjoyment that comes with being satisfied consists primarily in putting an end to the pain caused by hunger. But to the mere instinct for food a further need is added. For man does not merely desire to repair the disturbance in the functioning of his organs by the consumption of food, or to overcome the pain of hunger; he seeks to effect this to the accompaniment of pleasurable sensations of taste.

If he feels hungry and is within half an hour of an appetising meal, he may even refuse inferior food, which could satisfy him sooner, so as not to spoil his appetite for the better fare to come. He needs hunger in order to get the full enjoyment from his meal. Thus for him hunger becomes at the same time a cause of pleasure. Now if all the existing hunger in the world could be satisfied, we should then have the total quantity of enjoyment attributable to the presence of the need for nourishment. To this would still have to be added the special pleasure which the gourmet achieves by cultivating his palate beyond the common measure.

This quantity of pleasure would reach the highest conceivable value if no need aiming at the kind of enjoyment under consideration remained unsatisfied, and if with the enjoyment we had not to accept a certain amount of pain into the bargain.

Modern science holds the view that nature produces more life than it can sustain, that is to say, more hunger than it is able to satisfy. The surplus of life thus produced must perish in pain in the struggle for existence. Admittedly the needs of life at every moment in the course of the world are greater than the available means of satisfaction, and that the enjoyment of life is affected as a result.

Such enjoyment as actually does occur, however, is not in the least reduced. Wherever a desire is satisfied, the corresponding quantity of pleasure exists, even though in the desiring creature itself or in its fellows there are plenty of unsatisfied instincts. What is, however, diminished by all this is the value of the enjoyment of life. If only a part of the needs of a living creature finds satisfaction, it experiences a corresponding degree of enjoyment. This pleasure has a lower value, the smaller it is in proportion to the total demands of life in the field of the desires in question. One can represent this value by a fraction, of which the numerator is the pleasure actually experienced while the denominator is the sum total of needs.

This fraction has the value 1 when the numerator and the denominator are equal, that is, when all needs are fully satisfied. The fraction becomes greater than 1 when a creature experiences more pleasure than its desires demand; and it becomes smaller than 1 when the quantity of pleasure falls short of the sum total of desires. But the fraction can never become zero as long as the numerator has any value at all, however small. If a man were to make up a final account before his death, and were to think of the quantity of enjoyment connected with a particular instinct (for example, hunger) as being distributed over the whole of his life together with all the demands made by this instinct, then the pleasure experienced might perhaps have a very small value, but it could never become valueless. If the quantity of pleasure remains constant, then, with an increase in the needs of the creature, the value of the pleasure diminishes. The same is true for the sum of life in nature.

The greater the number of creatures in proportion to those which are able to satisfy their instincts fully, the smaller is the average value of pleasure in life. The cheques on life’s pleasure which are drawn in our favour in the form of our instincts, become less valuable if we cannot expect to cash them for the full amount. If I get enough to eat for three days and as a result must then go hungry for another three days, the actual pleasure on the three days of eating is not thereby diminished. But I have now to think of it as distributed over six days, and thus its value for my food-instinct is reduced by half. In just the same way the magnitude of pleasure is related to the degree of my need. If I am hungry enough for two pieces of bread and can only get one, the pleasure I derive from it had only half the value it would have had if the eating of it has satisfied my hunger.

This is the way that the value of a pleasure is determined in life. It is measured by the needs of life. Our desires are the yardstick; pleasure is the thing that is measured. The enjoyment of satisfying hunger has a value only because hunger exists; and it has a value of a definite magnitude through the proportion it bears to the magnitude of the existing hunger.

Unfulfilled demands of our life throw their shadow even upon satisfied desires, and thus detract from the value of pleasurable hours. But we can also speak of the present value of a feeling of pleasure. This value is the lower, the smaller the pleasure is in proportion to the duration and intensity of our desire.

A quantity of pleasure has its full value for us when in duration and degree it exactly coincides with our desire. A quantity of pleasure which is smaller than our desire diminishes the value of the pleasure; a quantity which is greater produces a surplus which has not been demanded and which is felt as pleasure only so long as, whilst enjoying the pleasure, we can increase the intensity of our desire. If the increase in our desire is unable to keep pace with the increase in pleasure, then pleasure turns into displeasure.

The thing that would otherwise satisfy us now assails us without our wanting it and makes us suffer. This proves that pleasure has value for us only to the extent that we can measure it against our desires. An excess of pleasurable feeling turns into pain. This may be observed especially in people whose desire for a particular kind of pleasure is very small. In people whose instinct for food is stunted, eating readily becomes nauseating. This again shows that desire is the standard by which we measure the value of pleasure.

Now the pessimist might say that an unsatisfied instinct for food brings into the world not only displeasure at the lost enjoyment, but also positive pain, misery and want. He can base this statement upon the untold misery of starving people and upon the vast amount of suffering which arises indirectly for such people from their lack of food. And if he wants to extend his assertion to nature outside man as well, he can point to the suffering of animals that die of starvation at certain times of the year. The pessimist maintains that these evils far outweigh the amount of pleasure that the instinct for food brings into the world.

There is indeed no doubt that one can compare pleasure and pain and can estimate the surplus of one or the other much as we do in the case of profit and loss. But if the pessimist believes that because there is a surplus of pain he can conclude that life is valueless, he falls into the error of making a calculation that in real life is never made.

Our desire, in any given case, is directed to a particular object. As we have seen, the value of the pleasure of satisfaction will be the greater, the greater is the amount of pleasure in relation to the intensity of our desire (see fn 5). On this intensity of desire also will depend how much pain we are willing to bear as part of the price of achieving the pleasure. We compare the quantity of pain not with the quantity of pleasure but with the intensity of our desire. If someone takes great delight in eating, he will, by reason of his enjoyment in better times, find it easier to bear a period of hunger than will someone for whom eating is no pleasure. A woman who wants to have a child compares the pleasure that would come from possessing it not with the amount of pain due to pregnancy, childbirth, nursing and so on, but with her desire to possess the child.

We never aim at a certain quantity of pleasure in the abstract, but at concrete satisfaction in a perfectly definite way. If we are aiming at a pleasure which must be satisfied by a particular object or a particular sensation, we shall not be satisfied with some other object or some other sensation that gives us an equal amount of pleasure. If we are aiming at satisfying our hunger, we cannot replace the pleasure this would give us by a pleasure equally great, but produced by going for a walk.

Only if our desire were, quite generally, for a certain fixed quantity of pleasure as such, would it disappear as soon as the price of achieving it were seen to be a still greater quantity of pain. But since satisfaction of a particular kind is being aimed at, fulfillment brings the pleasure even when, along with it, a still greater pain has to be taken into the bargain. But because the instincts of living creatures move in definite directions and go after concrete goals, the quantity of pain endured on the way to the goal cannot be set down as an equivalent factor in our calculations. Provided the desire is sufficiently intense to be present in some degree after having overcome the pain — however great that pain in itself may be — then the pleasure of satisfaction can still be tasted to the full.

The desire, therefore, does not compare the pain directly to the pleasure achieved, but compares it indirectly by relating its own intensity to that of the pain. The question is not whether the pleasure to be gained is greater than the pain, but whether the desire for the goal is greater than the hindering effect of the pain involved. If the hindrance is greater than the desire, then the desire gives way to the inevitable, weakens and strives no further. Since our demand is for satisfaction in a particular way, the pleasure connected with it acquires a significance such that, once we have achieved satisfaction, we need take the quantity of pain into account only to the extent that it has reduced the intensity of our desire.

If I am a passionate admirer of beautiful views, I never calculate the amount of pleasure which the view from the mountain top gives me as compared directly with the pain of the toilsome ascent and descent; but I reflect whether, after having overcome all difficulties, my desire for the view will still be sufficiently intense. Only indirectly, through the intensity of the desire, can pleasure and pain together lead to a result. Therefore the question is not at all whether there is a surplus of pleasure or of pain, but whether the will for pleasure is strong enough to overcome the pain.

A proof for the correctness of this statement is the fact that we put a higher value on pleasure when it has to be purchased at the price of great pain than when it falls into our lap like a gift from heaven. When suffering and misery have toned down our desire and yet after all our goal is reached, then the pleasure, in proportion to the amount of desire still left, is all the greater. Now, as I have shown, this proportion represents the value of the pleasure. A further proof is given through the fact that living creatures (including man) give expression to their instincts as long as they are able to bear the pain and misery involved.

The struggle for existence is but a consequence of this fact. All existing life strives to express itself, and only that part of it whose desires are smothered by the overwhelming weight of difficulties abandons the struggle. Every living creature seeks food until lack of food destroys its life. Man, too, does not turn his hand against himself until he believes, rightly or wrongly, that those aims in life that are worth his striving are beyond his reach. So long as he still believes in the possibility of reaching what, in his view, is worth striving for, he will battle against all misery and pain. Philosophy would first have to convince him that an act of will makes sense only when the pleasure is greater than the pain; for by nature he will strive for the objects of his desire if he can bear the necessary pain, however great it may be. But such a philosophy would be mistaken because it would make the human will dependent on a circumstance (the surplus of pleasure over pain) which is originally foreign to man. The original measure of his will is desire, and desire asserts itself as long as it can.

When it is a question of pleasure and pain in the satisfaction of a desire, the calculation that is made, not in philosophical theory, but in life, can be compared with the following. If in buying a certain quantity of apples I am obliged to take twice as many rotten ones as sound ones — because the seller wants to clear his stock — I shall not hesitate for one moment to accept the bad apples as well, if the smaller quantity of good ones are worth so much to me that in addition to their purchase price I am also prepared to bear the expense of disposing of the bad ones. This example illustrates the relation between the quantities of pleasure and pain resulting from an instinct. I determine the value of the good apples not by subtracting the total number of the good ones from that of the bad ones but by assessing whether the good ones still have value for me in spite of the presence of the bad ones.

Just as I leave the bad apples out of account in the enjoyment of the good ones, so I give myself up to the satisfaction of a desire after having shaken off the unavoidable pain.

Even if pessimism were right in its assertion that there is more pain then pleasure in the world, this would have no influence on the will, since living creatures would still strive after the pleasure that remains. The empirical proof that pain outweighs joy (if such proof could be given) would certainly be effective for showing up the futility of the school of philosophy that sees the value of life in a surplus of pleasure (eudaemonism) but not for showing that the will, as such, is irrational; for the will is not set upon a surplus of pleasure, but upon the amount of pleasure that remains after getting over the pain. This still appears as a goal worth striving for.

Some have tried to refute pessimism by stating that it is impossible to calculate the surplus of pleasure or of pain in the world. That any calculation can be done at all depends on whether the things to be calculated can be compared in respect of their magnitudes. Every pain and every pleasure has a definite magnitude (intensity and duration). Further, we can compare pleasurable feelings of different kinds one with another, at least approximately, with regard to their magnitudes. We know whether we derive more entertainment from a good cigar or from a good joke.

Therefore there can be no objection to comparing different sorts of pleasure and pain in respect of their magnitudes. And the investigator who sets himself the task of determining the surplus of pleasure or pain in the world starts from fully justified assumptions. One may declare the conclusions of pessimism to be false, but one cannot doubt that quantities of pleasure and pain can be scientifically estimated, and the balance of pleasure thereby determined. It is, however, quite wrong to claim that the result of this calculation has any consequences for the human will. The cases where we really make the value of our activity dependent on whether pleasure or pain shows a surplus are those where the objects towards which our activity is directed are all the same to us.

If it is only a question whether, after the day’s work, I am to amuse myself by a game or by light conversation, and if I am totally indifferent to what I do as long as it serves the purpose, then I simply ask myself: What gives me the greatest surplus of pleasure? And I shall most certainly abandon the activity if the scales incline towards the side of displeasure. If we are buying a toy for a child we consider, in selecting, what will give him the greatest happiness. In all other cases we do not base our decision exclusively on the balance of pleasure.

XIV. Individualität und Gattung

Der Ansicht, daß der Mensch zu einer vollständigen in sich geschlossenen, freien Individualität veranlagt ist, stehen scheinbar die Tatsachen entgegen, daß er als Glied innerhalb eines natürlichen Ganzen auftritt (Rasse, Stamm, Volk, Familie, männliches und weibliches Geschlecht), und daß er innerhalb eines Ganzen wirkt (Staat, Kirche und so weiter). Er trägt die allgemeinen Charaktereigentümlichkeiten der Gemeinschaft, der er angehört, und gibt seinem Handeln einen Inhalt, der durch den Platz, den er innerhalb einer Mehrheit einnimmt, bestimmt ist.

Ist dabei überhaupt noch Individualität möglich? Kann man den Menschen selbst als ein Ganzes für sich ansehen, wenn er aus einem Ganzen herauswächst, und in ein Ganzes sich eingliedert?

Das Glied eines Ganzen wird seinen Eigenschaften und Funktionen nach durch das Ganze bestimmt. Ein Volksstamm ist ein Ganzes, und alle zu ihm gehörigen Menschen tragen die Eigentümlichkeiten an sich, die im Wesen des Stammes bedingt sind. Wie der einzelne beschaffen ist und wie er sich betätigt, ist durch den Stammescharakter bedingt. Dadurch erhält die Physiognomie und das Tun des einzelnen etwas Gattungsmäßiges. Wenn wir nach dem Grunde fragen, warum dies und jenes an dem Menschen so oder so ist, so werden wir aus dem Einzelwesen hinaus auf die Gattung verwiesen. Diese erklärt es uns, warum etwas an ihm in der von uns beobachteten Form auftritt.

Von diesem Gattungsmäßigen macht sich aber der Mensch frei. Denn das menschlich Gattungsmäßige ist, vom Menschen richtig erlebt, nichts seine Freiheit Einschränkendes, und soll es auch nicht durch künstliche Veranstaltungen sein. Der Mensch entwickelt Eigenschaften und Funktionen an sich, deren Bestimmungsgrund wir nur in ihm selbst suchen können. Das Gattungsmäßige dient ihm dabei nur als Mittel, um seine besondere Wesenheit in ihm auszudrücken. Er gebraucht die ihm von der Natur mitgegebenen Eigentümlichkeiten als Grundlage und gibt ihm die seinem eigenen Wesen gemäße Form. Wir suchen nun vergebens den Grund für eine Äußerung dieses Wesens in den Gesetzen der Gattung. Wir haben es mit einem Individuum zu tun, das nur durch sich selbst erklärt werden kann. Ist ein Mensch bis zu dieser Loslösung von dem Gattungsmäßigen durchgedrungen, und wir wollen alles, was an ihm ist, auch dann noch aus dem Charakter der Gattung erklären, so haben wir für das Individuelle kein Organ.

Es ist unmöglich, einen Menschen ganz zu verstehen, wenn man seiner Beurteilung einen Gattungsbegriff zugrunde legt. Am hartnäckigsten im Beurteilen nach der Gattung ist man da, wo es sich um das Geschlecht des Menschen handelt. Der Mann sieht im Weibe, das Weib in dem Manne fast immer zuviel von dem allgemeinen Charakter des anderen Geschlechtes und zu wenig von dem Individuellen. Im praktischen Leben schadet das den Männern weniger als den Frauen. Die soziale Stellung der Frau ist zumeist deshalb eine so unwürdige, weil sie in vielen Punkten, wo sie es sein sollte, nicht bedingt ist durch die individuellen Eigentümlichkeiten der einzelnen Frau, sondern durch die allgemeinen Vorstellungen, die man sich von der natürlichen Aufgabe und den Bedürfnissen des Weibes macht. Die Betätigung des Mannes im Leben richtet sich nach dessen individuellen Fähigkeiten und Neigungen, die des Weibes soll ausschließlich durch den Umstand bedingt sein, daß es eben Weib ist. Das Weib soll der Sklave des Gattungsmäßigen, des Allgemein-Weiblichen sein. Solange von Männern darüber debattiert wird, ob die Frau «ihrer Naturanlage nach» zu diesem oder jenem Beruf tauge, solange kann die sogenannte Frauenfrage aus ihrem elementarsten Stadium nicht herauskommen. Was die Frau ihrer Natur nach wollen kann, das überlasse man der Frau zu beurteilen. Wenn es wahr ist, daß die Frauen nur zu dem Berufe taugen, der ihnen jetzt zukommt, dann werden sie aus sich selbst heraus kaum einen anderen erreichen. Sie müssen es aber selbst entscheiden können, was ihrer Natur gemäß ist. Wer eine Erschütterung unserer sozialen Zustände davon befürchtet, daß die Frauen nicht als Gattungsmenschen, sondern als Individuen genommen werden, dem muß entgegnet werden, daß soziale Zustände, innerhalb welcher die Hälfte der Menschheit ein menschenunwürdiges Dasein hat, eben der Verbesserung gar sehr bedürftig sind.

Wer die Menschen nach Gattungscharakteren beurteilt, der kommt eben gerade bis zu der Grenze, über welcher sie anfangen, Wesen zu sein, deren Betätigung auf freier Selbstbestimmung beruht. Was unterhalb dieser Grenze liegt, das kann natürlich Gegenstand wissenschaftlicher Betrachtung sein. Die Rassen-, Stammes-, Volks- und Geschlechtseigentümlichkeiten sind der Inhalt besonderer Wissenschaften.

Nur Menschen, die allein als Exemplare der Gattung leben wollten, könnten sich mit einem allgemeinen Bilde decken, das durch solche wissenschaftliche Betrachtung zustande kommt. Aber alle diese Wissenschaften können nicht vordringen bis zu dem besonderen Inhalt des einzelnen Individuums. Da, wo das Gebiet der Freiheit (des Denkens und Handelns) beginnt, hört das Bestimmen des Individuums nach Gesetzen der Gattung auf. Den begrifflichen Inhalt, den der Mensch durch das Denken mit der Wahrnehmung in Verbindung bringen muß, um der vollen Wirklichkeit sich zu bemächtigen, kann niemand ein für allemal festsetzen und der Menschheit fertig hinterlassen. Das Individuum muß seine Begriffe durch eigene Intuition gewinnen. Wie der einzelne zu denken hat, läßt sich nicht aus irgendeinem Gattungsbegriffe ableiten. Dafür ist einzig und allein das Individuum maßgebend. Ebensowenig ist aus allgemeinen Menschencharakteren zu bestimmen, welche konkrete Ziele das Individuum seinem Wollen vorsetzen will. Wer das einzelne Individuum verstehen will, muß bis in dessen besondere Wesenheit dringen, und nicht bei typischen Eigentümlichkeiten stehen bleiben. In diesem Sinne ist jeder einzelne Mensch ein Problem. Und alle Wissenschaft, die sich mit abstrakten Gedanken und Gattungsbegriffen befaßt, ist nur eine Vorbereitung zu jener Erkenntnis, die uns zuteil wird, wenn uns eine menschliche Individualität ihre Art, die Welt anzuschauen, mitteilt, und zu der anderen, die wir aus dem Inhalt ihres Wollens gewinnen. Wo wir die Empfindung haben: hier haben wir es mit demjenigen an einem Menschen zu tun, das frei ist von typischer Denkungsart und gattungsmäßigem Wollen, da müssen wir aufhören, irgendwelche Begriffe aus unserem Geiste zu Hilfe zu nehmen, wenn wir sein Wesen verstehen wollen. Das Erkennen besteht in der Verbindung des Begriffes mit der Wahrnehmung durch das Denken. Bei allen anderen Objekten muß der Beobachter die Begriffe durch seine Intuition gewinnen; beim Verstehen einer freien Individualität handelt es sich nur darum, deren Begriffe, nach denen sie sich ja selbst bestimmt, rein (ohne Vermischung mit eigenem Begriffsinhalt) herüberzunehmen in unseren Geist. Menschen, die in jede Beurteilung eines anderen sofort ihre eigenen Begriffe einmischen, können nie zu dem Verständnisse einer Individualität gelangen. So wie die freie Individualität sich frei macht von den Eigentümlichkeiten der Gattung, so muß das Erkennen sich frei machen von der Art, wie das Gattungsmäßige verstanden wird.

Nur in dem Grade, in dem der Mensch sich in der gekennzeichneten Weise frei gemacht hat vom Gattungsmäßigen, kommt er als freier Geist innerhalb eines menschlichen Gemeinwesens in Betracht. Kein Mensch ist vollständig Gattung, keiner ganz Individualität. Aber eine größere oder geringere Sphäre seines Wesens löst jeder Mensch allmählich ab, ebenso von dem Gattungsmäßigen des animalischen Lebens, wie von den ihn beherrschenden Geboten menschlicher Autoritäten.

Für den Teil, für den sich der Mensch aber eine solche Freiheit nicht erobern kann, bildet er ein Glied innerhalb des Natur- und Geistesorganismus. Er lebt in dieser Hinsicht, wie er es andern abguckt, oder wie sie es ihm befehlen. Einen im wahren Sinne ethischen Wert hat nur der Teil seines Handelns, der aus seinen Intuitionen entspringt. Und was er an moralischen Instinkten durch Vererbung sozialer Instinkte an sich hat, wird ein Ethisches dadurch, daß er es in seine Intuitionen aufnimmt. Aus individuellen ethischen Intuitionen und deren Aufnahme in Menschengemeinschaften entspringt alle sittliche Betätigung der Menschheit. Man kann auch sagen: das sittliche Leben der Menschheit ist die Gesamtsumme der moralischen Phantasieerzeugnisse der freien menschlichen Individuen. Dies ist das Ergebnis des Monismus.

XII. Die moralische Phantasie (Darwinismus und Sittlichkeit) – 2

Die hier vertretene Ansicht scheint in Widerspruch zustehen mit jener Grundlehre der modernen Naturwissenschaft, die man als Entwicklungstheorie bezeichnet. Aber sie scheint es nur. Unter Entwicklung wird verstanden das reale Hervorgehen des Späteren aus dem Früheren auf naturgesetzlichem Wege. Unter Entwicklung in der organischen Welt versteht man den Umstand, daß die späteren (vollkommeneren) organischen Formen reale Abkömmlinge der früheren (unvollkommenen) sind und auf naturgesetzliche Weise aus ihnen hervorgegangen sind. Die Bekenner der organischen Entwicklungstheorie müßten sich eigentlich vorstellen, daß es auf der Erde einmal eine Zeitepoche gegeben hat, wo ein Wesen das allmähliche Hervorgehen der Reptilien aus den Uramnioten mit Augen hätte verfolgen können, wenn es damals als Beobachter hätte dabei sein können und mit entsprechend langer Lebensdauer ausgestattet gewesen wäre. Ebenso müßten sich die Entwicklungstheoretiker vorstellen, daß ein Wesen das Hervorgehen des Sonnensystems aus dem Kant-Laplaceschen Urnebel hätte beobachten können, wenn es während der unendlich langen Zeit frei im Gebiet des Weltäthers sich an einem entsprechenden Orte hätte aufhalten können. Daß bei solcher Vorstellung sowohl die Wesenheit der Uramnioten wie auch die des Kant-Laplaceschen Weltnebels anders gedacht werden müßte als die materialistischen Denker dies tun, kommt hier nicht in Betracht. Keinem Entwicklungstheoretiker sollte es aber einfallen, zu behaupten, daß er aus seinem Begriffe des Uramniontieres den des Reptils mit allen seinen Eigenschaften herausholen kann, auch wenn er nie ein Reptil gesehen hat Ebensowenig sollte aus dem Begriff des Kant-Laplaceschen Urnebels das Sonnensystem abgeleitet werden, wenn dieser Begriff des Urnebels direkt nur an der Wahrnehmung des Urnebels bestimmt gedacht ist. Das heißt mit anderen Worten: der Entwicklungstheoretiker muß, wenn er konsequent denkt, behaupten, daß aus früheren Entwicklungsphasen spätere sich real ergeben, daß wir, wenn wir den Begriff des Unvollkommenen und den des Vollkommenen gegeben haben, den Zusammenhang einsehen können; keineswegs aber sollte er zugeben, daß der an dem Früheren erlangte Begriff hinreicht, um das Spätere daraus zu entwickeln. Daraus folgt für den Ethiker, daß er zwar den Zusammenhang späterer moralischer Begriffe mit früheren einsehen kann; aber nicht, daß auch nur eine einzige neue moralische Idee aus früheren geholt werden kann. Als moralisches Wesen produziert das Individuum seinen Inhalt. Dieser produzierte Inhalt ist für den Ethiker gerade so ein Gegebenes, wie für den Naturforscher die Reptilien ein Gegebenes sind. Die Reptilien sind aus den Uramnioten hervorgegangen; aber der Naturforscher kann aus dem Begriff der Uramnioten den der Reptilien nicht herausholen. Spätere moralische Ideen entwickeln sich aus früheren; der Ethiker kann aber aus den sittlichen Begriffen einer früheren Kulturperiode die der späteren nicht herausholen. Die Verwirrung wird dadurch hervorgerufen, daß wir als Naturforscher die Tatsachen bereits vor uns haben und hinterher sie erst erkennend betrachten; während wir beim sittlichen Handeln selbst erst die Tatsachen schaffen, die wir hinterher erkennen. Beim Entwicklungsprozeß der sittlichen Weltordnung verrichten wir das, was die Natur auf niedrigerer Stufe verrichtet: wir verändern ein Wahrnehmbares. Die ethische Norm kann also zunächst nicht wie ein Naturgesetz erkannt, sondern sie muß geschaffen werden. Erst wenn sie da ist, kann sie Gegenstand des Erkennens werden.

Aber können wir denn nicht das Neue an dem Alten messen? Wird nicht jeder Mensch gezwungen sein, das durch seine moralische Phantasie Produzierte an den hergebrachten sittlichen Lehren zu bemessen? Für dasjenige, was als sittlich Produktives sich offenbaren soll, ist das ein ebensolches Unding, wie es das andere wäre, wenn man eine neue Naturform an der alten bemessen wollte und sagte: weil die Reptilien mit den Uramnioten nicht übereinstimmen, sind sie eine unberechtigte (krankhafte) Form.

Der ethische Individualismus steht also nicht im Gegensatz zu einer recht verstandenen Entwickelungstheorie, sondern folgt direkt aus ihr. Der Haeckelsche Stammbaum von den Urtieren bis hinauf zum Menschen als organischem Wesen müßte sich ohne Unterbrechung der natürlichen Gesetzlichkeit und ohne eine Durchbrechung der einheitlichen Entwicklung heraufverfolgen lassen bis zu dem Individuum als einem im bestimmten Sinne sittlichen Wesen. Nirgends aber würde aus dem Wesen einer Vorfahrenart das Wesen einer nachfolgenden Art sich ableiten lassen. So wahr es aber ist, daß die sittlichen Ideen des Individuums wahrnehmbar aus denen seiner Vorfahren hervorgegangen sind, so wahr ist es auch, daß dasselbe sittlich unfruchtbar ist, wenn es nicht selbst moralische Ideen hat.

Derselbe ethische Individualismus, den ich auf Grund der vorangehenden Anschauungen entwickelt habe, würde sich auch aus der Entwicklungstheorie ableiten lassen. Die schließliche Überzeugung wäre dieselbe; nur der Weg ein anderer, auf dem sie erlangt ist.

Das Hervortreten völlig neuer sittlicher Ideen aus der moralischen Phantasie ist für die Entwickelungstheorie gerade so wenig wunderbar, wie das Hervorgehen einer neuen Tierart aus einer andern. Nur muß diese Theorie als monistische Weltanschauung im sittlichen Leben ebenso wie im natürlichen jeden bloß erschlossenen, nicht ideell erlebbaren jenseitigen (metaphysischen) Einfluß abweisen. Sie folgt dabei demselben Prinzip, das sie antreibt, wenn sie die Ursachen neuer organischer Formen sucht und dabei nicht auf das Eingreifen eines außerweltlichen Wesens sich beruft, das jede neue Art nach einem neuen Schöpfungsgedanken durch übernatürlichen Einfluß hervorruft. So wie der Monismus zur Erklärung des Lebewesens keinen übernatürlichen Schöpfungsgedanken brauchen kann, so ist es ihm auch unmöglich, die sittliche Weltordnung von Ursachen abzuleiten, die nicht innerhalb der erlebbaren Welt liegen. Er kann das Wesen eines Wollens als eines sittlichen nicht damit erschöpft finden, daß er es auf einen fortdauernden übernatürlichen Einfluß auf das sittliche Leben (göttliche Weltregierung von außen) zurückführt, oder auf eine zeitliche besondere Offenbarung (Erteilung der zehn Gebote) oder auf die Erscheinung Gottes auf der Erde (Christi). Was durch alles dieses geschieht an und in dem Menschen, wird erst zum Sittlichen, wenn es im menschlichen Erlebnis zu einem individuellen Eigenen wird. Die sittlichen Prozesse sind dem Monismus Weltprodukte wie alles andere Bestehende, und ihre Ursachen müssen in der Welt, das heißt, weil der Mensch der Träger der Sittlichkeit ist, im Menschen gesucht werden.

Der ethische Individualismus ist somit die Krönung des Gebäudes, das Darwin und Haeckel für die Naturwissenschaft erstrebt haben. Er ist vergeistigte Entwicklungslehre auf das sittliche Leben übertragen.

Wer dem Begriff des Natürlichen von vornherein in engherziger Weise ein willkürlich begrenztes Gebiet anweist, der kann dann leicht dazu kommen, für die freie individuelle Handlung keinen Raum darin zu finden. Der konsequent verfahrende Entwicklungstheoretiker kann in solche Engherzigkeit nicht verfallen. Er kann die natürliche Entwickelungsweise beim Affen nicht abschließen und dem Menschen einen «übernatürlichen» Ursprung zugestehen; er muß, auch indem er die natürlichen Vorfahren des Menschen sucht, in der Natur schon den Geist suchen; er kann auch bei den organischen Verrichtungen des Menschen nicht stehen bleiben und nur diese natürlich finden, sondern er muß auch das sittlich-freie Leben als geistige Fortsetzung des organischen ansehen.

Der Entwicklungstheoretiker kann, seiner Grundauffassung gemäß, nur behaupten, daß das gegenwärtige sittliche Handeln aus anderen Arten des Weltgeschehens hervorgeht; die Charakteristik des Handelns, das ist seine Bestimmung als eines freien, muß er der unmittelbaren Beobachtung des Handelns überlassen. Er behauptet ja auch nur, daß Menschen aus noch nicht menschlichen Vorfahren sich entwickelt haben. Wie die Menschen beschaffen sind, das muß durch Beobachtung dieser selbst festgestellt werden. Die Ergebnisse dieser Beobachtung können nicht in Widerspruch geraten mit einer richtig angesehenen Entwicklungsgeschichte. Nur die Behauptung, daß die Ergebnisse solche sind, die eine natürliche Weltordnung ausschließen, könnte nicht in Übereinstimmung mit der neueren Richtung der Naturwissenschaft gebracht werden.

Von einer sich selbst verstehenden Naturwissenschaft hat der ethische Individualismus nichts zu fürchten: die Beobachtung ergibt als Charakteristikum der vollkommenen Form des menschlichen Handelns die Freiheit. Diese Freiheit muß dem menschlichen Wollen zugesprochen werden, insoferne dieses rein ideelle Intuitionen verwirklicht. Denn diese sind nicht Ergebnisse einer von außen auf sie wirkenden Notwendigkeit, sondern ein auf sich selbst Stehendes. Findet der Mensch, daß eine Handlung das Abbild einer solchen ideellen Intuition ist, so empfindet er sie als eine freie. In diesem Kennzeichen einer Handlung liegt die Freiheit.

Wie steht es nun, von diesem Standpunkte aus, mit der bereits oben erwähnten Unterscheidung zwischen den beiden Sätzen: «Frei sein heißt tun können, was man will, und dem andern: «nach Belieben begehren können und nicht begehren können sei der eigentliche Sinn des Dogmas vom freien Willen»? Hamerling begründet gerade seine Ansicht vom freien Willen auf diese Unterscheidung, indem er das erste für richtig, das zweite für eine absurde Tautologie erklärt. Er sagt «Ich kann tun, was ich will. Aber zu sagen: ich kann wollen, was ich will, ist eine leere Tautologie, Ob ich tun, das heißt, in Wirklichkeit umsetzen kann, was ich will, was ich mir also als Idee meines Tuns vorgesetzt habe, das hängt von äußeren Umständen und von meiner technischen Geschicklichkeit ab. Frei sein heißt die dem Handeln zugrunde liegenden Vorstellungen (Beweggründe) durch die moralische Phantasie von sich aus bestimmen können. Freiheit ist unmöglich, wenn etwas außer mir (mechanischer Prozeß oder nur erschlossener außerweltlicher Gott) meine moralischen Vorstellungen bestimmt. Ich bin also nur dann frei, wenn ich selbst diese Vorstellungen produziere, nicht, wenn ich die Beweggründe, die ein anderes Wesen in mich gesetzt hat, ausführen kann. Ein freies Wesen ist dasjenige, welches wollen kann, was es selbst für richtig hält. Wer etwas anderes tut, als er will, der muß zu diesem anderen durch Motive getrieben werden, die nicht in ihm liegen. Ein solcher handelt unfrei. Nach Belieben wollen können, was man für richtig oder nicht richtig hält, heißt also: nach Belieben frei oder unfrei sein können. Das ist natürlich ebenso absurd, wie die Freiheit in dem Vermögen zu sehen, tun zu können, was man wollen muß. Das letztere aber behauptet Hamerling, wenn er sagt Es ist vollkommen wahr, daß der Wille immer durch Beweggründe bestimmt wird, aber es ist absurd zu sagen, daß er deshalb unfrei sei; denn eine größere Freiheit läßt sich für ihn weder wünschen noch denken, als die, sich nach Maßgabe seiner eigenen Stärke und Entschiedenheit zu verwirklichen. – Jawohl: es läßt sich eine größere Freiheit wünschen, und das ist erst die wahre. Nämlich die: sich die Gründe seines Wollens selbst zu bestimmen. Von der Ausführung dessen abzusehen, was er will, dazu läßt sich der Mensch unter Umständen bewegen. Sich vorschreiben zu lassen, was er tun soll, das ist, zu wollen, was ein andrer und nicht er für richtig hält, dazu ist er nur zu haben, insofern er sich nicht frei fühlt.

Die äußeren Gewalten können mich hindern, zu tun, was ich will. Dann verdammen sie mich einfach zum Nichtstun oder zur Unfreiheit. Erst wenn sie meinen Geist knechten und mir meine Beweggründe aus dem Kopfe jagen und an deren Stelle die ihrigen setzen wollen, dann beabsichtigen sie meine Unfreiheit. Die Kirche wendet sich daher nicht bloß gegen das Tu, sondern namentlich gegen die unreinen Gedanken, das ist: die Beweggründe meines Handelns. Unfrei macht sie mich, wenn ihr alle Beweggründe, die sie nicht angibt, als unrein erscheinen. Eine Kirche oder eine andere Gemeinschaft erzeugt dann Unfreiheit, wenn ihre Priester oder Lehrer sich zu Gewissensgebietern machen, das ist, wenn die Gläubigen sich von ihnen (aus dem Beichtstuhle) die Beweggründe ihres Handelns holen müssen.

Zusatz zur Neuausgabe (1918):
In diesen Ausführungen über das menschliche Wollen ist dargestellt, was der Mensch an seinen Handlungen erleben kann, um durch dieses Erlebnis zu dem Bewußtsein zu kommen: mein Wollen ist frei. Von besonderer Bedeutung ist, daß die Berechtigung, ein Wollen als frei zu bezeichnen, durch das Erlebnis erreicht wird: in dem Wollen verwirklicht sich eine ideelle Intuition. Dies kann nur Beobachtungsresultat sein, ist es aber in dem Sinne, in dem das menschliche Wollen sich in einer Entwickelungsströmung beobachtet, deren Ziel darin liegt, solche von rein ideeller Intuition getragene Möglichkeit des Wollens zu erreichen. Sie kann erreicht werden, weil in der ideellen Intuition nichts als deren eigene auf sich gebaute Wesenheit wirkt. Ist eine solche

Intuition im menschlichen Bewußtsein anwesend, dann ist sie nicht aus den Vorgängen des Organismus heraus entwickelt, sondern die organische Tätigkeit hat sich zurückgezogen, um der ideellen Platz zu machen. Beobachte ich ein Wollen, das Abbild der Intuition ist, dann ist auch aus diesem Wollen die organisch notwendige Tätigkeit zurückgezogen. Das Wollen ist frei. Diese Freiheit des Wollens wird der nicht beobachten können, der nicht zu schauen vermag, wie das freie Wollen darin besteht, daß erst durch das intuitive Element das notwendige Wirken des menschlichen Organismus abgelähmt, zurückgedrängt, und an seine stelle die geistige Tätigkeit des idee-erfüllten Willens gesetzt wird. Nur wer diese Beobachtung der Zweigliedrigkeit eines freien Wollens nicht machen kann, glaubt an die Unfreiheit jedes Wollens. Wer sie machen kann, ringt sich zu der Einsicht durch, daß der Mensch, insofern er den Zurückdämmungsvorgang der organischen Tätigkeit nicht zu Ende führen kann, unfrei ist; daß aber diese Unfreiheit der Freiheit zustrebt, und diese Freiheit keineswegs ein abstraktes Ideal ist, sondern eine in der menschlichen Wesenheit liegende Richtkraft. Frei ist der Mensch in dem Maße, als er in seinem Wollen dieselbe Seelenstimmung verwirklichen kann, die in ihm lebt, wenn er sich der Ausgestaltung rein ideeller (geistiger) Intuitionen bewußt ist.

Anmerkungen:
(1) Nur Oberflächlichkeit könnte im Gebrauch des Wortes Vermögen an dieser und andern Stellen dieser Schrift einen Rückfall in die Lehre der alten Psychologie von den Seelenvermögen erblicken. Der Zusammenhang mit dem S. 95 f. Gesagten ergibt genau die Bedeutung des Wortes. (2) Wenn Paulsen (S. 15 des angeführten Buches) sagt «Verschiedene Naturanlagen und Lebensbedingungen erfordern wie eine verschiedene leibliche so auch eine verschiedene geistigmoralische Diät», so ist er der richtigen Erkenntnis ganz nahe, trifft aber den entscheidenden Punkt doch nicht. Insofern ich Individuum bin, brauche ich keine Diät. Diätetik heißt die Kunst, das besondere Exemplar mit den allgemeinen Gesetzen der Gattung in Einklang zu bringen. Als Individuum bin ich aber kein Exemplar der Gattung.

Daß wir Gedanken (ethische Ideen) als Objekte der Beobachtung bezeichnen, geschieht mit Recht. Denn wenn auch die Gebilde des Denkens während der gedanklichen Tätigkeit nicht mit ins Beobachtungsfeld eintreten, so können sie doch nachher Gegenstand der Beobachtung werden. Und auf diesem Wege haben wir unsere Charakteristik des Handelns gewonnen.

XII. Die moralische Phantasie (Darwinismus und Sittlichkeit) – 1

Der freie Geist handelt nach seinen Impulsen, das sind Intuitionen, die aus dem Ganzen seiner Ideenwelt durch das Denken ausgewählt sind. Für den unfreien Geist liegt der Grund, warum er aus seiner Ideenwelt eine bestimmte Intuition aussondert, um sie einer Handlung zugrunde zu legen, in der ihm gegebenen Wahrnehmungswelt, das heißt in seinen bisherigen Erlebnissen. Er erinnert sich, bevor er zu einem Entschluß kommt, daran, was jemand in einem dem seinigen analogen Falle getan oder zu tun für gut geheißen hat, oder was Gott für diesen Fall befohlen hat und so weiter, und danach handelt er. Dem freien Geist sind diese Vorbedingungen nicht einzige Antriebe des Handelns. Er faßt einen schlechthin ersten Entschluß. Es kümmert ihn dabei ebensowenig, was andere in diesem Falle getan, noch was sie dafür befohlen haben. Er hat rein ideelle Gründe, die ihn bewegen, aus der Summe seiner Begriffe gerade einen bestimmten herauszuheben und ihn in Handlung umzusetzen. Seine Handlung wird aber der wahrnehmbaren Wirklichkeit angehören. Was er vollbringt, wird also mit einem ganz bestimmten Wahrnehmungsinhalte identisch sein. Der Begriff wird sich in einem konkreten Einzelgeschehnis zu verwirklichen haben. Er wird als Begriff diesen Einzelfall nicht enthalten können. Er wird sich darauf nur in der Art beziehen können, wie überhaupt ein Begriff sich auf eine Wahrnehmung bezieht, zum Beispiel wie der Begriff des Löwen auf einen einzelnen Löwen. Das Mittelglied zwischen Begriff und Wahrnehmung ist die Vorstellung. Dem unfreien Geist ist dieses Mittelglied von vornherein gegeben. Die Motive sind von vornherein als Vorstellungen in seinem Bewußtsein vorhanden. Wenn er etwas ausführen will, so macht er das so, wie er es gesehen hat, oder wie es ihm für den einzelnen Fall befohlen wird. Die Autorität wirkt daher am besten durch Beispiele, das heißt durch Überlieferung ganz bestimmter Einzelhandlungen an das Bewußtsein des unfreien Geistes. Der Christ handelt weniger nach den Lehren als nach dem Vorbilde des Erlösers. Regeln haben für das positive Handeln weniger Wert als für das Unterlassen bestimmter Handlungen. Gesetze treten nur dann in die allgemeine Begriffsform, wenn sie Handlungen verbieten, nicht aber wenn sie sie zu tun gebieten. Gesetze über das, was er tun soll, müssen dem unfreien Geiste in ganz konkreter Form gegeben werden: Reinige die Straße vor deinem Haustore! Zahle deine Steuern in dieser bestimmten Höhe bei dem Steueramte X! und so weiter. Begriffsform haben die Gesetze zur Verhinderung von Handlungen: Du sollst nicht stehlen! Du sollst nicht ehebrechen! Diese Gesetze wirken auf den unfreien Geist aber auch nur durch den Hinweis auf eine konkrete Vorstellung, zum Beispiel die der entsprechenden zeitlichen Strafen, oder der Gewissensqual, oder der ewigen Verdammnis, und so weiter.

Sobald der Antrieb zu einer Handlung in der allgemein-begrifflichen Form vorhanden ist (zum Beispiel: du sollst deinen Mitmenschen Gutes tun! du sollst so leben, daß du dein Wohlsein am besten beförderst!), dann muß in jedem einzelnen Fall die konkrete Vorstellung des Handelns (die Beziehung des Begriffes auf einen Wahrnehmungsinhalt) erst gefunden werden. Bei dem freien Geiste, den kein Vorbild und keine Furcht vor Strafe usw. treibt, ist diese Umsetzung des Begriffes in die Vorstellung immer notwendig.

Konkrete Vorstellungen aus der Summe seiner Ideen heraus produziert der Mensch zunächst durch die Phantasie. Was der freie Geist nötig hat, um seine Ideen zu verwirklichen, um sich durchzusetzen, ist also die moralische Phantasie. Sie ist die Quelle für das Handeln des freien Geistes. Deshalb sind auch nur Menschen mit moralischer Phantasie eigentlich sittlich produktiv. Die bloßen Moralprediger, das ist: die Leute, die sittliche Regeln ausspinnen, ohne sie zu konkreten Vorstellungen verdichten zu können, sind moralisch unproduktiv. Sie gleichen den Kritikern, die verständig auseinanderzusetzen wissen, wie ein Kunstwerk beschaffen sein soll, selbst aber auch nicht das geringste zustande bringen können.

Die moralische Phantasie muß, um ihre Vorstellung zu verwirklichen, in ein bestimmtes Gebiet von Wahrnehmungen eingreifen. Die Handlung des Menschen schafft keine Wahrnehmungen, sondern prägt die Wahrnehmungen, die bereits vorhanden sind, um, erteilt ihnen eine neue Gestalt. Um ein bestimmtes Wahrnehmungsobjekt oder eine Summe von solchen, einer moralischen Vorstellung gemäß, umbilden zu können, muß man den gesetzmäßigen Inhalt (die bisherige Wirkungsweise, die man neu gestalten oder der man eine neue Richtung geben will) dieses Wahrnehmungsbildes begriffen haben.

Man muß ferner den Modus finden, nach dem sich diese Gesetzmäßigkeit in eine neue verwandeln läßt. Dieser Teil der moralischen Wirksamkeit beruht auf Kenntnis der Erscheinungswelt, mit der man es zu tun hat. Er ist also zu suchen in einem Zweige der wissenschaftlichen Erkenntnis überhaupt. Das moralische Handeln setzt also voraus neben dem moralischen Ideenvermögen (1) und der moralischen Phantasie die Fähigkeit, die Welt der Wahrnehmungen umzuformen, ohne ihren naturgesetzlichen Zusammenhang zu durchbrechen. Diese Fähigkeit ist moralische Technik. Sie ist in dem Sinne lernbar, wie Wissenschaft überhaupt lernbar ist. Im allgemeinen sind Menschen nämlich geeigneter, die Begriffe für die schon fertige Welt zu finden, als produktiv aus der Phantasie die noch nicht vorhandenen zukünftigen Handlungen zu bestimmen. Deshalb ist es sehr wohl möglich, daß Menschen ohne moralische Phantasie die moralischen Vorstellungen von andern empfangen und diese geschickt der Wirklichkeit einprägen. Auch der umgekehrte Fall kann vorkommen, daß Menschen mit moralischer Phantasie ohne die technische Geschicklichkeit sind und sich dann anderer Menschen zur Verwirklichung ihrer Vorstellungen bedienen müssen.

Insofern zum moralischen Handeln die Kenntnis der Objekte unseres Handelnsgebietes notwendig ist, beruht unser Handeln auf dieser Kenntnis. Was hier in Betracht kommt, sind Naturgesetze. Wir haben es mit Naturwissenschaft zu tun, nicht mit Ethik.

Die moralische Phantasie und das moralische Ideenvermögen können erst Gegenstand des Wissens werden, nachdem sie vom Individuum produziert sind. Dann aber regeln sie nicht mehr das Leben, sondern haben es bereits geregelt. Sie sind als wirkende Ursachen wie alle andern aufzufassen (Zwecke sind sie bloß für das Subjekt). Wir beschäftigen uns mit ihnen als mit einer Naturlehre der moralischen Vorstellungen.

Eine Ethik als Normwissenschaft kann es daneben nicht geben.

Man hat den normativen Charakter der moralischen Gesetze wenigstens insofern halten wollen, daß man die Ethik im Sinne der Diätetik auffaßte, welche aus den Lebensbedingungen des Organismus allgemeine Regeln ableitet, um auf Grund derselben dann den Körper im besonderen zu beeinflussen (Paulsen, System der Ethik). Dieser Vergleich ist falsch, weil unser moralisches Leben sich nicht mit dem Leben des Organismus vergleichen läßt. Die Wirksamkeit des Organismus ist ohne unser Zutun da; wir finden dessen Gesetze in der Welt fertig vor, können sie also suchen, und dann die gefundenen anwenden. Die moralischen Gesetze werden aber von uns erst geschaffen. Wir können sie nicht anwenden, bevor sie geschaffen sind. Der Irrtum entsteht dadurch, daß die moralischen Gesetze nicht in jedem Momente inhaltlich neu geschaffen werden, sondern sich forterben. Die von den Vorfahren übernommenen erscheinen dann gegeben wie die Naturgesetze des Organismus. Sie werden aber durchaus nicht mit demselben Rechte von einer späteren Generation wie diätetische Regeln angewendet. Denn sie gehen auf das Individuum und nicht wie das Naturgesetz auf das Exemplar einer Gattung. Als Organismus bin ich ein solches Gattungsexemplar, und ich werde naturgemäß leben, wenn ich die Naturgesetze der Gattung in meinem besonderen Falle anwende; als sittliches Wesen bin ich Individuum und habe meine ganz eigenen Gesetze.

12 – Moral Imagination (Darwinism and Morality) – 1

A free spirit acts according to his impulses, that is, according to intuitions selected from the totality of his world of ideas by thinking. For an unfree spirit, the reason why he singles out a particular intuition from his world of ideas in order to make it the basis of an action, lies in the world of percepts given to him, that is, in his past experiences. He recalls, before coming to a decision, what someone else has done or recommended as suitable in a comparable case, or what God has commanded to be done in such a case, and so on, and he acts accordingly.

For a free spirit, these prior conditions are not the only impulses to action. He makes a completely firsthand decision. What others have done in such a case worries him as little as what they have decreed. He has purely ideal reasons which lead him to select from the sum of his concepts just one in particular, and then to translate it into action. But his action will belong to perceptible reality.

What he achieves will thus be identical with a quite definite content of perception. The concept will have to realise itself in a single concrete occurrence. As a concept it will not be able to contain this particular event. It will refer to the event only in the same way as a concept is in general related to a percept, for example, the concept of the lion to a particular lion. The link between concept and percept is the mental picture (see Chapter 6). For the unfree spirit, this link is given from the outset.

Motives are present in his consciousness from the outset in the form of mental pictures. Whenever there is something he wants to carry out, he does it as he has seen it done, or as he has been told to do it in the particular case. Hence authority works best through examples, that is, through providing quite definite particular actions for the consciousness of the unfree spirit. A Christian acts not so much according to the teaching as according to the example of the Saviour. Rules have less value for acting positively than for refraining from certain actions. Laws take on the form of general concepts only when they forbid actions, but not when they prescribe them.

Laws concerning what he ought to do must be given to the unfree spirit in quite concrete form: Clean the street in front of your door! Pay your taxes, amounting to the sum here given, to the Tax Office at X! and so on. Conceptual form belongs to laws for inhibiting actions: Thou shalt not steal! Thou shalt not commit adultery! These laws, too, influence the unfree spirit only by means of a concrete mental picture, for example, that of the appropriate secular punishment, or the pangs of conscience, or eternal damnation, and so on.

Whenever the impulse for an action is present in a general conceptual form (for example, Thou shalt do good to thy fellow men! Thou shalt live so that thou best promotest thy welfare!) then for each particular case the concrete mental picture of the action (the relation of the concept to a content of perception) must first be found. For the free spirit who is impelled by no example, nor fear of punishment or the like, this translation of the concept into a mental picture is always necessary.

Man produces concrete mental pictures from the sum of his ideas chiefly by means of the imagination. Therefore what the free spirit needs in order to realise his ideas, in order to be effective, is moral imagination. This is the source of the free spirit’s action. Therefore it is only men with moral imagination who are, strictly speaking, morally productive. Those who merely preach morality, that is, people who merely spin out moral rules without being able to condense them into concrete mental pictures, are morally unproductive. They are like those critics who can explain very intelligibly what a work of art ought to be like, but who are themselves incapable of even the slightest productive effort.

Moral imagination, in order to realise its mental picture, must set to work in a definite sphere of percepts. Human action does not create percepts, but transforms already existing percepts and gives them a new form. In order to be able to transform a definite object of perception, or a sum of such objects, in accordance with a moral mental picture, one must have grasped the principle at work within the percept picture, that is, the way it has hitherto worked, to which one wants to give a new form or a new direction. Further, it is necessary to discover the procedure by which it is possible to change the given principle into a new one.

This part of effective moral activity depends on knowledge of the particular world of phenomena with which one is concerned. We shall, therefore, look for it in some branch of learning in general. Moral action, then, presupposes, in addition to the faculty of having moral ideas (moral intuition) and moral imagination, the ability to transform the world of percepts without violating the natural laws by which these are connected. This ability is moral technique. It can be learnt in the same sense in which any kind of knowledge can be learnt. Generally speaking, men are better able to find concepts for the existing world than to evolve productively, out of their imagination, the not-yet-existing actions of the future. Hence it is perfectly possible for men without moral imagination to receive such mental pictures from others, and to embody them skillfully into the actual world. Conversely, it may happen that men with moral imagination lack technical skill, and must make use of other men for the realisation of their mental pictures.

In so far as knowledge of the objects within our sphere of action is necessary for acting morally, our action depends upon such knowledge. What we are concerned with here are laws of nature. We are dealing with natural science, not ethics.

Moral imagination and the faculty of having moral ideas can become objects of knowledge only after they have been produced by the individual. By then, however, they no longer regulate life, for they have already regulated it. They must now be regarded as effective causes, like all others (they are purposes only for the subject). We therefore deal with them as with a natural history of moral ideas.

Ethics as a science that sets standards, in addition to this, cannot exist.

Some people have wanted to maintain the standard-setting character of moral laws, at least in so far as they have understood ethics in the sense of dietetics, which deduces general rules from the organism’s requirements in life as a basis for influencing the body in a particular way (e.g., Paulsen, in his System der Ethik). This comparison is false, because our moral life is not comparable with the life of the organism.

The functioning of the organism occurs without any action on our part; we come upon its laws in the world ready-made and can therefore seek them and apply them when found. Moral laws, on the other hand, are first created by us. We cannot apply them until we have created them. The error arises through the fact that, as regards their content, moral laws are not newly created at every moment, but are inherited.

Those that we have taken over from our ancestors appear to be given, like the natural laws of the organism. But a later generation will certainly not be justified in applying them as if they were dietetic rules. For they apply to individuals and not, as natural laws do, to specimens of a general type. Considered as an organism, I am such a generic specimen and I shall live in accordance with nature if I apply the natural laws of my general type to my particular case; as a moral being, I am an individual and have laws of my very own.

12. Moral Imagination (Darwinism and Ethics) – 2

The view presented here seems to contradict the fundamental teaching of modern natural science known as the theory of evolution. But it only seems to be so. People understand evolution to mean the real development, according to natural laws, of what is later from what was earlier. People understand evolution in the organic world to mean that later (more perfect) organic forms are real descendants of earlier (more imperfect) forms and developed from them according to natural laws. Adherents of the theory of organic evolution must actually imagine that there was once a time on earth when a being—if it were present as an observer endowed with a sufficiently long lifespan—could have followed with its own eyes the gradual development of reptiles from proto-amniotes. In the same way, evolutionists imagine that a being—if it could have remained in an appropriate spot in the world ether during that infinitely long time—could have observed the development of the solar system out of the Kant-Laplace primordial nebula. In order to picture things in this way, however, the nature of the proto-amniotes, like the Kant-Laplace primordial nebula, would have to be thought of differently than materialists think of them. But that is irrelevant here.

Evolutionists could never claim that, without having ever seen a reptile, they could derive the concept of reptiles, with all of their features, from the concept of proto amniotes. Nor can the solar system be derived from the concept of the Kant-Laplace primordial nebula, if that concept is understood to be directly determined only by the percept of the primordial nebula. In other words, if they think consistently, evolutionists must assert that later phases of evolution really follow from earlier ones, and that if we have the concept of the imperfect and that of the perfect given to us, we will be able to see the connection. But on no account can evolutionists affirm that the concept attained from the earlier is sufficient to develop the concept of the later from it. It follows that, while ethicists can certainly see the connection between earlier and later moral concepts, not even a single new moral idea can be drawn forth from earlier ones. As moral beings, individuals produce their own content. For an ethicist, this content is just as much a given as reptiles are a given for the natural scientist. Reptiles developed from proto-amniotes, but natural scientists cannot get the concept of reptiles from out of the concept of proto-amniotes. Later moral ideas develop from earlier ones, but ethicists cannot draw forth the ethical concepts of later cultural epochs from those of earlier epochs.

The confusion arises because as natural scientists we already have the facts before us and afterward investigate them cognitively, while for ethical action we must ourselves first create the facts that we cognize afterward. In the evolutionary process of the ethical world order, we accomplish something that, on a lower level, is accomplished by nature: we alter something perceptible. Thus, initially, the ethical norm cannot be cognized like a natural law; rather, it must be created. Only once it is present can it become the object of cognition.

But can we not measure the new against the old? Are not all of us forced to measure what we produce by our moral imagination against received ethical teachings? If we are to be ethically productive, this is as absurd as if we were to measure a new natural form against an old one and say: reptiles are an unjustifiable (pathological) form because they do not match proto-amniotes.

Thus, ethical individualism does not contradict a theory of evolution when it is properly understood, but follows directly from it. Haeckel’s genealogical tree, running from protozoa to human beings as organic beings, ought to be traceable—without interrupting natural law or breaking the uniformity of evolution—right up to the individual as an ethical being in a specific sense.

But nowhere could we derive the nature of a subsequent species from the nature of an ancestral species. It is true that an individual’s ethical ideas evolve from those of his or her predecessors, but it is equally true that individuals are ethically sterile if they lack moral ideas of their own.

The same ethical individualism that I have developed on the basis of the preceding views could also be derived from the theory of evolution. The final conviction would be the same. Only the path by which it was attained would be different.

To the theory of evolution, the emergence of completely new ethical ideas from moral imagination is no more amazing than the development of a new animal species from an old one. But, as a monistic worldview, evolutionary theory must reject—in ethics, as in science—every merely inferred, otherworldly (metaphysical) influence that cannot be experienced conceptually. In so doing, it is following the same principle as when it seeks causes of new organic forms without appeal to the interference of an otherworldly being who—by supernatural influence— summons each new species according to a new creative thought. Just as monism cannot employ supernatural creative thoughts to explain living creatures, so likewise it cannot derive the ethical order of the world from causes lying outside the experienceable world. For monism, the moral essence of someone’s will is never fully explained

Out of this he formulated a philosophy of monism. In the early twentieth century, this monism took a quasi-religious form in Germany and meetings of monists were held throughout the country. by tracing it back to some continuous supernatural influence on ethical life (divine world rule from without), to a specific temporal revelation (transmission of the ten commandments), or to the appearance of God on earth (Christ). What happens in a human being and to a human being by means of these becomes ethical only if is appropriated in human experience by individuals who make it their own. For monism, ethical processes are products of the world like everything else that exists, and their causes must be sought in the world—that is to say, in human beings, because humans are the bearers of morality.

Thus, ethical individualism becomes the pinnacle of the edifice that Darwin and Haeckel sought to build for natural science. It is spiritualized evolutionary theory, transferred to moral life.

Those who narrow-mindedly confine the concept of what is natural to an arbitrarily limited region easily reach the point of not being able to find any room there for free individual action. Consistent, systematic evolutionists cannot fall into any such narrowmindedness. They cannot close the natural path of evolution with the apes, and then give humanity a “supernatural” origin. Evolutionists must seek the spirit, too, in nature, even in the search for natural human ancestors. They cannot stop at human organic processes, finding those alone to be natural. They must also regard the morally free life as a spiritual continuation of organic life.

According to their fundamental principles, theorists of evolution can claim only that present ethical behavior follows from other kinds of occurrences in the world. To characterize an action—for instance, to define it as free— must be left to immediate observation of the action itself. After all, evolutionists also claim only that humans evolved from nonhuman ancestors. What humans are actually like must be ascertained through observation of human beings themselves. The results of such observation cannot come into conflict with a properly understood history of evolution. Only the claim that these results were such as to preclude a natural world order could not be aligned with the current trend of natural science.

Ethical individualism has nothing to fear from a natural science that understands itself: observation shows that freedom is characteristic of the perfected form of human action. This freedom must be ascribed to the human will insofar as the will realizes pure conceptual intuitions. For these intuitions do not result from necessity working upon them from without; they are self-sustaining. We feel the action to be free when we find that it is the image of such an ideal intuition. The freedom of an action lies in this characteristic.

From this standpoint, what can be said about the distinction made in Chapter One between the two sentences “To be free means to be able to do what one wills” and “The real meaning of the dogma of free will is to be able to desire or not desire as one pleases”? Hamerling based his view of free will precisely on this distinction, describing the first of these as correct and the second as an absurd tautology. He says, “I can do what I will. But to say that I can will what I will is an empty tautology.” Whether I do—transform into reality—what I will—that is, what I have intended as the idea of my action—depends on outer circumstances and on my technical skill (cf. p.182). To be free means: to be able—on my own, through moral imagination—to determine the mental pictures (motives) underlying an action. Freedom is impossible if something outside myself (whether a mechanical process or a merely inferred, otherworldly God) determines my moral mental pictures. Therefore, I am free only when I produce these mental pictures myself, not merely when I can carry out motives that another has placed within me. Free beings are those who can will what they themselves hold to be right. Those who do something other than what they want must be driven to it through motives that do not lie within them. They are acting unfreely. To choose to will or want what I consider right or not right therefore means to choose to be free or unfree. But this, naturally, is just as absurd as to see freedom in the capacity to do what one has to will. Yet this is exactly what Hamerling claims when he says that it is perfectly clear that the will is always determined by motives, but it is absurd to say that it is therefore unfree; for we can neither wish for, nor think of, a greater freedom of the will than for it to realize itself according to its own strength and determination.

But we can wish for a greater freedom, and only then is it true freedom: namely, to determine for ourselves the motive of our will.

Under certain circumstances, we can be induced to refrain from what we want to do. To allow ourselves to be told what we ought to do, that is, to want what others, and not we ourselves, consider to be right—to this we submit only to the extent that we do not feel free.

Outer forces can prevent me from doing what I will. In that case, they simply condemn me to inaction or to unfreedom. Only if they subjugate my spirit, drive my motives from my head, and replace them with their own— only then do they really intend to make me unfree. This is why the Church is not merely against actions, but particularly against impure thoughts, the motives for my actions. The Church makes me unfree when it sees as impure all motives it has not itself decreed. A church or any other community creates unfreedom when its priests or teachers turn themselves into keepers of conscience, so that the faithful (in the confessional) must take the motives for their actions from them.

Addendum to the new edition (1918)
This discussion of human will shows what human beings can experience in their actions so that, through this experience, they arrive at the awareness: “My will is free.” It is especially significant that the justification for calling a will “free” comes from the experience that a conceptual intuition realizes itself in the will. This can result only from observation; and it does so only when human willing observes itself in a stream of development whose aim is precisely to make possible willing carried by purely conceptual intuition. This is achievable because in conceptual intuition nothing but its own self-based essence is at work. Whenever such an intuition is present in human consciousness, it has not developed from the processes of the organism. Rather, organic activity has withdrawn to make room for conceptual activity. If I observe willing that is the image of an intuition, then all organically necessary activity has withdrawn from that willing. The will is free. Such freedom of will cannot be observed by someone unable to see that free willing consists in the fact that the necessary activity of the human organism is first numbed and suppressed by the intuitive element, and then replaced by the spiritual activity of the idea-filled will. Only someone who cannot make this observation of the twofold nature of a free act of will believes that all willing is unfree. Anyone who can make the observation struggles through to the insight that human beings are unfree to the extent that they cannot complete the process of restraining the organic activity; but that such unfreedom strives toward freedom, which is in no way an abstract ideal, but a guiding power inherent in human nature. Human beings are free to the extent that they can realize, in their willing, the same mood of soul that lives in them when they are conscious of forming purely conceptual (spiritual) intuitions.

12. Moral Imagination (Darwinism and Ethics) – 1

Free spirits act out of their impulses – that is, from intuitions chosen by thinking from the totality of their world of ideas. The reason that unfree spirits separate particular intuitions from their world of ideas, to make them the basis of an action, lies in what the perceptual world has given them—that is, in their previous experiences. Before coming to a decision, unfree spirits remember what someone did, or recommended, or what God commanded in such a case, and so forth. Then they act accordingly. Free spirits have other sources of action than these preconditions. They make absolutely original decisions. They worry neither about what others have done in their situation, nor about what they have been commanded to do. Purely conceptual reasons move them to select a particular concept from the sum of their concepts and translate it into action. Their action, however, belongs to perceptible reality. What they perform there will thus be identical to a quite specific perceptual content. The concept will have to realize itself in a concrete, individual event. But, as a concept, it cannot contain that event. It can relate to it only as any concept relates to a percept— for example, as the concept of “lion” relates to an individual lion.

The link mediating between a concept and a percept is the mental picture. For an unfree spirit, this link is given in advance—motives are present in advance as mental pictures in consciousness. When unfree spirits want to do something, they do it as they have seen it done, or as they have been told to do in this particular case. Authority, therefore, works best through examples, that is, through the transmission of quite specific, individual acts to the consciousness of unfree spirits. A Christian acts less in accordance with the teachings than with the model of the Redeemer. With regard to positive action, rules have less value than they do for the restraint of particular actions. Only when they forbid actions, and not when they command them to be done, do laws take on universal conceptual form. Laws concerning what unfree spirits should do must be given to them in quite concrete form: Clean the street in front of your doorway! Pay your taxes at just this rate at tax office X! and so forth. The laws forbidding actions take the conceptual form: Thou shalt not steal! Thou shalt not commit adultery! But these laws, too, affect unfree spirits only by their appeal to concrete mental pictures, such as that of the corresponding secular punishment, torments of conscience, eternal damnation, and so forth.

As soon as an impulse to action is present in the form of a general concept—for example, thou shalt do good to thy neighbor, or thou shalt live so as best to further thy wellbeing – then a concrete mental picture of the action (the relation of the concept to a perceptual content) must first be found in each individual case. This translation of concept into mental picture is always necessary for a free spirit, who is driven neither by a model nor by fear of punishment.

Imagination is the chief means by which human beings produce concrete mental pictures from the sum of their ideas. Free spirits need moral imagination to realize their ideas and make them effective. Moral imagination is the source of a free spirit’s actions. Therefore, only people who have moral imagination are really morally productive. Simple moral preachers—that is, people who spin out codes of ethics without being able to condense them into concrete mental pictures—are morally unproductive. They are like critics who can rationally discuss what works of art should be like, but cannot themselves produce anything at all.

To turn a mental picture into a reality, moral imagination must set to work in a specific field of percepts. Human action does not create percepts, it recasts already existing percepts and gives them a new form. To be able to transform a specific perceptual object or group of objects in accordance with a moral mental picture, one must have understood the laws of the perceptual picture to which one wants to give new form or new direction— that is, one must have understood how it has worked until now. Further, one must find the method by which those laws can be transformed. This part of moral efficacy depends on knowledge of the phenomenal world with which one is dealing. This knowledge must therefore be sought in a branch of general scientific knowledge. Hence, along with the faculty for moral ideas and imagination, moral action presupposes the capacity to transform the world of percepts without interrupting its coherence in natural law.

The capacity to transform the world of percepts is moral technique. It is learnable in the sense that any knowledge is learnable. Generally, people are better equipped to find concepts for the world that is already finished than to determine productively, out of their imagination, future, not yet-existent actions. Therefore, those without moral imagination may well receive the moral mental pictures of other people and skillfully work them into reality. The reverse can also occur: people with moral imagination can lack technical skill and may have to make use of others to realize their mental pictures.

Insofar as knowledge of the objects within our field of action is necessary for moral action, our actions are based upon this kind of knowledge. What is relevant here are natural laws. We are dealing with natural science, not with ethics.

Moral imagination and the moral capacity for ideas can become objects of knowledge only after an individual has produced them. By then, they no longer regulate life; they have already regulated it. They can be regarded as effective causes like any others—they are purposes only for the subject. Hence, we deal with them as with a natural history of moral ideas.

Apart from this, there can be no science of ethical norms.

Some people have tried to retain the normative character of moral laws—at least, to the extent that they have understood ethics as if it were analogous to dietetics. Dietetics derives general rules from the organism’s requirements for life, so as then to affect the body on the basis of these rules. But the comparison between ethics and dietetics is false because our moral life cannot be compared with the life of the organism. The organism’s activity exists without any contribution on our part. We find its laws already present in the world. Hence we can seek the laws and apply those that we have found. But moral laws are first created by us. Before they are created, we cannot apply them. The error arises because moral laws are not created at each moment with a new content, but are inherited. Thus moral laws, inherited from one’s ancestors, appear to be given, like the natural laws of the organism. But they are in no way applied by a later generation with the same legitimacy as the rules of diet. For moral laws deal with the individual and not, like natural law, with an example of a species. I, as an organism, am just such an example of a species; I will live according to nature if I apply the natural laws of the species to my particular case. But, as a moral being, I am an individual and have laws of my very own.

12. Moral Imagination (Darwinism and Ethics) – 2

Evolutionists could never claim that, without having ever seen a reptile, they could derive the concept of reptiles, with all of their features, from the concept of proto-amniotes. Nor can the solar system be derived from the concept of the Kant-Laplace primordial nebula, if that concept is understood to be directly determined only by the percept of the primordial nebula. In other words, if they think consistently, evolutionists must assert that later phases of evolution really follow from earlier ones, and that if we have the concept of the imperfect and that of the perfect given to us, we will be able to see the connection. But on no account can evolutionists affirm that the concept attained from the earlier is sufficient to develop the concept of the later from it. It follows that, while ethicists can certainly see the connection between earlier and later moral concepts, not even a single new moral idea can be drawn forth from earlier ones. As moral beings, individuals produce their own content. For an ethicist, this content is just as much a given as reptiles are a given for the natural scientist. Reptiles developed from proto-amniotes, but natural scientists cannot get the concept of reptiles from out of the concept of proto-amniotes. Later moral ideas develop from earlier ones, but ethicists cannot draw forth the ethical concepts of later cultural epochs from those of earlier epochs.

Thus, ethical individualism becomes the pinnacle of the edifice that Darwin and Haeckel sought to build for natural science. It is spiritualized evolutionary theory, transferred to moral life.

Those who narrow-mindedly confine the concept of what is natural to an arbitrarily limited region easily reach the point of not being able to find any room there for free individual action. Consistent, systematic evolutionists cannot fall into any such narrow-mindedness. They cannot close the natural path of evolution with the apes, and then give humanity a “supernatural” origin. Evolutionists must seek the spirit, too, in nature, even in the search for natural human ancestors. They cannot stop at human organic processes, finding those alone to be natural. They must also regard the morally free life as a spiritual continuation of organic life.

According to their fundamental principles, theorists of evolution can claim only that present ethical behavior follows from other kinds of occurrences in the world. To characterize an action—for instance, to define it as free— must be left to immediate observation of the action itself. After all, evolutionists also claim only that humans evolved from nonhuman ancestors. What humans are actually like must be ascertained through observation of human beings themselves. The results of such observation cannot come into conflict with a properly understood history of evolution. Only the claim that these results were such as to preclude a natural world order could not be aligned with the current trend of natural science.

From this standpoint, what can be said about the distinction made in Chapter One between the two sentences “To be free means to be able to do what one wills” and “The real meaning of the dogma of free will is to be able to desire or not desire as one pleases”? Hamerling based his view of free will precisely on this distinction, describing the first of these as correct and the second as an absurd tautology. He says, “I can do what I will. But to say that I can will what I will is an empty tautology.” Whether I do—transform into reality—what I will—that is, what I have intended as the idea of my action—de pends on outer circumstances and on my technical skill (cf. p.182). To be free means: to be able—on my own, through moral imagination—to determine the mental pictures (motives) underlying an action. Freedom is impossible if something outside myself (whether a mechanical process or a merely inferred, otherworldly God) determines my moral mental pictures. Therefore, I am free only when I produce these mental pictures myself, not merely when I can carry out motives that another has placed within me. Free beings are those who can will what they themselves hold to be right. Those who do something other than what they want must be driven to it through motives that do not lie within them. They are acting unfreely. To choose to will or want what I consider right or not right therefore means to choose to be free or unfree. But this, naturally, is just as absurd as to see freedom in the capacity to do what one has to will. Yet this is exactly what Hamerling claims when he says that it is perfectly clear that the will is always determined by motives, but it is absurd to say that it is therefore unfree; for we can neither wish for, nor think of, a greater freedom of the will than for it to realize itself according to its own strength and determination.

But we can wish for a greater freedom, and only then is it true freedom: namely, to determine for ourselves the motive of our will.

11 – World Purpose and Life Purpose (The Ordering of Man’s Destiny)

Among the manifold currents in the spiritual life of mankind, there is one to be followed up which can be described as the overcoming of the concept of purpose in spheres where it does not belong.

Purposefulness is a special kind of sequence of phenomena. True purposefulness really exists only if, in contrast to the relationship of cause and effect where the earlier event determines the later, the reverse is the case and the later event influences the earlier one.

To begin with, this happens only in the case of human actions. One performs an action of which one has previously made a mental picture, and one allows this mental picture to determine one’s action. Thus the later (the deed) influences the earlier (the doer) with the help of the mental picture. For there to be a purposeful connection, this detour through the mental picture is absolutely necessary.

In a process which breaks down into cause and effect, we must distinguish percept from concept.The percept of the cause precedes the percept of the effect; cause and effect would simply remain side by side in our consciousness, if we were not able to connect them with one another through their corresponding concepts. The percept of the effect must always follow upon the percept of the cause.

If the effect is to have a real influence upon the cause, it can do so only by means of the conceptual factor. For the perceptual factor of the effect simply does not exist prior to the perceptual factor of the cause. Anyone who declares that the blossom is the purpose of the root, that is, that the former influences the latter, can do so only with regard to that factor in the blossom which is established in it by his thinking. The perceptual factor of the blossom is not yet in existence at the time when the root originates.

For a purposeful connection to exist, it is not only necessary to have an ideal, law-determined connection between the later and the earlier, but the concept (law) of the effect must really influence the cause, that is, by means of a perceptible process. A perceptible influence of a concept upon something else, however, is to be observed only in human actions. Hence this is the only sphere in which the concept of purpose is applicable.

The naive consciousness, which regards as real only what is perceptible, attempts — as we have repeatedly pointed out — to introduce perceptible elements where only ideal elements are to be found. In the perceptible course of events it looks for perceptible connections, or, failing to find them, it simply invents them. The concept of purpose, valid for subjective actions, is an element well suited for such invented connections.

The naive man knows how he brings an event about and from this he concludes that nature will do it in the same way. In the connections of nature which are purely ideal he finds not only invisible forces but also invisible real purposes. Man makes his tools according to his purposes; the naive realist would have the Creator build organisms on the same formula. Only very gradually is this mistaken concept of purpose disappearing from the sciences. In philosophy, even today, it still does a good deal of mischief. Here people still ask after the extra-mundane purpose of the world, the extra-human ordering of man’s destiny (and consequently also his purpose), and so on.

Monism rejects the concept of purpose in every sphere, with the sole exception of human action. It looks for laws of nature, but not for purposes of nature. Purposes of nature are arbitrary assumptions no less than are imperceptible forces (see Chapter 7). But even purposes of life not set by man himself are unjustified assumptions from the standpoint of monism. Nothing is purposeful except what man has first made so, for purposefulness arises only through the realisation of an idea. In a realistic sense, an idea can become effective only in man.

Therefore human life can only have the purpose and the ordering of destiny that man gives it. To the question: What is man’s task in life? there can be for monism but one answer: The task he sets himself. My mission in the world is not predetermined, but is at every moment the one I choose for myself. I do not set out upon my journey through life with fixed marching orders.

Ideas are realised purposefully only by human beings. Consequently it is not permissible to speak of the embodiment of ideas by history. All such phrases as “history is the evolution of mankind towards freedom,” or “. . . the realisation of the moral world order,” and so on, are, from a monistic point of view, untenable.

The supporters of the concept of purpose believe that, by surrendering it, they would also have to surrender all order and uniformity in the world. Listen, for example, to Robert Hamerling:
As long as there are instincts in nature, it is folly to deny purposes therein. Just as the formation of a limb of the human body is not determined and conditioned by an idea of this limb, floating in the air, but by its connection with the greater whole, the body to which the limb belongs, so the formation of every natural object, be it plant, animal or man, is not determined and conditioned by an idea of it floating in the air, but by the formative principle of the totality of nature which unfolds and organises itself in a purposeful manner. (see fn 1)

And on page 191 of the same volume we read:
The theory of purpose maintains only that, in spite of the thousand discomforts and distresses of this mortal life, there is a high degree of purpose and plan unmistakably present in the formations and developments of nature – a degree of plan and purposefulness, however, which is realised only within the limits of natural law, and which does not aim at a fool’s paradise where life faces no death, growth no decay, with all their more or less unpleasant but quite unavoidable intermediary stages.

When the opponents of the concept of purpose set a laboriously collected rubbish-heap of partial or complete, imaginary or real maladaptations against a whole world of miracles of purposefulness, such as nature exhibits in all her domains, then I consider this just as quaint …

What is here meant by purposefulness? The coherence of percepts to form a whole. But since underlying all percepts there are laws (ideas) which we discover through our thinking, it follows that the systematic coherence of the parts of a perceptual whole is simply the ideal coherence of the parts of an ideal whole contained in this perceptual whole. To say that an animal or a man is not determined by an idea floating in the air is a misleading way of putting it, and the point of view he is disparaging automatically loses its absurdity as soon as the expression is put right.

An animal certainly is not determined by an idea floating in the air, but it definitely is determined by an idea inborn in it and constituting the law of its being. It is just because the idea is not external to the object, but works within it as its very essence, that we cannot speak of purposefulness.

It is just the person who denies that natural beings are determined from without (and it does not matter, in this context, whether it be by an idea floating in the air or existing outside the creature in the mind of a world creator) who must admit that such beings are not determined by purpose and plan from without, but by cause and law from within. I construct a machine purposefully if I connect its parts together in a way that is not given in nature. The purposefulness of the arrangement consists in just this, that I embody the working principle of the machine, as its idea, into the machine itself. The machine becomes thereby an object of perception with the idea corresponding to it. Natural objects are also entities of this kind. Whoever calls a thing purposeful simply because it is formed according to a law, may, if he wish, apply the same term to the objects of nature. But he must not confuse this kind of lawfulness with that of subjective human action.

For purpose to exist, it is absolutely necessary that the effective cause shall be a concept, in fact the concept of the effect. But in nature we can nowhere point to concepts acting as causes; the concept invariably turns out to be nothing but the ideal link connecting cause and effect. Causes are present in nature only in the form of percepts.

Dualism may talk of world purposes and natural purposes. Wherever there is a systematic linking of cause and effect for our perception, the dualist may assume that we see only the carbon copy of a connection in which the absolute cosmic Being has realised its purposes. For monism, with the rejection of an absolute cosmic Being — never experienced but only hypothetically inferred — all ground for assuming purposes in the world and in nature also falls away.

Author’s addition, 1918
No one who has followed the preceding argument with an open mind will be able to conclude that the author, in rejecting the concept of purpose for extra-human facts, takes the side of those thinkers who, by rejecting this concept, enable themselves to regard everything outside human action — and thence human action itself — as no more than a natural process. He should be protected from this by the fact that in this book the thinking process is presented as a purely spiritual one.

If here the concept of purpose is rejected even for the spiritual world, lying outside human action, it is because something is revealed in that world which is higher than the kind of purpose realised in the human kingdom. And when we say that the thought of a purposeful destiny for the human race, modeled on human purposefulness, is erroneous, we mean that the individual gives himself purposes, and that the outcome of the working of mankind as a whole is compounded of these. This outcome is then something higher than its component parts, the purposes of men.

Footnotes:

Atomistik des Willens, vol ii, p. 201.

10 – Philosophy and Monism

The naive man, who acknowledges as real only what he can see with his eyes and grasp with his hands, requires for his moral life, also, a basis for action that shall be perceptible to the senses. He requires someone or something to impart the basis for his action to him in a way that his senses can understand. He is ready to allow this basis for action to be dictated to him as commandments by any man whom he considers wiser or more powerful than himself, or whom he acknowledges for some other reason to be a power over him. In this way there arise, as moral principles, the authority of family, state, society, church and God, as previously described.

A man who is very narrow minded still puts his faith in some one person; the more advanced man allows his moral conduct to be dictated by a majority (state, society). It is always on perceptible powers that he builds. The man who awakens at last to the conviction that basically these powers are human beings as weak as himself, seeks guidance from a higher power, from a Divine Being, whom he endows, however, with sense perceptible features. He conceives this Being as communicating to him the conceptual content of his moral life, again in a perceptible way – whether it be, for example, that God appears in the burning bush, or that He moves about among men in manifest human shape, and that their ears can hear Him telling them what to do and what not to do.

The highest stage of development of naive realism in the sphere of morality is that where the moral commandment (moral idea) is separated from every being other than oneself and is thought of, hypothetically, as being an absolute power in one’s own inner life. What man first took to be the external voice of God, he now takes as an independent power within him, and speaks of this inner voice in such a way as to identify it with conscience.

But in doing this he has already gone beyond the stage of naive consciousness into the sphere where the moral laws have become independently existing standards. There they are no longer carried by real bearers, but have become metaphysical entities existing in their own right. They are analogous to the invisible “visible forces” of metaphysical realism, which does not seek reality through the part of it that man has in his thinking, but hypothetically adds it on to actual experience. These extra-human moral standards always occur as accompanying features of metaphysical realism. For metaphysical realism is bound to seek the origin of morality in the sphere of extra-human reality.

Here there are several possibilities. If the hypothetically assumed entity is conceived as in itself unthinking, acting according to purely mechanical laws, as materialism would have it, then it must also produce out of itself, by purely mechanical necessity, the human individual with all his characteristic features. The consciousness of freedom can then be nothing more than an illusion. For though I consider myself the author of my action, it is the matter of which I am composed and the movements going on in it that are working in me. I believe myself free; but in fact all my actions are nothing but the result of the material processes which underlie my physical and mental organisation. It is said that we have the feeling of freedom only because we do not know the motives compelling us.

We must emphasise that the feeling of freedom is due to the absence of external compelling motives, . . . Our action is necessitated as is our thinking. (see fn 1)

Another possibility is that a man may picture the extra-human Absolute that lies behind the world of appearances as a spiritual being. In this case he will also seek the impulse for his actions in a corresponding spiritual force. He will see the moral principles to be found in his own reason as the expression of this being itself, which has its own special intentions with regard to man. To this kind of dualist the moral laws appear to be dictated by the Absolute, and all that man has to do is to use his intelligence to find out the decisions of the absolute being and then carry them out. The moral world order appears to the dualist as the perceptible reflection of a higher order standing behind it. Earthly morality is the manifestation of the extra-human world order.

It is not man that matters in this moral order, but the being itself, that is, the extra-human entity. Man shall do as this being wills. Eduard von Hartmann, who imagines this being itself as a Godhead whose very existence is a life of suffering, believes that this Divine Being has created the world in order thereby to gain release from His infinite suffering, Hence this philosopher regards the moral evolution of humanity as a process which is there for the redemption of God.

Only through the building up of a moral world order by intelligent self-conscious individuals can the world process be led towards its goal. .., True existence is the incarnation of the Godhead; the world process is the Passion of the incarnated Godhead and at the same time the way of redemption for Him who was crucified in the flesh; morality, however, is the collaboration in the shortening of this path of suffering and redemption. (see fn 2)

Here man does not act because he wants to, but he shall act, because it is God’s will to be redeemed. Whereas the materialistic dualist makes man an automaton whose actions are only the result of a purely mechanical system, the spiritualistic dualist (that is, one who sees the Absolute, the Being-in- itself, as something spiritual in which man has no share in his conscious experience) makes him a slave to the will of the Absolute. As in materialism, so also in one-sided spiritualism, in fact in any kind of metaphysical realism inferring but not experiencing something extra-human as the true reality, freedom is out of the question.

Metaphysical as well as naive realism, consistently followed out, must deny freedom for one and the same reason: they both see man as doing no more than putting into effect, or carrying out, principles forced upon him by necessity. Naive realism destroys freedom by subjecting man to the authority of a perceptible being or of one conceived on the analogy of a perceptible being, or eventually to the authority of the abstract inner voice which it interprets as “conscience”; the metaphysician, who merely infers the extra-human reality, cannot acknowledge freedom because he sees man as being determined, mechanically or morally, by a “Being-in-itself”.

Monism will have to recognise that naive realism is partially justified because it recognises the justification of the world of percepts. Whoever is incapable of producing moral ideas through intuition must accept them from others. In so far as a man receives his moral principles from without, he is in fact unfree. But monism attaches as much significance to the idea as to the percept. The idea, however, can come to manifestation in the human individual. In so far as man follows the impulses coming from this side, he feels himself to be free.

But monism denies all justification to metaphysics, which merely draws inferences, and consequently also to the impulses of action which are derived from so-called “Beings-in-themselves”. According to the monistic view, man may act unfreely when he obeys some perceptible external compulsion; he can act freely, when he obeys none but himself. Monism cannot recognise any unconscious compulsion hidden behind percept and concept. If anyone asserts that the action of a fellow man is done unfreely, then he must identify the thing or the person or the institution within the perceptible world, that has caused the person to act; and if he bases his assertion upon causes of action lying outside the world that is real to the senses and the spirit, then monism can take no notice of it.

According to the monistic view, then, man’s action is partly unfree, partly free. He finds himself to be unfree in the world of percepts, and he realises within himself the free spirit.

The moral laws which the metaphysician who works by mere inference must regard as issuing from a higher power, are, for the adherent of monism, thoughts of men; for him the moral world order is neither the imprint of a purely mechanical natural order, nor that of an extra-human world order, but through and through the free creation of men. It is not the will of some being outside him in the world that man has to carry out, but his own; he puts into effect his own resolves and intentions, not those of another being.

Monism does not see, behind man’s actions, the purposes of a supreme directorate, foreign to him and determining him according to its will, but rather sees that men, in so far as they realise their intuitive ideas, pursue only their own human ends. Moreover, each individual pursues his own particular ends. For the world of ideas comes to expression, not in a community of men, but only in human individuals. What appears as the common goal of a whole group of people is only the result of the separate acts of will of its individual members, and in fact, usually of a few outstanding ones who, as their authorities, are followed by the others. Each one of us has it in him to be a free spirit, just as every rose bud has in it a rose.

Monism, then, in the sphere of true moral action, is a freedom philosophy. Since it is a philosophy of reality, it rejects the metaphysical, unreal restrictions of the free spirit as completely as it accepts the physical and historical (naively real) restrictions of the naive man. Since it does not consider man as a finished product, disclosing his full nature in every moment of his life, it regards the dispute as to whether man as such is free or not, to be of no consequence. It sees in man a developing being, and asks whether, in the course of this development, the stage of the free spirit can be reached.

Monism knows that Nature does not send man forth from her arms ready made as a free spirit, but that she leads him up to a certain stage from which he continues to develop still as an unfree being until he comes to the point where he finds his own self.

Monism is quite clear that a being acting under physical or moral compulsion cannot be a truly moral being. It regards the phases of automatic behavior (following natural urges and instincts) and of obedient behavior (following moral standards) as necessary preparatory stages of morality, but it also sees that both these transitory stages can be overcome by the free spirit. Monism frees the truly moral world conception both from the mundane fetters of naive moral maxims and from the transcendental moral maxims of the speculative metaphysician. Monism can no more eliminate the former from the world than it can eliminate percepts; it rejects the latter because it seeks all the principles for the elucidation of the world phenomena within that world, and none outside it.

Just as monism refuses even to think of principles of knowledge other than those that apply to men (see Chapter 7), so it emphatically rejects even the thought of moral maxims other than those that apply to men. Human morality, like human knowledge, is conditioned by human nature. And just as beings of a different order will understand knowledge to mean something very different from what it means to us, so will other beings have a different morality from ours. Morality is for the monist a specifically human quality, and spiritual freedom the human way of being moral.

Author’s additions, 1918
In forming a judgment about the argument of the two preceding chapters, a difficulty can arise in that one appears to be faced with a contradiction. On the one hand we have spoken of the experience of thinking, which is felt to have universal significance, equally valid for every human consciousness; on the other hand we have shown that the ideas which come to realisation in the moral life, and are of the same kind as those elaborated in thinking, come to expression in each human consciousness in a quite individual way.

If we cannot get beyond regarding this antithesis as a “contradiction”, and if we do not see that in the living recognition of this actually existing antithesis a piece of man’s essential nature reveals itself, then we shall be unable to see either the idea of knowledge or the idea of freedom in a true light. For those who think of their concepts as merely abstracted from the sense perceptible world and who do not allow intuition its rightful place, this thought, here claimed as a reality, must remain a “mere contradiction”. If we really understand how ideas are intuitively experienced in their self-sustaining essence, it becomes clear that in the act of knowing, man, on the edge of the world of ideas, lives his way into something which is the same for all men, but that when, from this world of ideas, he derives the intuitions for his acts of will, he individualises a part of this world by the same activity that he practices as a universal human one in the spiritual ideal process of knowing. What appears as a logical contradiction between the universal nature of cognitive ideas and the individual nature of moral ideas is the very thing that, when seen in its reality, becomes a living concept.

It is a characteristic feature of the essential nature of man that what can be intuitively grasped swings to and fro within man, like a living pendulum, between universally valid knowledge and the individual experience of it. For those who cannot see the one half of the swing in its reality, thinking remains only a subjective human activity; for those who cannot grasp the other half, man’s activity in thinking will seem to lose all individual life. For the first kind of thinker, it is the act of knowing that is an unintelligible fact; for the second kind, it is the moral life. Both will put forward all sorts of imagined ways of explaining the one or the other, all equally unfounded, either because they entirely fail to grasp that thinking can be actually experienced, or because they misunderstand it as a merely abstracting activity.

On page 147 I have spoken of materialism. I am well aware that there are thinkers — such as Ziehen, mentioned above — who do not call themselves materialists at all, but who must nevertheless be described as such from the point of view put forward in this book. The point is not whether someone says that for him the world is not restricted to merely material existence and that therefore he is no materialist; but the point is whether he develops concepts which are applicable only to material existence.

Anyone who says, “Our action is necessitated as is our thinking”, has implied a concept which is applicable only to material processes, but not to action or to being; and if he were to think his concept through to the end, he could not help but think materialistically. He avoids doing this only by the same inconsistency that so often results from not thinking one’s thoughts through to the end. It is often said nowadays that the materialism of the nineteenth century is outmoded in knowledgeable circles. But in fact this is not at all true.

It is only that nowadays people so often fail to notice that they have no other ideas but those with which one can approach only material things. Thus recent materialism is veiled, whereas in the second half of the nineteenth century it showed itself openly. The veiled materialism of the present is no less intolerant of an outlook that grasps the world spiritually than was the self-confessed materialism of the last century. But it deceives many who think they have a right to reject a view of the world which takes spirit into account on the ground that the scientific view “has long ago abandoned materialism”.

Footnotes:

Ziehen, Leitfaden der physiologischen Psychologie, 1st edition, pp. 207 ff. For the way I have here spoken about “materialism”, and the justification for doing so, see the Addition to this chapter.
Hartmann, Phaenomenologie des sittlichen Bewusstseins, p. 871.

11. World Purpose and Life Purpose (Human Destiny)

Among the many currents in humanity’s spiritual life, we may follow up one that may be described as the overcoming of the concept of purpose in areas where it does not belong. Purposefulness represents a particular kind of sequence of phenomena. It is only truly real when, in contrast to the relationship of cause and effect in which an earlier event determines a later one, just the opposite happens and a later event has a determining effect upon an earlier one. This only happens with human actions. Human beings perform actions of which they have previously made mental pictures, and they allow themselves to be determined in their actions by those mental pictures. With the help of a mental picture, what comes later (the action) has an effect upon what came earlier (the actor). Yet the detour through the mental picture is absolutely necessary for a purposeful chain of events.

In processes that break down into causes and effects, we must distinguish percepts from concepts. The percept of the cause precedes the percept of the effect; if we could not connect them through their corresponding concepts, cause and effect would remain simply side by side in our consciousness. The percept of an effect must always follow the percept of a cause. An effect could have a real influence on the cause only through a conceptual factor. For the perceptual factor of an effect simply does not exist before the perceptual factor of the cause. Anyone claiming that a blossom is the purpose of a root—that the former influences the latter—can do so only with regard to the factor in the blossom that can be established by thinking. At the time of the root’s origin, the perceptual factor of the blossom does not exist yet. A purposeful connection, however, requires not merely the conceptual, lawful connection of the later with the earlier, but the concept (the law) of the effect must actually influence the cause by a perceptible process. But we can observe a concept’s perceptible influence on something else only in the case of human actions. Only there, then, is the concept of purpose applicable. As we have repeatedly noted, naive consciousness, which gives validity only to what is perceptible, seeks to transpose the perceptible even to where only the conceptual can be known. It seeks perceptible connections in perceptible events or, if it does not find them, it dreams them up. The concept of purpose appropriate to subjective action is well suited for such dreamed up connections. Naive persons know how they bring about an event, and conclude from this that nature will do the same. They see not only invisible forces but imperceptible, real purposes in the purely conceptual connections of nature. Human beings make their tools for a purpose; naive realists have the creator construct organisms according to the same formula. This false concept of purpose is disappearing from the sciences only very gradually. To this day, it still works quite a bit of mischief in philosophy, where the question is raised as to the extra-worldly purpose of the world, of the extra-human destiny (and consequently also the purpose) of human beings, and so forth.

Monism rejects the concept of purpose in all spheres— with the single exception of human action. It looks for laws of nature, but not purposes of nature. Purposes of nature, like imperceptible forces, are arbitrary assumptions. From the standpoint of monism, purposes of life, if not set by humans for themselves, are likewise unjustified assumptions. Only what a human being has made purposeful is purposeful, for it is only through the realization of an idea that purposefulness arises. But the idea becomes effective in a realistic sense only in human beings. Therefore human life has only the purpose and direction that human beings give it. To the question: What kind of task do human beings have in life? Monism can answer only: the one that they set for themselves. My mission in the world is not predetermined but, at each moment, it is the one I choose for myself. I do not enter my life’s path with fixed marching orders.

Ideas are realized purposefully only through human beings. It is therefore invalid to speak of the embodiment of ideas through history. From a monistic point of view, such phrases as, “History is the evolution of human beings toward freedom,” or “the realization of the moral world order” and so forth, are untenable.

Advocates of the concept of purpose believe that if they relinquish this concept they must also abandon all order and unity in the world. Here is Robert Hamerling:
As long as there are drives in nature, it is foolish to deny purposes there. Just as the formation of a limb in the human body is not determined and conditioned by an idea of this limb hovering in the air, but by its connection with the greater whole—the body to which the limb belongs—so too the formation of every natural creature, whether plant, animal or human, is not determined and conditioned by an idea of it hovering in the air, but by the formative principle of the greater whole of nature, which lives itself out and organizes itself purposefully.

And again, in the same volume:
The theory of purpose claims only that, despite the thousand discomforts and distresses of this creaturely life, a high purposefulness and planfulness is unmistakably present in the forms and evolutions of nature—but a planfulness and purposefulness that realizes itself only within natural laws and cannot aim at a sluggard’s world in which life would face no death, and growth no decay, with all of the more or less unpleasant, but finally unavoidable intermediate stages.

If opponents of the concept of purpose oppose, to the miraculous world of purposefulness that nature reveals to us in all areas, a laboriously assembled heap of partial or complete, imagined or real unpurposefulnesses, I find this just as silly.

What is meant here by “purposefulness”? The coherence of percepts into a whole. But since laws (ideas) that we find through our thinking lie at the base of all percepts, the planful coherence of the members of a perceptual whole is precisely the conceptual coherence of the members of a conceptual whole contained within this perceptual whole. Saying that animals or human beings are not determined by ideas hovering in the air is a skewed expression, and the view condemned in this way loses its absurd character as soon as we correct the expression. Of course, animals are not determined by ideas hovering in the air, but animals are determined by an inborn idea that makes up their lawful being. Precisely because this idea is not outside the object, but works within it as its essence, there can be no talk of purposefulness. Precisely those who deny that natural creatures are determined from without (whether through an idea hovering in the air or an idea existing outside the creature in the mind of a world creator is, in this context, completely irrelevant) must admit that such natural creatures are not determined purposefully and planfully from without, but causally and lawfully from within. I construct a machine purposefully when I bring its parts into a relationship that they do not have by nature. The purposefulness of the arrangement consists in my having set the operation of the machine, as its idea, at its base. In this way, the machine becomes a perceptual object with a corresponding idea. Natural objects are just such entities. Whoever calls a thing purposeful because it is formed according to law might just as well apply the same label to natural objects. But this kind of lawfulness must not be confused with that of subjective human actions. For a purpose, it is absolutely necessary that the effective cause be a concept—in fact, the concept of the effect. But nowhere in nature can we establish that concepts are causes. The concept always proves to be merely the conceptual link between a cause and an effect. In nature, causes exist only in the form of percepts.

Dualism may talk of world purposes and the purposes of nature. Where a lawful linkage of cause and effect communicates itself to our perception, the dualist may assume that we are seeing only a faint copy of a connection in which the absolute world-being has realized its purposes. For monism, any reason to assume the existence of world purposes and purposes of nature falls away, along with the assumption of an absolute world-being that cannot be experienced but only inferred hypothetically.

Addendum to the new edition (1918)
No one who has thought through this discussion in an unprejudiced way can conclude that, in rejecting the concept of purpose for extra-human facts, I have placed myself among the thinkers who, by discarding that concept, enable themselves to interpret everything outside human action—and finally that too—as only a natural process. This should be clear from my portrayal of the process of thinking as purely spiritual. If the concept of purpose is rejected here even in relation to the spiritual world lying outside human action, it is because in that world something is revealed that is higher than the kind of purpose that could be realized in humanity. And if I say that the thought of a purposeful destiny for the human race, conceived on the pattern of human purposefulness, is false, I mean that individual humans set themselves purposes, and the outcome of the total activity of humanity is composed from these. This outcome is then something higher than the purposes of individual humans that are its parts.

10. Freedom Philosophy and Monism

Simple people, who acknowledge as real only what they can see with their eyes and touch with their hands, also require reasons that are perceptible to the senses for their moral lives. Such people need someone to communicate the grounds for action to them in a way that is understandable to their senses. And they will allow these grounds for action to be dictated to them, as commandments, by a person whom they consider wiser and mightier than themselves, or whom they acknowledge for some other reason as a power over them. In this way, as principles of morality, arise the principles of family, state, church, or divine authority that were mentioned in the last chapter. Those who are the most limited in their horizons put all their faith in some one other person; those who are somewhat more advanced allow their ethical conduct to be dictated to them by a majority (state or society). They always rely on powers they can perceive. Those for whom the conviction finally dawns that these powers are basically human beings as weak as themselves will seek guidance from a higher power, from a divine being, whom they nevertheless endow with senseperceptible qualities. They let the conceptual content of their moral life be communicated to them by this being, once again, in perceptible ways— whether the god appears in a burning bush, or dwells in a bodily/human form among humans and audibly declares for their ears what they should and should not do.

At the highest ethical stage of development of naive realism, the moral commandment (moral idea) is separated from any entity foreign to oneself and is thought of hypothetically as an absolute power within oneself. What people first understood as the outer voice of God, they now understand as an independent power in their inner selves, speaking of this inner voice in a way that equates it with conscience.

But, with this, the level of naive consciousness has already been left behind, and we have entered the region where moral laws become independent norms. They then no longer have a bearer, but become metaphysical entities that exist through themselves. They are analogous to the invisible-visible forces of metaphysical realism, which does not seek reality by way of human participation in it through thinking but imagines a hypothetical reality added onto experience. Extra-human ethical norms always appear as accompaniments to this metaphysical realism. Such metaphysical realism has to seek the origin of morality in the area of extra-human reality. There are various possibilities here. If we assume an entity, conceived of as having no thought of its own and operating under purely mechanical laws, as must be the case for materialism, then this entity will also produce out of itself—by purely mechanical necessity—human beings and everything associated with them. The consciousness of freedom can then be only an illusion. For, although I consider myself the creator of my action, what operates within me is the matter of which I am composed and its inner processes. I believe myself to be free, but actually all my actions are merely results of material processes underlying my bodily and spiritual organism. This view holds that we have the feeling of freedom only because we do not know the motives that compel us. “We must. . . emphasize that the feeling of freedom depends upon the absence of externally compelling motives. Our action, like our thinking, is necessitated.”

Another possibility is to see a spiritual being as the extra-human absolute behind phenomena. We would then also seek the impulse for action in such a spiritual power. We would regard the moral principles in our reason as an expression of this beinginitself, which has its own particular goals for humanity. To the dualist of this persuasion, moral laws appear to be dictated by the absolute. Human beings through their intelligence need only discover and carry out the decrees of this absolute being. To the dualist, the moral world order appears as the perceptible reflection of a higher order standing behind it. Earthly morality is the manifestation of the extra-human world order. In this moral order, it is not human beings who are important but the being-in-itself, the extra-human entity. Human beings have to do what this being wills.

Eduard von Hartmann imagines the being-in-itself as a divinity whose own existence is suffering. He believes that this divine being created the world so that, through the world, it might be released from its infinite suffering. Von Hartmann therefore regards human moral evolution as a process whose purpose it is to redeem the Divinity:

The world process can be brought toward its goal only through the construction of an ethical world order by reasoning, self-aware individuals. Real existence is the incarnation of divinity; the world process is at the same time both the Passion of the God who has become flesh and the path of redemption of Him who was crucified in the flesh; morality, however, is cooperation in the shortening of this path of suffering and redemption.

In this view, human beings do not act because they will it, but have to act because it is God’s will to be redeemed. Just as materialist dualists make human beings into automata whose actions are merely results of purely mechanical laws, so spiritualist dualists make human beings into slaves to the will of the absolute (because they see the absolute, the being-in-itself, as something spiritual in which human beings do not participate with their conscious experience). Freedom has no place either in materialism or in one-sided spiritualism, nor has it a place in metaphysical realism, which infers something extra-human as true reality, but does not experience it.

For one and the same reason, naive and metaphysical realism must both logically deny freedom. Both see in human beings merely executors of principles that have been necessarily imposed upon them. Naive realism kills freedom through subjection to the authority of a perceptible being, to a being thought of as analogous to a percept or, finally, to the abstract inner voice that it interprets as conscience. Metaphysical realists, who merely infer something extrahuman, cannot acknowledge freedom because they see human beings as determined, mechanically or morally, by a “being-in-itself.”

Because it acknowledges the validity of the world of percepts, monism must acknowledge the partial validity of naive realism. Anyone incapable of producing moral ideas through intuition must receive them from others. To the extent that humans receive their ethical principles from without, they are in fact unfree. But monism ascribes equal significance to ideas and to percepts. Ideas, however, can become manifest in human individuals. To the extent that human beings obey impulses from that side, they feel themselves to be free. But monism denies any validity to a merely inferential metaphysics, and therefore also to impulses to action deriving from so called “beings-in-themselves.” According to the monistic view, human beings can act unfreely if they obey perceptible, external compulsion; they can act freely if they only obey themselves. But monism cannot acknowledge an unconscious compulsion lying behind both percepts and concepts. If one person maintains that another’s action was unfree, then the first must show the thing or person or situation in the perceptible world that occasioned the action. If the assertion is based on causes for action lying outside the world that is real to the senses and the spirit, then monism cannot accept such an assertion.

In the monistic view, human action is part unfree, part free. We find ourselves unfree in the world of percepts and realize within ourselves the free spirit.

For the monist, ethical commandments, which the merely inferential metaphysician must regard as expressions of a higher power, are human thoughts. For the monist, the ethical world order is the imprint neither of a purely mechanical natural order nor an extra-human world order. It is entirely the free work of human beings. Humans have to carry out their own will, not that of a being outside them in the world. They realize their own resolves and intentions, not those of some other being. Monism does not see, behind an active human being, the goals of an external world executive who determines human actions according to its will; rather, to the extent that they realize intuitive ideas, human beings pursue only their own, human goals. In fact, each individual pursues his or her special goals. For the world of ideas is expressed not in a human community, but only in human individuals. What emerges as the common goal of a human collective is only a result of separate deeds of will by its individual members, usually a few select individuals whom the others obey as authorities. Each of us is meant to be a free spirit, just as each rose seed is meant to be a rose.

Therefore, in the realm of truly ethical action, monism is a freedom philosophy. As a philosophy of reality, monism rejects metaphysical, unreal restrictions on the free spirit—just as it recognizes the physical and historical (naive realistic) restrictions on the naive person. Because monism does not regard human beings as finished products who reveal their full being at every moment of life, it views as inconsequential the argument over whether a human being as such is or is not free. Monism sees an evolving essence in humans and asks whether, on this path of evolution, the stage of the free spirit can be attained.

Monism knows that nature does not release human beings from her arms as readymade free spirits, but leads them to a certain stage. From this, as still unfree beings, they must develop themselves further, to the point where they discover themselves.

Monism understands that a being acting under physical or moral compulsion cannot be truly ethical. It considers the passage through automatic actions (following natural drives and instincts) and the passage through obedient action (following ethical norms) as necessary preliminary stages in morality, but it also understands the possibility of overcoming both transitional stages through the free spirit. Monism liberates a truly moral world view both from the inward fetters of naive ethical maxims and from the outward ethical maxims of speculative metaphysicians. Monism cannot eliminate these naive ethical maxims, just as it cannot eliminate the percept. But it rejects the outward maxims of speculative metaphysicians because it seeks within the world, not outside it, all explanatory principles for the illumination of world phenomena. Just as monism declines even to think of cognitive principles other than human ones (cf. p. 87), it also decisively rejects the thought of ethical maxims other than those applying to human beings. Human morality, like human cognition, is conditioned by human nature. And just as other beings will have a different understanding of cognition, so they will also have a different morality. For the follower of monism, morality is a specifically human quality and freedom is the human way of being moral.

Addenda to the new edition (1918)
1. One difficulty in evaluating what has been presented in the last two chapters is that readers may think they have encountered a contradiction. On the one hand, the discussion mentions the experience of thinking, which is felt to be of universal significance, equally valid for every human consciousness. On the other hand, it is noted that the ideas realized in moral life, which are of the same kind as the ideas worked out in thinking, are expressed in an individual way in each human consciousness. But if we feel compelled to remain at the level of this “contradiction”— if we do not recognize that a piece of the essence of human beings is revealed precisely in the living contemplation of this actually present contrast—then we shall be able to see neither the idea of cognition nor that of freedom in their true light. For those who think of its concepts as merely borrowed (abstracted) from the sense world, and who do not give intuition its full weight, what is claimed here as a reality remains “mere contradiction.” For those who understand how ideas are intuitively experienced as a kind of self-sufficient essence, it is clear that, when we cognize in the world of ideas, we live our way into something that is the same for all human beings; but that, when we borrow intuitions from that world of ideas for our acts of will, we individualize an element of that world through the same activity that we develop in the spiritual-conceptual process of cognition as something universally human. What appears as a logical contradiction—the universal formation of cognitive ideas and the individual formation of ethical ideas—becomes, when it is beheld in its reality, a living concept. Here lies something characteristic of the human entity: what can be grasped intuitively in the human being moves back and forth, as in a living pendulum, between universally valid cognition and individual experience of the universal. For those who cannot see one half of the pendulum’s movement in its reality, thinking remains a merely subjective human activity; for those who cannot grasp the other, all individual life seems lost in the human activity of thinking. For a thinker of the first kind, cognition is an unintelligible fact; for the other, moral life. Both will contribute inadequate notions of all kinds to the explanation of one or the other, either because they do not actually grasp that thinking can be experienced, or because they misunderstand it as a merely abstracting activity.

2. Materialism is mentioned on pages 164 65. I am well aware that there are thinkers—such as Ziehen, mentioned above—who do not call themselves materialists at all but who, from the point of view put forward in this book, must be labeled as such. What matters is not whether people claim not to be materialists because, for them, the world is not limited to merely material existence. Rather, what matters is whether they develop concepts that are applicable only to material existence. Those who say, “Our action, like our thinking, is determined,” express a concept that applies neither to action nor to existence, but only to material processes. If they thought through their concept to the end, they would have to think materialistically. That they do not do so is merely a result of the inconsistency that so often comes from thinking that is not carried through to the end. Today, we often hear that science has abandoned nineteenth century materialism. But actually this is not true. It is simply that, at present, we often fail to notice that our ideas apply only to material things. Nowadays, materialism is veiled; in the second half of the nineteenth century, it showed itself openly. The veiled materialism of the present is no less intolerant toward a view that grasps the world spiritually than was last century’s admitted materialism. But materialism today deceives many into thinking that they can reject a worldview involving spirituality because, after all, natural science “has long since abandoned materialism.”

XI. Weltzweck und Lebenszweck (Bestimmung des Menschen)

Unter den mannigfaltigen Strömungen in dem geistigen Leben der Menschheit ist eine zu verfolgen, die man nennen kann die Überwindung des Zweckbegriffes auf Gebieten, in die er nicht gehört. Die Zweckmäßigkeit ist eine bestimmte Art in der Abfolge von Erscheinungen. Wahrhaft wirklich ist die Zweckmäßigkeit nur dann, wenn im Gegensatz zu dem Verhältnis von Ursache und Wirkung, wo das vorhergehende Ereignis ein späteres bestimmt, umgekehrt das folgende Ereignis bestimmend auf das frühere einwirkt. Dies liegt zunächst nur bei menschlichen Handlungen vor. Der Mensch vollbringt eine Handlung, die er sich vorher vorstellt, und läßt sich von dieser Vorstellung zur Handlung bestimmen. Das Spätere, die Handlung, wirkt mit Hilfe der Vorstellung auf das Frühere, den handelnden Menschen. Dieser Umweg durch das Vorstellen ist aber zum zweckmäßigen Zusammenhange durchaus notwendig.

In dem Prozesse, der in Ursache und Wirkung zerfällt, ist zu unterscheiden die Wahrnehmung von dem Begriff. Die Wahrnehmung der Ursache geht der Wahrnehmung der Wirkung vorher; Ursache und Wirkung blieben in unserem Bewußtsein einfach nebeneinander bestehen, wenn wir sie nicht durch ihre entsprechenden Begriffe miteinander verbinden könnten. Die Wahrnehmung der Wirkung kann stets nur auf die Wahrnehmung der Ursache folgen. Wenn die Wirkung einen realen Einfluß auf die Ursache haben soll, so kann dies nur durch den begrifflichen Faktor sein. Denn der Wahrnehmungsfaktor der Wirkung ist vor dem der Ursache einfach gar nicht vorhanden. Wer behauptet, die Blüte sei der Zweck der Wurzel, das heißt, die erstere habe auf die letztere einen Einfluß, der kann das nur von dem Faktor an der Blüte behaupten, den er durch sein Denken an derselben konstatiert. Der Wahrnehmungsfaktor der Blüte hat zur Zeit der Entstehungszeit der Wurzel noch kein Dasein. Zum zweckmäßigen Zusammenhange ist aber nicht bloß der ideelle, gesetzmäßige Zusammenhang des Späteren mit dem Früheren notwendig, sondern der Begriff (das Gesetz) der Wirkung muß real, durch einen wahrnehmbaren Prozeß die Ursache beeinflussen. Einen wahrnehmbaren Einfluß von einem Begriff auf etwas anderes können wir aber nur bei den menschlichen Handlungen beobachten. Hier ist also der Zweckbegriff allein anwendbar. Das naive Bewußtsein, das nur das Wahrnehmbare gelten läßt, sucht – wie wir wiederholt bemerkt – auch dorthin Wahrnehmbares zu versetzen, wo nur Ideelles zu erkennen ist. In dem wahrnehmbaren Geschehen sucht es wahrnehmbare Zusammenhänge oder, wenn es solche nicht findet, träumt es sie hinein. Der im subjektiven Handeln geltende Zweckbegriff ist ein geeignetes Element für solche erträumte Zusammenhänge. Der naive Mensch weiß, wie er ein Geschehen zustandebringt und folgert daraus, daß es die Natur ebenso machen wird. In den rein ideellen Naturzusammenhängen sieht er nicht nur unsichtbare Kräfte, sondern auch unwahrnehmbare reale Zwecke. Der Mensch macht seine Werkzeuge zweckmäßig; nach demselben Rezept läßt der naive Realist den Schöpfer die Organismen bauen. Nur ganz allmählich verschwindet dieser falsche Zweckbegriff aus den Wissenschaften. In der Philosophie treibt er auch heute noch ziemlich arg sein Unwesen. Da wird gefragt nach dem außerweltlichen Zweck der Welt, nach der außermenschlichen Bestimmung (folglich auch dem Zweck) des Menschen und so weiter.

Der Monismus weist den Zweckbegriff auf allen Gebieten mit alleiniger Ausnahme des menschlichen Handelns zurück. Er sucht nach Naturgesetzen, aber nicht nach Naturzwecken. Naturzwecke sind willkürliche Annahmen wie die unwahrnehmbaren Kräfte (S. 120 f.). Aber auch Lebenszwecke, die der Mensch sich nicht selbst setzt, sind vom Standpunkte des Monismus unberechtigte Annahmen. Zweckvoll ist nur dasjenige, was der Mensch erst dazu gemacht hat, denn nur durch Verwirklichung einer Idee entsteht Zweckmäßiges. Wirksam im realistischen Sinne wird die Idee aber nur im Menschen. Deshalb hat das Menschenleben nur den Zweck und die Bestimmung, die der Mensch ihm gibt. Auf die Frage: was hat der Mensch für eine Aufgabe im Leben? kann der Monismus nur antworten: die, die er sich selbst setzt. Meine Sendung in der Welt ist keine vorherbestimmte, sondern sie ist jeweilig die, die ich mir erwähle. Ich trete nicht mit gebundener Marschroute meinen Lebensweg an.

Ideen werden zweckmäßig nur durch Menschen verwirklicht. Es ist also unstatthaft, von der Verkörperung von Ideen durch die Geschichte zu sprechen. Alle solche Wendungen wie: «die Geschichte ist die Entwicklung der Menschen zur Freiheit», oder die Verwirklichung der sittlichen Weltordnung und so weiter sind von monistischen Gesichtspunkten aus unhaltbar.

Die Anhänger des Zweckbegriffes glauben mit demselben zugleich alle Ordnung und Einheitlichkeit der Welt preisgeben zu müssen. Man höre zum Beispiel Robert Hamerling (Atomistik des Willens, 11. Band, S. 201):

«So lange es Triebe in der Natur gibt, ist es Torheit, Zwecke in derselben zu leugnen. – Wie die Gestaltung eines Gliedes des menschlichen Körpers nicht bestimmt und bedingt ist durch eine in der Luft schwebende Idee dieses Gliedes, sondern durch den Zusammenhang mit dem größeren Ganzen, dem Körper, welchem das Glied angehört, so ist die Gestaltung jedes Naturwesens, sei es Pflanze, Tier, Mensch, nicht bestimmt und bedingt durch eine in der Luft schwebende Idee desselben, sondern durch das Formprinzip des größeren, sich zweckmäßig auslebenden und ausgestaltenden Ganzen der Natur.

Und Seite 191 desselben Bandes: «Die Zwecktheorie behauptet nur, daß trotz der tausend Unbequemlichkeiten und Qualen dieses kreatürlichen Lebens eine hohe Zweck- und Planmäßigkeit unverkennbar in den Gebilden und in den Entwicklungen der Natur vorhanden ist – eine Plan- und Zweckmäßigkeit jedoch, welche sich nur innerhalb der Naturgesetze verwirklicht, und welche nicht auf eine Schlaraffenwelt abzielen kann, in welcher dem Leben kein Tod, dem Werden kein Vergehen mit allen mehr oder weniger unerfreulichen, aber schlechterdings unvermeidlichen Mittelstufen gegenüberstünde.

Wenn die Gegner des Zweckbegriffs ein mühsam zusammengebrachtes Kehrichthäufchen von halben oder ganzen, vermeintlichen oder wirklichen Unzweckmäßigkeiten einer Welt von Wundern der Zweckmäßigkeit, wie sie die Natur in allen Bereichen aufweist, entgegenstellen, so finde ich das ebenso drollig.» –

Was wird hier Zweckmäßigkeit genannt? Ein Zusammenstimmen von Wahrnehmungen zu einem Ganzen. Da aber allen Wahrnehmungen Gesetze (Ideen) zugrunde liegen, die wir durch unser Denken finden, so ist das planmäßige Zusammenstimmen der Glieder eines Wahrnehmungsganzen eben das ideelle Zusammenstimmen der in diesem Wahrnehmungsganzen enthaltenen Glieder eines Ideenganzen. Wenn gesagt wird, das Tier oder der Mensch sei nicht bestimmt durch eine in der Luft schwebende Idee, so ist das schief ausgedrückt, und die verurteilte Ansicht verliert bei der Richtigstellung des Ausdruckes von selbst den absurden Charakter. Das Tier ist allerdings nicht durch eine in der Luft schwebende Idee, wohl aber durch eine ihm eingeborene und seine gesetzmäßige Wesenheit ausmachende Idee bestimmt. Gerade weil die Idee nicht außer dem Dinge ist, sondern in demselben als dessen Wesen wirkt, kann nicht von Zweckmäßigkeit gesprochen werden. Gerade derjenige, der leugnet, daß das Naturwesen von außen bestimmt ist (ob durch eine in der Luft schwebende Idee oder eine außerhalb des Geschöpfes im Geiste eines Weltschöpfers existierende ist in dieser Beziehung ganz gleichgültig), muß zugeben, daß dieses Wesen nicht zweckmäßig und planvoll von außen, sondern ursächlich und gesetzmäßig von innen bestimmt wird. Eine Maschine gestalte ich dann zweckmäßig, wenn ich die Teile in einen Zusammenhang bringe, den sie von Natur aus nicht haben. Das Zweckmäßige der Einrichtung besteht dann darin, daß ich die Wirkungsweise der Maschine als deren Idee ihr zugrunde gelegt habe. Die Maschine ist dadurch ein Wahrnehmungsobjekt mit entsprechender Idee geworden. Solche Wesen sind auch die Naturwesen. Wer ein Ding deshalb zweckmäßig nennt, weil es gesetzmäßig gebildet ist, der mag die Naturwesen eben auch mit dieser Bezeichnung belegen. Nur darf diese Gesetzmäßigkeit nicht mit jener des subjektiven menschlichen Handelns verwechselt werden. Zum Zweck ist eben durchaus notwendig, daß die wirkende Ursache ein Begriff ist, und zwar der der Wirkung. In der Natur sind aber nirgends Begriffe als Ursachen nachzuweisen; der Begriff erweist sich stets nur als der ideelle Zusammenhang von Ursache und Wirkung. Ursachen sind in der Natur nur in Form von Wahrnehmungen vorhanden.

Der Dualismus kann von Welt- und Naturzwecken reden. Wo für unsere Wahrnehmung eine gesetzmäßige Verknüpfung von Ursache und Wirkung sich äußert, da kann der Dualist annehmen, daß wir nur den Abklatsch eines Zusammenhanges sehen, in dem das absolute Weltwesen seine Zwecke verwirklichte. Für den Monismus entfällt mit dem absoluten nicht erlebbaren, sondern nur hypothetisch erschlossenen Weltwesen auch der Grund zur Annahme von Welt- und Naturzwecken.

Zusatz zur Neuausgabe 1918.
Man wird bei vorurteilslosem Durchdenken des hier Ausgeführten nicht zu der Ansicht kommen können, daß der Verfasser dieser Darstellung mit seiner Ablehnung des Zweckbegriffs für außermenschliche Tatsachen auf dem Boden derjenigen Denker stand, die durch das Verwerfen dieses Begriffes sich die Möglichkeit schaffen, alles außerhalb des Menschenhandelns liegende – und dann dieses selbst – als nur natürliches Geschehen aufzufassen. Davor sollte schon der Umstand schützen, daß in diesem Buche der Denkvorgang als ein rein geistiger dargestellt wird. Wenn hier auch für die geistige, außerhalb des menschlichen Handelns liegende Welt der Zweckgedanke abgelehnt wird, so geschieht es, weil in dieser Welt ein höheres als der Zweck, der sich im Menschentum verwirklicht, zur Offenbarung kommt. Und wenn von einer nach dem Muster der menschlichen Zweckmäßigkeit gedachten zweckmäßigen Bestimmung des Menschengeschlechtes als von einem irrigen Gedanken gesprochen ist, so Ist gemeint, daß der Einzelmensch sich Zwecke setzt, aus diesen setzt sich das Ergebnis der Gesamtwirksamkeit der Menschheit zusammen. Dieses Ergebnis ist dann ein höheres als seine Glieder, die Menschenzwecke.

X. Freiheitsphilosophie und Monismus

Der naive Mensch, der nur als wirklich gelten läßt, was er mit Augen sehen und mit Händen greifen kann, fordert auch für sein sittliches Leben Beweggründe, die mit den Sinnen wahrnehmbar sind. Er fordert ein Wesen, das ihm diese Beweggründe auf eine seinen Sinnen verständliche Weise mitteilt. Er wird von einem Menschen, den er für weiser und mächtiger hält als sich selbst, oder den er aus einem andern Grunde als eine über ihm stehende Macht anerkennt, diese Beweggründe als Gebote sich diktieren lassen. Es ergeben sich auf diese Weise als sittliche Prinzipien die schon früher genannten der Familien-, staatlichen, gesellschaftlichen, kirchlichen und göttlichen Autorität. Der befangenste Mensch glaubt noch einem einzelnen andern Menschen; der etwas fortgeschrittenere läßt sich sein sittliches Verhalten von einer Mehrheit (Staat, Gesellschaft) diktieren. Immer sind es wahrnehmbare Mächte, auf die er baut. Wem endlich die Überzeugung aufdämmert, daß dies doch im Grunde ebenso schwache Menschen sind wie er, der sucht bei einer höheren Macht Auskunft, bei einem göttlichen Wesen, das er sich aber mit sinnlich wahrnehmbaren Eigenschaften ausstattet. Er läßt sich von diesem Wesen den begrifflichen Inhalt seines sittlichen Lebens wieder auf wahrnehmbare Weise vermitteln, sei es, daß der Gott im brennenden Dornbusche erscheint, sei es, daß er in leibhaftig-menschlicher Gestalt unter den Menschen wandelt und ihren Ohren vernehmbar sagt, was sie tun und nicht tun sollen.

Die höchste Entwickelungsstufe des naiven Realismus auf dem Gebiete der Sittlichkeit ist die, wo das Sittengebot (sittliche Idee) von jeder fremden Wesenheit abgetrennt und hypothetisch als absolute Kraft im eigenen Innern gedacht wird. Was der Mensch zuerst als äußere Stimme Gottes vernahm, das vernimmt er jetzt als selbständige Macht in seinem Innern und spricht von dieser innern Stimme so, daß er sie dem Gewissen gleichsetzt.

Damit ist aber die Stufe des naiven Bewußtseins bereits verlassen, und wir sind eingetreten in die Region, wo die Sittengesetze als Normen verselbständigt werden. Sie haben dann keinen Träger mehr, sondern werden zu metaphysischen Wesenheiten, die durch sich selbst existieren. Sie sind analog den unsichtbar-sichtbaren Kräften des metaphysischen Realismus, der die Wirklichkeit nicht durch den Anteil sucht, den die menschliche Wesenheit im Denken an dieser Wirklichkeit hat, sondern der sie hypothetisch zu dem Erlebten hinzudenkt. Die außermenschlichen Sittennormen treten auch immer als Begleiterscheinung dieses metaphysischen Realismus auf. Dieser metaphysische Realismus muß auch den Ursprung der Sittlichkeit im Felde des außermenschlichen Wirklichen suchen. Es gibt da verschiedene Möglichkeiten. Ist das vorausgesetzte Wesen als ein an sich gedankenloses, nach rein mechanischen Gesetzen wirkendes gedacht, wie es das des Materialismus sein soll, dann wird es auch das menschliche Individuum durch rein mechanische Notwendigkeit aus sich hervorbringen samt allem, was an diesem ist. Das Bewußtsein der Freiheit kann dann nur eine Illusion sein. Denn während ich mich für den Schöpfer meiner Handlung halte, wirkt in mir die mich zusammensetzende Materie und ihre Bewegungsvorgänge. Ich glaube mich frei; alle meine Handlungen sind aber tatsächlich nur Ergebnisse der meinem leiblichen und geistigen Organismus zugrunde liegenden materiellen Vorgänge. Nur weil wir die uns zwingenden Motive nicht kennen, haben wir das Gefühl der Freiheit, meint diese Ansicht. «Wir müssen hier wieder hervorheben, daß dieses Gefühl der Freiheit auf der Abwesenheit äußerer zwingender Motive… beruht., «Unser Handeln ist necessitiert wie unser Denken.» (Ziehen, Leitfaden der physiologischen Psychologie Seite 207f.) (1)

Eine andere Möglichkeit ist die, daß jemand in einem geistigen Wesen das hinter den Erscheinungen steckende außermenschliche Absolute sieht. Dann wird er auch den Antrieb zum Handeln in einer solchen geistigen Kraft suchen. Er wird die in seiner Vernunft auffindbaren Sittenprinzipien für einen Ausfluß dieses Wesens an sich ansehen, das mit dem Menschen seine besonderen Absichten hat. Die Sittengesetze erscheinen dem Dualisten dieser Richtung als von dem Absoluten diktiert, und der Mensch hat durch seine Vernunft einfach diese Ratschlüsse des absoluten Wesens zu erforschen und auszuführen. Die sittliche Weltordnung erscheint dem Dualisten als wahrnehmbarer Abglanz einer hinter derselben stehenden höheren Ordnung. Die irdische Sittlichkeit ist die Erscheinung der außermenschlichen Weltordnung. Nicht der Mensch ist es, auf den es in dieser sittlichen Ordnung ankommt, sondern auf das Wesen an sich, auf das außermenschliche Wesen. Der Mensch soll das, was dieses Wesen will. Eduard von Hartmann, der das Wesen an sich als Gottheit vorstellt, für die das eigene Dasein Leiden ist, glaubt, dieses göttliche Wesen habe die Welt erschaffen, damit es durch dieselbe von seinem unendlich großen Leiden erlöst werde. Dieser Philosoph sieht daher die sittliche Entwicklung der Menschheit als einen Prozeß an, der dazu da ist, die Gottheit zu erlösen. «Nur durch den Aufbau einer sittlichen Weltordnung von seiten vernünftiger selbstbewußter Individuen kann der Weltprozeß seinem Ziel entgegengeführt… werden., «Das reale Dasein ist die Inkarnation der Gottheit, der Weltprozeß die Passionsgeschichte des fleischgewordenen Gottes, und zugleich der Weg zur Erlösung des im Fleische Gekreuzigten; die Sittlichkeit aber ist die Mitarbeit an der Abkürzung dieses Leidens- und Erlösungsweges.» (Hartmann, Phänomenologie des sittlichen Bewußtseins S. 871). Hier handelt der Mensch nicht, weil er will, sondern er soll handeln, weil Gott erlöst sein will. Wie der materialistische Dualist den Menschen zum Automaten macht, dessen Handeln nur das Ergebnis rein mechanischer Gesetzmäßigkeit ist, so macht ihn der spiritualistische Dualist (das ist derjenige, der das Absolute, das Wesen an sich, in einem Geistigen sieht, an dem der Mensch mit seinem bewußten Erleben keinen Anteil hat) zum Sklaven des Willens jenes Absoluten. Freiheit ist innerhalb des Materialismus sowie des einseitigen Spiritualismus, überhaupt innerhalb des auf Außermenschliches als wahre Wirklichkeit schließenden, diese nicht erlebenden metaphysischen Realismus, ausgeschlossen.

Der naive wie dieser metaphysische Realismus müssen konsequenterweise aus einem und demselben Grunde die Freiheit leugnen, weil sie in dem Menschen nur den Vollstrecker oder Vollzieher von notwendig ihm aufgedrängten Prinzipien sehen. Der naive Realismus tötet die Freiheit durch Unterwerfung unter die Autorität eines wahrnehmbaren oder nach Analogie der Wahrnehmungen gedachten Wesens oder endlich unter die abstrakte innere Stimme, die er als «Gewissen» deutet; der bloß das Außermenschliche erschließende Metaphysiker kann die Freiheit nicht anerkennen, weil er den Menschen von einem «Wesen an sich» mechanisch oder moralisch bestimmt sein läßt.

Der Monismus wird die teilweise Berechtigung des naiven Realismus anerkennen müssen, weil er die Berechtigung der Wahrnehmungswelt anerkennt. Wer unfähig ist, die sittlichen Ideen durch Intuition hervorzubringen, der muß sie von andern empfangen.

Insoweit der Mensch seine sittlichen Prinzipien von außen empfängt, ist er tatsächlich unfrei. Aber der Monismus schreibt der Idee neben der Wahrnehmung eine gleiche Bedeutung zu. Die Idee kann aber im menschlichen Individuum zur Erscheinung kommen. Insofern der Mensch den Antrieben von dieser Seite folgt, empfindet er sich als frei. Der Monismus spricht aber der bloß schlußfolgernden Metaphysik alle Berechtigung ab, folglich auch den von sogenannten «Wesen an sich» herrührenden Antrieben des Handelns. Der Mensch kann nach monistischer Auffassung unfrei handeln, wenn er einem wahrnehmbaren äußeren Zwange folgt; er kann frei handeln, wenn er nur sich selbst gehorcht. Einen unbewußten, hinter Wahrnehmung und Begriff steckenden Zwang kann der Monismus nicht anerkennen. Wenn jemand von einer Handlung seines Mitmenschen behauptet: sie sei unfrei vollbracht, so muß er innerhalb der wahrnehmbaren Welt das Ding, oder den Menschen, oder die Einrichtung nachweisen, die jemand zu seiner Handlung veranlaßt haben; wenn der Behauptende sich auf Ursachen des Handelns außerhalb der sinnlich und geistig wirklichen Welt beruft, dann kann sich der Monismus auf eine solche Behauptung nicht einlassen. Nach monistischer Auffassung handelt der Mensch teils, unfrei, teils frei. Er findet sich als unfrei in der Welt der Wahrnehmungen vor und verwirklicht in sich den freien Geist.

Die sittlichen Gebote, die der bloß schlußfolgernde Metaphysiker als Ausflüsse einer höheren Macht ansehen muß, sind dem Bekenner des Monismus Gedanken der Menschen; die sittliche Weltordnung ist ihm weder der Abklatsch einer rein mechanischen Naturordnung, noch einer außermenschlichen Weltordnung, sondern durchaus freies Menschenwerk. Der Mensch hat nicht den Willen eines außer ihm liegenden Wesens in der Welt, sondern seinen eigenen durchzusetzen; er verwirklicht nicht die Ratschlüsse und Intentionen eines andern Wesens, sondern seine eigenen. Hinter den handelnden Menschen sieht der Monismus nicht die Zwecke einer ihm fremden Weltenlenkung, die die Menschen nach ihrem Willen bestimmt, sondern die Menschen verfolgen, insofern sie intuitive Ideen verwirklichen, nur ihre eigenen, menschlichen Zwecke. Und zwar verfolgt jedes Individuum seine besonderen Zwecke. Denn die Ideenwelt lebt sich nicht in einer Gemeinschaft von Menschen, sondern nur in menschlichen Individuen aus. Was als gemeinsames Ziel einer menschlichen Gesamtheit sich ergibt, das ist nur die Folge der einzelnen Willenstaten der Individuen, und zwar meist einiger weniger Auserlesener, denen die anderen, als ihren Autoritäten, folgen. Jeder von uns ist berufen zum freien Geiste, wie jeder Rosenkeim berufen ist, Rose zu werden.

Der Monismus ist also im Gebiete des wahrhaft sittlichen Handelns Freiheitsphilosophie. Weil er Wirklichkeitsphilosophie ist, so weist er ebenso gut die metaphysischen, unwirklichen Einschränkungen des freien Geistes zurück, wie er die physischen und historischen (naiv-wirklichen) des naiven Menschen anerkennt. Weil er den Menschen nicht als abgeschlossenes Produkt, das in jedem Augenblicke seines Lebens sein volles Wesen entfaltet, betrachtet, so scheint ihm der Streit, ob der Mensch als solcher frei ist oder nicht, wichtig. Er sieht in dem Menschen ein sich entwickelndes Wesen und fragt, ob auf dieser Entwickelungsbahn auch die Stufe des freien Geistes erreicht werden kann.

Der Monismus weiß, daß die Natur den Menschen nicht als freien Geist fix und fertig aus ihren Armen entläßt, sondern daß sie ihn bis zu einer gewissen Stufe führt, von der aus er noch immer als unfreies Wesen sich weiter entwickelt, bis er an den Punkt kommt, wo er sich selbst findet.

Der Monismus ist sich klar darüber, daß ein Wesen, das unter einem physischen oder moralischen Zwange handelt, nicht wahrhaftig sittlich sein kann. Er betrachtet den Durchgang durch das automatische Handeln (nach natürlichen Trieben und Instinkten) und denjenigen durch das gehorsame Handeln (nach sittlichen Normen) als notwendige Vorstufen der Sittlichkeit, aber er sieht die Möglichkeit ein, beide Durchgangsstadien durch den freien Geist zu überwinden. Der Monismus befreit die wahrhaft sittliche Weltanschauung im allgemeinen von den innerweltlichen Fesseln der naiven Sittlichkeitsmaximen und von den außerweltlichen Sittlichkeitsmaximen der spekulierenden Metaphysiker. Jene kann er nicht aus der Welt schaffen, wie er die Wahrnehmung nicht aus der Welt schaffen kann, diese lehnt er ab, weil er alle Erklärungsprinzipien zur Aufhellung der Welterscheinungen innerhalb der Welt sucht und keine außerhalb derselben. Ebenso wie der Monismus es ablehnt, an andere Erkenntnisprinzipien als solche für Menschen auch nur zu denken (vergleiche S. 126 f.), so weist er auch den Gedanken an andere Sittlichkeitsmaximen als solche für Menschen entschieden zurück. Die menschliche Sittlichkeit ist wie die menschliche Erkenntnis bedingt durch die menschliche Natur. Und so wie andere Wesen unter Erkenntnis etwas ganz anderes verstehen werden als wir, so werden andere Wesen auch eine andere Sittlichkeit haben. Sittlichkeit ist dem Anhänger des Monismus eine spezifisch menschliche Eigenschaft, und Freiheit die menschliche Form, sittlich zu sein.

Zusatz zur Neuauflage (1918).
Eine Schwierigkeit in der Beurteilung des in beiden vorangehenden Abschnitten Dargestellten kann dadurch entstehen, daß man sich einem Widerspruch gegenübergestellt glaubt. Auf der einen Seite wird von dem Erleben des Denkens gesprochen, das von allgemeiner, für jedes menschliche Bewußtsein gleich geltender Bedeutung empfunden wird; auf der andern Seite wird hier darauf hingewiesen, daß die Ideen, welche im sittlichen Leben verwirklicht werden und die mit den im Denken erarbeiteten Ideen von gleicher Art sind, auf individuelle Art sich in jedem menschlichen Bewußtsein ausleben. Wer sich gedrängt fühlt, bei dieser Gegenüberstellung als bei einem «Widerspruch» stehen zu bleiben, und wer nicht erkennt, daß eben in der lebendigen Anschauung dieses tatsächlich vorhandenen Gegensatzes ein Stück vom Wesen des Menschen sich enthüllt, dem wird weder die Idee der Erkenntnis, noch die der Freiheit im rechten Lichte erscheinen können. Für diejenige Ansicht, welche ihre Begriffe bloß als von der Sinneswelt abgezogen (abstrahiert) denkt und welche die Intuition nicht zu ihrem Rechte kommen läßt, bleibt der hier für eine Wirklichkeit in Anspruch genommene Gedanke als ein «bloßer Widerspruch» bestehen. Für eine Einsicht, die durchschaut, wie Ideen intuitiv erlebt werden als ein auf sich selbst beruhendes Wesenhaftes, wird klar, daß der Mensch im Umkreis der Ideenwelt beim Erkennen sich in ein für alle Menschen Einheitliches hineinlebt, daß er aber, wenn er aus dieser Ideenwelt die Intuitionen für seine Willensakte entlehnt, ein Glied dieser Ideenwelt durch dieselbe Tätigkeit individualisiert, die er im geistig-ideellen Vorgang beim Erkennen als eine allgemein-menschliche entfaltet. Was als logischer Widerspruch erscheint, die allgemeine Artung der Erkenntnis-Ideen und die individuelle der SittenIdeen: das wird, indem es in seiner Wirklichkeit angeschaut wird, gerade zum lebendigen Begriff. Darin liegt ein Kennzeichen der menschlichen Wesenheit, daß das intuitiv zu Erfassende im Menschen wie im lebendigen Pendelschlag sich hin- und herbewegt zwischen der allgemein geltenden Erkenntnis und dem individuellen Erleben dieses Allgemeinen. Wer den einen Pendelausschlag in seiner Wirklichkeit nicht schauen kann, für den bleibt das Denken nur eine subjektive menschliche Betätigung; wer den andern nicht erfassen kann, für den scheint mit der Betätigung des Menschen im Denken alles individuelle Leben verloren. Für einen Denker der erstern Art ist das Erkennen, für den andern das sittliche Leben eine undurchschaubare Tatsache. Beide werden für die Erklärung des einen oder des andern allerlei Vorstellungen beibringen, die alle unzutreffend sind, weil von beiden eigentlich die Erlebbarkeit des Denkens entweder gar nicht erfaßt, oder als bloß abstrahierende Betätigung verkannt wird.

Zusatz zur Neuauflage (1918).

Auf S. 175 f wird von Materialismus gesprochen. Es ist mir wohl bewußt, daß es Denker gibt – wie der eben angeführte Th. Ziehen -, die sich selbst durchaus nicht als Materialisten bezeichnen, die aber doch von dem in diesem Buche geltend gemachten Gesichtspunkte mit diesem Begriffe bezeichnet werden müssen. Es kommt nicht darauf an, ob jemand sagt, für ihn sei die Welt nicht im bloß materiellen Sein beschlossen; er sei deshalb kein Materialist. Sondern es kommt darauf an, ob er Begriffe entwickelt, die nur auf ein materielles Sein anwendbar sind. Wer ausspricht: «Unser Handeln ist necessitiert wie unser Denken», der hat einen Begriff hingestellt, der bloß auf materielle Vorgänge, aber weder auf das Handeln, noch auf das Sein anwendbar ist; und er müßte, wenn er seinen Begriff zu Ende dächte, eben materialistisch denken. Daß er es nicht tut, ergibt sich nur aus derjenigen Inkonsequenz, die so oft die Folge des nicht zu Ende geführten Denkens ist. – Man hört jetzt oft, der Materialismus des 19. Jahrhunderts sei wissenschaftlich abgetan. In Wahrheit ist er es aber durchaus nicht. Man bemerkt in der Gegenwart oft nur nicht, daß man keine anderen Ideen als solche hat, mit denen man nur an Materielles heran kann. Dadurch verhüllt sich jetzt der Materialismus, während er in der zweiten Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts sich offen zur Schau gestellt hat. Gegen eine geistig die Welt erfassende Anschauung ist der verhüllte Materialismus der Gegenwart nicht weniger intolerant als der eingestandene des vorigen Jahrhunderts. Er täuscht nur viele, die da glauben, eine auf Geistiges gehende Weltauffassung ablehnen zu dürfen, weil ja die naturwissenschaftliche den «Materialismus längst verlassen hat» –

Anmerkungen:

Über die Art, wie hier von «Materialismus» gesprochen wird, und die Berechtigung, von ihm so zu sprechen, vgl. «Zusatz» zu diesem Kapitel am Schluß desselben.

IX. Die Idee der Freiheit – 4

Wie ist aber ein Zusammenleben der Menschen möglich, wenn jeder nur bestrebt ist, seine Individualität zur Geltung zu bringen? Damit ist ein Einwand des falsch verstandenen Moralismus gekennzeichnet. Dieser glaubt, eine Gemeinschaft von Menschen sei nur möglich, wenn sie alle vereinigt sind durch eine gemeinsam festgelegte sittliche Ordnung. Dieser Moralismus versteht eben die Einigkeit der Ideenwelt nicht Er begreift nicht, daß die Ideenwelt, die in mir tätig ist, keine andere ist, als die in meinem Mitmenschen. Diese Einheit ist allerdings bloß ein Ergebnis der Welterfahrung. Allein sie muß ein solches sein. Denn wäre sie durch irgend etwas anderes als durch Beobachtung zu erkennen, so wäre in ihrem Bereich nicht individuelles Erleben, sondern allgemeine Norm geltend. Individualität ist nur möglich, wenn jedes individuelle Wesen vom andern nur durch individuelle Beobachtung weiß. Der Unterschied zwischen mir und meinem Mitmenschen liegt durchaus nicht darin, daß wir in zwei ganz verschiedenen Geisteswelten leben, sondern daß er aus der uns gemeinsamen Ideenwelt andere Intuitionen empfängt als ich. Er will seine Intuitionen ausleben, ich die meinigen. Wenn wir beide wirklich aus der Idee schöpfen und keinen äußeren (physischen oder geistigen) Antrieben folgen, so können wir uns nur in dem gleichen Streben, in denselben Intentionen begegnen. Ein sittliches Mißverstehen, ein Aufeinanderprallen ist bei sittlich freien Menschen ausgeschlossen. Nur der sittlich Unfreie, der dem Naturtrieb oder einem angenommenen Pflichtgebot folgt, stößt den Nebenmenschen zurück, wenn er nicht dem gleichen Instinkt und dem gleichen Gebot folgt. Leben in der Liebe zum Handeln und Lebenlassen im Verständnisse des fremden Wollens ist die Grundmaxime der freien Menschen. Sie kennen kein anderes Sollen als dasjenige, mit dem sich ihr Wollen in intuitiven Einklang versetzt; wie sie in einem besonderen Falle wollen werden, das wird ihnen ihr Ideenvermögen sagen.

Läge nicht in der menschlichen Wesenheit der Urgrund zur Verträglichkeit, man würde sie ihr durch keine äußeren Gesetze einimpfen! Nur weil die menschlichen Individuen eines Geistes sind, können sie sich auch nebeneinander ausleben. Der Freie lebt in dem Vertrauen darauf, daß der andere Freie mit ihm einer geistigen Welt angehört und sich in seinen Intentionen mit ihm begegnen wird. Der Freie verlangt von seinen Mitmenschen keine Übereinstimmung, aber er erwartet sie, weil sie in der menschlichen Natur liegt. Damit ist nicht auf die Notwendigkeiten gedeutet, die für diese oder jene äußeren Einrichtungen bestehen, sondern auf die Gesinnung, auf die Seelenverfassung, durch die der Mensch in seinem Sich-Erleben unter von ihm geschätzten Mitmenschen der menschlichen Würde am meisten gerecht wird.

Es wird viele geben, die da sagen: der Begriff des freien Menschen, den du da entwirfst, ist eine Schimäre, ist nirgends verwirklicht. Wir haben es aber mit wirklichen Menschen zu tun, und bei denen ist auf Sittlichkeit nur zu hoffen, wenn sie einem Sittengebote gehorchen, wenn sie ihre sittliche Mission als Pflicht auffassen und nicht frei ihren Neigungen und ihrer Liebe folgen. – Ich bezweifle das keineswegs. Nur ein Blinder könnte es. Aber dann hinweg mit aller Heuchelei der Sittlichkeit, wenn dieses letzte Einsicht sein sollte. Saget dann einfach: die menschliche Natur muß zu ihren Handlungen gezwungen werden, solange sie nicht frei ist. Ob man die Unfreiheit durch physische Mittel oder durch Sittengesetze bezwingt, ob der Mensch unfrei ist, weil er seinem maßlosen Geschlechtstrieb folgt oder darum, weil er in den Fesseln konventioneller Sittlichkeit eingeschnürt ist, ist für einen gewissen Gesichtspunkt ganz gleichgültig. Man behaupte aber nur nicht, daß ein solcher Mensch mit Recht eine Handlung die seinige nennt, da er doch von einer fremden Gewalt dazu getrieben ist. Aber mitten aus der Zwangsordnung heraus erheben sich die Menschen, die freien Geister, die sich selbst finden in dem Wust von Sitte, Gesetzeszwang, Religionsübung und so weiter. Frei sind sie, insofern sie nur sich folgen, unfrei, insofern sie sich unterwerfen. Wer von uns kann sagen, daß er in allen seinen Handlungen wirklich frei ist? Aber in jedem von uns wohnt eine tiefere Wesenheit, in der sich der freie Mensch ausspricht.

Aus Handlungen der Freiheit und der Unfreiheit setzt sich unser Leben zusammen. Wir können aber den Begriff des Menschen nicht uzende denken, ohne auf den freien Geist als die reinste Ausprägung der menschlichen Natur zu kommen. Wahrhaft Menschen sind wir doch nur, insofern wir frei sind.

Das ist ein Ideal, werden viele sagen. Ohne Zweifel, aber ein solches, das sich in unserer Wesenheit als reales Element an die Oberfläche arbeitet. Es ist kein erdachtes oder erträumtes Ideal, sondern ein solches, das Leben hat und das sich auch in der unvollkommensten Form seines Daseins deutlich ankündigt. Wäre der Mensch ein bloßes Naturwesen, dann wäre das Aufsuchen von Idealen, das ist von Ideen, die augenblicklich unwirksam sind, deren Verwirklichung aber gefordert wird, ein Unding. An dem Dinge der Außenwelt ist die Idee durch die Wahrnehmung bestimmt; wir haben das unserige getan. wenn wir den Zusammenhang von Idee und Wahrnehmung erkannt haben. Beim Menschen ist das nicht so. Die Summe seines Daseins ist nicht ohne ihn selbst bestimmt; sein wahrer Begriff als sittlicher Mensch (freier Geist) ist mit dem Wahrnehmungsbilde «Mensch» nicht im voraus objektiv vereinigt, um bloß nachher durch die Erkenntnis festgestellt zu werden. Der Mensch muß selbsttätig seinen Begriff mit der Wahrnehmung Mensch vereinigen. Begriff und Wahrnehmung decken sich hier nur, wenn sie der Mensch selbst zur Deckung bringt. Er kann es aber nur, wenn er den Begriff des freien Geistes, das ist seinen eigenen Begriff gefunden hat. In der objektiven Welt ist uns durch unsere Organisation ein Grenzstrich gezogen zwischen Wahrnehmung und Begriff; das Erkennen überwindet diese Grenze. In der subjektiven Natur ist diese Grenze nicht minder vorhanden; der Mensch überwindet sie im Laufe seiner Entwicklung, indem er in seiner Erscheinung seinen Begriff zur Ausgestaltung bringt. So führt uns sowohl das intellektuelle wie das sittliche Leben des Menschen auf seine Doppelnatur: das Wahrnehmen (unmittelbares Erleben) und Denken. Das intellektuelle Leben überwindet die Doppelnatur durch die Erkenntnis, das sittliche durch die tatsächliche Verwirklichung des freien Geistes. Jedes Wesen hat seinen eingeborenen Begriff (das Gesetz seines Seins und Wirkens); aber er ist in den Außendingen unzertrennlich mit der Wahrnehmung verbunden und nur innerhalb unseres geistigen Organismus von dieser abgesondert. Beim Menschen selbst ist Begriff und Wahrnehmung zunächst tatsächlich getrennt, um von ihm ebenso tatsächlich vereinigt zu werden. Man kann einwenden: unserer Wahrnehmung des Menschen entspricht in jedem Augenblicke seines Lebens ein bestimmter Begriff, so wie jedem anderen Dinge auch. Ich kann mir den Begriff eines Schablonenmenschen bilden und kann einen solchen auch als Wahrnehmung gegeben haben; wenn ich zu diesem auch noch den Begriff des freien Geistes bringe, so habe ich zwei Begriffe für dasselbe Objekt.

Das ist einseitig gedacht. Ich bin als Wahrnehmungsobjekt einer fortwährenden Veränderung unterworfen. Als Kind war ich ein anderer, ein anderer als Jüngling und als Mann. Ja, in jedem Augenblicke ist mein Wahrnehmungsbild ein anderes als in den vorangehenden. Diese Veränderungen können sich in dem Sinne vollziehen, daß sich in ihnen nur immer derselbe (Schablonenmensch) ausspricht, oder daß sie den Ausdruck des freien Geistes darstellen. Diesen Veränderungen ist das Wahrnehmungsobjekt meines Handelns unterworfen. Es ist in dem Wahrnehmungsobjekt Mensch die Möglichkeit gegeben, sich umzubilden, wie im Pflanzenkeim die Möglichkeit liegt, zur ganzen Pflanze zu werden. Die Pflanze wird sich umbilden wegen der objektiven, in ihr liegenden Gesetzmäßigkeit; der Mensch bleibt in seinem unvollendeten Zustande, wenn er nicht den Umbildungsstoff in sich selbst aufgreift, und sich durch eigene Kraft umbildet. Die Natur macht aus dem Menschen bloß ein Naturwesen; die Gesellschaft ein gesetzmäßig handelndes; ein freies Wesen kann er nur selbst aus sich machen. Die Natur läßt den Menschen in einem gewissen Stadium seiner Entwicklung aus ihren Fesseln los; die Gesellschaft führt diese Entwicklung bis zu einem weiteren Punkte; den letzten Schliff kann nur der Mensch selbst sich geben.

Der Standpunkt der freien Sittlichkeit behauptet also nicht, daß der freie Geist die einzige Gestalt ist, in der ein Mensch existieren kann. Sie sieht in der freien Geistigkeit nur das letzte Entwicklungsstadium des Menschen. Damit ist nicht geleugnet, daß das Handeln nach Normen als Entwicklungsstufe seine Berechtigung habe. Es kann nur nicht als absoluter Sittlichkeitsstandpunkt anerkannt werden. Der freie Geist aber überwindet die Normen in dem Sinne, daß er nicht nur Gebote als Motive empfindet, sondern sein Handeln nach seinen Impulsen (Intuitionen) einrichtet.

Wenn Kant von der Pflicht sagt: «Pflicht! du erhabener, großer Name, der du nichts Beliebtes, was Einschmeichelung bei sich führt, in dir fassest, sondern Unterwerfung verlangst» der du «ein Gesetz aufstellst…, vor dem alle Neigungen Verstummen, wenn sie gleich in Geheim ihm entgegenwirken» so erwidert der Mensch aus dem Bewußtsein des freien Geistes: «Freiheit! du freundlicher, menschlicher Name, der du alles sittlich Beliebte, was mein Menschentum am meisten würdigt, in dir fassest, und mich zu niemandes Diener machst, der du nicht bloß ein Gesetz aufstellst, sondern abwartest, was meine sittliche Liebe selbst als Gesetz erkennen wird, weil sie jedem nur auferzwungenen Gesetze gegenüber sich unfrei fühlt.»

Das ist der Gegensatz von bloß gesetzmäßiger und freier Sittlichkeit.

Der Philister, der in einem äußerlich Festgestellten die verkörperte Sittlichkeit sieht, wird in dem freien Geist vielleicht sogar einen gefährlichen Menschen sehen. Er tut es aber nur, weil sein Blick eingeengt ist in eine bestimmte Zeitepoche. Wenn er über dieselbe hinausblicken könnte, so müßte er alsbald finden, daß der freie Geist ebenso wenig nötig hat, über die Gesetze seines Staates hinauszugehen, wie der Philister selbst, nie aber sich mit ihnen in einen wirklichen Widerspruch zu setzen. Denn die Staatsgesetze sind sämtlich aus Intuitionen freier Geister entsprungen, ebenso wie alle anderen objektiven Sittlichkeitsgesetze. Kein Gesetz wird durch Familienautorität ausgeübt, das nicht einmal von einem Ahnherrn als solches intuitiv erfaßt und festgesetzt worden wäre; auch die konventionellen Gesetze der Sittlichkeit werden von bestimmten Menschen zuerst aufgestellt; und die Staatsgesetze entstehen stets im Kopfe eines Staatsmannes. Diese Geister haben die Gesetze über die anderen Menschen gesetzt, und unfrei wird nur der, welcher diesen Ursprung vergißt, und sie entweder zu außermenschlichen Geboten, zu objektiven vom Menschlichen unabhängigen sittlichen Pflichtbegriffen oder zur befehlenden Stimme seines eigenen falsch mystisch zwingend gedachten Innern macht. Wer den Ursprung aber nicht übersieht, sondern ihn in dem Menschen sucht, der wird damit rechnen als mit einem Gliede derselben Ideenwelt, aus der auch er seine sittlichen Intuitionen holt. Glaubt er bessere zu haben, so sucht er sie an die Stelle der bestehenden zu bringen; findet er diese berechtigt, dann handelt er ihnen gemäß, als wenn sie seine eigenen wären.

Es darf nicht die Formel geprägt werden, der Mensch sei dazu da, um eine von ihm abgesonderte sittliche Weltordnung zu verwirklichen. Wer dies behauptete, stünde in bezug auf Menschheitswissenschaft noch auf demselben Standpunkt, auf dem jene Naturwissenschaft stand, die da glaubte: der Stier habe Hörner, damit er stoßen könne. Die Naturforscher haben glücklich einen solchen Zweckbegriff zu den Toten geworfen. Die Ethik kann sich schwerer davon frei machen. Aber so wie die Hörner nicht wegen des Stoßens da sind, sondern das Stoßen durch die Hörner, so ist der Mensch nicht wegen der Sittlichkeit da, sondern die Sittlichkeit durch den Menschen. Der freie Mensch handelt sittlich, weil er eine sittliche Idee hat; aber er handelt nicht, damit Sittlichkeit entstehe. Die menschlichen Individuen mit ihren zu ihrem Wesen gehörigen sittlichen Ideen sind die Voraussetzung der sittlichen Weltordnung.

Das menschliche Individuum ist Quell aller Sittlichkeit und Mittelpunkt des Erdenlebens. Der Staat, die Gesellschaft sind nur da, weil sie sich als notwendige Folge des Individuallebens ergeben. Daß dann der Staat und die Gesellschaft wieder zurückwirken auf das Individualleben, ist ebenso begreiflich, wie der Umstand, daß das Stoßen, das durch die Hörner da ist, wieder zurückwirkt auf die weitere Entwicklung der Hörner des Stieres, die bei längerem Nichtgebrauch verkümmern würden. Ebenso müßte das Individuum verkümmern, wenn es außerhalb der menschlichen Gemeinschaft ein abgesondertes Dasein führte. Darum bildet sich ja gerade die gesellschaftliche Ordnung, um im günstigen Sinne wieder zurück auf das Individuum zu wirken.

IX. Die Idee der Freiheit – 3

Der gerade Gegensatz dieses Sittlichkeitsprinzips ist das Kantsche: Handle so, daß die Grundsätze deines Handelns für alle Menschen gelten können. Dieser Satz ist der Tod aller individuellen Antriebe des Handelns. Nicht wie alle Menschen handeln würden, kann für mich maßgebend sein, sondern was für mich in dem individuellen Falle zu tun ist.

Ein oberflächliches Urteil könnte vielleicht diesen Ausführungen einwenden: Wie kann das Handeln zugleich individuell auf den besonderen Fall und die besondere Situation geprägt und doch rein ideell aus der Intuition heraus bestimmt sein? Dieser Einwand beruht auf einer Verwechselung von sittlichem Motiv und wahrnehmbarem Inhalt der Handlung. Der letztere kann Motiv sein, und ist es auch zum Beispiel beim Kulturfortschritt, beim Handeln aus Egoismus usw.; beim Handeln auf Grund rein sittlicher Intuition ist er es nicht. Mein Ich richtet seinen Blick natürlich auf diesen Wahrnehmungsinhalt, bestimmen läßt es sich durch denselben nicht. Dieser Inhalt wird nur benützt, um sich einen Erkenntnisbegriff zu bilden, den dazu gehörigen moralischen Begriff entnimmt das Ich nicht aus dem Objekte. Der Erkenntnisbegriff aus einer bestimmten Situation, der ich gegenüberstehe, ist nur dann zugleich ein moralischer Begriff, wenn ich auf dem Standpunkte eines bestimmten Moralprinzips stehe. Wenn ich auf dem Boden der allgemeinen Kulturentwicklungsmoral allein stehen möchte, dann ginge ich mit gebundener Marschroute in der Welt umher. Aus jedem Geschehen, das ich wahrnehme und das mich beschäftigen kann, entspringt zugleich eine sittliche Pflicht; nämlich mein Scherflein beizutragen, damit das betreffende Geschehen in den Dienst der Kulturentwickelung gestellt werde. Außer dem Begriff, der mir den naturgesetzlichen Zusammenhang eines Geschehens oder Dinges enthüllt, haben die letztern auch noch eine sittliche Etikette umgehängt, die für mich, das moralische Wesen, eine ethische Anweisung enthält, wie ich mich zu benehmen habe. Diese sittliche Etikette ist in ihrem Gebiete berechtigt, sie fällt aber auf einem höheren Standpunkte mit der Idee zusammen, die mir dem konkreten Fall gegenüber aufgeht.

Die Menschen sind dem Intuitionsvermögen nach verschieden. Dem einen sprudeln die Ideen zu, der andere erwirbt sie sich mühselig. Die Situationen, in denen die Menschen leben, und die den Schauplatz ihres Handelns abgeben, sind nicht weniger verschieden. Wie ein Mensch handelt, wird also abhängen von der Art, wie sein Intuitionsvermögen einer bestimmten Situation gegenüber wirkt. Die Summe der in uns wirksamen Ideen, den realen Inhalt unserer Intuitionen, macht das aus, was bei aller Allgemeinheit der Ideenwelt in jedem Menschen individuell geartet ist. Insofern dieser intuitive Inhalt auf das Handeln geht, ist er der Sittlichkeitsgehalt des Individuums. Das Auslebenlassen dieses Gehalts ist die höchste moralische Triebfeder und zugleich das höchste Motiv dessen, der einsieht, daß alle andern Moralprinzipien sich letzten Endes in diesem Gehalte vereinigen. Man kann diesen Standpunkt den ethischen Individualismus nennen.

Das Maßgebende einer intuitiv bestimmten Handlung im konkreten Falle ist das Auffinden der entsprechenden, ganz individuellen Intuition. Auf dieser Stufe der Sittlichkeit kann von allgemeinen Sittlichkeitsbegriffen (Normen, Gesetzen) nur insofern die Rede sein, als sich diese aus der Verallgemeinerung der individuellen Antriebe ergeben. Allgemeine Normen setzen immer konkrete Tatsachen voraus, aus denen sie abgeleitet werden können. Durch das menschliche Handeln werden aber Tatsachen erst geschaffen.

Wenn wir das Gesetzmäßige (Begriffliche in dem Handeln der Individuen, Völker und Zeitalter) aufsuchen, so erhalten wir eine Ethik, aber nicht als Wissenschaft von sittlichen Normen, sondern als Naturlehre der Sittlichkeit. Erst die hierdurch gewonnenen Gesetze verhalten sich zum menschlichen Handeln so wie die Naturgesetze zu einer besonderen Erscheinung. Sie sind aber durchaus nicht identisch mit den Antrieben, die wir unserm Handeln zugrunde legen. Will man erfassen, wodurch eine Handlung des Menschen dessen sittlichem Wollen entspringt, so muß man zunächst auf das Verhältnis dieses Wollens zu der Handlung sehen. Man muß zunächst Handlungen ins Auge fassen, bei denen dieses Verhältnis das Bestimmende ist. Wenn ich oder ein anderer später über eine solche Handlung nachdenken, kann es herauskommen, welche Sittlichkeitsmaximen bei derselben in Betracht kommen. Während ich handle, bewegt mich die Sittlichkeitsmaxime, insoferne sie intuitiv in mir leben kann; sie ist verbunden mit der Liebe zu dem Objekt, das ich durch meine Handlung verwirklichen will. Ich frage keinen Menschen und auch keine Regel: soll ich diese Handlung ausführen? – sondern ich führe sie aus, sobald ich die Idee davon gefaßt habe. Nur dadurch ist sie meine Handlung. Wer nur handelt, weil er bestimmte sittliche Normen anerkennt, dessen Handlung ist das Ergebnis der in seinem Moralkodex stehenden Prinzipien. Er ist bloß der Vollstrecker. Er ist ein höherer Automat. Werfet einen Anlaß zum Handeln in sein Bewußtsein, und alsbald setzt sich das Räderwerk seiner Moralprinzipien in Bewegung und läuft in gesetzmäßiger Weise ab, um eine christliche, humane, ihm selbstlos geltende, oder eine Handlung des kulturgeschichtlichen Fortschrittes zu vollbringen. Nur wenn ich meiner Liebe zu dem Objekte folge, dann bin ich es selbst, der handelt. Ich handle auf dieser Stufe der Sittlichkeit nicht, weil ich einen Herrn über mich anerkenne, nicht die äußere Autorität, nicht eine sogenannte innere Stimme. Ich erkenne kein äußeres Prinzip meines Handelns an, weil ich in mir selbst den Grund des Handelns, die Liebe zur Handlung gefunden habe. Ich prüfe nicht verstandesmäßig, ob meine Handlung gut oder böse ist; ich vollziehe sie, weil ich sie liebe. Sie wird «gut», wenn meine in Liebe getauchte Intuition in der rechten Art in dem intuitiv zu erlebenden Weltzusammenhang drinnensteht; «böse», wenn das nicht der Fall ist. Ich frage mich auch nicht: wie würde ein anderer Mensch in meinem Falle handeln? – sondern ich handle, wie ich, diese besondere Individualität, zu wollen mich veranlaßt sehe. Nicht das allgemein Übliche, die allgemeine Sitte, eine allgemein-menschliche Maxime, eine sittliche Norm leitet mich in unmittelbarer Art, sondern meine Liebe zur Tat. Ich fühle keinen Zwang, nicht den Zwang der Natur, die mich bei meinen Trieben leitet, nicht den Zwang der sittlichen Gebote, sondern ich will einfach ausführen, was in mir liegt.

Die Verteidiger der allgemeinen sittlichen Normen könnten etwa zu diesen Ausführungen sagen: Wenn jeder Mensch nur darnach strebt, sich auszuleben und zu tun, was ihm beliebt, dann ist kein Unterschied zwischen guter Handlung und Verbrechen; jede Gaunerei, die in mir liegt, hat gleichen Anspruch sich auszuleben, wie die Intention, dem allgemeinen Besten zu dienen. Nicht der Umstand, daß ich eine Handlung der Idee nach ins Auge gefaßt habe, kann für mich als sittlichen Menschen maßgebend sein, sondern die Prüfung, ob sie gut oder böse ist. Nur im ersteren Falle werde ich sie ausführen.

Meine Entgegnung auf diesen naheliegenden und doch nur aus einer Verkennung des hier Gemeinten entspringenden Einwand ist diese: Wer das Wesen des menschlichen Wollens erkennen will, der muß unterscheiden zwischen dem Weg, der dieses Wollen bis zu einem bestimmten Grad der Entwickelung bringt, und der Eigenart, welche das Wollen annimmt, indem es sich diesem Ziele annähert. Auf dem Wege zu diesem Ziele spielen Normen ihre berechtigte Rolle. Das Ziel besteht in der Verwirklichung rein intuitiv erfaßter Sittlichkeitsziele. Der Mensch erreicht solche Ziele in dem Maße, in dem er die Fähigkeit besitzt, sich überhaupt zum intuitiven Ideengehalte der Welt zu erheben. Im einzelnen Wollen wird zumeist anderes als Triebfeder oder Motiv solchen Zielen beigemischt sein. Aber Intuitives kann im menschlichen Wollen doch bestimmend oder mitbestimmend sein. Was man soll, das tut man; man gibt den Schauplatz ab, auf dem das Sollen zum Tun wird; eigene Handlung ist, was man als solche aus sich entspringen läßt. Der Antrieb kann da nur ein ganz individueller sein. Und in Wahrheit kann nur eine aus der Intuition entspringende Willenshandlung eine individuelle sein. Daß die Tat des Verbrechers, daß das Böse in gleichem Sinne ein Ausleben der Individualität genannt wird wie die Verkörperung reiner Intuition, ist nur möglich, wenn die blinden Triebe zur menschlichen Individualität gezählt werden. Aber der blinde Trieb, der zum Verbrechen treibt, stammt nicht aus Intuitivem, und gehört nicht zum Individuellen des Menschen, sondern zum Allgemeinsten in ihm, zu dem, was bei allen Individuen in gleichem Maße geltend ist und aus dem sich der Mensch durch sein Individuelles heraus arbeitet. Das Individuelle in mir ist nicht mein Organismus mit seinen Trieben und Gefühlen, sondern das ist die einige Ideenwelt, die in diesem Organismus aufleuchtet. Meine Triebe, Instinkte, Leidenschaften begründen nichts weiter in mir, als daß ich zur allgemeinen Gattung Mensch gehöre; der Umstand, daß sich ein Ideelles in diesen Trieben, Leidenschaften und Gefühlen auf eine besondere Art auslebt, begründet meine Individualität. Durch meine Instinkte, Triebe bin ich ein Mensch, von denen zwölf ein Dutzend machen; durch die besondere Form der Idee, durch die ich mich innerhalb des Dutzend als Ich bezeichne, bin ich Individuum. Nach der Verschiedenheit meiner tierischen Natur könnte mich nur ein mir fremdes Wesen von andern unterscheiden; durch mein Denken, das heißt durch das tätige Erfassen dessen, was sich als Ideelles in meinem Organismus auslebt, unterscheide ich mich selbst von andern. Man kann also von der Handlung des Verbrechers gar nicht sagen, daß sie aus der Idee hervorgeht. Ja, das ist gerade das Charakteristische der Verbrecherhandlungen, daß sie aus den außerideellen Elementen des Menschen sich herleiten.

Eine Handlung wird als eine freie empfunden, soweit deren Grund aus dem ideellen Teil meines individuellen Wesens hervorgeht; jeder andere Teil einer Handlung, gleichgültig, ob er aus dem Zwange der Natur oder aus der Nötigung einer sittlichen Norm vollzogen wird, wird als unfrei empfunden.

Frei ist nur der Mensch, insofern er in jedem Augenblicke seines Lebens sich selbst zu folgen in der Lage ist. Eine sittliche Tat ist nur meine Tat, wenn sie in dieser Auffassung eine freie genannt werden kann. Hier ist zunächst die Rede davon, unter welchen Voraussetzungen eine gewollte Handlung als eine freie empfunden wird; wie diese rein ethisch gefaßte Freiheitsidee in der menschlichen Wesenheit sich verwirklicht, soll im folgenden sich zeigen.

Die Handlung aus Freiheit schließt die sittlichen Gesetze nicht etwa aus, sondern ein; sie erweist sich nur als höherstehend gegenüber derjenigen, die nur von diesen Gesetzen diktiert ist. Warum sollte meine Handlung denn weniger dem Gesamtwohle dienen, wenn ich sie aus Liebe getan habe, als dann, wenn ich sie nur aus dem Grunde vollbracht habe, weil dem Gesamtwohle zu dienen ich als Pflicht empfinde? Der bloße Pflichtbegriff schließt die Freiheit aus, weil er das Individuelle nicht anerkennen will, sondern Unterwerfung des letztem unter eine allgemeine Norm fordert. Die Freiheit des Handelns ist nur denkbar vom Standpunkte des ethischen Individualismus aus.

IX. Die Idee der Freiheit – 2

Für den einzelnen Willensakt kommt in Betracht: das Motiv und die Triebfeder. Das Motiv ist ein begrifflicher oder vorstellungsgemäßer Faktor; die Triebfeder ist der in der menschlichen Organisation unmittelbar bedingte Faktor des Wollens. Der begriffliche Faktor oder das Motiv ist der augenblickliche Bestimmungsgrund des Wollens; die Triebfeder der bleibende Bestimmungsgrund des Individuums. Motiv des Wollens kann ein reiner Begriff oder ein Begriff mit einem bestimmten Bezug auf das Wahrnehmen sein, das ist eine Vorstellung. Allgemeine und individuelle Begriffe (Vorstellungen) werden dadurch zu Motiven des Wollens, daß sie auf das menschliche Individuum wirken und dasselbe in einer gewissen Richtung zum Handeln bestimmen. Ein und derselbe Begriff, beziehungsweise eine und dieselbe Vorstellung wirkt aber auf verschiedene Individuen verschieden. Sie veranlassen verschiedene Menschen zu verschiedenen Handlungen. Das Wollen ist also nicht bloß ein Erlebnis des Begriffes oder der Vorstellung, sondern auch der individuellen Beschaffenheit des Menschen. Diese individuelle Beschaffenheit wollen wir – man kann in bezug darauf Eduard von Hartmann folgen – die charakterologische Anlage nennen. Die Art, wie Begriff und Vorstellung auf die charakterologische Anlage des Menschen wirken, gibt seinem Leben ein bestimmtes moralisches oder ethisches Gepräge.

Die charakterologische Anlage wird gebildet durch den mehr oder weniger bleibenden Lebensgehalt unseres Subjektes, das ist durch unseren Vorstellungs- und Gefühlsinhalt. Ob mich eine in mir gegenwärtig auftretende Vorstellung zu einem Wollen anregt, das hängt davon ab, wie sie sich zu meinem übrigen Vorstellungsinhalte und auch zu meinen Gefühlseigentümlichkeiten verhält. Mein Vorstellungsinhalt ist aber wieder bedingt durch die Summe derjenigen Begriffe, die im Verlaufe meines individuellen Lebens mit Wahrnehmungen in Berührung gekommen, das heißt zu Vorstellungen geworden sind. Diese hängt wieder ab von meiner größeren oder geringeren Fähigkeit der Intuition und von dem Umkreis meiner Beobachtungen, das ist von dem subjektiven und dem objektiven Faktor der Erfahrungen, von der inneren Bestimmtheit und dem Lebensschauplatz. Ganz besonders ist meine charakterologische Anlage durch mein Gefühlsleben bestimmt. Ob ich an einer bestimmten Vorstellung oder einem Begriff Freude oder Schmerz empfinde, davon wird es abhängen, ob ich sie zum Motiv meines Handelns machen will oder nicht. – Dies sind die Elemente, die bei einem Willensakte in Betracht kommen. Die unmittelbar gegenwärtige Vorstellung oder der Begriff, die zum Motiv werden, bestimmen das Ziel, den Zweck meines Wollens; meine charakterologische Anlage bestimmt mich, auf dieses Ziel meine Tätigkeit zu richten. Die Vorstellung, in der nächsten halben Stunde einen Spaziergang zu machen, bestimmt das Ziel meines Handelns. Diese Vorstellung wird aber nur dann zum Motiv des Wollens erhoben, wenn sie auf eine geeignete charakterologische Anlage auftrifft, das ist, wenn sich durch mein bisheriges Leben in mir etwa die Vorstellungen gebildet haben von der Zweckmäßigkeit des Spazierengehens, von dem Wert der Gesundheit, und ferner, wenn sich mit der Vorstellung des Spazierengehens in mir das Gefühl der Lust verbindet. Wir haben somit zu unterscheiden: 1. Die möglichen subjektiven Anlagen, die geeignet sind, bestimmte Vorstellungen und Begriffe zu Motiven zu machen; und 2. die möglichen Vorstellungen und Begriffe, die imstande sind ,meine charakterologische Anlage so zu beeinflussen, daß sich ein Wollen ergibt. Jene stellen die Triebfedern, diese die Ziele der Sittlichkeit dar.

Die Triebfedern der Sittlichkeit können wir dadurch finden, daß wir nachsehen, aus welchen Elementen sich das individuelle Leben zusammensetzt.

Die erste Stufe des individuellen Lebens ist das Wahrnehmen, und zwar das Wahrnehmen der Sinne. Wir stehen hier in jener Region unseres individuellen Lebens, wo sich das Wahrnehmen unmittelbar, ohne Dazwischentreten eines Gefühles oder Begriffes in Wollen umsetzt. Die Triebfeder des Menschen, die hierbei in Betracht kommt, wird als Trieb schlechthin bezeichnet. Die Befriedigung unserer niederen, rein animalischen Bedürfnisse (Hunger, Geschlechtsverkehr usw.) kommt auf diesem Wege zustande. Das Charakteristische des Trieblebens besteht in der Unmittelbarkeit, mit der die Einzelwahrnehmung das Wollen auslöst. Diese Art der Bestimmung des Wollens, die ursprünglich nur dem niedrigeren Sinnenleben eigen ist, kann auch auf die Wahrnehmungen der höheren Sinne ausgedehnt werden. Wir lassen auf die Wahrnehmung irgendeines Geschehens in der Außenwelt, ohne weiter nachzudenken und ohne daß sich uns an die Wahrnehmung ein besonderes Gefühl knüpft, eine Handlung folgen, wie das namentlich im konventionellen Umgange mit Menschen geschieht. Die Triebfeder dieses Handelns bezeichnet man als Takt oder sittlichen Geschmack. Je öfter sich ein solches unmittelbares Auslösen einer Handlung durch eine Wahrnehmung vollzieht, desto geeigneter wird sich der betreffende Mensch erweisen, rein unter dem Einfluß des Taktes zu handeln, das ist: der Takt wird zu seiner charakterologischen Anlage.

Die zweite Sphäre des menschlichen Lebens ist das Fühlen. An die Wahrnehmungen der Außenwelt knüpfen sich bestimmte Gefühle. Diese Gefühle können zu Triebfedern des Handelns werden. Wenn ich einen hungernden Menschen sehe, so kann mein Mitgefühl mit demselben die Triebfeder meines Handelns bilden. Solche Gefühle sind etwa: das Schamgefühl, der Stolz, das Ehrgefühl, die Demut, die Reue, das Mitgefühl, das Rache- und Dankbarkeitsgefühl, die Pietät, die Treue, das Liebes- und Pflichtgefühl.

Die dritte Stufe des Lebens endlich ist das Denken und Vorstellen. Durch bloße Überlegung kann eine Vorstellung oder ein Begriff zum Motiv einer Handlung werden. Vorstellungen werden dadurch Motive, daß wir im Laufe des Lebens fortwährend gewisse Ziele des Wollens an Wahrnehmungen knüpfen, die in mehr oder weniger modifizierter Gestalt immer wiederkehren. Daher kommt es, daß bei Menschen, die nicht ganz ohne Erfahrung sind, stets mit bestimmten Wahrnehmungen auch die Vorstellungen von Handlungen ins Bewußtsein treten, die sie in einem ähnlichen Fall ausgeführt oder ausführen gesehen haben. Diese Vorstellungen schweben ihnen als bestimmende Muster bei allen späteren Entschließungen vor, sie werden Glieder ihrer charakterologischen Anlage. Wir können die damit bezeichnete Triebfeder des Wollens die praktische Erfahrung nennen. Die praktische Erfahrung geht allmählich in das rein taktvolle Handeln über. Wenn sich bestimmte typische Bilder von Handlungen mit Vorstellungen von gewissen Situationen des Lebens in unserem Bewußtsein so fest verbunden haben, daß wir gegebenen Falles mit Überspringung aller auf Erfahrung sich gründenden Überlegung unmittelbar auf die Wahrnehmung hin ins Wollen übergehen, dann ist dies der Fall.

Die höchste Stufe des individuellen Lebens ist das begriffliche Denken ohne Rücksicht auf einen bestimmten Wahrnehmungsgehalt. Wir bestimmen den Inhalt eines Begriffes durch reine Intuition aus der ideellen Sphäre heraus. Ein solcher Begriff enthält dann zunächst keinen Bezug auf bestimmte Wahrnehmungen. Wenn wir unter dem Einflusse eines auf eine Wahrnehmung deutenden Begriffes, das ist einer Vorstellung, in das Wollen eintreten, so ist es diese Wahrnehmung, die uns auf dem Umwege durch das begriffliche Denken bestimmt Wenn wir unter dem Einflusse von Intuitionen handeln, so ist die Triebfeder unseres Handelns das reine Denken. Da man gewohnt ist, das reine Denkvermögen in der Philosophie als Vernunft zu bezeichnen, so ist es wohl auch berechtigt, die auf dieser Stufe gekennzeichnete moralische Triebfeder die praktische Vernunft zu nennen. Am klarsten hat von dieser Triebfeder des Wollens Kreyenbühl (Philosophische Monatshefte, Bd. XVIII, Heft 3) gehandelt. Ich rechne seinen darüber geschriebenen Aufsatz zu den bedeutsamsten Erzeugnissen der gegenwärtigen Philosophie, namentlich der Ethik. Kreyenbühl bezeichnet die in Rede stehende Triebfeder als praktisches Apriori, das heißt unmittelbar aus meiner Intuition fließenden Antrieb zum Handeln.

Es ist klar, daß ein solcher Antrieb nicht mehr im strengen Wortsinne zu dem Gebiete der charakterologischen Anlagen gerechnet werden kann. Denn was hier als Triebfeder wirkt, ist nicht mehr ein bloß Individuelles in mir, sondern der ideelle und folglich allgemeine Inhalt meiner Intuition. Sobald ich die Berechtigung dieses Inhaltes als Grundlage und Ausgangspunkt einer Handlung ansehe, trete ich in das Wollen ein, gleichgültig ob der Begriff bereits zeitlich vorher in mir da war, oder erst unmittelbar vor dem Handeln in mein Bewußtsein eintritt, das ist: gleichgültig, ob er bereits als Anlage in mir vorhanden war oder nicht.

Zu einem wirklichen Willensakt kommt es nur dann, wenn ein augenblicklicher Antrieb des Handelns in Form eines Begriffes oder einer Vorstellung auf die charakterologische Anlage einwirkt. Ein solcher Antrieb wird dann zum Motiv des Wollens.

Die Motive der Sittlichkeit sind Vorstellungen und Begriffe. Es gibt Ethiker, die auch im Gefühle ein Motiv der Sittlichkeit sehen; sie behaupten zum Beispiel, Ziel des sittlichen Handelns sei die Beförderung des größtmöglichen Quantums von Lust im handelnden Individuum. Die Lust selbst aber kann nicht Motiv werden, sondern nur eine vorgestellte Lust. Die Vorstellung eines künftigen Gefühles, nicht aber das Gefühl selbst kann auf meine charakterologische Anlage einwirken. Denn das Gefühl selbst ist im Augenblicke der Handlung noch nicht da, soll vielmehr erst durch die Handlung hervorgebracht werden.

Die Vorstellung des eigenen oder fremden Wohles wird aber mit Recht als ein Motiv des Wollens angesehen. Das Prinzip, durch sein Handeln die größte Summe eigener Lust zu bewirken, das ist: die individuelle Glückseligkeit zu erreichen, heißt Egoismus. Diese individuelle Glückseligkeit wird entweder dadurch zu erreichen gesucht, daß man in rücksichtsloser Weise nur auf das eigene Wohl bedacht ist und dieses auch auf Kosten des Glückes fremder Individualitäten erstrebt (reiner Egoismus), oder dadurch, daß man das fremde Wohl aus dem Grunde befördert, weil man sich dann mittelbar von den glücklichen fremden Individualitäten einen günstigen Einfluß auf die eigene Person verspricht, oder weil man durch Schädigung fremder Individuen auch eine Gefährdung des eigenen Interesses befürchtet (Klugheitsmoral). Der besondere Inhalt der egoistischen Sittlichkeitsprinzipien wird davon abhängen, welche Vorstellung sich der Mensch von seiner eigenen oder der fremden Glückseligkeit macht. Nach dem, was einer als ein Gut des Lebens ansieht (Wohlleben, Hoffnung auf Glückseligkeit, Erlösung von verschiedenen Übeln usw.), wird er den Inhalt seines egoistischen Strebens bestimmen.

Als ein weiteres Motiv ist dann der rein begriffliche Inhalt einer Handlung anzusehen. Dieser Inhalt bezieht sich nicht wie die Vorstellung der eigenen Lust auf die einzelne Handlung allein, sondern auf die Begründung einer Handlung aus einem Systeme sittlicher Prinzipien. Diese Moralprinzipien können in Form abstrakter Begriffe das sittliche Leben regeln, ohne daß der einzelne sich um den Ursprung der Begriffe kümmert. Wir empfinden dann einfach die Unterwerfung unter den sittlichen Begriff, der als Gebot über unserem Handeln schwebt, als sittliche Notwendigkeit. Die Begründung dieser Notwendigkeit überlassen wir dem, der die sittliche Unterwerfung fordert, das ist der sittlichen Autorität, die wir anerkennen (Familienoberhaupt, Staat, gesellschaftliche Sitte, kirchliche Autorität, göttliche Offenbarung). Eine besondere Art dieser Sittlichkeitsprinzipien ist die, wo das Gebot sich nicht durch eine äußere Autorität für uns kundgibt, sondern durch unser eigenes Innere (sittliche Autonomie). Wir vernehmen dann die Stimme in unserem eigenen Innern, der wir uns zu unterwerfen haben. Der Ausdruck dieser Stimme ist das Gewissen.

Es bedeutet einen sittlichen Fortschritt, wenn der Mensch zum Motiv seines Handelns nicht einfach das Gebot einer äußeren oder der inneren Autorität macht, sondern wenn er den Grund einzusehen bestrebt ist, aus dem irgendeine Maxime des Handelns als Motiv in ihm wirken soll. Dieser Fortschritt ist der von der autoritativen Moral zu dem Handeln aus sittlicher Einsicht. Der Mensch wird auf dieser Stufe der Sittlichkeit die Bedürfnisse des sittlichen Lebens aufsuchen und sich von der Erkenntnis derselben zu seinen Handlungen bestimmen lassen. Solche Bedürfnisse sind: 1. das größtmögliche Wohl der Gesamtmenschheit rein um dieses Wohles willen; 2. der Kulturfortschritt oder die sittliche Entwicklung der Menschheit zu immer größerer Vollkommenheit; 3. die Verwirklichung rein intuitiv erfaßter individueller Sittlichkeitsziele.

Das größtmögliche Wohl der Gesamtmenschheit wird natürlich von verschiedenen Menschen in verschiedener Weise aufgefaßt werden. Die obige Maxime bezieht sich nicht auf eine bestimmte Vorstellung von diesem Wohl, sondern darauf, daß jeder einzelne, der dies Prinzip anerkennt, bestrebt ist, dasjenige zu tun, was nach seiner Ansicht das Wohl der Gesamtmenschheit am meisten fördert.

Der Kulturfortschritt erweist sich für denjenigen, dem sich an die Güter der Kultur ein Lustgefühl knüpft, als ein spezieller Fall des vorigen Moralprinzips. Er wird nur den Untergang und die Zerstörung mancher Dinge, die auch zum Wohle der Menschheit beitragen, mit in Kauf nehmen müssen. Es ist aber auch möglich, daß jemand in dem Kulturfortschritt, abgesehen von dem damit verbundenen Lustgefühl, eine sittliche Notwendigkeit erblickt. Dann ist derselbe für ihn ein besonderes Moralprinzip neben dem vorigen.

Sowohl die Maxime des Gesamtwohles wie auch jene des Kulturfortschrittes beruht auf der Vorstellung, das ist auf der Beziehung, die man dem Inhalt der sittlichen Ideen zu bestimmten Erlebnissen (Wahrnehmungen) gibt. Das höchste denkbare Sittlichkeitsprinzip ist aber das, welches keine solche Beziehung von vornherein enthält, sondern aus dem Quell der reinen Intuition entspringt und erst nachher die Beziehung zur Wahrnehmung (zum Leben) sucht. Die Bestimmung, was zu wollen ist, geht hier von einer andern Instanz aus als in den vorhergehenden Fällen. Wer dem sittlichen Prinzip des Gesamtwohles huldigt, der wird bei allen seinen Handlungen zuerst fragen, was zu diesem Gesamtwohl seine Ideale beitragen. Wer sich zu dem sittlichen Prinzip des Kulturfortschrittes bekennt, wird es hier ebenso machen. Es gibt aber ein höheres, das in dem einzelnen Falle nicht von einem bestimmten einzelnen Sittlichkeitsziel ausgeht, sondern welches allen Sittlichkeitsmaximen einen gewissen Wert beilegt, und im gegebenen Falle immer fragt, ob denn hier das eine oder das andere Moralprinzip das wichtigere ist. Es kann Vorkommen, daß jemand unter gegebenen Verhältnissen die Förderung des Kulturfortschrittes, unter andern die des Gesamtwohls, im dritten Falle die Förderung des eigenen Wohles für das richtige ansieht und zum Motiv seines Handelns macht. Wenn aber alle andern Bestimmungsgründe erst an zweite Stelle treten, dann kommt in erster Linie die begriffliche Intuition selbst in Betracht. Damit treten die andern Motive von der leitenden Stelle ab, und nur der Ideengehalt der Handlung wirkt als Motiv derselben.

Wir haben unter den Stufen der charakterologischen Anlage diejenige als die höchste bezeichnet, die als reines Denken, als praktische Vernunft wirkt. Unter den Motiven haben wir jetzt als das höchste die begriffliche Intuition bezeichnet. Bei genauerer Überlegung stellt sich alsbald heraus, daß auf dieser Stufe der Sittlichkeit Triebfeder und Motiv zusammenfallen, das ist, daß weder eine vorher bestimmte charakterologische Anlage, noch ein äußeres, normativ angenommenes sittliches Prinzip auf unser Handeln wirken. Die Handlung ist also keine schablonenmäßige, die nach irgendwelchen Regeln ausgeführt wird, und auch keine solche, die der Mensch auf äußeren Anstoß hin automatenhaft vollzieht. sondern eine schlechthin durch ihren idealen Gehalt bestimmte.

Zur Voraussetzung hat eine solche Handlung die Fähigkeit der moralischen Intuitionen. Wem die Fähigkeit fehlt; für den einzelnen Fall die besondere Sittlichkeitsmaxime zu erleben, der wird es auch nie zum wahrhaft individuellen Wollen bringen.

IX. Die Idee der Freiheit – 1

Der Begriff des Baumes ist für das Erkennen durch die Wahrnehmung des Baumes bedingt. Ich kann der bestimmten Wahrnehmung gegenüber nur einen ganz bestimmten Begriff aus dem allgemeinen Begriffssystem herausheben. Der Zusammenhang von Begriff und Wahrnehmung wird durch das Denken an der Wahrnehmung mittelbar und objektiv bestimmt Die Verbindung der Wahrnehmung mit ihrem Begriffe wird nach dem Wahrnehmungsakte erkannt; die Zusammengehörigkeit ist aber in der Sache selbst bestimmt.

Anders stellt sich der Vorgang dar, wenn die Erkenntnis, wenn das in ihr auftretende Verhältnis des Menschen zur Welt betrachtet wird. In den vorangehenden Ausführungen ist der Versuch gemacht worden, zu zeigen, daß die Aufhellung dieses Verhältnisses durch eine auf dasselbe gehende unbefangene Beobachtung möglich ist. Ein richtiges Verständnis dieser Beobachtung kommt zu der Einsicht, daß das Denken als eine in sich beschlossene Wesenheit unmittelbar angeschaut werden kann. Wer nötig findet, zur Erklärung des Denkens als solchem etwas anderes herbeizuziehen, wie etwa physische Gehirnvorgänge, oder hinter dem beobachteten bewußten Denken liegende unbewußte geistige Vorgänge, der verkennt, was ihm die unbefangene Beobachtung des Denkens gibt. Wer das Denken beobachtet, lebt während der Beobachtung unmittelbar in einem geistigen, sich selbst tragenden Wesensweben darinnen. Ja, man kann sagen, wer die Wesenheit des Geistigen in der Gestalt, in der sie sich dem Menschenzunächst darbietet, erfassen will, kann dies in dem auf sich selbst beruhenden Denken. Im Betrachten des Denkens selbst fallen in eines zusammen, was sonst immer getrennt auftreten muß: Begriff und Wahrnehmung. Wer dies nicht durchschaut, der wird in an Wahrnehmungen erarbeiteten Begriffen nur schattenhafte Nachbildungen dieser Wahrnehmungen sehen können, und die Wahrnehmungen werden ihm die wahre Wirklichkeit vergegenwärtigen. Er wird auch eine metaphysische Welt nach dem Muster der wahrgenommenen Welt sich auferbauen; er wird diese Welt Atomenwelt, Willenswelt, unbewußte Geistwelt und so weiter nennen, je nach seiner Vorstellungsart. Und es wird ihm entgehen, daß er sich mit alledem nur eine metaphysische Welt hypothetisch nach dem Muster seiner Wahrnehmungswelt auferbaut hat. Wer aber durchschaut, was bezüglich des Denkens vorliegt, der wird erkennen, daß in der Wahrnehmung nur ein Teil der Wirklichkeit vorliegt und daß der andere zu ihr gehörige Teil, der sie erst als volle Wirklichkeit erscheinen läßt, in der denkenden Durchsetzung der Wahrnehmung erlebt wird. Er wird in demjenigen, das als Denken im Bewußtsein auftritt, nicht ein schattenhaftes Nachbild einer Wirklichkeit sehen, sondern eine auf sich ruhende geistige Wesenhaftigkeit. Und von dieser kann er sagen, daß sie ihm durch Intuition im Bewußtsein gegenwärtig wird. Intuition ist das im rein Geistigen verlaufende bewußte Erleben eines rein geistigen Inhaltes. Nur durch eine Intuition kann die Wesenheit des Denkens erfaßt werden.

Nur wenn man sich zu der in der unbefangenen Beobachtung gewonnenen Anerkennung dieser Wahrheit über die intuitive Wesenheit des Denkens hindurchgerungen hat, gelingt es, den Weg frei zu bekommen für eine Anschauung der menschlichen leiblich seelischen Organisation. Man erkennt, daß diese Organisation an dem Wesen des Denkens nichts bewirken kann. Dem scheint zunächst der ganz offenbare Tatbestand zu widersprechen. Das menschliche Denken tritt für die gewöhnliche Erfahrung nur an und durch diese Organisation auf. Dieses Auftreten macht sich so stark geltend, daß es in seiner wahren Bedeutung nur von demjenigen durchschaut werden kann, der erkannt hat, wie im Wesenhaften des Denkens nichts von dieser Organisation mitspielt. Einem solchen wird es dann aber auch nicht mehr entgehen können, wie eigentümlich geartet das Verhältnis der menschlichen Organisation zum Denken ist. Diese bewirkt nämlich nichts an dem Wesenhaften des Denkens, sondern sie weicht, wenn die Tätigkeit des Denkens auftritt, zurück; sie hebt ihre eigene Tätigkeit auf, sie macht einen Platz frei; und an dem freigewordenen Platz tritt das Denken auf. Dem Wesenhaften, das im Denken wirkt, obliegt ein Doppeltes: Erstens drängt es die menschliche Organisation in deren eigener Tätigkeit zurück, und zweitens setzt es sich selbst an deren Stelle. Denn auch das erste, die Zurückdrängung der Leibesorganisation, ist Folge der Denktätigkeit. Und zwar desjenigen Teiles derselben, der das erscheinen des Denkens vorbereitet. Man ersieht aus diesem, in welchem Sinne das Denken in der Leibesorganisation sein Gegenbild findet. Und wenn man dieses ersieht, wird man nicht mehr die Bedeutung dieses Gegenbildes für das Denken selbst verkennen können. Wer über einen erweichten Boden geht, dessen Fußspuren graben sich in dem Boden ein. Man wird nicht versucht sein, zu sagen, die Fußspurenformen seien von Kräften des Bodens, von unten herauf, getrieben worden. Man wird diesen Kräften keinen Anteil an dem Zustandekommen der Spurenformen zuschreiben. Ebensowenig wird, wer die Wesenheit des Denkens unbefangen beobachtet, den Spuren im Leibesorganismus an dieser Wesenheit einen Anteil zuschreiben, die dadurch entstehen, daß das Denken sein Erscheinen durch den Leib vorbereitet.

Aber eine bedeutungsvolle Frage taucht hier auf. Wenn an dem Wesen des Denkens der menschlichen Organisation kein Anteil zukommt, welche Bedeutung hat diese Organisation innerhalb der Gesamtwesenheit des Menschen? Nun, was in dieser Organisation durch das Denken geschieht, hat wohl mit der Wesenheit des Denkens nichts zu tun, wohl aber mit der Entstehung des Ich-Bewußtseins aus diesem Denken heraus. Innerhalb des Eigenwesens des Denkens liegt wohl das wirkliche «Ich», nicht aber das Ich-Bewußtsein. Dies durchschaut derjenige, der eben unbefangen das Denken beobachtet. Das «Ich» ist innerhalb des Denkens zu finden; das «Ich-Bewußtsein» tritt dadurch auf, daß im allgemeinen Bewußtsein sich die Spuren der Denktätigkeit in dem oben gekennzeichneten Sinne eingraben. (Durch die Leibesorganisation entsteht also das Ich-Bewußtsein. Man verwechsele das aber nicht etwa mit der Behauptung, daß das einmal entstandene Ich-Bewußtsein von der Leibesorganisation abhängig bleibe. Einmal entstanden, wird es in das Denken aufgenommen und teilt fortan dessen geistige Wesenheit.)

Das «Ich-Bewußtsein» ist auf die menschliche Organisation gebaut. Aus dieser erfließen die Willenshandlungen. In der Richtung der vorangegangenen Darlegungen wird ein Einblick in den Zusammenhang zwischen Denken, bewußtem Ich und Willenshandlung nur zu gewinnen sein, wenn erst beobachtet wird, wie die Willenshandlung aus der menschlichen Organisation hervorgeht.

9. The Idea of Freedom – 4

But how is it possible for humans to live together socially if everyone is striving merely to express his or her own individuality? This objection is characteristic of misguided moralism, which imagines that a society of human beings is only possible if they are all united by a commonly determined ethical order. Such moralism fails to understand the unity of the world of ideas. It cannot conceive that the world of ideas that is active in me is none other than the one that is at work in my neighbor. To be sure, this unity is merely a result of experience in the world.

But it must be so. For, if it were to be recognized in any way other than observation, then general laws rather than individual experience would give the stamp of validity in that realm. Individuality is possible only if each individual being knows another being by individual observation alone. The difference between me and my neighbor consists not in our living in two completely distinct spiritual worlds, but in my neighbor’s receiving intuitions other than my own out of the world of ideas common to us both. My neighbors want to live out their intuitions, I mine. If we all really draw from the Idea, and follow no external (physical or spiritual) impulses, then we cannot but meet in the same striving, the same intentions. An ethical misunderstanding, a clash, is impossible among ethically free human beings. Only someone who is ethically unfree, who obeys natural drives or the conventional demands of duty, will thrust aside someone else who does not follow the same instincts and the same demands. To live in love of action, and to let live in understanding of the other’s will, is the fundamental maxim of free human beings. They know no other “should” than the one with which their willing is intuitively in harmony. Their capacity for ideas tells them how they are to will in any given case.

If the basic source of compatibility did not lie within human nature, we could not implant it by any outward laws! Only because individuals are of one spirit can they live out their lives side by side. A free person lives in trust that the other free person belongs to the same spiritual world and that they will concur with each other in their intentions. Those who are free demand no agreement from their fellows, but they expect it, because it is inherent in human nature. This is not meant to indicate the necessity of this or that outer arrangement. Rather, it is meant to indicate the attitude, the state of the soul, with which a human being, experiencing himself or herself amidst esteemed fellow human beings, can best do justice to human dignity.

There are many who will object: The concept of the free human being that you sketch is a chimera; it has been realized nowhere. We have to deal with real people, and the only morality to hope for in them comes when human beings obey an ethical commandment, when they formulate their ethical task as duty and do not freely follow their inclinations and their love. I do not doubt this at all. Only a blind man could. But if this is supposed to be the final insight, then away with all hypocrisy about “ethics.” You should then simply say that, as long as human nature is not free, it must be forced into action. From a certain standpoint, it is irrelevant whether unfreedom is enforced through physical means or through moral laws, whether humans are unfree because they obey their limitless sexual drive or because they are enchained by conventional morality. But let us not claim that people can correctly call their actions their own, if they are driven to them by a power other than themselves. Still, right in the midst of compulsion, certain human beings lift themselves up, free spirits, who, in the welter of custom, legal stricture, religious practice, and so forth, find themselves. They are free to the extent that they obey only themselves; they are unfree to the extent that they subject themselves to something else. Who of us can say that they are really free in all their actions? But in each of us there dwells a deeper being in whom the free human comes to expression.

Our life is made up of free and unfree actions. Yet we cannot think the concept of the human through to the end without arriving at the free spirit as the purest expression of human nature. Indeed, we are only truly human to the extent that we are free.

That is an ideal, many will say. No doubt. But it is an ideal that works as a real element in our being and manifests its effects on the surface. It is no thought-up or dreamed-up ideal, but one that has life and makes itself clearly known in even its most imperfect form of existence. Were human beings merely natural creatures, it would be absurd to look for ideals—that is, ideas that are not currently effective and requiring realization. With things of the external world, the idea is determined by the percept, and we have done our part once we have recognized the connection between idea and percept. But this is not so with humans. The totality of human existence is not determined apart from the human beings themselves; their true concepts as ethical human beings (free spirits) are not united in advance, objectively, with the perceptual picture of “human beings,” needing merely to be confirmed afterward by cognition. As human beings, we must each unite our own concept with the percept of “human” through our own activity. Concept and percept coincide here only if we ourselves make them coincide. But we can only do so if we have discovered the concept of the free spirit, which is our own concept. In the objective world, the percept is divided from the concept by the way we are organized; in cognition we overcome this division. The division is no less present in our subjective nature; we overcome it in the course of our development by bringing our own concept to full outward manifestation. Thus, the intellectual as well as the moral life of human beings leads us to the dual nature of humans: perceiving (immediate experience) and thinking. Intellectual life overcomes the duality through cognition; moral life overcomes it through the actual realization of the free spirit. Every being has its inborn concept (the law of its being and activity); but in external things the concept is inseparably bound up with the percept, and only separated from it in our spiritual organism. In human beings, the concept and the percept are actually separate at first, to be just as actually united by human beings themselves. It could be objected that a particular concept corresponds to our percept of a human being at every instant of a person’s life, just as it does to every other thing; that I can create the concept of a stereotypical human for myself, and can also have such a human given me as percept. Were I then to add to that the concept of the free spirit, I would have two concepts for one and the same object.

This is one-sided thinking. As a perceptual object, I am subject to continual transformation. As a child I was one thing, as a youth another, as an adult still another. In fact, at every moment the perceptual picture of myself is different from what it was a moment before. These changes can take place in such a way that the same person (the stereotypical human) is always expressed in them or in such a way that they represent the expression of the free spirit. My actions, too, as objects of perception, are subject to such changes.

There is a possibility for the human perceptual object to transform itself, just as within the plant seed there lies the possibility of becoming a whole plant. The plant will transform itself because of the objective lawfulness lying within it. Humans remain in an incomplete state if they do not take in hand the transformative substance within themselves, and transform themselves through their own power. Nature makes human beings merely natural creatures; society makes them law-abiding actors; but they can only make themselves into free beings. At a certain stage of their development, nature releases human beings from her chains; society carries this development up to a further point; but human beings must give themselves the final polish.

The standpoint of free morality does not claim that the free spirit is the only form in which a human being can exist. Free morality sees in free spirituality only the final stage of human evolution. This is not to deny that acting in accordance with norms has its justification as one stage in evolution. But it cannot be acknowledged as the absolute standpoint of morality. The free spirit overcomes such norms in that free spirits do not merely feel commandments as motives, but order their actions according to their impulses (intuitions).

Kant says, “Duty! You exalted, mighty name, you who contain nothing lovable, nothing ingratiatingly agreeable, but who demand submission, (you who) establish a law… before which all inclinations fall dumb, though in secret they might work against it!” To this, a human being, out of the consciousness of the free spirit, replies: “Freedom! You friendly, human name, you who contain everything morally beloved, everything that most dignifies my humanity, and who make me into no one’s servant, you who do not merely establish a law, but wait for what my moral love itself will recognize as law, because it feels unfree in the face of every merely imposed law!”

This is the contrast between morality that is merely lawful and morality that is free.

Philistines, who see morality embodied in something externally fixed, might even see a free spirit as a dangerous person. They will do so, however, only because their view is limited to a particular epoch. If they could look beyond it, they would immediately find that free spirits need to move beyond the laws of the state as little as the philistines themselves, and that they never have to place themselves in real opposition to these laws. For the laws of the state, like all other objectively ethical laws, all sprang from the intuitions of free spirits. There is no law enforced by family authority that was not once intuitively conceived and formulated as such by an ancestor. Even the conventional laws of morality are first established by specific persons. And the laws of the state always arise in the heads of state officials. These minds have set up laws over other people, and no one becomes unfree except by forgetting that origin and making the laws either into extra-human commandments, into objective ethical concepts of duty independent of human participation, or into the commanding voice of one’s own falsely conceived, mystically compelling inner self. But those who do not overlook the origin, but seek the human being within it, will see it as belonging to the same world of ideas from which they too draw their moral intuitions. If they believe that they have better intuitions, then they try to substitute their own for the existing ones; if they find that the existing ones are justified, then they act in accordance with them as if they were their own.

We must not establish the formula that human beings exist to realize an ethical world order cut off from themselves. Anyone who claimed as much would still be standing, in relation to the science of humankind, at the same point at which natural science stood when it believed that a bull has horns in order to butt. Fortunately, natural scientists have done away with such concepts of purpose. It is harder for ethics similarly to free itself. But just as horns do not exist because of butting, but butting exists through the horns, so human beings do not exist because of morality, but morality exists through human beings. Free human beings act morally because they have moral ideas, but they do not act in order for morality to arise. Human individuals, with the moral ideas belonging to their being, are the precondition for the moral world order.

The human individual is the source of all morality and the center of earthly life. States and societies exist because they turn out to be the necessary consequence of individual life. That states and societies then react upon individual life is just as understandable as the fact that butting, which exists because of the bull’s horns, reacts upon the further development of the horns which would otherwise become stunted with prolonged disuse. In the same way, individuals would become stunted if they led isolated existences outside human community. It is precisely for this that the social order is formed, so that it can then react favorably on the individual.

9. The Idea of Freedom – 3

The exact opposite of this ethical principle is the Kantian: Act in such a way that the bases of your action are applicable to all human beings. This sentence is the death of all individual impulses of action. My standard cannot be how all humans would act but rather what I am to do in the individual case.

A superficial judgment might perhaps object to these arguments by asking: How can an action be formed individually, for the particular case and the particular situation, and yet simultaneously be determined purely conceptually, out of intuition? This objection rests on confusing the ethical motive with the perceptible content of an action. The latter can be a motive, and even is so, for example, in the case of the progress of civilization, in egoistic actions, etc. In actions based on purely ethical intuition, it is not the motive. Naturally, my I directs its gaze toward the perceptual content but it does not allow itself to be determined by it. The content is used only to form a cognitive concept for oneself; the corresponding moral concept is not derived by the I from the object. The cognitive concept of a particular situation that I encounter is also a moral concept only when I come from the standpoint of a particular moral principle. If I wanted to base all of my actions on the moral evolution of civilization, then I would have fixed marching orders. From every event that I perceive and that can possibly concern me, an ethical duty immediately arises; namely, to do my part so that the event in question serves the evolution of civilization. In addition to the concept, which reveals to me the context of an event or thing in natural law, the event or thing also has an ethical label with instructions addressed to me, the moral being, about how I should behave. Such a moral label is legitimate in its sphere, but on a higher level it coincides with the idea that reveals itself to me when I face a concrete situation.

People vary in their capacity for intuition. For one person, ideas just bubble up, while another achieves them by much labor. The situations in which people live, and which serve as the scene of their activity, are no less varied. How I act will therefore depend on how my capacity for intuition works in relation to a particular situation. The sum of ideas active within us, the real content of our intuitions, constitutes what is individual in each of us, notwithstanding the universality of the world of ideas. To the extent that the intuitive content turns into action, it is the ethical content of the individual. Allowing this intuitive content to live itself out fully is the highest driving force of morality. At the same time, it is the highest motive of those who realize that, in the end, all other moral principles unite within it. We can call this standpoint ethical individualism.

What is decisive in an intuitively determined action in a concrete instance is the discovery of the corresponding, completely individual intuition. At this level of morality, we can speak of general moral concepts (norms or laws) only to the extent that they result from the generalization of individual impulses. General norms always presuppose concrete facts from which they can be derived. But facts are first created by human action.

When we seek for laws (or concepts) in the actions of individuals, peoples, and eras, we discover an ethics that is not a science of ethical norms but a natural history of morality. Only the laws obtained in this way relate to human conduct as natural laws relate to a particular phenomenon. But they are by no means identical with the impulses on which we base our actions. If we want to understand how a human action springs from ethical willing, we must look first to the relationship of that willing to the action in question. First, we must focus on actions for which this relationship is decisive. If I or another later reflect upon such an action, then we can discover which ethical principles are relevant. While I am acting, an ethical principle moves me to the extent that it can live within me intuitively; it is united with love for the goal that I wish to realize through my action. I do not consult any person or code with the question, “Should I perform this action?” — I perform the action as soon as I have grasped the idea. Only in this way is it my action.

The actions of those who act only because they recognize particular ethical norms result from the principles present in their moral code. They are mere executors, a higher form of robot. Toss an opportunity to act into their awareness and, right away, the clockwork of their moral principles sets itself in motion and runs its course in a lawful fashion to produce a Christian, humane, or apparently selfless action or one for the sake of the progress of civilization. Only when I follow my love for an object is it I myself who act. At this level of morality, I do not act because I acknowledge a lord over me or an external authority or a so-called inner voice. I acknowledge no outer principle for my action, because I have found within myself the basis of my acting—love for the action. I do not check rationally whether the action is good or evil; I do it because I love it. My action becomes “good” if my intuition, steeped in love, stands in the right way in the intuitively experienceable world continuum; it becomes “bad” if that is not the case. I do not ask myself, “How would another person act in my situation?” Rather, I act as I, this particular individuality, want (or will). What directs me is not common usage, not general custom, not a universal human principle, and not an ethical norm, but my love for the deed. I feel no compulsion, neither the compulsion of nature, which guides me in my drives, nor the compulsion of ethical commandments. I simply want to carry out what lies within me.

Defenders of universal ethical norms might object to these arguments as follows: If all people strive merely to express themselves, and to do as they please, then there is no difference between a good action and a crime; every bit of knavery within me has equal claim to expression with the intention to serve the universal good. As an ethical human being, what should be decisive for me is not the mere fact that I have focused on the idea of an action, but rather my determination of whether the action is good or evil. Only if I have determined that it is good should I carry it out.

My response to this objection, which seems plausible, but arises only from a misunderstanding of what is meant here, is this: Anyone who wants to know the essence of human willing must distinguish between the path that brings willing up to a certain stage of development and the special form that it assumes when it nears its goal. On the path to this goal, norms play their justifiable role. The goal consists in the realization of ethical aims that are grasped purely intuitively. Humans achieve such aims to the degree that they possess any capacity to lift themselves to the intuitive conceptual content of the world. In any individual act of willing, other things are generally mixed in with such aims, as motive or motive power. But intuition can still determine, or co-determine, human willing. What we should do, we do; we offer the stage upon which “should” becomes “do.” An action is our own if we allow it to emerge as such from within ourselves. Here, the impulse can only be completely individual. In truth, only an act of will emerging from intuition can be individual. Only if blind drives are reckoned to belong to the human individuality can we see a criminal deed, or evil, as an expression of individuality equivalent to the incarnation of pure intuition. But the blind drive that drives someone to commit a crime does not come from intuition. It does not belong to what is individual within a person. It belongs to what is commonest, to what is equally present in all individuals and out of which we must work our way with our individuality. What is individual in me is not my organism, with its drives and feelings, but my own world of ideas that lights up within this organism. My drives, instincts, and passions establish no more in me than that I belong to the general species human being. The fact that something conceptual expresses itself in a special way in those drives, passions, and feelings establishes my individuality. Through my instincts, my drives, I am the kind of person of whom there are twelve to the dozen; I am an individual by means of the particular form of the idea by which, within the dozen, I designate myself as I. Only a being other than myself could distinguish me from others by differences in my animal nature. I distinguish myself from others by my thinking, that is, by actively grasping what expresses itself in my organism as conceptuality. Thus, we cannot say that the action of a criminal proceeds from an idea. In fact, what is characteristic of criminal acts is precisely that they derive from nonconceptual elements within a human being.

Insofar as an action proceeds from the conceptual part of my individual being it is felt to be free. Every other portion of an action, whether it is performed under the compulsion of nature or according to the requirement of an ethical norm, is felt to be unfree.

Humans are free to the extent that they are able to obey themselves at each instant of their lives. An ethical deed is only my deed if it can be called a free deed in this sense. We have examined under which conditions a willed act is felt to be free. What follows will show how this purely ethically understood idea of freedom realizes itself in human nature.

To act out of freedom does not exclude moral laws, but rather includes them. Still, it stands on a higher level than action dictated by moral laws alone. Why should my action serve the welfare of the whole any less if I have acted out of love than if I acted only because I feel a duty to serve the welfare of the whole? The simple concept of duty excludes freedom, because duty does not recognize individuality but demands instead subjection of individuality to a general norm. Freedom of action is thinkable only from the standpoint of ethical individualism.

9. The Idea of Freedom – 2

For an individual act of will, we must consider both the motive and the motive power. The motive is a conceptual or mentally pictured factor; the motive power is the factor of willing that is conditioned directly within the human organization. The conceptual factor, or motive, is the momentary determining principle of willing; the motive power is the abiding determining principle of the individual. A motive can be a pure concept or a concept with a specific relation to perceiving, that is, a mental picture. By affecting a human individual and by determining that individual to act in a certain direction, general and individualized concepts (mental pictures) become motives of willing. Yet one and the same concept, or one and the same mental picture, has different effects on different individuals. The same concept (or mental picture) can cause different people to perform different acts. Willing, then, is not merely the result of the concept or mental picture, but also of the individual human makeup. We shall call this individual makeup, following Eduard von Hartmann, the characterological disposition. The way in which concepts and mental pictures work upon someone’s characterological disposition gives that person’s life a specific moral or ethical stamp.

Our characterological disposition is shaped by the more or less lasting content of our subjective life—in other words by the content of our mental pictures and feelings. Whether or not a mental picture currently arising within me stimulates my willing depends on how it relates itself to the rest of my mental pictures, as well as to my idiosyncracies of feeling. My store of mental pictures is determined, in turn, by the sum of concepts that have come into contact with percepts in the course of my individual life, that is, by the concepts that have become mental pictures. These, again, depend on my greater or lesser capacity for intuition and on the range of my observations—that is, on the subjective and objective factors of my experiences, on my inner character, and on my life setting. My feeling life is especially important in determining my characterological disposition. Whether or not I make a particular mental picture or concept a motive for action depends upon whether it gives me joy or pain.

These are the elements to be considered in an act of will. The immediate mental picture or concept becomes a motive and determines the goal or purpose of my willing; my characterological disposition determines whether or not I will direct my activity toward that goal. The mental picture of taking a walk during the next half hour determines the goal of my activity. This mental picture, however, is elevated into a motive of willing only if it encounters a suitable characterological disposition; that is, if in my life to date I have developed mental pictures of, for example, the usefulness of taking walks and the value of health and, further, if the mental picture of taking walks is linked in me with feelings of pleasure.

Thus, we must distinguish between (1) the possible subjective dispositions that are suited to making specific mental pictures and concepts into motives and (2) the possible mental pictures and concepts that are capable of influencing my characterological disposition so that an act of will results. The former represent the motive powers, the latter the goals of morality.

By identifying the elements that compose an individual life, we can discover the motive powers of morality. The first level of individual life is perceiving, particularly the perceiving of the senses. In this region of individual life, perceiving is immediately—without any intervening feeling or concept—transformed into willing. The motive power under consideration here is simply called drive. Satisfaction of our lower, purely animal needs (hunger, sexual intercourse, etc.) occurs in this way. The special characteristic of the life of the drives is the immediacy with which the individual percept activates our willing. This immediacy, originally belonging only to the lower sense life, can also be extended to the percepts of the higher senses. We react to the percept of some event in the external world without further reflection and without linking a special feeling to it—as occurs in conventional social behavior. We call the motive power here tact or moral taste. The more such an immediate reaction to a percept occurs, the more suited the person in question will be to act purely under the influence of tact: that is, tact becomes the characterological disposition.

The second sphere of human life is feeling. Particular feelings accompany percepts of the external world. These feelings can become motive powers for action. If I see a hungry person, my compassion can form the motive power to act. Such feelings include shame, pride, sense of honor, humility, remorse, compassion, vengeance, gratitude, piety, loyalty, love, and duty.

Finally, the third level of life is thinking and mental picturing . Through mere reflection, a mental picture or concept can become a motive for action. Mental pictures become motives because, in the course of life, we constantly link certain goals of our will to percepts that recur repeatedly in more or less modified form. Therefore people who are not without experience are always aware, along with certain percepts, of mental pictures of actions they themselves have performed or seen others perform in similar cases. These mental pictures float before them as defining patterns for all later decisions; they become part of their characterological disposition. We can call this motive power of the will practical experience. Practical experience merges gradually into purely tactful action. This happens when certain typical pictures of actions have become so firmly connected in our consciousness with mental pictures of certain situations in life that we may, in any given instance, skip over all deliberation based on experience and go immediately from the percept into willing.

The highest stage of individual life is conceptual thinking without reference to a specific perceptual content. We determine the content of a concept out of the conceptual sphere through pure intuition. Such a concept initially contains no reference to specific percepts. If we enter into willing under the influence of a concept referring to a percept—that is to say, a mental picture—then it is this percept that determines our willing through the detour of conceptual thinking. If we act under the influence of intuitions, then the motive power of our action is pure thinking. Since it is customary in philosophy to designate the capacity for pure thinking as “reason,” we are fully justified in calling the moral driving force characteristic of this stage practical reason. The clearest account of this motive force of the will has been given by Kreyenbuehl. I count his essay on the topic among the most significant creations of contemporary philosophy, particularly of ethics. Kreyenbuehl calls the motive power in question practical a priori, that is, an impulse to act flowing directly from my intuition.

Clearly, such an impulse no longer belongs, strictly speaking, to the realm of characterological dispositions. For what is active here as the motive power is no longer something merely individual in me, but the conceptual, and therefore universal, content of my intuition. As soon as I recognize the justification for making this content the basis and starting point for an action, I enter into willing, regardless of whether the concept was already present in me beforehand or only entered my consciousness immediately before the action—that is, regardless of whether or not it was already present in me as disposition.

An act of will is real only if a momentary impulse of action influences the characterological disposition in the form of a concept or mental picture. Such an impulse then becomes a motive of willing.

The motives of morality are mental pictures and concepts. There are ethicists who also see a motive of morality in feelings. They claim, for example, that the aim of moral action is to promote the greatest possible amount of pleasure in the acting individual. But only the mental picture of pleasure, not pleasure itself, can become a motive. The mental picture of a future feeling, but not the feeling itself, can affect my characterological disposition. For the feeling itself is not present in the moment of action; rather, it must first be produced through the action.

The mental picture of one’s own or another’s wellbeing is quite properly recognized as a motive of willing. The principle of producing through one’s actions the greatest amount of pleasure for oneself—that is, of attaining individual happiness—is called egoism. This individual happiness is sought either through thinking ruthlessly only of one’s own welfare and striving for it even at the expense of the happiness of other individuals (pure egoism), or through promoting the good of others because one hopes for indirect advantages from their happiness, or through fear of endangering one’s own interests by harming others (morality of prudence). The particular content of egoistic moral principles will depend on what mental picture we form of our own or others’ happiness. We will determine the content of our egoistic striving according to what we regard as good in life (luxurious living, hope of happiness, deliverance from various evils, and so forth).

The purely conceptual content of an action should be seen as a different kind of motive. Unlike the mental picture of one’s own pleasure, this content relates not just to a single action, but to the derivation of an action from a system of moral principles. These moral principles can regulate ethical conduct in the form of abstract concepts, without an individual’s worrying about the origin of the concepts. We then feel that our subjection to the moral concept, which hovers over our actions as a commandment, is simply a moral necessity. We leave the establishment of this necessity to whoever demands our moral subjection; that is, to whatever moral authority we recognize (the head of our family, the state, social custom, ecclesiastical authority, divine revelation). A special kind of moral principle is involved when the commandment does not announce itself to us through outer authority, but from within ourselves. We may call this moral autonomy. We then hear within ourselves the voice to which we must submit. The expression of this voice is conscience.

Moral progress occurs when a person does not simply accept the commandment of an outer or inner authority as a motive for action, but rather strives to see why any given principle should work as a motive. This is to progress from an authoritarian morality to action based on ethical insight. At this level of morality, we consider the needs of a moral life and allow our actions to be determined by knowledge of them. Such needs are (1) the greatest possible welfare of all humanity, purely for the sake of that welfare; (2) the progress of civilization or the moral evolution of humanity to ever greater perfection; and (3) the realization of individual moral goals that have been grasped purely intuitively.

The greatest possible welfare of all humanity will naturally be formulated differently by different people. This phrase does not refer to a particular mental picture of such welfare but to the idea that those individuals who recognize this principle strive to do whatever they think will most promote the welfare of all humanity.

For those who associate a feeling of pleasure with the benefits of civilization, the progress of civilization turns out to be a special case of the moral principle of greatest possible welfare. But they will have to accept into the bargain the demise and destruction of many things that also contribute to the welfare of humanity. However, it is also possible that someone could see ethical necessity in the progress of civilization, quite apart from the feeling of pleasure associated with it. For such a person, then, it is a distinct moral principle in addition to the previous one.

The principle of the welfare of all, like that of the progress of civilization, depends on a mental picture; that is to say, on the relationship that we make between the content of ethical ideas and particular experiences (percepts). But the highest ethical principle of which we can think is that which contains no such relationship in advance , but rather springs from the source of pure intuition and only afterward seeks a relationship to a percept (to life). Here, the determination of what is to be willed proceeds from a different source than in the previous examples. Those who honor the ethical principle of the good of all will, in all their actions, ask first what their ideals contribute to that good. Those who adhere to the ethical principle of the progress of civilization will do the same. Yet there is a higher way that does not proceed from one definite, single ethical goal in each case, but assumes a certain value to all ethical maxims and in each case asks whether one or the other moral principle is more important. In certain circumstances, I might regard promotion of cultural progress as right and make it into the motive of my action; in others, promotion of the good of the whole; and in a third case, promotion of my own welfare. But, if all other reasons determining action move to second place, then conceptual intuition itself has primary consideration. The other motives now step down from the leading position, and the ideal content of the action alone operates as its motive.

We described the stage of characterological disposition that works as pure thinking, or practical reason, as the highest. We have now described conceptual intuition as the highest motive. More exact reflection soon reveals that motive power and motive coincide at this level of morality. That is, neither a previously determined characterological disposition nor an outer ethical principle taken as a standard influences our action. The action is therefore not executed robotically according to certain rules, nor is it action performed automatically in response to outer pressure, but rather it is action determined solely by its own conceptual content.

Such an action presupposes the capacity for moral intuitions. Whoever lacks the capacity to experience the particular ethical principle of each individual case will also never achieve truly individual willing.

9. The Idea of Freedom – 1

For cognition, the concept of a tree is determined by the percept of a tree. Faced with a specific percept, I can select only a very specific concept out of the general conceptual system. The connection between a concept and a percept is indirectly and objectively determined by thinking about the percept. The percept’s connection with its concept is recognized after the act of perception; but their belonging together is determined by the situation itself.

The process presents itself differently when we examine cognition itself or the relationship between human beings and the world through cognition. In the preceding discussion, an attempt was made to show that it is possible to clarify this relationship through unprejudiced observation. A proper understanding of such observation leads to the insight that thinking can be beheld directly as a self-enclosed entity. Those who find it necessary to explain thinking as such by appealing to something else—such as physical processes in the brain or unconscious mental processes lying behind observed, conscious thinking – misunderstand what the unprejudiced observation of thinking provides. To observe thinking is to live, during the observation, immediately within the weaving of a self-supporting spiritual entity. We could even say that whoever wants to grasp the essence of the spirit in the form in which it first presents itself to human beings can do so in the self-sustaining activity of thinking.

In examining thinking itself, two things coincide that otherwise must always appear as separated: concepts and percepts. If we do not understand this, the concepts developed in response to percepts will seem to us to be shadowy copies of these percepts, while the percepts themselves will seem to present us with true reality. We will also build a metaphysical world for ourselves on the pattern of the perceived world. Following the style of our mental imagery, we will call this metaphysical world the atomic world, the world of the will, or of the unconscious spirit, and so forth. And we will fail to see how, in all of this, we have built up only a hypothetical metaphysical world on the pattern of our perceptual world. But, if we see what is really present in thinking, we will recognize that only one part of reality is present in the percept and that we experience the other part—which belongs to it and is necessary for it to appear as full reality—in the permeation of the percept by thinking. We shall then see, in what appears in consciousness as thinking, not a shadowy copy of reality, but a spiritual essence that sustains itself. Of this spiritual essence we can say that it becomes present to our consciousness through intuition. Intuition is the conscious experience, within what is purely spiritual, of a purely spiritual content. The essence of thinking can be grasped only through intuition.

Only when, by means of unprejudiced observation, we have wrestled through to a recognition of this truth about the intuitive essence of thinking can we obtain a clear path to insight into the human organization of body and soul. We then recognize that this organization can have no effect on the essence of thinking, even though the facts initially seem to contradict this. In normal experience, human thinking appears only in and through the organization of body and soul. This organization makes itself felt so strongly in thinking that its true significance can only be seen by someone who has recognized that nothing of that organization plays a part in the essential nature of thinking. But such a person will also see what a peculiar kind of relationship exists between this human organization and thinking. For our organization has no effect on the essence of thinking but rather retreats when the activity of thinking appears. Our organization suspends its own activity—it makes room—and, in the space that has been made free, thinking appears. The effective essence in thinking has a double function. First, it represses the human organization’s own activity and, second, it replaces that activity with itself. Even the first of these, the repression of the bodily organization, is a result of thinking activity—of the part of that activity that prepares the appearance of thinking. We can see from this in what sense thinking is reflected in the bodily organization. Once we see this, we will no longer be able to mistake the significance of that reflection and take it for thinking itself. If we walk over softened ground, our footsteps dig into the earth. We are not tempted to say that the footprints are driven upward from below by forces in the ground. We will not attribute to those forces any share in the origin of the footprints. Similarly, if we observe the essence of thinking without prejudice, we will not attribute any part of this essence to traces in the bodily organism that arise because thinking prepares its appearance by means of the body.

Here a significant question emerges. If the human organization plays no part in the essence of thinking, what significance does this organization play in the totality of the human being? The answer is that what happens in human organization as a result of thinking has nothing to do with the essence of thinking, but it does have something to do with the origin of I-consciousness out of thinking. The real “I” certainly lies in thinking’s own essence, but I-consciousness does not. Anyone who observes thinking without prejudice sees this is the case. The “I” is to be found in thinking; but “I-consciousness” appears because the traces of thinking activity are engraved in general consciousness, as characterized above. I-consciousness therefore arises through the bodily organization. But let us not confuse this with the claim that I-consciousness, once arisen, remains dependent on the bodily organization. Once arisen, it is taken up into thinking, and thereafter shares in thinking’s spiritual being.)

“I-consciousness” is based on the human organization, from which our acts of will flow. Following the preceding discussion, insight into the connection between thinking, the conscious I, and acts of will can be achieved only if we first observe how an act of will proceeds from the human organization.

9. The Idea of Freedom – 4

But how is a social life possible for man if each one is only striving to assert his own individuality? This objection is characteristic of a false understanding of moralism. Such a moralist believes that a social community is possible only if all men are united by a communally fixed moral order.

What this kind of moralist does not understand is just the unity of the world of ideas. He does not see that the world of ideas working in me is no other than the one working in my fellow man. Admittedly, this unity is but an outcome of practical experience. But in fact it cannot be anything else. For if it could be known in any other way than by observation, then in its own sphere universal standards rather than individual experience would be the rule. Individuality is possible only if every individual being knows of others through individual observation alone. I differ from my fellow man, not at all because we are living in two entirely different spiritual worlds, but because from the world of ideas common to us both we receive different intuitions.

He wants to live out his intuitions, I mine. If we both really conceive out of the idea, and do not obey any external impulses (physical or spiritual), then we cannot but meet one another in like striving, in common intent. A moral misunderstanding, a clash, is impossible between men who are morally free. Only the morally unfree who follow their natural instincts or the accepted commands of duty come into conflict with their neighbours if these do not obey the same instincts and the same commands as themselves.

To live in love towards our actions, and to let live in the understanding of the other person’s will, is the fundamental maxim of free men. They know no other obligation than what their will puts itself in unison with intuitively; how they will direct their will in a particular case, their faculty for ideas will decide.

Were the ability to get on with one another not a basic part of human nature, no external laws would be able to implant it in us. It is only because human individuals are one in spirit that they can live out their lives side by side. The free man lives in confidence that he and any other free man belong to one spiritual world, and that their intentions will harmonise. The free man does not demand agreement from his fellow man, but expects to find it because it is inherent in human nature. I am not here referring to the necessity for this or that external institution, but to the disposition, the attitude of soul, through which a man, aware of himself among his fellows, most clearly expresses the ideal of human dignity.

There are many who will say that the concept of the free man which I have here developed is a chimera nowhere to be found in practice; we have to do with actual human beings, from whom we can only hope for morality if they obey some moral law, that is, if they regard their moral task as a duty and do not freely follow their inclinations and loves. I do not doubt this at all. Only a blind man could do so. But if this is to be the final conclusion, then away with all this hypocrisy about morality! Let us then simply say that human nature must be driven to its actions as long as it is not free. Whether his unfreedom is forced on him by physical means or by moral laws, whether man is unfree because he follows his unlimited sexual desire or because he is bound by the fetters of conventional morality, is quite immaterial from a certain point of view.

Only let us not assert that such a man can rightly call his actions his own, seeing that he is driven to them by a force other than himself. But in the midst of all this framework of compulsion there arise men who establish themselves as free spirits in all the welter of customs, legal codes, religious observances, and so forth. They are free in so far as they obey only themselves, unfree in so far as they submit to control. Which of us can say that he is really free in all his actions? Yet in each of us there dwells a deeper being in which the free man finds expression.

Our life is made up of free and unfree actions. We cannot, however, think out the concept of man completely without coming upon the free spirit as the purest expression of human nature. Indeed, we are men in the true sense only in so far as we are free.

This is an ideal, many will say. Doubtless; but it is an ideal which is a real element in us working its way to the surface of our nature. It is no ideal just thought up or dreamed, but one which has life, and which announces itself clearly even in the least perfect form of its existence. If man were merely a natural creature, there would be no such thing as the search for ideals, that is, for ideas which for the moment are not effective but whose realisation is required. With the things of the outer world, the idea is determined by the percept; we have done our share when we have recognised the connection between idea and percept. But with the human being it is not so.

The sum total of his existence is not fully determined without his own self; his true concept as a moral being (free spirit) is not objectively united from the start with the percept-picture “man” needing only to be confirmed by knowledge afterwards. Man must unite his concept with the percept of man by his own activity. Concept and percept coincide in this case only if man himself makes them coincide. This he can do only if he has found the concept of the free spirit, that is, if he has found the concept of his own self.

In the objective world a dividing line is drawn by our organisation between percept and concept; knowledge overcomes this division. In our subjective nature this division is no less present; man overcomes it in the course of his development by bringing the concept of himself to expression in his outward existence. Hence not only man’s intellectual but also his moral life leads to his twofold nature, perceiving (direct experience) and thinking. The intellectual life overcomes this two-fold nature by means of knowledge, the moral life overcomes it through the actual realisation of the free spirit.

Every existing thing has its inborn concept (the law of its being and doing), but in external objects this concept is indivisibly bound up with the percept, and separated from it only within our spiritual organisation. In man concept and percept are, at first, actually separated, to be just as actually united by him.

One might object: At every moment of a man’s life there is a definite concept corresponding to our percept of him just as with everything else. I can form for myself the concept of a particular type of man, and I may even find such a man given to me as a percept; if I now add to this the concept of a free spirit, then I have two concepts for the same object.

Such an objection is one-sided. As object of perception I am subjected to continual change. As a child I was one thing, another as a youth, yet another as a man. Indeed, at every moment the percept-picture of myself is different from what it was the moment before. These changes may take place in such a way that it is always the same man (the type) who reveals himself in them, or that they represent the expression of a free spirit. To such changes my action, as object of perception, is subjected.

The perceptual object “man” has in it the possibility of transforming itself, just as the plant seed contains the possibility of becoming a complete plant. The plant transforms itself because of the objective law inherent in it; the human being remains in his incomplete state unless he takes hold of the material for transformation within him and transforms himself through his own power. Nature makes of man merely a natural being; society makes of him a law-abiding being; only he himself can make of himself a free man. Nature releases man from her fetters at a definite stage in his development; society carries this development a stage further; he alone can give himself the final polish.

The standpoint of free morality, then, does not declare the free spirit to be the only form in which a man can exist. It sees in the free spirit only the last stage of man’s evolution. This is not to deny that conduct according to standards has its justification as one stage in evolution. Only we cannot acknowledge it as the absolute standpoint in morality. For the free spirit overcomes the standards in the sense that he does not just accept commandments as his motives but orders his action according to his own impulses (intuitions).

When Kant says of duty: “Duty! Thou exalted and mighty name, thou that dost comprise nothing lovable, nothing ingratiating, but demandest submission,” thou that “settest up a law … before which all inclinations are silent, even though they secretly work against it,” (see fn 5) then out of the consciousness of the free spirit, man replies: “Freedom! Thou kindly and human name, thou that dost comprise all that is morally most lovable, all that my manhood most prises, and that makest me the servant of nobody, thou that settest up no mere law, but awaitest what my moral love itself will recognise as law because in the face of every merely imposed law it feels itself unfree.”

This is the contrast between a morality based on mere law and a morality based on inner freedom.

The philistine, who sees the embodiment of morality in an external code, may see in the free spirit even a dangerous person. But that is only because his view is narrowed down to a limited period of time. If he were able to look beyond this, he would at once find that the free spirit just as seldom needs to go beyond the laws of his state as does the philistine himself, and certainly never needs to place himself in real opposition to them.

For the laws of the state, one and all, just like all other objective laws of morality, have had their origin in the intuitions of free spirits. There is no rule enforced by family authority that was not at one time intuitively grasped and laid down as such by an ancestor; similarly the conventional laws of morality are first of all established by definite men, and the laws of the state always originate in the head of a statesman.

These leading spirits have set up laws over other men, and the only person who feels unfree is the one who forgets this origin and either turns these laws into extra-human commandments, objective moral concepts of duty independent of man, or else turns them into the commanding voice within himself which he supposes, in a falsely mystical way, to be compelling him. On the other hand, the person who does not overlook this origin, but seeks man within it, will count such laws as belonging to the same world of ideas from which he, too, draws his moral intuitions. If he believes he has better intuitions, he will try to put them into the place of the existing ones; if he finds the existing ones justified, he will act in accordance with them as if they were his own.

We must not coin the formula: Man exists only in order to realise a moral world order which is quite distinct from himself. Anyone who maintains that this is so, remains, in his knowledge of man, at the point where natural science stood when it believed that a bull has horns in order to butt. Scientists, happily, have thrown out the concept of purpose as a dead theory. Ethics finds it more difficult to get free of this concept. But just as horns do not exist for the sake of butting, but butting through the presence of horns, so man does not exist for the sake of morality, but morality through the presence of man. The free man acts morally because he has a moral idea; he does not act in order that morality may come into being. Human individuals, with the moral ideas belonging to their nature, are the prerequisites of a moral world order.

The human individual is the source of all morality and the centre of earthly life. State and society exist only because they have arisen as a necessary consequence of the life of individuals. That state and society should in turn react upon individual life is no more difficult to comprehend than that the butting which is the result of the presence of horns reacts in turn upon the further development of the horns of the bull, which would become stunted through prolonged disuse. Similarly, the individual would become stunted if he led an isolated existence outside human society. Indeed, this is just why the social order arises, so that it may in turn react favourably upon the individual.

9. The Idea of Freedom – 3

Kant’s principle of morality – Act so that the basis of your action may be valid for all men – is the exact opposite of ours. His principle means death to all individual impulses of action. For me, the standard can never be the way all men would act, but rather what, for me, is to be done in each individual case.

A superficial judgment might raise the following objection to these arguments: How can an action be individually made to fit the special case and the special situation, and yet at the same time be determined by intuition in a purely ideal way? This objection rests upon a confusion of the moral motive with the perceptible content of an action.

The latter may be a motive, and actually is one in the case of the progress of civilisation, or when we act from egoism, and so forth, but in an action based on pure moral intuition it is not the motive. Of course, my “I” takes notice of these perceptual contents, but it does not allow itself to be determined by them. The content is used only to construct a cognitive concept, but the corresponding moral concept is not derived by the “I” from the object.

The cognitive concept of a given situation facing me is at the same time a moral concept only if I take the standpoint of a particular moral principle. If I were to base my conduct only on the general principle of the development of civilisation, then my way through life would be tied down to a fixed route. From every occurrence which I perceive and which concerns me,there springs at the same time a moral duty: namely, to do my little bit towards seeing that this occurrence is made to serve the development of civilisation.

In addition to the concept which reveals to me the connections of events or objects according to the laws of nature, there is also a moral label attached to them which for me, as a moral person, gives ethical directions as to how I have to conduct myself. Such a moral label is justified on its own ground; at a higher level it coincides with the idea which reveals itself to me when I am faced with the concrete instance.

Men vary greatly in their capacity for intuition. In one, ideas just bubble up; another acquires them with much labour. The situations in which men live and which provide the scenes of their actions are no less varied. The conduct of a man will therefore depend on the manner in which his faculty of intuition works in a given situation. The sum of ideas which are effective in us, the concrete content of our intuitions, constitutes what is individual in each of us, notwithstanding the universality of the world of ideas.

In so far as this intuitive content applies to action, it constitutes the moral content of the individual. To let this content express itself in life is both the highest moral driving force and the highest motive a man can have, who sees that in this content all other moral principles are in the end united. We may call this point of view ethical individualism.

The decisive factor of an intuitively determined action in any concrete instance is the discovery of the corresponding purely individual intuition. At this level of morality one can only speak of general concepts of morality (standards, laws) in so far as these result from the generalisation of the individual impulses. General standards always presuppose concrete facts from which they can be derived. But the facts have first to be created by human action.

If we seek out the rules (conceptual principles) underlying the actions of individuals, peoples, and epochs, we obtain a system of ethics which is not so much a science of moral laws as a natural history of morality. It is only the laws obtained in this way that are related to human action as the laws of nature are related to a particular phenomenon. These laws, however, are by no means identical with the impulses on which we base our actions. If we want to understand how a man’s action arises from his moral will, we must first study the relation of this will to the action. Above all, we must keep our eye on those actions in which this relation is the determining factor.

If I, or someone else, reflect upon such an action afterwards, we can discover what moral principles come into question with regard to it. While I am performing the action I am influenced by a moral maxim in so far as it can live in me intuitively; it is bound up with my love for the objective that I want to realise through my action. I ask no man and no rule, “Shall I perform this action?” — but carry it out as soon as I have grasped the idea of it. This alone makes it my action. If a man acts only because he accepts certain moral standards, his action is the outcome of the principles which compose his moral code. He merely carries out orders. He is a superior automaton.

Inject some stimulus to action into his mind, and at once the clockwork of his moral principles will set itself in motion and run its prescribed course, so as to result in an action which is Christian, or humane, or seemingly unselfish, or calculated to promote the progress of civilisation. Only when I follow my love for my objective is it I myself who act. I act, at this level of morality, not because I acknowledge a lord over me, or an external authority, or a so-called inner voice; I acknowledge no external principle for my action, because I have found in myself the ground for my action, namely, my love of the action. I do not work out mentally whether my action is good or bad; I carry it out because I love it.

My action will be “good” if my intuition, steeped in love, finds its right place within the intuitively experienceable world continuum; it will be “bad” if this is not the case. Again, I do not ask myself, “How would another man act in my position?” — but I act as I, this particular individuality, find I have occasion to do. No general usage, no common custom, no maxim applying to all men, no moral standard is my immediate guide, but my love for the deed. I feel no compulsion, neither the compulsion of nature which guides me by my instincts, nor the compulsion of the moral commandments, but I want simply to carry out what lies within me.

Those who defend general moral standards might reply to these arguments that if everyone strives to live his own life and do what he pleases, there can be no distinction between a good deed and a crime; every corrupt impulse that lies within me has as good a claim to express itself as has the intention of serving the general good. What determines me as a moral being cannot be the mere fact of my having conceived the idea of an action, but whether I judge it to be good or evil. Only in the former case should I carry it out.

My reply to this very obvious objection, which is nevertheless based on a misapprehension of my argument, is this: If we want to understand the nature of the human will, we must distinguish between the path which leads this will to a certain degree of development and the unique character which the will assumes as it approaches this goal. On the path towards this goal the standards play their rightful part.

The goal consists of the realisation of moral aims grasped by pure intuition. Man attains such aims to the extent that he is able to raise himself at all to the intuitive world of ideas. In any particular act of will such moral aims will generally have other elements mixed in with them, either as driving force or as motive. Nevertheless intuition may still be wholly or partly the determining factor in the human will. What one should do, that one does; one provides the stage upon which obligation becomes deed; one’s own action is what one brings forth from oneself.

Here the impulse can only be wholly individual. And, in truth, only an act of will that springs from intuition can be an individual one. To regard evil, the deed of a criminal, as an expression of the human individuality in the same sense as one regards the embodiment of pure intuition is only possible if blind instincts are reckoned as part of the human individuality. But the blind instinct that drives a man to crime does not spring from intuition, and does not belong to what is individual in him, but rather to what is most general in him, to what is equally present in all individuals and out of which a man works his way by means of what is individual in him.

What is individual in me is not my organism with its instincts and its feelings but rather the unified world of ideas which lights up within this organism. My instincts, urges and passions establish no more than that I belong to the general species man; it is the fact that something of the idea world comes to expression in a particular way within these urges, passions and feelings that establishes my individuality. Through my instincts and cravings, I am the sort of man of whom there are twelve to the dozen; through the particular form of the idea by means of which I designate myself within the dozen as “I”, I am an individual.

Only a being other than myself could distinguish me from others by the difference in my animal nature; through my thinking, that is, by actively grasping what expresses itself in my organism as idea, I distinguish myself from others. Therefore one cannot say of the action of a criminal that it proceeds from the idea within him. Indeed, the characteristic feature of criminal actions is precisely that they spring from the non-ideal elements in man.

An action is felt to be free in so far as the reasons for it spring from the ideal part of my individual being; every other part of an action, irrespective of whether it is carried out under the compulsion of nature or under the obligation of a moral standard, is felt to be unfree.

Man is free in so far as he is able to obey himself in every moment of his life. A moral deed is my deed only if it can be called a free one in this sense. We have here considered what conditions are required for an intentional action to be felt as a free one; how this purely ethically understood idea of freedom comes to realisation in the being of man will be shown in what follows.

Acting out of freedom does not exclude the moral laws; it includes them, but shows itself to be on a higher level than those actions which are merely dictated by such laws. Why should my action be of less service to the public good when I have done it out of love than when I have done it only because I consider serving the public good to be my duty? The mere concept of duty excludes freedom because it does not acknowledge the individual element but demands that this be subject to a general standard. Freedom of action is conceivable only from the standpoint of ethical individualism.

9. The Idea of Freedom – 2

In any particular act of will we must take into account the motive and the driving force. The motive is a factor with the character of a concept or a mental picture; the driving force is the will-factor belonging to the human organisation and directly conditioned by it.

The conceptual factor, or motive, is the momentary determining factor of the will; the driving force is the permanent determining factor of the individual. A motive for the will may be a pure concept, or else a concept with a particular reference to a percept, that is, a mental picture. Both general concepts and individual ones (mental pictures) become motives of will by affecting the human individual and determining him to action in a particular direction. But one and the same concept, or one and the same mental picture, affects different individuals differently.

They stimulate different men to different actions. An act of will is therefore not merely the outcome of the concept or the mental picture but also of the individual make-up of the person. Here we may well follow the example of Eduard von Hartmann and call this individual make-up the characterological disposition. The manner in which concept and mental picture affects the characterological disposition of a man gives to his life a definite moral or ethical stamp.

The characterological disposition is formed by the more or less permanent content of our subjective life, that is, by the content of our mental pictures and feelings. Whether a mental picture which enters my mind at this moment stimulates me to an act of will or not, depends on how it relates itself to the content of all my other mental pictures and also to my idiosyncrasies of feeling.

But after all, the general content of my mental pictures is itself conditioned by the sum total of those concepts which have, in the course of my individual life, come into contact with percepts, that is, have become mental pictures. This sum, again, depends on my greater or lesser capacity for intuition and on the range of my observations, that is, on the subjective and objective factors of experience, on my inner nature and situation in life. My characterological disposition is determined especially by my life of feeling. Whether I shall make a particular mental picture or concept into a motive of action or not, will depend on whether it gives me joy or pain.

These are the elements which we have to consider in an act of will. The immediately present mental picture or concept, which becomes the motive, determines the aim or the purpose of my will; my characterological disposition determines me to direct my activity towards this aim. The mental picture of taking a walk in the next half-hour determines the aim of my action. But this mental picture is raised to the level of a motive for my will only if it meets with a suitable characterological disposition, that is, if during my past life I have formed the mental pictures of the sense and purpose of taking a walk, of the value of health, and further, if the mental picture of taking a walk is accompanied in me by a feeling of pleasure.

We must therefore distinguish (1) the possible subjective dispositions which are capable of turning certain mental pictures and concepts into motives, and (2) the possible mental pictures and concepts which are in a position to influence my characterological disposition so that an act of will results. For our moral life the former represent the driving force, and the latter, its aims.

The driving force in the moral life can be discovered by finding out the elements of which individual life is composed.

The first level of individual life is that of perceiving, more particularly perceiving through the senses. This is the region of our individual life in which perceiving translates itself directly into willing, without the intervention of either a feeling or a concept. The driving force here involved is simply called instinct. The satisfaction of our lower, purely animal needs (hunger, sexual intercourse, etc.) comes about in this way. The main characteristic of instinctive life is the immediacy with which the single percept releases the act of will.

This kind of determination of the will, which belongs originally only to the life of the lower senses, may however become extended also to the percepts of the higher senses. We may react to the percept of a certain event in the external world without reflecting on what we do, without any special feeling connecting itself with the percept, as in fact happens in our conventional social behaviour. The driving force of such action is called tact or moral good taste. The more often such immediate reactions to a percept occur, the more the person concerned will prove himself able to act purely under the guidance of tact; that is, tact becomes his characterological disposition.

The second level of human life is feeling. Definite feelings accompany the percepts of the external world. These feelings may become the driving force of an action. When I see a starving man, my pity for him may become the driving force of my action. Such feelings, for example, are shame, pride, sense of honour, humility, remorse, pity, revenge, gratitude, piety, loyalty, love, and duty.

The third level of life amounts to thinking and forming mental pictures. A mental picture or a concept may become the motive of an action through mere reflection. Mental pictures become motives because, in the course of life, we regularly connect certain aims of our will with percepts which recur again and again in more or less modified form. Hence with people not wholly devoid of experience it happens that the occurrence of certain percepts is always accompanied by the appearance in consciousness of mental pictures of actions that they themselves have carried out in a similar case or have seen others carry out. These mental pictures float before their minds as patterns which determine all subsequent decisions; they become parts of their characterological disposition.

The driving force in the will, in this case, we can call practical experience. Practical experience merges gradually into purely tactful behaviour. This happens when definite typical pictures of actions have become so firmly connected in our minds with mental pictures of certain situations in life that, in any given instance, we skip over all deliberation based on experience and go straight from the percept to the act of will.

The highest level of individual life is that of conceptual thinking without regard to any definite perceptual content. We determine the content of a concept through pure intuition from out of the ideal sphere. Such a concept contains, at first, no reference to any definite percepts. If we enter upon an act of will under the influence of a concept which refers to a percept, that is, under the influence of a mental picture, then it is this percept which determines our action indirectly by way of the conceptual thinking. But if we act under the influence of intuitions, the driving force of our action is pure thinking. As it is the custom in philosophy to call the faculty of pure thinking “reason”, we may well be justified in giving the name of practical reason to the moral driving force characteristic of this level of life. The dearest account of this driving force in the will has been given by Kreyenbuhl. In my opinion his article on this subject is one of the most important contributions to present-day philosophy, more especially to Ethics. Kreyenbuhl calls the driving force we are here discussing, the practical a priori, that is, an impulse to action issuing directly from my intuition.

It is clear that such an impulse can no longer be counted in the strictest sense as belonging to the characterological disposition. For what is here effective as the driving force is no longer something merely individual in me, but the ideal and hence universal content of my intuition. As soon as I see the justification for taking this content as the basis and starting point of an action, I enter upon the act of will irrespective of whether I have had the concept beforehand or whether it only enters my consciousness immediately before the action, that is, irrespective of whether it was already present as a disposition in me or not.

Since a real act of will results only when a momentary impulse to action, in the form of a concept or mental picture, acts on the characterological disposition, such an impulse then becomes the motive of the will.

The motives of moral conduct are mental pictures and concepts. There are Moral Philosophers who see a motive for moral behaviour also in the feelings; they assert, for instance, that the aim of moral action is to promote the greatest possible quantity of pleasure for the acting individual. Pleasure itself, however, cannot become a motive; only an imagined pleasure can. The mental picture of a future feeling, but not the feeling itself, can act on my characterological disposition. For the feeling itself does not yet exist in the moment of action; it has first to be produced by the action.

The mental picture of one’s own or another’s welfare is, however, rightly regarded as a motive of the will. The principle of producing the greatest quantity of pleasure for oneself through one’s action, that is, of attaining individual happiness, is called egoism. The attainment of this individual happiness is sought either by thinking ruthlessly only of one’s own good and striving to attain it even at the cost of the happiness of other individuals (pure egoism), or by promoting the good of others, either because one anticipates a favourable influence on one’s own person indirectly through the happiness of others, or because one fears to endanger one’s own interest by injuring others (morality of prudence).

The special content of the egoistical principles of morality will depend on the mental pictures which we form of what constitutes our own, or others’, happiness. A man will determine the content of his egoistical striving in accordance with what he regards as the good things of life (luxury, hope of happiness, deliverance from various evils, and so on).

The purely conceptual content of an action is to be regarded as yet another kind of motive. This content refers not to the particular action only, as with the mental picture of one’s own pleasures, but to the derivation of an action from a system of moral principles. These moral principles, in the form of abstract concepts, may regulate the individual’s moral life without his worrying himself about the origin of the concepts.

In that case, we simply feel that submitting to a moral concept in the form of a commandment overshadowing our actions, is a moral necessity. The establishment of this necessity we leave to those who demand moral subjection from us, that is, to the moral authority that we acknowledge (the head of the family, the state, social custom, the authority of the church, divine revelation). It is a special kind of these moral principles when the commandment is made known to us not through an external authority but through our own inner life (moral autonomy). In this case we hear the voice to which we have to submit ourselves, in our own souls. This voice expresses itself as conscience.

It is a moral advance when a man no longer simply accepts the commands of an outer or inner authority as the motive of his action, but tries to understand the reason why a particular maxim of behaviour should act as a motive in him. This is the advance from morality based on authority to action out of moral insight. At this level of morality a man will try to find out the requirements of the moral life and will let his actions be determined by the knowledge of them. Such requirements are the greatest possible good of mankind purely for its own sake; the progress of civilisation, or the moral evolution of mankind towards ever greater perfection; the realisation of individual moral aims grasped by pure intuition.

The greatest possible good of mankind will naturally be understood in different ways by different people. This maxim refers not to any particular mental picture of this “good” but to the fact that everyone who acknowledges this principle strives to do whatever, in his opinion, most promotes the good of mankind.

The progress of civilisation, for those to whom the blessings of civilisation bring a feeling of pleasure, turns out to be a special case of the foregoing moral principle. Of course, they will have to take into the bargain the decline and destruction of a number of things that also contribute to the general good. It is also possible, however, that some people regard the progress of civilisation as a moral necessity quite apart from the feeling of pleasure that it brings. For them, this becomes a special moral principle in addition to the previous one.

The principle of the progress of civilisation, like that of the general good, is based on a mental picture, that is, on the way we relate the content of our moral ideas to particular experiences (percepts). The highest conceivable moral principle, however, is one that from the start contains no such reference to particular experiences, but springs from the source of pure intuition and only later seeks any reference to percepts, that is, to life. Here the decision as to what is to be willed proceeds from an authority very different from that of the foregoing cases.

If a man holds to the principle of the general good, he will, in all his actions, first ask what his ideals will contribute to this general good. If a man upholds the principle of the progress of civilisation, he will act similarly. But there is a still higher way which does not start from one and the same particular moral aim in each case, but sees a certain value in all moral principles and always asks whether in the given case this or that principle is the more important.

It may happen that in some circumstances a man considers the right aim to be the progress of civilisation, in others the promotion of the general good, and in yet another the promotion of his own welfare, and in each case makes that the motive of his action. But if no other ground for decision claims more than second place, then conceptual intuition itself comes first and foremost into consideration. All other motives now give way, and the idea behind an action alone becomes its motive.

Among the levels of characterological disposition, we have singled out as the highest the one that works as pure thinking or practical reason. Among the motives, we have just singled out conceptual intuition as the highest. On closer inspection it will at once be seen that at this level of morality driving force and motive coincide; that is, neither a predetermined characterological disposition nor the external authority of an accepted moral principle influences our conduct. The action is therefore neither a stereotyped one which merely follows certain rules, nor is it one which we automatically perform in response to an external impulse, but it is an action determined purely and simply by its own ideal content.

Such an action presupposes the capacity for moral intuitions. Whoever lacks the capacity to experience for himself the particular moral principle for each single situation, will never achieve truly individual willing.

9. The Idea of Freedom – 1

For our cognition, the concept of the tree is conditioned by the percept of the tree. When faced with a particular percept, I can select only one particular concept from the general system of concepts. The connection of concept and percept is determined by thinking, indirectly and objectively, at the level of the percept. This connection of the percept with its concept is recognised after the act of perceiving; but that they do belong together lies in the very nature of things.

The process looks different when we examine knowledge, or rather the relation of man to the world which arises within knowledge. In the preceding chapters the attempt has been made to show that an unprejudiced observation of this relationship is able to throw light on its nature. A proper understanding of this observation leads to the insight that thinking can be directly discerned as a selfcontained entity.

Those who find it necessary for the explanation of thinking as such to invoke something else, such as physical brain processes or unconscious spiritual processes lying behind the conscious thinking which they observe, fail to recognise what an unprejudiced observation of thinking yields. When we observe our thinking, we live during this observation directly within a self-supporting, spiritual web of being. Indeed, we can even say that if we would grasp the essential nature of spirit in the form in which it presents itself most immediately to man, we need only look at the self-sustaining activity of thinking.

When we are contemplating thinking itself, two things coincide which otherwise must always appear apart, namely, concept and percept. If we fail to see this, we shall be unable to regard the concepts which we have elaborated with respect to percepts as anything but shadowy copies of these percepts, and we shall take the percepts as presenting to us the true reality. We shall, further, build up for ourselves a metaphysical world after the pattern of the perceived world; we shall call this a world of atoms, a world of will, a world of unconscious spirit, or whatever, each according to his own kind of mental imagery. And we shall fail to notice that all the time we have been doing nothing but building up a metaphysical world hypothetically, after the pattern of our own world of percepts. But if we recognise what is present in thinking, we shall realise that in the percept we have only one part of the reality and that the other part which belongs to it, and which first allows the full reality to appear, is experienced by us in the permeation of the percept by thinking.

We shall see in this element that appears in our consciousness as thinking, not a shadowy copy of some reality, but a self-sustaining spiritual essence. And of this we shall be able to say that it is brought into consciousness for us through intuition. Intuition is the conscious experience – in pure spirit – of a purely spiritual content. Only through an intuition can the essence of thinking be grasped.

Only if, by means of unprejudiced observation, one has wrestled through to the recognition of this truth of the intuitive essence of thinking will one succeed in clearing the way for an insight into the psyche-physical organisation of man. One will see that this organisation can have no effect on the essential nature of thinking. At first sight this seems to be contradicted by patently obvious facts. For ordinary experience, human thinking makes its appearance only in connection with, and by means of, this organisation.

This form of its appearance comes so much to the fore that its real significance cannot be grasped unless we recognise that in the essence of thinking this organisation plays no part whatever. Once we appreciate this, we can no longer fail to notice what a peculiar kind of relationship there is between the human organisation and the thinking itself. For this organisation contributes nothing to the essential nature of thinking, but recedes whenever the activity of thinking makes its appearance; it suspends its own activity, it yields ground; and on the ground thus left empty, the thinking appears. The essence which is active in thinking has a twofold function: first, it represses the activity of the human organisation; secondly, it steps into its place.

For even the former, the repression of the physical organisation, is a consequence of the activity of thinking, and more particularly of that part of this activity which prepares the manifestation of thinking. From this one can see in what sense thinking finds its counterpart in the physical organisation. When we see this, we can no longer misjudge the significance of this counterpart of the activity of thinking. When we walk over soft ground, our feet leave impressions in the soil.

We shall not be tempted to say that these footprints have been formed from below by the forces of the ground. We shall not attribute to these forces any share in the production of the footprints. Just as little, if we observe the essential nature of thinking without prejudice, shall we attribute any share in that nature to the traces in the physical organism which arise through the fact that the thinking prepares its manifestation by means of the body.

An important question, however, emerges here. If the human organisation has no part in the essential nature of thinking, what is the significance of this organisation within the whole nature of man? Now, what happens in this organisation through the thinking has indeed nothing to do with the essence of thinking, but it has a great deal to do with the arising of the ego-consciousness out of this thinking.

Thinking, in its own essential nature, certainly contains the real I or ego, but it does not contain the ego-consciousness. To see this we have but to observe thinking with an open mind. The “I” is to be found within the thinking; the “ego-consciousness” arises through the traces which the activity of thinking engraves upon our general consciousness, in the sense explained above. (The ego-consciousness thus arises through the bodily organisation. However, this must not be taken to imply that the ego-consciousness, once it has arisen, remains dependent on the bodily organisation. Once arisen, it is taken up into thinking and shares henceforth in thinking’s spiritual being.)

The “ego-consciousness” is built upon the human organisation. Out of the latter flow our acts of will. Following the lines of the preceding argument, we can gain insight into the connections between thinking, conscious I, and act of will, only by observing first how an act of will issues from the human organisation.

8 – The Factors of Life

Let us recapitulate what we have achieved in the previous chapters. The world faces man as a multiplicity, as a mass of separate details. One of these separate things, one entity among others, is man himself. This aspect of the world we simply call the given, and inasmuch as we do not evolve it by conscious activity, but just find it, we call it percept. Within this world of percepts we perceive ourselves.

This percept of self would remain merely one among many other percepts, if something did not arise from the midst of this percept of self which proves capable of connecting all percepts with one another and, therefore, the sum of all other percepts with the percept of our own self. This something which emerges is no longer merely percept; neither is it, like percepts, simply given. It is produced by our activity. To begin with, it appears to be bound up with what we perceive as our own self. In its inner significance, however, it transcends the self. To the separate percepts it adds ideally determined elements, which, however, are related to one another, and are rooted in a totality. What is obtained by perception of self is ideally determined by this something in the same way as are all other percepts, and is placed as subject, or “I”, over against the objects.

This something is thinking, and the ideally determined elements are the concepts and ideas. Thinking, therefore, first reveals itself in the percept of the self. But it is not merely subjective, for the self characterises itself as subject only with the help of thinking. This relationship in thought of the self to itself is what, in life, determines our personality. Through it we lead a purely ideal existence. Through it we feel ourselves to be thinking beings. This determination of our life would remain a purely conceptual (logical) one, if no other determinations of our self were added to it. We should then be creatures whose life was expended in establishing purely ideal relationships between percepts among themselves and between them and ourselves. If we call the establishment of such a thought connection an “act of cognition”, and the resulting condition of ourself “knowledge”, then, assuming the above supposition to be true, we should have to consider ourselves as beings who merely cognise or know.

The supposition, however, does not meet the case. We relate percepts to ourselves not merely ideally, through concepts, but also, as we have already seen, through feeling. Therefore we are not beings with a merely conceptual content to our life. In fact the naive realist holds that the personality lives more genuinely in the life of feeling than in the purely ideal element of knowledge. From his point of view he is quite right when he describes the matter in this way. To begin with, feeling is exactly the same, on the subjective side, as the percept is on the objective side. From the basic principle of naive realism – that everything that can be perceived is real – it follows that feeling must be the guarantee of the reality of one’s own personality.

Monism, however, as here understood, must grant the same addition to feeling that it considers necessary for percepts, if these are to stand before us as full reality. Thus, for monism, feeling is an incomplete reality, which, in the form in which it first appears to us, does not yet contain its second factor, the concept or idea. This is why, in actual life, feelings, like percepts, appear prior to knowledge. At first, we have merely a feeling of existence; and it is only in the course of our gradual development that we attain to the point at which the concept of self emerges from within the dim feeling of our own existence. However, what for us appears only later, is from the first indissolubly bound up with our feeling. This is why the naive man comes to believe that in feeling he is presented with existence directly, in knowledge only indirectly.

The cultivation of the life of feeling, therefore, appears to him more important than anything else. He will only believe that he has grasped the pattern of the universe when he has received it into his feeling. He attempts to make feeling, rather than knowing, the instrument of knowledge.

The tendency just described, the philosophy of feeling, is often called mysticism. The error in a mystical outlook based upon mere feeling is that it wants to experience directly what it ought to gain through knowledge; that it wants to raise feeling, which is individual, into a universal principle.

Feeling is a purely individual affair; it is the relation of the external world to ourself as subject, in so far as this relation finds expression in a merely subjective experience.

There is yet another expression of human personality. The I, through its thinking, shares the life of the world in general. In this manner, in a purely ideal way (that is, conceptually), it relates the percepts to itself, and itself to the percepts. In feeling, it has direct experience of a relation of the objects to itself as subject. In the will, the case is reversed. In willing, we are concerned once more with a percept, namely, that of the individual relation of our self to what is objective. Whatever there is in willing that is not a purely ideal factor, is just as much mere object of perception as is any object in the external world.

Nevertheless, the naive realist believes here again that he has before him something far more real than can be attained by thinking. He sees in the will an element in which he is directly aware of an occurrence, a causation, in contrast with thinking which only grasps the event afterwards in conceptual form. According to such a view, what the I achieves through its will is a process which is experienced directly.

The adherent of this philosophy believes that in the will he has really got hold of the machinery of the world by one corner. Whereas he can follow other occurrences only from the outside by means of perception, he is confident that in his will he experiences a real process quite directly. The mode of existence in which the will appears within the self becomes for him a concrete principle of reality. His own will appears to him as a special case of the general world process; hence the latter appears as universal will. The will becomes the principle of the universe just as, in mysticism, feeling becomes the principle of knowledge. This kind of theory is called the philosophy of will (thelism). It makes something that can be experienced only individually into a constituent factor of the world.

The philosophy of will can as little be called scientific as can the mysticism based on feeling. For both assert that the conceptual understanding of the world is inadequate. Both demand a principle of existence which is real, in addition to a principle which is ideal.

To a certain extent this is justified. But since perceiving is our only means of apprehending these so- called real principles, the assertion of both the mysticism of feeling and the philosophy of will comes to the same thing as saying that we have two sources of knowledge, thinking and perceiving, the latter presenting itself as an individual experience in feeling and will. Since the results that flow from the one source, the experiences, cannot on this view be taken up directly into those that flow from the other source, thinking, the two modes of knowledge, perceiving and thinking, remain side by side without any higher form of mediation between them.

Besides the ideal principle which is accessible to knowledge, there is said to be a real principle which cannot be apprehended by thinking but can yet be experienced. In other words, the mysticism of feeling and the philosophy of will are both forms of naive realism, because they subscribe to the doctrine that what is directly perceived is real. Compared with naive realism in its primitive form, they are guilty of the yet further inconsistency of accepting one particular form of perceiving (feeling or will, respectively) as the one and only means of knowing reality, whereas they can only do this at all if they hold in general to the fundamental principle that what is perceived is real. But in that case they ought to attach equal value, for the purposes of knowledge, also to external perception.

The philosophy of will turns into metaphysical realism when it places the element of will even into those spheres of existence where it cannot be experienced directly, as it can in the individual subject. It assumes, outside the subject, a hypothetical principle for whose real existence the sole criterion is subjective experience. As a form of metaphysical realism, the philosophy of will is subject to the criticism made in the preceding chapter, in that it has to get over the contradictory stage inherent in every form of metaphysical realism, and must acknowledge that the will is a universal world process only in so far as it is ideally related to the rest of the world.

Author’s addition, 1918
The difficulty of grasping the essential nature of thinking by observation lies in this, that it has all too easily eluded the introspecting soul by the time the soul tries to bring it into the focus of attention. Nothing then remains to be inspected but the lifeless abstraction, the corpse of the living thinking. If we look only at this abstraction, we may easily find ourselves compelled to enter into the mysticism of feeling or perhaps the metaphysics of will, which by contrast appear so “full of life”.

We should then find it strange that anyone should expect to grasp the essence of reality in “mere thoughts”. But if we once succeed in really finding life in thinking, we shall know that swimming in mere feelings, or being intuitively aware of the will element, cannot even be compared with the inner wealth and the self-sustaining yet ever moving experience of this life of thinking, let alone be ranked above it. It is owing precisely to this wealth, to this inward abundance of experience, that the counterimage of thinking which presents itself to our ordinary attitude of soul should appear lifeless and abstract. No other activity of the human soul is so easily misunderstood as thinking.

Will and feeling still fill the soul with warmth even when we live through the original event again in retrospect. Thinking all too readily leaves us cold in recollection; it is as if the life of the soul had dried out. Yet this is really nothing but the strongly marked shadow of its real nature – warm, luminous, and penetrating deeply into the phenomena of the world. This penetration is brought about by a power flowing through the activity of thinking itself – the power of love in its spiritual form. There are no grounds here for the objection that to discern love in the activity of thinking is to project into thinking a feeling, namely, love.

For in truth this objection is but a confirmation of what we have been saying. If we turn towards thinking in its essence, we find in it both feeling and will, and these in the depths of their reality; if we turn away from thinking towards “mere” feeling and will, we lose from these their true reality.

If we are ready to experience thinking intuitively, we can also do justice to the experience of feeling and of will; but the mysticism of feeling and the metaphysics of will are not able to do justice to the penetration of reality by intuitive thinking – they conclude all too readily that they themselves are rooted in reality, but that the intuitive thinker, devoid of feeling and a stranger to reality, forms out of “abstract thoughts” a shadowy, chilly picture of the world.

8. The Factors of Life

Let us recapitulate what we have gained through the previous chapters. The world comes to meet me as a multiplicity, a sum of separate details. As a human being, I am myself one of these details, an entity among other entities. We call this form of the world simply the given and—insofar as we do not develop it through conscious activity but find it ready made—we call it percept. Within the world of percepts, we perceive ourselves. But if something did not emerge out of this self-percept that proved capable of linking both percepts in general and also the sum of all other percepts with the percept of our self, our self-percept would remain simply one among many. This emerging something, however, is no longer a mere percept; nor is it, like percepts, simply present. It is produced through activity and initially appears linked to what we perceive as our self, but its inner meaning reaches beyond the self. It adds conceptual determinates to individual percepts, but these conceptual determinates relate to one another and are grounded in a whole. It determines conceptually what is achieved through self-perception conceptually, just as it determines all other percepts. It places this as the subject or “I” over against objects. This “something” is thinking, and the conceptual determinates are concepts and ideas.

Thus, thinking first expresses itself in the percept of the self, but it is not merely subjective, for the self characterizes itself as subject only with the help of thinking. Such self-reference in thought is one way that we determine our personality in life. Through it, we lead a purely conceptual existence. Through it, we feel ourselves as thinking beings. Were it unaccompanied by other ways of determining our self, this determination of our personality would remain purely conceptual (logical). Then we would be beings whose lives were limited to establishing purely conceptual relationships among percepts, and between percepts and ourselves. Now, if we call the establishment of such a relationship in thought cognition, and the state of the self achieved through it knowledge, then—if the assumption just mentioned applied—we would have to regard ourselves as merely cognizing or knowing beings.

But this assumption does not hold. As we have seen, we do not relate percepts to ourselves only through concepts, but also through feeling. Therefore we are not beings with merely conceptual content to our lives. The naive realist, in fact, sees in the feeling life a more real expression of the personality than in the purely conceptual element of knowledge. And if the matter is judged from that standpoint, this view is quite correct. At first, feeling is exactly similar on the subjective side to the percept on the objective side. Therefore, according to the fundamental proposition of naive realism (everything that can be perceived is real), feeling guarantees the reality of one’s own personality. Yet monism, as understood here, must acknowledge that a feeling, if it is to appear to us in its full reality, requires the same kind of completion as any other percept. For monism, feeling is an incomplete reality that, in the form in which it is given to us at first, does not yet contain its second factor, the concept or idea. This is why feeling, like perceiving, always appears before cognizing. First, we merely feel ourselves as existing; and, in the course of our gradual development, we reach the point at which, out of our own dimly felt existence, the self concept dawns upon us. But what emerges for us only later is originally inseparably united with feeling. This is what makes naive persons believe that existence reveals itself directly in feeling, but only indirectly in knowledge. Exercising the life of feeling will therefore seem more important to them than anything else. They believe themselves to have grasped the pattern of the universe only when they have received it into their feeling. They try to make feeling, not knowing, the means of cognition. Since feeling is something altogether individual, something equivalent to perception, philosophers of feeling make something that has significance only within their own personality into the principle of the universe. They try to permeate the entire universe with their own selves. What monism, as described in this book, attempts to grasp conceptually, the philosophers of feeling seek to achieve with feeling. They see that kind of connection with things as more immediate.

This tendency—the philosophy of feeling—is often called mysticism. A mystical view based solely on feeling errs in wanting to experience what it ought to know; it wants to make something that is individual, feeling, into something universal.

Feeling is a purely individual act. It is a relationship of the outer world to our subject, insofar as that relationship finds expression in a purely subjective experience.

There is yet another expression of the human personality. Through its thinking, the I participates in general, universal life. Through thinking, it relates percepts to itself, and itself to percepts, in a purely conceptual way; in feeling, it experiences a relationship of the object to its subject. But in willing, the reverse is the case. In willing, too, we have a percept before us: namely, that of the individual relation of our self to what is objective. And whatever is not a purely conceptual factor in our will is just as much a mere object of perception as anything in the outer world.

Yet here, too, naive realism believes that it has before it a far realer kind of existence than can be attained through thinking. In contrast to thinking, which formulates the event only afterward in concepts, naive realism sees an element in the will in which we are immediately aware of an event or cause. From this point of view, what the I achieves through its will is a process that is experienced immediately. Adherents of this philosophy believe that, in the will, they have hold of a corner of the world process. They believe that in willing we experience a real event quite immediately, while we can only follow other events from the outside. They make the form of existence in which the will appears within the self into an actual principle of reality. Their own willing appears to them as a special case of the universal world process; and the universal world process appears as a universal will. Here the will becomes a world principle, just as feeling becomes a cognitive principle in mysticism. This point of view is called the philosophy of the will (or thelism). It makes something that can be experienced only individually into a constitutive factor of the world.

The philosophy of will can no more be called “science” than can the mysticism of feeling, for both maintain that to permeate the world with concepts is inadequate. In addition to a conceptual principle of existence, both demand a real principle as well. There is some justification in this. But since we can grasp these so-called real principles only through our perception, the claims of both mysticism of feeling and philosophy of the will are identical with the view that we have two sources of knowledge—thinking and perceiving, the latter expressing itself as individual experience in feeling and in will. According to this view, since what flows from one source (our experiences) cannot be received directly into what flows from the other (thinking), both kinds of cognition, thinking and perceiving, remain side by side without any higher mediation between them. Beside the conceptual principle attainable through knowledge, there is supposed to exist a real principle of the world that can be experienced, but not grasped by thinking. In other words, because they subscribe to the proposition that what is directly perceived is real, mysticism of feeling and the philosophy of will are both types of naive realism. Yet, compared to the original naive realism, they commit the further inconsistency of making a specific form of perceiving (feeling or willing) into the sole means of cognizing existence—but they can do so only by subscribing to the general proposition that what has been perceived is real. On that basis, however, they would also have to ascribe an equivalent cognitive value to external perceiving.

The philosophy of will becomes metaphysical realism when it transfers the will into those realms of existence where immediate experience of it is not possible in the same way as it is in one’s own subject. It assumes the existence, outside the subject, of a hypothetical principle, the sole criterion for whose reality is subjective experience. As metaphysical realism, the philosophy of the will succumbs to the criticism given in the previous chapter, which the contradictory aspect of every metaphysical realism must recognize and overcome, that the will is only a universal world process to the extent that it relates to the rest of the world conceptually.

Addendum to the new edition (1918)
The difficulty of grasping thinking in its essence by observing it consists in this: when the soul wants to bring it into the focus of attention, this essence has all too easily already slipped away from the observing soul. All that is left for the soul then is the dead abstraction, the corpse of living thinking. If we look only at this abstraction, we can easily feel drawn to the mysticism of feeling or the metaphysics of will, which seem so “full of life.” We find it strange if anyone seeks to grasp the essence of reality in “mere thoughts.” But whoever truly manages to experience life within thinking sees that dwelling in mere feelings or contemplating the element of will cannot even be compared with (let alone ranked above) the inner richness and the experience, the inner calmness and mobility, in the life of thinking. It is precisely the richness, the inner fullness of experience, that makes its reflection in normal consciousness seem dead and abstract. No other activity of the human soul is as easily misunderstood as thinking. Feeling and willing warm the human soul even when we look back and recollect their original state, while thinking all too easily leaves us cold. It seems to dry out the life of the soul. Yet this is only the sharply contoured shadow of the reality of thinking—a reality interwoven with light, dipping down warmly into the phenomena of the world. This dipping down occurs with a power that flows forth in the activity of thinking itself— the power of love in spiritual form. One should not object that to speak of love in active thinking is to displace a feeling, love, into thinking. This objection is actually a confirmation of what is being said here. For whoever turns toward essential thinking finds within it both feeling and will, and both of these in the depths of their reality. Whoever turns aside from thinking toward “pure” feeling and willing loses the true reality of feeling and willing. If we experience thinking intuitively, we also do justice to the experience of feeling and will. But the mysticism of feeling and the metaphysics of will cannot do justice to the penetration of existence by intuitive thinking. Those views all too easily conclude that it is they who stand within reality, while intuitive thinkers, devoid of feeling and estranged from reality, form only a shadowy, cold picture of the world in “abstract thoughts.”

VIII. Die Faktoren des Lebens

Rekapitulieren wir das in den vorangehenden Kapiteln Gewonnene. Die Welt tritt dem Menschen als eine Vielheit gegenüber, als eine Summe von Einzelheiten. Eine von diesen Einzelheiten, ein Wesen unter Wesen, ist er selbst. Diese Gestalt der Welt bezeichnen wir schlechthin als gegeben, und insofern wir sie nicht durch bewußte Tätigkeit entwickeln, sondern vorfinden, als Innerhalb der Welt der Wahrnehmungen nehmen wir uns selbst wahr. Diese Selbstwahrnehmung bliebe einfach als eine unter den vielen anderen Wahrnehmungen stehen, wenn nicht aus der Mitte dieser Selbstwahrnehmung etwas auftauchte, das sich geeignet erweist, die Wahrnehmungen überhaupt, also auch die Summe aller anderen Wahrnehmungen mit der unseres Selbst zu verbinden. Dieses auftauchende Etwas ist nicht mehr bloße Wahrnehmung; es wird auch nicht gleich den Wahrnehmungen einfach vorgefunden. Es wird durch Tätigkeit hervorgebracht. Es erscheint zunächst an das gebunden, was wir als unser Selbst wahrnehmen. Seiner inneren Bedeutung nach greift es aber über das Selbst hinaus. Es fügt den einzelnen Wahrnehmungen ideelle Bestimmtheiten bei, die sich aber aufeinander beziehen, die in einem Ganzen gegründet sind. Das durch Selbstwahrnehmung Gewonnene bestimmt es auf gleiche Weise ideell wie alle andern Wahrnehmungen und stellt es als Subjekt oder «Ich» den Objekten gegenüber. Dieses Etwas ist das Denken, und die ideellen Bestimmtheiten sind die Begriffe und Ideen. Das Denken äußert sich daher zunächst an der Wahrnehmung des Selbst; ist aber nicht bloß subjektiv; denn das Selbst bezeichnet sich erst mit Hilfe des Denkens als Subjekt. Diese gedankliche Beziehung auf sich selbst ist eine Lebensbestimmung unserer Persönlichkeit. Durch sie führen wir ein rein ideelles Dasein. Wir fühlen uns durch sie als denkende Wesen. Diese Lebensbestimmung bliebe eine rein begriffliche (logische), wenn keine anderen Bestimmungen unseres Selbst hinzuträten. Wir wären dann Wesen, deren Leben sich in der Herstellung rein ideeller Beziehungen zwischen den Wahrnehmungen untereinander und den letztern und uns selbst erschöpfte.

Nennt man die Herstellung eines solchen gedanklichen Verhältnisses ein Erkennen, und den durch dieselbe gewonnenen Zustand unseres Selbst Wissen, so müßten wir uns beim Eintreffen der obigen Voraussetzung als bloß erkennende oder wissende Wesen ansehen.

Die Voraussetzung trifft aber nicht zu. Wir beziehen die Wahrnehmungen nicht bloß ideell auf uns, durch den Begriff, sondern auch noch durch das Gefühl, wie wir gesehen haben. Wir sind also nicht Wesen mit bloß begrifflichem Lebensinhalt. Der naive Realist sieht sogar in dem Gefühlsleben ein wirklicheres Leben der Persönlichkeit als in dem rein ideellen Element des Wissens. Und er hat von seinem Standpunkte aus ganz recht, wenn er in dieser Weise sich die Sache zurechtlegt. Das Gefühl ist auf subjektiver Seite zunächst genau dasselbe, was die Wahrnehmung auf objektiver Seite ist. Nach dem Grundsatz des naiven Realismus: Alles ist wirklich, was wahrgenommen werden kann, ist daher das Gefühl die Bürgschaft der Realität der eigenen Persönlichkeit. Der hier gemeinte Monismus muß aber dem Gefühle die gleiche Ergänzung angedeihen lassen, die er für die Wahrnehmung notwendig erachtet, wenn sie als vollkommene Wirklichkeit sich darstellen soll. Für diesen Monismus ist das Gefühl ein unvollständiges Wirkliches, das in der ersten Form, in der es uns gegeben ist, seinen zweiten Faktor, den Begriff oder die Idee, noch nicht mitenthält. Deshalb tritt im Leben auch überall das Fühlen gleichwie das Wahrnehmen vor dem Erkennen auf. Wir fühlen uns zuerst als Daseiende; und im Laufe der allmählichen Entwicklung ringen wir uns erst zu dem Punkte durch, wo uns in dem dumpf gefühlten eigenen Dasein der Begriff unseres Selbst aufgeht. Was für uns erst später hervortritt, ist aber ursprünglich mit dem Gefühle unzertrennlich verbunden. Der naive Mensch gerät durch diesen Umstand auf den Glauben: in dem Fühlen stelle sich ihm das Dasein unmittelbar, in dem Wissen nur mittelbar dar. Die Ausbildung des Gefühlslebens wird ihm daher vor allen andern Dingen wichtig erscheinen. Er wird den Zusammenhang der Welt erst erfaßt zu haben glauben, wenn er ihn in sein Fühlen aufgenommen hat. Er sucht nicht das Wissen, sondern das Fühlen zum Mittel der Erkenntnis zu machen. Da das Gefühl etwas ganz Individuelles ist, etwas der Wahrnehmung Gleichkommendes, so macht der Gefühlsphilosoph ein Prinzip, das nur innerhalb seiner Persönlichkeit eine Bedeutung hat, zum Weltprinzipe. Er sucht die ganze Welt mit seinem eigenen Selbst zu durchdringen. Was der hier gemeinte Monismus im Begriffe zu erfassen strebt, das sucht der Gefühlsphilosoph mit dem Gefühle zu erreichen, und sieht dieses sein Zusammensein mit den Objekten als das unmittelbarere an.

Die hiermit gekennzeichnete Richtung, die Philosophie des Gefühls, wird oft als Mystik bezeichnet. Der Irrtum einer bloß auf das Gefühl gebauten mystischen Anschauungsweise besteht darinnen, daß sie erleben will, was sie wissen soll, daß sie ein Individuelles, das Gefühl, zu einem Universellen erziehen will.

Das Fühlen ist ein rein individueller Akt, die Beziehung der Außenwelt auf unser Subjekt, insofern diese Beziehung ihren Ausdruck findet in einem bloß subjektiven Erleben.

Es gibt noch eine andere Äußerung der menschlichen Persönlichkeit. Das Ich lebt durch sein Denken das allgemeine Weltleben mit; es bezieht durch dasselbe rein ideell (begrifflich) die Wahrnehmungen auf sich, sich auf die Wahrnehmungen. Im Gefühl erlebt es einen Bezug der Objekte auf sein Subjekt; im Willen ist das Umgekehrte der Fall. Im Wollen haben wir ebenfalls eine Wahrnehmung vor uns, nämlich die des individuellen Bezugs unseres Selbstes auf das Objektive. Was am Wollen nicht rein ideeller Faktor ist, das ist ebenso bloß Gegenstand des Wahrnehmens wie das bei irgendeinem Dinge der Außenwelt der Fall ist.

Dennoch wird der naive Realismus auch hier wieder ein weit wirklicheres Sein vor sich zu haben glauben, als durch das Denken erlangt werden kann. Er wird in dem Willen ein Element erblicken, in dem er ein Geschehen, ein Verursachen unmittelbar gewahr wird, im Gegensatz zum Denken, das das Geschehen erst in Begriffe faßt. Was das Ich durch seinen Willen vollbringt, stellt für eine solche Anschauungsweise einen Prozeß dar, der unmittelbar erlebt wird. In dem Wollen glaubt der Bekenner dieser Philosophie das Weltgeschehen wirklich an einem Zipfel erfaßt zu haben. Während er die anderen Geschehnisse nur durch Wahrnehmen von außen verfolgen kann, glaubt er in seinem Wollen ein reales Geschehen ganz unmittelbar zu erleben. Die Seinsform, in der ihm der Wille innerhalb des Selbst erscheint, wird für ihn zu einem Realprinzip der Wirklichkeit. Sein eigenes Wollen erscheint ihm als Spezialfall des allgemeinen Weltgeschehens; dieses letztere somit als allgemeines Wollen. Der Wille wird zum Weltprinzip wie in der Gefühlsmystik das Gefühl zum Erkenntnisprinzip. Diese Anschauungsweise ist Willensphilosophie (Thelismus). Was sich nur individuell erleben läßt, das wird durch die zum konstituierenden Faktor der Welt gemacht.

So wenig die Gefühlsmystik Wissenschaft genannt werden kann, so wenig kann es die Willensphilosophie. Denn beide behaupten mit dem begrifflichen Durchdringen der Welt nicht auskommen zu können. Beide fordern neben dem Idealprinzip des Seins noch ein Realprinzip. Das mit einem gewissen Recht. Da wir aber für diese sogenannten Realprinzipien nur das Wahrnehmen als Auffassungsmittel haben, so ist die Behauptung der Gefühlsmystik und der Willensphilosophie identisch mit der Ansicht: Wir haben zwei Quellen der Erkenntnis: die des Denkens und die des Wahrnehmens, welches letztere sich im Gefühl und Willen als individuelles Erleben darstellt. Da die Ausflüsse der einen Quelle, die Erlebnisse, von diesen Weltanschauungen nicht direkt in die der andern, des Denkens, aufgenommen werden können, so bleiben die beiden Erkenntnisweisen, Wahrnehmen und Denken ohne höhere Vermittlung nebeneinander bestehen. Neben dem durch das Wissen erreichbaren Idealprinzip soll es noch ein zu erlebendes nicht im Denken erfaßbares Realprinzip der Welt geben. Mit andern Worten: die Gefühlsmystik und Willensphilosophie sind naiver Realismus, weil sie dem Satz huldigen: Das unmittelbar Wahrgenommene ist wirklich. Sie begehen dem ursprünglichen naiven Realismus gegenüber nur noch die Inkonsequenz, daß sie eine bestimmte Form des Wahrnehmens (das Fühlen, beziehungsweise Wollen) zum alleinigen Erkenntnismittel des Seins machen, während sie das doch nur können, wenn sie im allgemeinen dem Grundsatz huldigen: Das Wahrgenommene ist wirklich. Sie müßten somit auch dem äußeren Wahrnehmen einen gleichen Erkenntniswert zuschreiben.

Die Willensphilosophie wird zum metaphysischen Realismus, wenn sie den Willen auch in die Daseinssphären verlegt, in denen ein unmittelbares Erleben desselben nicht wie in dem eigenen Subjekt möglich ist. Sie nimmt ein Prinzip außer dem Subjekt hypothetisch an, für das das subjektive Erleben das einzige Wirklichkeitskriterium ist. Als metaphysischer Realismus verfällt die Willensphilosophie der im vorhergehenden Kapitel angegebenen Kritik, welche das widerspruchsvolle Moment jedes metaphysischen Realismus überwinden und anerkennen muß, daß der Wille nur insofern ein allgemeines Weltgeschehen ist, als er sich ideell auf die übrige Welt bezieht.

Zusatz zur Neuauflage (1918).
Die Schwierigkeit, das Denken in seinem Wesen beobachtend zu erfassen, liegt darin, daß dieses Wesen der betrachtenden Seele nur allzu leicht schon entschlüpft ist, wenn diese es in die Richtung ihrer Aufmerksamkeit bringen will. Dann bleibt ihr nur das tote Abstrakte, die Leichname des lebendigen Denkens.

Sieht man nur auf dieses Abstrakte, so wird man leicht ihm gegenüber sich gedrängt finden, in das «lebensvolle» Element der Gefühlsmystik, oder auch der Willensmetaphysik einzutreten. Man wird es absonderlich finden, wenn jemand in «bloßen Gedanken» das Wesen der Wirklichkeit ergreifen will. Aber wer sich dazu bringt, das Leben im Denken wahrhaft zu haben, der gelangt zur Einsicht, daß dem inneren Reichtum und der in sich ruhenden, aber zugleich in sich bewegten Erfahrung innerhalb dieses Lebens das Weben in bloßen Gefühlen oder das Anschauen des Willenselementes nicht einmal verglichen werden kann, geschweige denn, daß diese über jenes gesetzt werden dürften. Gerade von diesem Reichtum, von dieser inneren Fülle des Erlebens rührt es her, daß sein Gegenbild in der gewöhnlichen Seeleneinstellung tot, abstrakt aussieht. Keine andere menschliche Seelenbetätigung wird so leicht zu verkennen sein wie das Denken.Das Wollen, das Fühlen, sie erwärmen die Menschenseele auch noch im Nacherleben ihres Ursprungszustandes. Das Denken läßt nur allzuleicht in diesem Nacherleben kalt; es scheint das Seelenleben auszutrocknen. Doch dies ist eben nur der stark sich geltend machende Schatten seiner lichtdurchwobenen, warm in die Welterscheinungen untertauchenden Wirklichkeit. Dieses Untertauchen geschieht mit einer in der Denkbetätigung selbst dahinfließenden Kraft, welche Kraft der Liebe in geistiger Art ist. Man darf nicht einwendend sagen, wer so Liebe im tätigen Denken sieht, der verlegt ein Gefühl, die Liebe, in dasselbe. Denn dieser Einwand ist in Wahrheit eine Bestätigung des hier geltend Gemachten. Wer nämlich zum wesenhaften Denken sich hinwendet der findet in demselben sowohl Gefühl wie Willen, die letztern auch in den Tiefen ihrer Wirklichkeit; wer von dem Denken sich ab- und nur dem «bloßen» Fühlen und Wollen zuwendet, der verliert aus diesen die wahre Wirklichkeit. Wer im Denken intuitiv erleben will, der wird auch dem gefühlsmäßigen und willensartigen Erleben gerecht; nicht aber kann gerecht sein gegen die intuitiv-denkerische Durchdringung des Daseins die Gefühlsmystik und die Willensmetaphysik. Die letztern werden nur allzuleicht zu dem Urteil kommen, daß sie im Wirklichen stehen; der intuitiv Denkende aber gefühllos und wirklichkeitsfremd in abstrakten Gedanken, ein schattenhaftes, kaltes Weltbild formt.

7 – Are There Limits to Knowledge? (The Reality of Freedom) – 2

The naive man (naive realist) regards the objects of external experience as realities. The fact that his hands can grasp these objects, and his eyes see them, is for him sufficient proof of their reality. “Nothing exists that cannot be perceived” is, in fact, the first axiom of the naive man; and it is held to be equally valid in its converse: “Everything which can be perceived exists.” The best evidence for this assertion is the naive man’s belief in immortality and ghosts. He thinks of the soul as refined material substance which may, in special circumstances, become visible even to the ordinary man (naive belief in ghosts).

In contrast with this real world of his, the naive realist regards everything else, especially the world of ideas, as unreal or “merely ideal”. What we add to objects by thinking is nothing more than thoughts about the things. Thought adds nothing real to the percept.

But it is not only with reference to the existence of things that the naive man regards sense perception as the sole proof of reality, but also with reference to events. A thing, according to him, can act on another only when a force actually present to sense perception issues from the one and seises upon the other. In the older physics it was thought that very fine substances emanate from the objects and penetrate through the sense organs into the soul. The actual seeing of these substances is impossible only because of the coarseness of our sense organs relative to the fineness of these substances. In principle, the reason for attributing reality to these substances was the same as for attributing it to the objects of the sense-perceptible world, namely because of their mode of existence, which was thought to be analogous to that of sense-perceptible reality.

The self-contained nature of what can be experienced through ideas is not regarded by the naive mind as being real in the same way that sense experience is. An object grasped in “mere idea” is regarded as a chimera until conviction of its reality can be given through sense perception. In short, the naive man demands the real evidence of his senses in addition to the ideal evidence of his thinking. In this need of the naive man lies the original ground for primitive forms of the belief in revelation. The God who is given through thinking remains to the naive mind always a merely “notional” God. The naive mind demands a manifestation that is accessible to sense perception. God must appear in the flesh, and little value is attached to the testimony of thinking, but only to proof of divinity such as changing water into wine in a way that can be testified by the senses.

Even the act of knowing itself is pictured by the naive man as a process analogous to sense perception. Things, it is thought, make an impression on the soul, or send out images which enter through our senses, and so on.

What the naive man can perceive with his senses he regards as real, and what he cannot thus perceive (God, soul, knowledge, etc.) he regards as analogous to what he does perceive.

A science based on naive realism would have to be nothing but an exact description of the content of perception. For naive realism, concepts are only the means to an end. They exist to provide ideal counterparts of percepts, and have no significance for the things themselves. For the naive realist, only the individual tulips which he sees (or could see) are real; the single idea of the tulip is to him an abstraction, the unreal thought-picture which the soul has put together out of the characteristics common to all tulips.

Naive realism, with its fundamental principle of the reality of all perceived things, is contradicted by experience, which teaches us that the content of percepts is of a transitory nature. The tulip I see is real today; in a year it will have vanished into nothingness. What persists is the species tulip. For the naive realist, however, this species is “only” an idea, not a reality. Thus this theory of the world find itself in the position of seeing its realities arise and perish, while what it regards as unreal, in contrast with the real, persists.

Hence naive realism is compelled to acknowledge, in addition to percepts, the existence of something ideal. It must admit entities which cannot be perceived by the senses. In doing so, it justifies itself by conceiving their existence as being analogous to that of sense-perceptible objects. Just such hypothetical realities are the invisible forces by means of which the sense-perceptible objects act on one another.

Another such thing is heredity, which works on beyond the individual and is the reason why a new being which develops from the individual is similar to it, thereby serving to maintain the species. Such a thing again is the life-principle permeating the organic body, the soul for which the naive mind always finds a concept formed in analogy with sense realities, and finally the naive man’s Divine Being. This Divine Being is thought of as acting in a manner exactly corresponding to the way in which man himself is seen to act; that is, anthropomorphically.

Modern physics traces sensations back to processes of the smallest particles of bodies and of an infinitely fine substance, called ether, or to other such things. For example, what we experience as warmth is, within the space occupied by the warmth-giving body, the movement of its parts. Here again something imperceptible is conceived in analogy with what is perceptible. In this sense, the perceptual analogue to the concept “body” would be, shall we say, the interior of a totally enclosed space, in which elastic spheres are moving in all directions, impinging one on another, bouncing on and off the walls, and so on. (see fn 1)

Without such assumptions the world would fall apart for the naive realist into an incoherent aggregate of percepts without mutual relationships and with no tendency to unite.

It is clear, however, that naive realism can make these assumptions only by an inconsistency. If it would remain true to its fundamental principle that only what is perceived is real, then it ought not to assume a reality where it perceives nothing. The imperceptible forces which proceed from the perceptible things are in fact unjustified hypotheses from the standpoint of naive realism. And because naive realism knows no other realities, it invests its hypothetical forces with perceptual content. It thus ascribes a form of existence (perceptible existence) to a sphere where the only means of making any assertion about such existence, namely, sense perception, is lacking.

This self-contradictory theory leads to metaphysical realism. This constructs, in addition to the perceptible reality, an imperceptible reality which it conceives on the analogy of the perceptible one. Therefore metaphysical realism is of necessity dualistic.

Wherever the metaphysical realist observes a relationship between perceptible things (such as when two things move towards each other, or when something objective enters consciousness), there he sees a reality. However, the relationship which he notices can only be expressed by means of thinking; it cannot be perceived. The purely ideal relationship is then arbitrarily made into something similar to a perceptible one. Thus, according to this theory, the real world is composed of the objects of perception which are in ceaseless flux, arising and disappearing, and of imperceptible forces which produce the objects of perception, and are the things that endure.

Metaphysical realism is a contradictory mixture of naive realism and idealism. Its hypothetical forces are imperceptible entities endowed with the qualities of percepts. The metaphysical realist has made up his mind to acknowledge, in addition to the sphere which he is able to know through perception, another sphere for which this means of knowledge fails him and which can be known only by means of thinking. But he cannot make up his mind at the same time to acknowledge that the mode of existence which thinking reveals, namely, the concept (idea), is just as important a factor as the percept.

If we are to avoid the contradiction of imperceptible percepts, we must admit that the relationships which thinking establishes between the percepts can have no other mode of existence for us than that of concepts. If we reject the untenable part of metaphysical realism, the world presents itself to us as the sum of percepts and their conceptual (ideal) relationships. Metaphysical realism would then merge into a view of the world which requires the principle of perceivability for percepts and that of conceivability for the relationships between the percepts. This view of the world can admit no third sphere — in addition to the world of percepts and the world of concepts — in which both the so-called “real” and “ideal” principles are simultaneously valid.

When the metaphysical realist asserts that, besides the ideal relationship between the percept of the object and the percept of the subject, there must also exist a real relationship between the “thing-in- itself” of the percept and the “thing-in-itself” of the perceptible subject (that is, of the so-called individual spirit), he is basing his assertion on the false assumption of a real process, analogous to the processes in the sense world but imperceptible. Further, when the metaphysical realist asserts that we enter into a conscious ideal relationship to our world of percepts, but that to the real world we can have only a dynamic (force) relationship, he repeats the mistake we have already criticised. One can talk of a dynamic relationship only within the world of percepts (in the sphere of the sense of touch), but not outside that world.

Let us call the view which we have characterised above, into which metaphysical realism merges when it discards its contradictory elements, monism, because it combines one-sided realism with idealism into a higher unity.

For naive realism, the real world is an aggregate of perceived objects (percepts); for metaphysical realism, not only percepts but also imperceptible forces are real; monism replaces forces by ideal connections which are gained through thinking. The laws of nature are just such connections. A law of nature is in fact nothing but the conceptual expression of the connection between certain percepts.

Monism never finds it necessary to ask for any principles of explanation for reality other than percepts and concepts. It knows that in the whole field of reality there is no occasion for this question. In the perceptual world, as it presents itself directly to perception, it sees one half of the reality; in the union of this world with the world of concepts it finds the full reality.

The metaphysical realist may object to the adherent of monism: It may be that for your organisation, your knowledge is complete in itself, with no part lacking; but you do not know how the world is mirrored in an intelligence organised differently from your own. To this the monist will reply: If there are intelligences other than human, and if their percepts are different from ours, all that concerns me is what reaches me from them through perception and concept. Through my perceiving, that is, through this specifically human mode of perceiving, I, as subject, am confronted with the object. The connection of things is thereby interrupted. The subject restores this connection by means of thinking. In doing so it puts itself back into the context of the world as a whole. Since it is only through the subject that the whole appears cut in two at the place between our percept and our concept, the uniting of those two gives us true knowledge. For beings with a different perceptual world (for example, if they had twice our number of sense organs), the continuum would appear broken in another place, and the reconstruction would accordingly have to take a form specific for such beings.

The question concerning the limits of knowledge exists only for naive and metaphysical realism, both of which see in the contents of the soul only an ideal representation of the real world. For these theories, what exists outside the subject is something absolute, founded in itself, and what is contained within the subject is a picture of this absolute, but quite external to it. The completeness of knowledge depends on the greater or lesser degree of resemblance between the picture and the absolute object. A being with fewer senses than man will perceive less of the world, one with more senses will perceive more. The former will accordingly have a less complete knowledge than the latter.

For monism, the situation is different. The manner in which the world continuum appears to be rent asunder into subject and object depends on the organisation of the perceiving being. The object is not absolute, but merely relative, with reference to this particular subject. Bridging over the antithesis, therefore, can again take place only in the quite specific way that is characteristic of the particular human subject. As soon as the I, which is separated from the world in the act of perceiving, fits itself back into the world continuum through thoughtful contemplation, all further questioning ceases, having been but a consequence of the separation.

A differently constituted being would have a differently constituted knowledge. Our own knowledge suffices to answer the questions put by our own nature.

Metaphysical realism has to ask: By what means are our percepts given? What is it that affects the subject?

Monism holds that percepts are determined through the subject. But at the same time, the subject has in thinking the means for canceling this self-produced determination.

The metaphysical realist is faced by a further difficulty when he seeks to explain the similarity between the world pictures of different human individuals. He has to ask himself: How is it that the picture of the world which I build up out of my subjectively determined percepts and my concepts turns out to be the same as the one which another individual is also building up out of the same two subjective factors? How can I, in any case, draw conclusions from my own subjective picture of the world about that of another human being?

The fact that people can understand and get on with one another in practical life leads the metaphysical realist to conclude that their subjective world pictures must be similar. From the similarity of these world pictures he then further concludes that the “individual spirits” behind the single human subjects as percepts, or the “I-in-itself” behind the subjects, must also be like one another.

This is an inference from a sum of effects to the character of the underlying causes. We believe that we can understand the situation well enough from a sufficiently large number of instances to know how the inferred causes will behave in other instances. Such an inference is called an inductive inference. We shall be obliged to modify its results if further observation yields some unexpected element, because the character of our conclusion is, after all, determined only by the particular form of our actual observations. The metaphysical realist asserts that this knowledge of causes, though conditional, is nevertheless quite sufficient for practical life.

Inductive inference is the method underlying modern metaphysical realism. At one time it was thought that we could evolve something out of concepts that is no longer a concept. It was thought that the metaphysical realities, which metaphysical realism after all requires, could be known by means of concepts.

This kind of philosophising is now out of date. Instead it is thought that one can infer from a sufficiently large number of perceptual facts the character of the thing-in-itself which underlies these facts. Whereas formerly it was from concepts, now it is from percepts that people seek to evolve the metaphysical. Since one has concepts before oneself in transparent clearness, it was thought that one might be able to deduce the metaphysical from them with absolute certainty. Percepts are not given with the same transparent clearness. Each subsequent one is a little different from others of the same kind which preceded it.

Basically, therefore, anything inferred from past percepts will be somewhat modified by each subsequent percept. The character of the metaphysical thus obtained can, therefore, be only relatively true, since it is subject to correction by further instances. Eduard von Hartmann’s metaphysics has a character determined by this basic method, as expressed in the motto on the title page of his first important book: “Speculative results following the inductive method of Natural Science.”

The form which the metaphysical realist nowadays gives to his things-in-themselves is obtained by inductive inferences. Through considerations of the process of knowledge he is convinced of the existence of an objectively real world continuum, over and above the “subjective” world continuum which we know through percepts and concepts. The nature of this reality he thinks he can determine by inductive inferences from his percepts.

Author’s addition, 1918
For the unprejudiced observation of what is experienced through percept and concept, as we have tried to describe it in the foregoing pages, certain ideas which originate in the field of natural science are repeatedly found to be disturbing. Thus it is said that in the spectrum of light the eye perceives colours from red to violet. But in the space beyond the violet there are forces of radiation for which there is no corresponding colour-perception in the eye, but instead there is a definite chemical effect; in the same way, beyond the limit of the red there are radiations having only an effect of warmth.

By studying these and other similar phenomena, one is led to the view that the range of man’s perceptual world is determined by the range of his senses, and that he would be confronted by a very different world if he had additional, or altogether different, senses.

Anyone who chooses to indulge in the extravagant flights of fancy for which the brilliant discoveries of recent scientific research offer such tempting opportunities, may well arrive at the conclusion that nothing enters man’s field of observation except what can affect the senses which his bodily organisation has evolved. He has no right to regard what is perceived, limited as it is by his organisation, as in any way setting a standard for reality. Every new sense would confront him with a different picture of reality.

Within its proper limits this view is entirely justified. But if anyone allows this view to confuse him in his unprejudiced observation of the relationship of percept and concept as set out in these chapters, then he will bar his own way to any realistic knowledge of man and of the world. To experience the essential nature of thinking, that is, to work one’s way into the world of concepts through one’s own activity, is an entirely different thing from experiencing something perceptible through the senses.

Whatever senses man might possibly have, not one would give him reality if his thinking did not permeate with concepts whatever he perceived by means of it. And every sense, however constructed, would, if thus permeated, enable him to live within reality. This question of how he stands in the world of reality is untouched by any speculations he may have as to how the perceptual world might appear to him if he had different senses. We must clearly understand that every perceptual picture of the world owes its form to the organisation of the perceiving being, but also that the perceptual picture which has been thoroughly permeated by the experience of thinking leads us into reality.

What causes us to enquire into our relationship to the world is not the fanciful pictures of how different the world would appear to other than human senses, but the realisation that every percept gives us only a part of the reality concealed within it, in other words, that it directs us away from its inherent reality. Added to this is the further realisation that thinking leads us into that part of the reality which the percept conceals within itself.

Another difficulty in the way of the unprejudiced observation of the relationship between the percept and the concept wrought by thinking, as here described, arises when, for example, in the field of experimental physics it becomes necessary to speak not of immediately perceptible elements, but of non-perceptible quantities as in the case of lines of electric or magnetic force.

It may seem as if the elements of reality of which physicists speak had no connection either with what is perceptible or with the concepts which active thinking has wrought. Yet such a view would be based on self-deception. The main point is that all the results of physical research, apart from unjustifiable hypotheses which ought to be excluded, have been obtained through percept and concept. Elements which are seemingly non-perceptible are placed by the physicist’s sound instinct for knowledge into the field where percepts lie, and they are thought of in terms of concepts commonly used in this field. The strengths of electric or magnetic fields and such like are arrived at, in the very nature of things, by no other process of knowledge than the one which occurs between percept and concept.

An increase or a modification of human senses would yield a different perceptual picture, an enrichment or a modification of human experience. But even with this experience one could arrive at real knowledge only through the interplay of concept and percept. The deepening of knowledge depends on the powers of intuition which express themselves in thinking. In the living experience which develops within thinking, this intuition may dive down to greater or to lesser depths of reality. An extension of the perceptual picture may provide stimulation for this diving down of intuition, and thus indirectly promote it. But under no circumstances should this diving into the depths to reach reality be confused with being confronted by a perceptual picture of greater or lesser breadth, which in any case can only contain half the reality, as determined by the organisation of the cognising being.

If one does not lose oneself in abstractions, one will realise that for a knowledge of human nature it is a relevant fact that in physics one has to infer the existence of elements in the perceptual field for which no sense organ is tuned as it is for colour or sound. Man’s being, quite concretely, is determined not only by what his organisation presents to him as immediate percept, but also by the fact that from this immediate perception other things are excluded.

Just as it is necessary for life that in addition to the conscious waking state there should be an unconscious sleeping state, so for man’s experience of himself it is necessary that in addition to the sphere of his sense perception there should be another sphere — in fact a far larger one — of elements not perceptible to the senses but belonging to the same field from which the sense percepts come. All this was already implied in the original presentation of this work. The author adds these extensions to the argument because he has found by experience that many a reader has not read accurately enough.

It is to be remembered, too, that the idea of percept developed in this book is not to be confused with the idea of external sense percept which is but a special instance of it. The reader will gather from what has gone before, but even more from what will follow, that “percept” is here taken to be everything that approaches man through the senses or through the spirit, before it has been grasped by the actively elaborated concept. “Senses”, as we ordinarily understand the term, are not necessary in order to have percepts in soul- or spirit-experience.

It might be said that this extension of our ordinary usage is not permissible. But such extension is absolutely necessary if we are not to be prevented by the current sense of a word from enlarging our knowledge in certain fields. Anyone who uses “perception” to mean only “sense perception” will never arrive at a concept fit for the purposes of knowledge — even knowledge of this same sense perception.

One must sometimes enlarge a concept in order that it may get its appropriate meaning in a narrower field. Sometimes one must also add to the original content of a concept in order that the original concept may be justified or, perhaps, readjusted. Thus we find it said here in this book (see Chapter 6): “The mental picture is an individualised concept.” It has been objected that this is an unusual use of words. But this use is necessary if we are to find out what a mental picture really is.

How can we expect any progress in knowledge if everyone who finds himself compelled to readjust concepts is to be met by the objection, “This is an unusual use of words”?

7 – Are There Limits to Knowledge? (The Reality of Freedom) – 1

We have established that the elements for the explanation of reality are to be found in the two spheres: perceiving and thinking. It is due, as we have seen, to our organisation that the full, complete reality, including our own selves as subjects, appears at first as a duality. The act of knowing overcomes this duality by fusing the two elements of reality, the percept and the concept gained by thinking, into the complete thing.

Let us call the manner in which the world presents itself to us, before it has taken on its true nature through our knowing it, “the world of appearance,” in contrast to the unified whole composed of percept and concept. We can then say: The world is given to us as a duality, and knowledge transforms it into a unity.

A philosophy which starts from this basic principle may be called a monistic philosophy, or monism. Opposed to this is the two-world theory, or dualism. The latter does not assume just that there are two sides of a single reality which are kept apart merely by our organisation, but that there are two worlds absolutely distinct from one another. It then tries to find in one of these two worlds the principles for the explanation of the other.

Dualism rests on a false conception of what we call knowledge. It divides the whole of existence into two spheres, each of which has its own laws, and it leaves these two worlds standing apart and opposed.

It is from a dualism such as this that there arises the distinction between the perceptual object and the thing-in-itself, which Kant introduced into philosophy, and which, to the present day, we have not succeeded in eradicating. According to our line of argument, it is due to the nature of our mental organisation that a particular thing can be given to us only as a percept. Thinking then overcomes this particularity by assigning to each percept its rightful place in the world as a whole. As long as we designate the separated parts of the world as percepts, we are simply following, in this separating out, a law of our subjectivity.

If, however, we regard the sum of all percepts as the one part, and contrast with this a second part, namely, the things-in-themselves, then we are philosophising into the blue. We are merely playing with concepts. We construct an artificial pair of opposites, but we can gain no content for the second of these opposites, since such content for a particular thing can be drawn only from perception.

Every kind of existence that is assumed outside the realm of percept and concept must be relegated to the sphere of unjustified hypotheses. To this category belongs the “thing-in-itself”. It is quite natural that a dualistic thinker should be unable to find the connection between the world principle which he hypothetically assumes and the things given in experience. A content for the hypothetical world principle can be arrived at only by borrowing it from the world of experience and then shutting one’s eyes to the fact of the borrowing. Otherwise it remains an empty concept, a non-concept which has nothing but the form of a concept.

Here the dualistic thinker usually asserts that the content of this concept is inaccessible to our knowledge; we can know only that such a content exists, but not what it is that exists. In both cases it is impossible to overcome dualism. Even though one were to import a few abstract elements from the world of experience into the concept of the thing-in-itself, it would still remain impossible to derive the rich concrete life of experience from these few qualities which are, after all, themselves taken from perception.

DuBois-Reymond considers that the imperceptible atoms of matter produce sensation and feeling by means of their position and motion, and then comes to the conclusion that we can never find a satisfactory explanation of how matter and motion produce sensation and feeling, for “it is absolutely and for ever incomprehensible that it should be other than indifferent to a number of atoms of carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, and so on, how they lie and move, how they lay and moved, or how they will lie and will move. It is impossible to see how consciousness could come into existence through their interaction.” This conclusion is characteristic of this whole trend of thought. Position and motion are abstracted from the rich world of percepts, They are then transferred to the notional world of atoms. And then astonishment arises that real life cannot be evolved out of this self-made principle borrowed from the world of percepts.

That the dualist can reach no explanation of the world, working as he does with a completely empty concept of the “in-itself” of a thing, follows at once from the very definition of his principle given above.

In every case the dualist finds himself compelled to set impassable barriers to our faculty of knowledge. The follower of a monistic world conception knows that everything he needs for the explanation of any given phenomenon in the world must lie within this world itself. What prevents him from reaching it can be only accidental limitations in space and time, or defects of his organisation, that is, not of human organisation in general, but only of his own particular one.

It follows from the concept of the act of knowing as we have defined it, that one cannot speak of limits to knowledge. Knowing is not a concern of the world in general, but an affair which man must settle for himself. Things demand no explanation. They exist and act on one another according to laws which can be discovered through thinking, They exist in indivisible unity with these laws.

Our Egohood confronts them, grasping at first only that part of them we have called percepts. Within our Egohood, however, lies the power to discover the other part of the reality as well. Only when the Egohood has taken the two elements of reality which are indivisibly united in the world and has combined them also for itself, is our thirst for knowledge satisfied – the I has then arrived at the reality once more.

Thus the conditions necessary for an act of knowledge to take place are there through the I and for the I. The I sets itself the problems of knowledge; and moreover it takes them from an element that is absolutely clear and transparent in itself: the element of thinking. If we set ourselves questions which we cannot answer, it must be because the content of the questions is not in all respects clear and distinct. It is not the world which sets us the questions, but we ourselves.

I can imagine that it would be quite impossible for me to answer a question which I happened to find written down somewhere, without knowing the sphere from which the content of the question was taken.

In our knowledge we are concerned with questions which arise for us through the fact that a sphere of percepts, conditioned by place, time, and our subjective organisation, is confronted by a sphere of concepts pointing to the totality of the universe. My task consists in reconciling these two spheres, with both of which I am well acquainted. Here one cannot speak of a limit to knowledge.

It may be that, at any particular moment, this or that remains unexplained because, through our place in life, we are prevented from perceiving the things involved. What is not found today, however, may be found tomorrow. The limits due to these causes are only transitory, and can be overcome by the progress of perception and thinking.

Dualism makes the mistake of transferring the antithesis of object and subject, which has meaning only within the perceptual realm, to purely notional entities outside this realm. But since the separate things within the perceptual field remain separated only so long as the perceiver refrains from thinking (which cancels all separation and shows it to be due to purely subjective factors), the dualist is therefore transferring to entities behind the perceptible realm determining factors which even for this realm have no absolute validity, but only relative.

He thus splits up the two factors concerned in the process of knowledge, namely percept and concept, into four: (1) the object in itself; (2) the precept which the subject has of the object; (3) the subject; (4) the concept which relates the precept to the object in itself. The relation between subject and object is a real one; the subject is really (dynamically) influenced by the object. This real process is said not to appear in consciousness. But it is supposed to evoke in the subject a response to the stimulation from the object.

The result of this response is said to be the percept. Only at this stage does it enter our consciousness. The object is said to have an objective (independent of the subject) reality, the percept a subjective reality. This subjective reality is referred by the subject to the object. This reference is called an ideal one. With this the dualist therefore splits up the process of knowledge into two parts. The one part, namely, the production of the perceptual object out of the thing-in-itself, he conceives of as taking place outside consciousness, whereas the other, the combination of percept with concept and the reference of the concept to the object, takes place, according to him, within consciousness.

With these presuppositions, it is clear why the dualist believes his concepts to be merely subjective representatives of what is there prior to his consciousness. The objectively real process in the subject by means of which the percept comes about, and still more the objective relations between things-in- themselves, remain for such a dualist inaccessible to direct knowledge; according to him, man can obtain only conceptual representatives of the objectively real. The bond of unity which connects things with one another and also objectively with the individual mind of each of us (as thing-in-itself) lies beyond our consciousness in a being-in-itself of whom, once more, we can have in our consciousness merely a conceptual representative.

The dualist believes that he would dissolve away the whole world into a mere abstract. scheme of concepts, did he not insist on real connections between the objects besides the conceptual ones. In other words, the ideal principles which thinking discovers seem too airy for the dualist, and he seeks, in addition, real principles with which to support them.

Let us examine these real principles a little more closely.

7. Are there limits to knowledge? – 2

The naive person (that is, a naive realist) regards the objects of external experience as realities. The evidence for their reality is that they can be grasped by the hand and seen by the eye. “Nothing exists that cannot be perceived” is actually the first axiom of the naive human being, and its converse is seen as equally valid: “Everything that can be perceived exists.” The best proof of this assertion is the naive human belief in immortality and in spirits. The naive realist imagines the soul as fine, senseperceptible matter, which under certain circumstances, can even become visible to ordinary human beings (i.e., the naive belief in ghosts).

Compared to their “real world,” naive realists see everything else, such as the world of ideas, as unreal, as “merely conceptual.” What we add to objects through thinking are mere thoughts about things. Thought adds nothing real to a percept.

But naive persons hold sense perception to be the sole evidence of reality, not only for the existence of things, but also for events. In this view, one thing can only affect another if a sense perceptible force proceeds from the one and touches the other. In ancient physics, it was believed that very fine matter streams out from objects and penetrates our souls through our sense organs. Actually seeing such matter was said to be impossible only because of the crudeness of our senses in comparison to the fineness of the matter. In principle, this kind of matter was accorded reality on the same grounds by which reality is accorded to the objects of the sense world— namely, because of its mode of existence, which was thought of as analogous to that of sense perceptible reality.

For naive consciousness, the self-sufficient existence of what can be experienced through ideas is not considered to be real in the same way as what can be experienced through the senses. Until conviction of its reality is supplied by sense-perception, an object grasped in “idea alone” is a mere chimera. In brief, the naive person demands, in addition to the conceptual evidence of thinking, the real evidence of the senses. The basis for the development of primitive forms of belief in revelation lies in this naive human need. To naive consciousness, the god given through thinking always remains merely a “thought” god. Naive consciousness demands revelation through means accessible to sensory perception. God must appear bodily, and the testimony of thinking counts little. Rather, divinity must be confirmable by the senses through such things as the transformation of water into wine.

The naive person imagines that cognition is itself a process analogous to sensory processes. Things make an impression on the soul, or they emit images that penetrate through the senses, and so forth.

What naive human beings can perceive with their senses is considered real, and what cannot be perceived in this way (god, the soul, cognition, etc.) is imagined to be analogous to what is perceived.

If naive realism wants to establish a science, it can do so only through the exact description of perceptual contents. For naive realism, concepts are only means to this end. They exist to provide conceptual counter images of the percepts. They have no significance for the things themselves. For the naive realist, only individual tulips that are seen, or that can be seen, count as real; the idea of a tulip counts only as an abstraction, as an unreal thought image that the soul assembles from characteristics common to all tulips.

Naive realism, with its fundamental principle of the reality of everything perceived, is contradicted by experience, which teaches us that the content of perception is transient. The tulip that I see is real today; a year hence, it will have vanished into nothingness. Thus, the naive realist worldview is in the position of seeing its realities come and go, while what it regards as unreal is more lasting than the real. In addition to percepts, naive realism has to acknowledge something conceptual. It has to include entities that cannot be perceived with the senses. It reconciles itself to this by conceiving their mode of existence as analogous to that of sense objects. The invisible forces through which sense perceptible things affect one another are just such hypothetically assumed realities. So, too, is heredity, which has effects above and beyond the individual, and which is the reason for the development out of one individual of a new individual that is similar to the first, so that the species persists. The life principle permeating the organic body is another such assumed reality; so is the soul (for which naive consciousness always forms a concept analogous to sense realities); and so, finally, is the naive human’s Divine Being. This Divine Being is thought to act in a fashion that exactly corresponds to the perceptible ways in which human beings act—that is, anthropomorphically.

Modern physics traces sense impressions back to processes in the smallest parts of the body and in an infinitely fine substance, the ether—or something similar. For example, what we sense as warmth is the movement of the parts within the space occupied by the body that is the source of warmth. Here, too, something imperceptible is thought of by analogy to what is perceptible. The sensory analogue of the concept “body” might be, in this sense, the interior of an enclosed space, in which elastic spheres move in every direction, hitting one another, bouncing off the walls, and so forth.

Without such assumptions, the world of naive realism disintegrates into an incoherent aggregate of percepts, without mutual relationships and constituting no unity. But it is clear that naive realism can arrive at its assumptions only through inconsistency. If it remains true to its fundamental proposition that only the perceived is real, then it may not assume something real where it perceives nothing. From the standpoint of naive realism, those imperceptible forces operating out of perceptible things are actually unjustified hypotheses. Because such a theory knows of no other realities, it equips its hypothetical forces with perceptual content. It attributes a form of existence (perceptual existence) to a realm where sense perception—the sole means of making an assertion about this form of existence—is lacking.

This self-contradictory worldview leads to metaphysical realism. Alongside perceptible reality, metaphysical realism constructs another, imperceptible reality that it conceives as analogous to the first. Therefore, metaphysical realism is necessarily dualistic.

Wherever metaphysical realism notices a relationship between perceptible things (approaching something through movement; something objective entering consciousness, etc.) it posits a reality. Yet the relationship it notices cannot be perceived; it can only be expressed through thinking. This conceptual relationship is arbitrarily made into something akin to the perceptible. For this line of thinking, then, the real world is composed of perceptual objects that emerge and disappear in eternal flux, and of imperceptible forces that produce the perceptual objects and endure.

Metaphysical realism is a contradictory mixture of naive realism and idealism. Its hypothetical forces are imperceptible entities with perceptual qualities. Beyond that region of the world for whose form of existence a means of cognition is present in perception, it is determined to acknowledge still another region, for which this means is inadequate, and which can be ascertained only by thinking. Metaphysical realism, however, cannot, at the same time, decide to recognize that the form of existence transmitted by thinking—the concept or idea—is an equally valid factor with perception. To avoid the contradiction of imperceptible percepts, we must admit that the relationships between percepts, as transmitted through thinking, can have no other form of existence for us than that of concepts. If we reject the invalid components of metaphysical realism, the world presents itself as the sum of percepts and their conceptual (ideal) relations. Thus, metaphysical realism arrives at a worldview that requires, as a matter of principle, that we be able to perceive percepts, while it requires us to be able to think the relations among percepts. Beside the world of percepts and concepts, this metaphysical realism can validate no third region of the world for which both principles, the so-called principle of the real and the principle of the ideal, are simultaneously valid.

When metaphysical realism claims that, along with the ideal relation between the perceptual object and its subject, there must exist a real relationship between the “thing-in-itself” of the percept and the “thing-in-itself” of the perceptible subject (the so-called individual spirit), then this claim rests on the false assumption of the existence of a process analogous to the processes of the sense world but imperceptible. When metaphysical realism further states that we enter into a conscious ideal relationship with our perceptual world but can enter into a dynamic relationship (of forces) only with the real world, it commits the same error again. We can speak of a relationship of forces only within the perceptual world (in the area of the sense of touch), but not outside this world.

The worldview into which metaphysical realism merges when it eliminates its contradictory elements can be called monism, because it combines one-sided realism with idealism into a higher unity.

For naive realism, the real world is a sum of perceptual objects. For metaphysical realism, imperceptible forces as well as percepts attain reality. Monism replaces these forces with the conceptual connections achieved through thinking. But these connections are the laws of nature. A natural law, after all, is nothing other than a conceptual expression for the connection between certain percepts.

Monism never has to seek for explanatory principles of reality outside percepts and concepts. Monism realizes that, in the whole realm of reality, there is never occasion to do so. It sees the perceptual world, as it appears immediately to our perceiving, as something half real. It finds full reality in the union of that world with the conceptual world. The metaphysical realist may object to the monist: “As far as your organism is concerned, it may be that your cognition is perfect in itself, that it lacks nothing; but you do not know how the world would be reflected in an intelligence organized differently from your own.” To this monism will respond: “If there are nonhuman intelligences whose percepts have a form different from our own, what has meaning for me is still only what reaches me through my perceiving and concepts.”

Through my perceiving—in fact, through specifically human perceiving—I am located as a subject over against an object. The connection between things is thus interrupted. The subject then restores that connection through thinking. Thereby it reintegrates itself into the world as a whole. Since it is only through our own subject that the whole appears to be torn apart at the place between our percept and our concept, it is also in the union of those two that true cognition is given. For beings with a different perceptual world (for example, beings with double the number of sense organs), the connection would appear interrupted at a different place, and its reunion would accordingly have to take a form specific to those beings. The question of limits to cognition exists only for naive and metaphysical realism, both of which see in the soul’s content only a conceptual representation of the world. For them, what exists outside the subject is something absolute, something self-existent, and the content of the subject is a picture of this absolute, standing completely apart from it. The completeness of the cognition depends on the degree of similarity between the picture and the absolute object. A being with fewer senses than human beings have will perceive less of the world; one with more senses will perceive more. The former will therefore have less complete knowledge than the latter.

For monism, things are otherwise. The organization of the perceiving being determines where the connectedness of the world will seem torn apart into subject and object. The object is not absolute, merely relative to the particular subject. By the same token, the opposition can be bridged only in the specific way appropriate to human subjects. As soon as the I, which is separated from the world in perceiving, reintegrates itself into the connectedness of the world through its thinking contemplation, then all further questioning ceases—since it was only a result of the separation.

A differently constituted being would have a differently constituted cognition. Our own cognition is sufficient to answer the questions posed by our own nature.

Metaphysical realism must ask: How is what is given to us as perception given? How is the subject affected?

For monism, the percept is determined by the subject. But, at the same time, the subject has the means in thinking to cancel out what it has itself determined.

Metaphysical realists face a further difficulty when they seek to explain the similarity of the world pictures of different human individuals. They have to ask themselves: “How is it that the world picture that I construct out of my subjectively determined percepts and concepts is equivalent to those that other human individuals construct from the same two factors that are subjective to them? From my own subjective world picture, how can I draw any conclusions about that of another human being?” Because people manage to get along with one another in practice, the metaphysical realist believes it possible to infer the similarity of their subjective world pictures. From the similarity of these world pictures, a further inference is then drawn regarding the similarity of the individual spirits —the “I-in-itself”—underlying the separate human perceptual subjects.

This kind of conclusion infers, from a sum of effects, the character of their underlying causes. After a sufficient number of cases, we believe that we understand the situation enough to know how the inferred causes will operate in other cases. We call such an inference an inductive inference. If further observation yields something unexpected, we will find ourselves forced to modify its results, because the character of the result is, after all, determined only by the individual form of our observations. Yet, according to the metaphysical realist, this conditional knowledge of causes is perfectly sufficient for practical life.

Inductive inference is the methodological foundation of modern metaphysical realism. Once people believed that, from concepts, they could evolve something that was no longer a concept. They believed that, through concepts, they could know the metaphysically real entities that metaphysical realism necessarily requires. Today, this kind of philosophy belongs to a vanquished past. Instead, we believe that from a sufficient number of perceptual facts we can infer the character of the thing-in-itself underlying those facts. Just as earlier people sought to develop the metaphysical from concepts, they seek today to develop it from percepts. Since concepts were present to people in transparent clarity, they believed that they could deduce the metaphysical from them, too, with absolute certainty. But percepts are not so transparent to us. Each successive percept appears somewhat different from those of the same kind that preceded it. What is inferred from the earlier ones is consequently somewhat modified by each successive percept. Therefore, the form that we thus give to the metaphysical can be called only relatively correct. It is subject to correction by future cases. Eduard von Hartmann’s metaphysics is characterized by this methodological principle. Hence, on the title page of his first major work, he placed the motto: “Speculative results following the inductive method of natural science.”

The form that metaphysical realists give to things-in-themselves today is arrived at through inductive inferences. By reflecting on the process of cognition they have convinced themselves of the existence of an objectively real world continuity alongside what is “subjectively” cognizable through percept and concept. They believe they can determine how this objective reality is constituted by inductive inference from their percepts.

Addendum to the new edition (1918)
Certain ideas based on natural scientific study will always pose distractions for the kind of unprejudiced observation of experience in percepts and concepts that I have tried to present in the preceding discussion. According to modern science, for instance, the eye perceives colors in the light spectrum from red to violet. Beyond violet, there are forces of radiation corresponding to no color percept in the eye, but rather only to a chemical effect. In the same way, beyond the red limit, there are radiations that manifest only as warmth. Consideration of these and similar phenomena leads to the view that the range of the human perceptual world is determined by the range of the human senses, and humans would face an altogether different world if they had additional, or completely different, senses. Anyone who indulges in extravagant fantasies, for which the brilliant discoveries of current natural science offer quite seductive opportunities, can easily conclude that, after all, nothing enters the human field of observation but what can affect the senses formed by our bodily organization. We have no right, then, to regard what we perceive because of our bodily organization as any standard of reality. Each new sense would place before us a different picture of reality.

Within appropriate limits, this view is thoroughly justified. But those who allow themselves to be misled by this opinion and prevented from an unprejudiced observation of the relationship between percepts and concepts expressed here are sealing off the path to a knowledge of the world and of human beings that is rooted in reality. To experience the essence of thinking—that is, actively to elaborate the conceptual world—is something completely different from the experience of something perceptible through the senses. Whatever senses human beings might have, not one could give us reality if our thinking did not permeate what is perceived through them with concepts. However constituted, any sense permeated by concepts in this way offers human beings the possibility of living in reality. The fantasy of the completely different perceptual picture possible with other senses has nothing to do with the question of how human beings stand in the real world. We must realize that every perceptual picture takes its form from the organization of the perceiving entity, but that the perceptual picture permeated by an actually experienced thinking contemplation leads us into reality. It is not the fantasy depiction of how differently a world would look for other than human senses that can enable us to seek knowledge of our relationship to the world; rather, it is the insight that every percept gives only a part of the reality hidden within it, and that it thus directs us away from its own reality. This insight is then joined by another—that thinking leads us into the part of the percept’s reality that was hidden by the percept itself.

In the field of experimental physics, it is sometimes necessary to speak not of elements that are immediately perceptible, but of unobservable quantities such as lines of electric or magnetic force. This can also distract us from the unprejudiced observation of the relationship described here between the percept and the concept worked out in thinking. It can appear as if the elements of reality that physics describes have nothing to do either with what is perceptible or with the concept worked out in active thinking. Yet such a view would be based on self-deception. We must realize, in the first place, that everything worked out in physics—except unjustified hypotheses that ought to be excluded—is achieved with percepts and concepts. A physicist’s accurate cognitive instinct transposes what is apparently an unobservable content to the field where percepts exist, where it is then thought out in familiar concepts from that field. The strengths of electric or magnetic fields, for example, are not obtained through an essentially different cognitive process than that which operates between percepts and concepts.

An increase or alteration in the human senses would result in a different perceptual picture, an enrichment or alteration of human experience. But real knowledge must be achieved, even in regard to this experience, by the interaction of concept and percept. The deepening of cognition depends on the forces of intuition that live in thinking. In the experience of thinking, such intuition can immerse itself either more or less deeply in reality. The extension of the perceptual picture can stimulate this immersion and so, indirectly, promote it. Yet this immersion in the depths — this attainment of reality—should never be confused with encountering a broader or narrower perceptual picture, in which there is always only a half reality, as determined by the cognizing organism. Anyone not lost in abstractions will realize how relevant it is for our knowledge of human nature that physics has to infer elements in the perceptual field to which no sense is attuned as directly as for color or sound. Concretely, the essence of the human is determined not only by the kind of immediate perception with which we confront ourselves through our organization, but also by our excluding other things from this immediate perception. Just as both the conscious waking state and the unconscious state of sleep are necessary for life, so both the sphere of sense percepts and a (much greater) sphere of elements that are not senseperceptible, in the field from which sense percepts originate, are necessary for human self-experience. All of this was already expressed indirectly in the original presentation of this text. I add this extension of its content here because I have found that many readers have not read it with sufficient precision.

It should also be kept in mind that the idea of the percept, as developed in this text, must not be confused with that of external sense perception, which is only a special case of it. Readers will see from what has been said, but still more so from what will be said later, that everything both sensory and spiritual that meets a human being is here taken to be a “percept” until it is grasped by the actively elaborated concept. “Senses” of the kind normally meant by the word are not necessary to have percepts of soul or spirit. One could object that such an extension of normal linguistic usage is illegitimate. But it is absolutely necessary unless we want our cognitive growth in certain areas to be held in chains by linguistic custom. Anyone who speaks of perception only as sense perception will not arrive at a concept appropriate for knowledge—even knowledge of this same sense perception. Sometimes we must extend a concept so that it can have an appropriate meaning in a narrower field. Sometimes, too, we must add something to what a concept initially calls to mind so that what is thought of initially can be justified or adjusted. Thus, on page 100 of this book we read that “A mental picture, then, is an individualized concept.” I have heard the objection that this is an unusual use of words. But if we are to understand what a mental picture really is, this usage is necessary. What would become of the progress of knowledge, if everyone who has to adjust concepts meets with the objection, “That is an unusual use of words”?

7. Are there limits to knowledge? – 1

We have established that the elements needed to explain reality are to be drawn from the two spheres of perceiving and thinking. As we have seen, we are so organized that the full, total reality (including that of ourselves as subjects) initially appears to us as a duality. Cognition overcomes this duality by composing the thing as a whole out of the two elements of reality: the percept, and the concept worked out by thinking. Let us call the way in which the world meets us, before it has gained its true form through cognition, “the world of appearance,” in contrast to the unified reality composed of percepts and concepts. We can then say that the world is given to us as a duality, and cognition assimilates it into a (monistic) unity. A philosophy that proceeds from this fundamental principal can be characterized as monistic philosophy or monism. In contrast to it stands two-world theory or dualism. The latter does not, for example, assume that there are two sides to a unitary reality that are separated merely by our organization, but that there are two worlds that are absolutely distinct from one another. Dualism then seeks the explanatory principles for one world in the other.

Dualism rests on a false conception of what we call cognition. It separates the whole of existence into two regions, each of which has its own laws, and lets those regions confront one another outwardly.

The distinction between the perceived object and the thing-in-itself, which Kant introduced into science and which has not been overcome to this day, originates from this kind of dualism. Following what we have said, the nature of our spiritual organization is such that a separate thing can be given only as percept. Thinking then overcomes this separation by assigning to each percept its lawful place in the world totality. As long as the separated parts of the world totality are designated as percepts, we are simply following a law of our subjectivity when we make this separation. But if we consider the sum of all percepts as one part of the world, and then oppose to these percepts a second part, the “things-in-themselves,” we are philosophizing into thin air. We are just playing a game with concepts. We construct an artificial contrast and then can find no content for its second term—since such content can be created for a separate, particular thing only out of perception.

Every kind of existence assumed outside the realm of percepts and concepts must be relegated to the sphere of unjustified hypotheses. The “thing-in-itself” belongs to this category. It is only too understandable if dualistic thinkers can find no link between the world principle assumed hypothetically and what is given by experience.

We can give content to this hypothetical world principle only by borrowing content from the world of experience and then deceiving ourselves about this fact. Otherwise, it remains a concept devoid of content and has only the form of a concept. At this point, dualistic thinkers usually maintain that the content of the concept is inaccessible to our cognition: we can know only that such content exists; we cannot know what exists. In either case, overcoming dualism is impossible. Even if we import a few abstract elements from the world of experience into the concept of the thing-in-itself, it still remains impossible to trace back the rich, concrete life of experience to a few qualities that themselves are only borrowed from perception.

Du Bois-Reymond thinks that unperceivable atoms of matter create sensation and feeling by their position and movement. He uses this to arrive at the conclusion that we can never have a satisfying explanation of how matter and motion create sensation and feeling. Thus he writes:
It is completely and forever incomprehensible that a number of atoms of carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen, etc., should be other than indifferent as to how they are lying and moving, how they lay and moved, and how they will lie and move. There is no way to understand, from their interaction, how consciousness could arise.

Du Bois-Reymond’s argument is characteristic of this whole orientation of thought. Position and motion are separated out from the rich world of percepts. They are then transferred to the notional world of atoms. And astonishment follows that it is impossible to develop concrete life out of this homemade principle, imitated from the perceptual world.

From the definition of the principle of dualism given above, it follows that dualists, working with a completely contentless concept of the “in-itself,” cannot arrive at an explanation of the world.

In every instance, the dualist is constrained to set insurmountable barriers to our capacity for cognition. The follower of a monistic worldview knows that everything necessary to explain a given world phenomenon must lie within this world. What prevents us from achieving such an explanation can be only accidental temporal or spatial limits, or deficiencies in our organization—deficiencies not in human organization in general, but only in our own particular organization.

It follows from the concept of cognizing, as we have defined it, that we cannot speak of limits to cognition. Cognizing is not the business of the world in general, but a transaction that we must each accomplish for ourselves. Things demand no explanation. They exist and work on one another according to laws that thinking can discover. They exist in indivisible unity with these laws. Our I hood then confronts them, initially comprehending in them only what we have described as the percept. But within this I-hood also lies the power to find the other part of reality. Cognitive satisfaction is attained only when the I has united for itself both the elements of reality that are indivisibly connected in the world—for then the I has reached reality once again.

The preconditions for cognizing exist through and for the I. The I itself poses the questions of cognition. In fact, it draws them from the element of thinking, which is completely clear and transparent within itself. If we ask ourselves questions that we cannot answer, their content cannot be clear and distinct in every aspect. It is not the world that poses questions to us; we pose them to ourselves.

I can easily imagine that I would be quite incapable of answering a question that I happened to find written down somewhere if I did not know the sphere from which its content came.

Our cognition involves questions that emerge for us because a conceptual sphere, pointing to the totality of the world, confronts a perceptual sphere conditioned by place, time, and subjective organization. Our task is to balance these two spheres, both of which we know well. This has nothing to do with a limit to cognition. At a particular time, this or that might remain unexplained because the place of our vantage point in life prevents us from perceiving the things in question. But what is not found today may be found tomorrow. The limits determined in this way are only temporary, and they can be overcome by progress in perception and thinking.

Dualism mistakenly transfers the contrast between objects and subjects, which has meaning only within the perceptual realm, to purely imagined entities outside this realm. But things separated in the perceptual field are separate only as long as the perceiver refrains from thinking – for thinking suspends all separation and reveals it to be merely subjective. Therefore a dualist is really transferring -to entities behind the percepts – categories that have no absolute but only a relative validity, even for the percepts. A dualist splits percept and concept, the two factors involved in the cognitive process, into four: 1) the object in itself, 2) the subject’s percept of the object, 3) the subject, and 4) the concept that relates the percept to the object-in-itself.

For the dualist, the relationship between an object and a subject is a real one; the subject is really (dynamically) influenced by the object. This real process is said not to emerge into our consciousness. It is supposed to evoke a response in the subject to the stimulus proceeding from the object. The result of this response is supposed to be the percept, which alone emerges into consciousness. The object is supposed to have an objective reality (that is, a reality independent of the subject), while the percept is supposed to have a subjective reality. This subjective reality supposedly relates the subject to the object. That relationship is said to be ideal (conceptual). Thus, dualism splits the cognitive process into two parts. One of them, the creation of the perceptual object out of the thing-in-itself, is assigned a place outside consciousness, and the other, the connection of the percept to the concept and the relation of the concept to the object, is assigned a place within consciousness.

Given these presuppositions, it is clear why dualists believe it possible to attain only subjective representations of what lies before our consciousness. For dualists of this kind, the objective/real process in the subject, through which the percept arises, and, all the more so, the objective relationships of things-in-themselves, are not directly knowable. In their view, human beings can only construct conceptual representations of what is objectively real. The bond of unity that links things, both among themselves and to our individual spirit (as a thing-in-itself), lies beyond consciousness in a being-in-itself of whom, likewise, we can only have a conceptual representative in our consciousness.

Dualism believes that the whole world would evaporate into an abstract conceptual schema if “real” connections were not affirmed alongside the conceptual connections of objects. In other words, the conceptual principles discoverable through thinking appear too airy to dualists, and so they look for additional, real principles by which to support them.

Let us look more closely at these real principles.

VII. Gibt es Grenzen des Erkennens? – 1

Wir haben festgestellt, daß die Elemente zur Erklärung der Wirklichkeit den beiden Sphären: dem Wahrnehmen und dem Denken zu entnehmen sind. Unsere Organisation bedingt es, wie wir gesehen haben, daß uns die volle, totale Wirklichkeit, einschließlich unseres eigenen Subjektes, zunächst als Zweiheit erscheint. Das Erkennen überwindet diese Zweiheit, indem es aus den beiden Elementen der Wirklichkeit: der Wahrnehmung und dem durch das Denken erarbeiteten Begriff das ganze Ding zusammenfügt. Nennen wir die Weise, in der uns die Welt entgegentritt, bevor sie durch das Erkennen ihre rechte Gestalt gewonnen hat, die Welt der Erscheinung im Gegensatz zu der aus Wahrnehmung und Begriff einheitlich zusammengesetzten Wesenheit. Dann können wir sagen: Die Welt ist uns als Zweiheit (dualistisch) gegeben, und das Erkennen verarbeitet sie zur Einheit (monistisch). Eine Philosophie, welche von diesem Grundprinzip ausgeht, kann als monistische Philosophie oder Monismus bezeichnet werden. Ihr steht gegenüber die Zweiweltentheorie oder der Dualismus. Der letztere nimmt nicht etwa zwei bloß durch unsere Organisation auseinandergehaltene Seiten der einheitlichen Wirklichkeit an, sondern zwei voneinander absolut verschiedene Welten. Er sucht dann Erklärungsprinzipien für die eine Welt in der andern.

Der Dualismus beruht auf einer falschen Auffassung dessen, was wir Erkenntnis nennen. Er trennt das gesamte Sein in zwei Gebiete, von denen jedes seine eigenen Gesetze hat, und läßt diese Gebiete einander äußerlich gegenüberstehen Einem solchen Dualismus entspringt die durch Kant in die Wissenschaft eingeführte und bis heute nicht wieder herausgebrachte Unterscheidung von Wahrnehmungsobjekt und «Ding an sich». Unseren Ausführungen gemäß liegt es in der Natur unserer geistigen Organisation, daß ein besonderes Ding nur als Wahrnehmung gegeben sein kann. Das Denken überwindet dann die Besonderung, indem es jeder Wahrnehmung ihre gesetzmäßige Stelle im Weltganzen anweist. Solange die gesonderten Teile des Weltganzen als Wahrnehmungen bestimmt werden, folgen wir einfach in der Aussonderung einem Gesetze unserer Subjektivität. Betrachten wir aber die Summe aller Wahrnehmungen als den einen Teil und stellen diesem dann einen zweiten in den «Dingen an sich» gegenüber, so philosophieren wir ins Blaue hinein. Wir haben es dann mit einem bloßen Begriffsspiel zu tun. Wir konstruieren einen künstlichen Gegensatz, können aber für das zweite Glied desselben keinen Inhalt gewinnen, denn ein solcher kann für ein besonderes Ding nur aus der Wahrnehmung geschöpft werden.

Jede Art des Seins, das außerhalb des Gebietes von Wahrnehmung und Begriff angenommen wird, ist in die Sphäre der unberechtigten Hypothesen zu verweisen. In diese Kategorie gehört das «Ding an sich». Es ist nur ganz natürlich, daß der dualistische Denker den Zusammenhang des hypothetisch angenommenen Weltprinzipes und des erfahrungsmäßig Gegebenen nicht finden kann. Für das hypothetische Weltprinzip läßt sich nur ein Inhalt gewinnen, wenn man ihn aus der Erfahrungswelt entlehnt und sich über diese Tatsache hinwegtäuscht. Sonst bleibt es ein inhaltsleerer Begriff, ein Unbegriff, der nur die Form des Begriffes hat. Der dualistische Denker behauptet dann gewöhnlich: der Inhalt dieses Begriffes sei unserer Erkenntnis unzugänglich; wir könnten nur wissen, daß ein solcher Inhalt vorhanden ist, nicht was vorhanden ist. In beiden Fällen ist die Überwindung des Dualismus unmöglich. Bringt man ein paar abstrakte Elemente der Erfahrungswelt in den Begriff des Dinges an sich hinein, dann bleibt es doch unmöglich, das reiche konkrete Leben der Erfahrung auf ein paar Eigenschaften zurückzuführen, die selbst nur aus dieser Wahrnehmung entnommen sind. Du Bois-Reymond denkt, daß die unwahrnehmbaren Atome der Materie durch ihre Lage und Bewegung Empfindung und Gefühl erzeugen, um dann zu dem Schlusse zu kommen: Wir können niemals zu einer befriedigenden Erklärung darüber kommen, wie Materie und Bewegung Empfindung und Gefühl erzeugen, denn «es ist eben durchaus und für immer unbegreiflich, daß es einer Anzahl von Kohlenstoff-, Wasserstoff-, Stickstoff-, Sauerstoff- usw. Atomen nicht sollte gleichgültig sein, wie sie liegen und sich bewegen, wie sie lagen und sich bewegten, wie sie liegen und sich bewegen werden. Es ist in keiner Weise einzusehen, wie aus ihrem Zusammenwirken Bewußt sein entstehen könne». Diese Schlußfolgerung ist charakteristisch für die ganze Denkrichtung. Aus der reichen Welt der Wahrnehmungen wird abgesondert: Lage und Bewegung. Diese werden auf die erdachte Welt der Atome übertragen. Dann tritt die Verwunderung darüber ein, daß man aus diesem selbstgemachten und aus der Wahrnehmungswelt entlehnten Prinzip das konkrete Leben nicht herauswickeln kann.

Daß der Dualist, der mit einem vollständig inhaltleeren Begriff vom An-sich arbeitet, zu keiner Welterklärung kommen kann, folgt schon aus der oben angegebenen Definition seines Prinzipes. In jedem Falle sieht sich der Dualist gezwungen, unserem Erkenntnisvermögen unübersteigliche Schranken zu setzen. Der Anhänger einer monistischen Weltanschauung weiß, daß alles, was er zur Erklärung einer ihm gegebenen Erscheinung der Welt braucht, im Bereiche der letztern liegen müsse. Was ihn hindert, dazu zu gelangen, können nur zufällige zeitliche oder räumliche Schranken oder Mängel seiner Organisation sein. Und zwar nicht der menschlichen Organisation im allgemeinen, sondern nur seiner besonderen individuellen.

Es folgt aus dem Begriffe des Erkennens, wie wir ihn bestimmt haben, daß von Erkenntnisgrenzen nicht gesprochen werden kann. Das Erkennen ist keine allgemeine Weltangelegenheit, sondern ein Geschäft, das der Mensch mit sich selbst abzumachen hat. Die Dinge verlangen keine Erklärung. Sie existieren und wirken aufeinander nach den Gesetzen, die durch das Denken auffindbar sind. Sie existieren in unzertrennlicher Einheit mit diesen Gesetzen. Da tritt ihnen unsere Ichheit gegenüber und erfaßt von ihnen zunächst nur das, was wir als Wahrnehmung bezeichnet haben. Aber in dem Innern dieser Ichheit findet sich die Kraft, um auch den andern Teil der Wirklichkeit zu finden. Erst wenn die Ichheit die beiden Elemente der Wirklichkeit, die in der Welt unzertrennlich verbunden sind, auch für sich vereinigt hat, dann ist die Erkenntnisbefriedigung eingetreten: das Ich ist wieder bei der Wirklichkeit angelangt.

Die Vorbedingungen zum Entstehen des Erkennens sind also durch und für das Ich. Das letztere gibt sich selbst die Fragen des Erkennens auf. Und zwar entnimmt es sie aus dem in sich vollständig klaren und durchsichtigen Elemente des Denkens. Stellen wir uns Fragen, die wir nicht beantworten können, so kann der Inhalt der Frage nicht in allen seinen Teilen klar und deutlich sein. Nicht die Welt stellt an uns die Fragen, sondern wir selbst stellen sie.

Ich kann mir denken, daß mir jede Möglichkeit fehlt, eine Frage zu beantworten, die ich irgendwo aufgeschrieben finde, ohne daß ich die Sphäre kenne, aus der der Inhalt der Frage genommen ist.

Bei unserer Erkenntnis handelt es sich um Fragen, die uns dadurch aufgegeben werden, daß einer durch Ort, Zeit und subjektive Organisation bedingten Wahrnehmungssphäre eine auf die Allheit der Welt weisende Begriffssphäre gegenübersteht. Meine Aufgabe besteht in dem Ausgleich dieser beiden mir wohlbekannten Sphären. Von einer Grenze der Erkenntnis kann da nicht gesprochen werden. Es kann zu irgendeiner Zeit dieses oder jenes unaufgeklärt bleiben, weil wir durch den Lebensschauplatz verhindert sind, die Dinge wahrzunehmen, die dabei im Spiele sind. Was aber heute nicht gefunden ist, kann es morgen werden. Die hierdurch bedingten Schranken sind nur vergängliche, die mit dem Fortschreiten von Wahrnehmung und Denken überwunden werden können.

Der Dualismus begeht den Fehler, daß er den Gegensatz von Objekt und Subjekt, der nur innerhalb des Wahrnehmungsgebietes eine Bedeutung hat, auf rein erdachte Wesenheiten außerhalb desselben überträgt. Da aber die innerhalb des Wahrnehmungshorizontes gesonderten Dinge nur solange gesondert sind, als der Wahrnehmende sich des Denkens enthält, das alle Sonderung aufhebt und als eine bloß subjektiv bedingte erkennen läßt, so überträgt der Dualist Bestimmungen auf Wesenheiten hinter den Wahrnehmungen, die selbst für diese keine absolute, sondern nur eine relative Geltung haben. Er zerlegt dadurch die zwei für den Erkenntnisprozeß in Betracht kommenden Faktoren, Wahrnehmung und Begriff, in vier: 1. Das Objekt an sich; 2. die Wahrnehmung, die das Subjekt von dem Objekt hat; 3. das Subjekt; 4. den Begriff, der die Wahrnehmung auf das Objekt an sich bezieht. Die Beziehung zwischen dem Objekt und Subjekt ist eine reale; das Subjekt wird wirklich (dynamisch) durch das Objekt beeinflußt. Dieser reale Prozeß soll nicht in unser Bewußtsein fallen. Aber er soll im Subjekt eine Gegenwirkung auf die vom Objekt ausgehende Wirkung hervorrufen. Das Resultat dieser Gegenwirkung soll die Wahrnehmung sein. Diese falle erst ins Bewußtsein. Das Objekt habe eine objektive (vom Subjekt unabhängige), die Wahrnehmung eine subjektive Realität. Diese subjektive Realität beziehe das Subjekt auf das Objekt. Die letztere Beziehung sei eine ideelle. Der Dualismus spaltet somit den Erkenntnisprozeß in zwei Teile. Den einen, Erzeugung des Wahrnehmungsobjektes aus dem «Ding an sich», läßt er außerhalb, den andern, Verbindung der Wahrnehmung mit dem Begriff und Beziehung desselben auf das Objekt, innerhalb des Bewußtseins sich abspielen. Unter diesen Voraussetzungen ist es klar, daß der Dualist in seinen Begriffen nur subjektive Repräsentanten dessen zu gewinnen glaubt, was vor seinem Bewußtsein liegt. Der objektiv-reale Vorgang im Subjekte, durch den die Wahrnehmung zustande kommt, und um so mehr die objektiven Beziehungen der «Dinge an sich» bleiben für einen solchen Dualisten direkt unerkennbar; seiner Meinung nach kann sich der Mensch nur begriffliche Repräsentanten für das objektiv Reale verschaffen. Das Einheitsband der Dinge, das diese unter sich und objektiv mit unserem Individualgeist (als «Ding an sich») verbindet, liegt jenseits des Bewußtseins in einem Wesen an sich, von dem wir in unserem Bewußtsein ebenfalls nur einen begrifflichen Repräsentanten haben könnten.

Der Dualismus glaubt die ganze Welt zu einem abstrakten Begriffsschema zu verflüchtigen, wenn er nicht neben den begrifflichen Zusammenhängen der Gegenstände noch reale Zusammenhänge statuiert. Mit andern Worten: dem Dualisten erscheinen die durch das Denken auffindbaren Idealprinzipien zu luftig, und er sucht noch Realprinzipien, von denen sie gestützt werden können.

Wir wollen uns diese Realprinzipien einmal näher anschauen.

VII. Gibt es Grenzen des Erkennens? – 2

Der naive Mensch (naive Realist) betrachtet die Gegenstände der äußeren Erfahrung als Realitäten. Der Umstand, daß er diese Dinge mit seinen Händen greifen, mit seinen Augen sehen kann, gilt ihm als Zeugnis der Realität. «Nichts existiert, was man nicht wahrnehmen kann», ist geradezu als das erste Axiom des naiven Menschen anzusehen, das ebensogut in seiner Umkehrung anerkannt wird: «Alles, was wahrgenommen werden kann, existiert.» Der beste Beweis für diese Behauptung ist der Unsterblichkeits- und Geisterglaube des naiven Menschen. Er stellt sich die Seele als feine sinnliche Materie vor, die unter besonderen Bedingungen sogar für den gewöhnlichen Menschen sichtbar werden kann (naiver Gespensterglaube).

Dieser seiner realen Welt gegenüber ist für den naiven Realisten alles andere, namentlich die Welt der Ideen, unreal, «bloß ideell». Was wir zu den Gegenständen hinzudenken, das ist bloßer Gedanke über die Dinge. Der Gedanke fügt nichts Reales zu der Wahrnehmung hinzu.

Aber nicht nur in bezug auf das Sein der Dinge hält der naive Mensch die Sinneswahrnehmung für das einzige Zeugnis der Realität, sondern auch in bezug auf das Geschehen. Ein Ding kann, nach seiner Ansicht, nur dann auf ein anderes wirken, wenn eine für die Sinneswahrnehmung vorhandene Kraft von dem einen ausgeht und das andere ergreift. Die ältere Physik glaubte, daß sehr feine Stoffe von den Körpern ausströmen und durch unsere Sinnesorgane in die Seele eindringen. Das wirkliche Sehen dieser Stoffe ist nur durch die Grobheit unserer Sinne im Verhältnis zu der Reinheit dieser Stoffe unmöglich. Prinzipiell gestand man Stoffen aus demselben Grunde Realität zu, warum es den Gegenständen der Sinnenwelt zugesteht, nämlich wegen ihrer Seinsform, die derjenigen der sinnenfälligen Realität analog gedacht wurde.

Die in sich beruhende Wesenheit des ideell Erlebbaren gilt dem naiven Bewußtsein nicht in gleichem Sinne als real wie das sinnlich Erlebbare. Ein in der «bloßen Idee» gefaßter Gegenstand gilt so lange als bloße Schimäre, bis durch die Sinneswahrnehmung die Überzeugung von der Realität geliefert werden kann. Der naive Mensch verlangt, um es kurz zu sagen, zum ideellen Zeugnis seines Denkens noch das reale der Sinne. In diesem Bedürfnisse des naiven Menschen liegt der Grund zur Entstehung der primitiven Formen des Offenbarungsglaubens. Der Gott, der durch das Denken gegeben ist, bleibt dem naiven Bewußtsein immer nur ein ‘gedachter ’ Gott. Das naive Bewußtsein verlangt die Kundgebung durch Mittel, die der sinnlichen Wahrnehmung zugänglich sind. Der Gott muß leibhaftig erscheinen, und man will auf das Zeugnis des Denkens wenig geben, nur etwa darauf, daß die Göttlichkeit durch sinnenfällig konstatierbares Verwandeln von Wasser in Wein erwiesen wird. Auch das Erkennen selbst stellt sich der naive Mensch als einen den Sinnesprozessen analogen Vorgang vor. Die Dinge machen einen Eindruck in der Seele, oder sie senden Bilder aus, die durch die Sinne eindringen und so weiter.

Dasjenige, was der naive Mensch mit den Sinnen wahrnehmen kann, das hält er für wirklich, und dasjenige, wo von er keine solche Wahrnehmung hat (Gott, Seele, das Erkennen usw.), das stellt er sich analog dem Wahrgenommenen vor.

Will der naive Realismus eine Wissenschaft begründen, so kann er eine solche nur in einer genauen Beschreibung des Wahrnehmungsinhaltes sehen. Die Begriffe sind ihm nur Mittel zum Zweck. Sie sind da, um ideelle Gegenbilder für die Wahrnehmungen zu schaffen. Für die Dinge selbst bedeuten sie nichts. Als real gelten dem naiven Realisten nur die Tulpenindividuen, die gesehen werden, oder gesehen werden können; die eine Idee der Tulpe gilt ihm als Abstraktum, als das unreale Gedankenbild, das sich die Seele aus den allen Tulpen gemeinsamen Merkmalen zusammengefügt hat.

Den naiven Realismus mit seinem Grundsatz von der Wirklichkeit alles Wahrgenommenen widerlegt die Erfahrung, welche lehrt, daß der Inhalt der Wahrnehmungen vergänglicher Natur ist. Die Tulpe, die ich sehe, ist heute wirklich; nach einem Jahr wird sie in Nichts verschwunden sein. Was sich behauptet hat, ist die Gattung Tulpe. Diese Gattung ist aber für den naiven Realismus «nur» eine Idee, keine Wirklichkeit. So sieht sich denn diese Weltanschauung in der Lage, ihre Wirklichkeiten kommen und verschwinden zu sehen, während sich das nach ihrer Meinung Unwirkliche dem Wirklichen gegenüber behauptet. Der naive Realismus muß also neben den Wahrnehmungen auch noch etwas Ideelles gelten lassen. Er muß Wesenheiten in sich aufnehmen, die er nicht mit den Sinnen wahrnehmen kann. Er findet sich dadurch mit sich selbst ab, daß er deren Daseinsform analog mit derjenigen der Sinnesobjekte denkt. Solche hypothetisch angenommenen Realitäten sind die unsichtbaren Kräfte, durch die die sinnlich wahrzunehmenden Dinge aufeinander wirken. Ein solches Ding ist die Vererbung, die über das Individuum hinaus fortwirkt, und die der Grund ist, daß sich aus dem Individuum ein neues entwickelt, das ihm ähnlich ist, wodurch sich die Gattung erhält. Ein solches Ding ist das den organischen Leib durchdringende Lebensprinzip, die Seele, für die man im naiven Bewußtsein stets einen nach Analogie mit Sinnesrealitäten gebildeten Begriff findet, und ist endlich das göttliche Wesen des naiven Menschen. Dieses göttliche Wesen wird in einer Weise wirksam gedacht, die ganz dem entspricht, was als Wirkungsart des Menschen selbst wahrgenommen werden kann: anthropomorphisch.

Die moderne Physik führt die Sinnesempfindungen auf Vorgänge der kleinsten Teile der Körper und eines unendlich feinen Stoffes, des Äthers oder auf Ähnliches zurück. Was wir zum Beispiel als Wärme empfinden, ist innerhalb des Raumes, den der wärmeverursachende Körper einnimmt, Bewegung seiner Teile. Auch hier wird wieder ein Unwahrnehmbares in Analogie mit dem Wahrnehmbaren gedacht. Das sinnliche Analogon des Begriffs «Körper» ist in diesem Sinne etwa das Innere eines allseitig geschlossenen Raumes, in dem sich nach allen Richtungen elastische Kugeln bewegen, die einander stoßen, an die Wände an- und von ihnen abprallen und so weiter. Ohne solche Annahmen zerfiele dem naiven Realismus die Welt in ein unzusammenhängendes Aggregat von Wahrnehmungen ohne gegenseitige Beziehungen, das sich zu keiner Einheit zusammenschließt. Es ist aber klar, daß der naive Realismus nur durch eine Inkonsequenz zu dieser Annahme kommen kann. Wenn er seinem Grundsatz: nur das Wahrgenommene ist wirklich, treu bleiben will, dann darf er doch, wo er nichts wahrnimmt, kein Wirkliches annehmen. Die unwahrnehmbaren Kräfte, die von den wahrnehmbaren Dingen aus wirken, sind eigentlich unberechtigte Hypothesen vom Standpunkte des naiven Realismus. Und weil er keine anderen Realitäten kennt, so stattet er seine hypothetischen Kräfte mit Wahrnehmungsinhalt aus. Er wendet also eine Seinsform (das Wahrnehmungsdasein) auf ein Gebiet an, wo ihm das Mittel fehlt, das allein über diese Seinsform eine Aussage zu machen hat: das sinnliche Wahrnehmen.

Diese in sich widerspruchsvolle Weltanschauung führt zum metaphysischen Realismus. Der konstruiert neben der wahrnehmbaren Realität noch eine unwahrnehmbare, die er der erstern analog denkt. Der metaphysische Realismus ist deshalb notwendig Dualismus.

Wo der metaphysische Realismus eine Beziehung zwischen wahrnehmbaren Dingen bemerkt (Annäherung durch Bewegung, Bewußtwerden eines Objektiven usw.), da setzt er eine Realität hin. Die Beziehung, die er bemerkt, kann er jedoch nur durch das Denken ausdrücken, nicht aber wahrnehmen. Die ideelle Beziehung wird willkürlich zu einem dem Wahrnehmbaren Ähnlichen gemacht. So ist für diese Denkrichtung die wirkliche Welt zusammengesetzt aus den Wahrnehmungsobjekten, die im ewigen Werden sind, kommen und verschwinden, und aus den unwahrnehmbaren Kräften, von denen die Wahrnehmungsobjekte hervorgebracht werden, und die das Bleibende sind.

Der metaphysische Realismus ist eine widerspruchsvolle Mischung des naiven Realismus mit dem Idealismus. Seine hypothetischen Kräfte sind unwahrnehmbare Wesenheiten mit Wahrnehmungsqualitäten. Er hat sich entschlossen, außer dem Weltgebiete, für dessen Daseinsform er in dem Wahrnehmen ein Erkenntnismittel hat, noch ein Gebiet gelten zu lassen, bei dem dieses Mittel versagt, und das nur durch das Denken zu ermitteln ist. Er kann sich aber nicht zu gleicher Zeit auch entschließen, die Form des Seins, die ihm das Denken vermittelt, den Begriff (die Idee), auch als gleichberechtigten Faktor neben der Wahrnehmung anzuerkennen. Will man den Widerspruch der unwahrnehmbaren Wahrnehmung vermeiden, so muß man zugestehen, daß es für die durch das Denken vermittelten Beziehungen zwischen den Wahrnehmungen für uns keine andere Existenzform als die des Begriffes gibt. Als die Summe von Wahrnehmungen und ihrer begrifflichen (ideellen) Bezüge stellt sich die Welt dar, wenn man aus dem metaphysischen Realismus den unberechtigten Bestandteil hinauswirft. So läuft der metaphysische Realismus in eine Weltanschauung ein, welche für die Wahrnehmung das Prinzip der Wahrnehmbarkeit, für die Beziehungen unter den Wahrnehmungen die Denkbarkeit fordert. Diese Weltanschauung kann kein drittes Weltgebiet neben der Wahrnehmungs- und Begriffswelt gelten lassen, für das beide Prinzipien, das sogenannte Realprinzip und das Idealprinzip, zugleich Geltung haben.

Wenn der metaphysische Realismus behauptet, daß neben der ideellen Beziehung zwischen dem Wahrnehmungsobjekt und seinem Wahrnehmungssubjekt noch eine reale Beziehung zwischen dem «Ding an sich» der Wahrnehmung und dem «Ding an sich» des wahrnehmbaren Subjektes (des sogenannten Individualgeistes) bestehen muß, so beruht diese Behauptung auf der falschen Annahme eines den Prozessen der Sinnenwelt analogen, nicht wahrnehmbaren Seinsprozesses. Wenn ferner der metaphysische Realismus sagt: Mit meiner Wahrnehmungswelt komme ich in ein bewußt-ideelles Verhältnis; mit der wirklichen Welt kann ich aber nur in ein dynamisches (Kräfte-)Verhältnis kommen, – so begeht er nicht weniger den schon gerügten Fehler.

Von einem Kräfteverhältnis kann nur innerhalb der Wahrnehmungswelt (dem Gebiete des Tastsinnes), nicht aber außerhalb desselben die Rede sein.

Wir wollen die oben charakterisierte Weltanschauung, in die der metaphysische Realismus zuletzt einmündet, wenn er seine widerspruchsvollen Elemente abstreift, Monismus nennen, weil sie den einseitigen Realismus mit dem Idealismus zu einer höheren Einheit vereinigt.

Für den naiven Realismus ist die wirkliche Welt eine Summe von Wahrnehmungsobjekten; für den metaphysischen Realismus kommt außer den Wahrnehmungen auch noch den unwahrnehmbaren Kräften Realität zu; der Monismus setzt an die Stelle von Kräften die ideellen Zusammenhänge, die er durch sein Denken gewinnt. Solche Zusammenhänge aber sind die Naturgesetze. Ein Naturgesetz ist ja nichts anderes als der begriffliche Ausdruck für den Zusammenhang gewisser Wahrnehmungen.

Der Monismus kommt gar nicht in die Lage, außer Wahrnehmung und Begriff nach anderen Erklärungsprinzipien der Wirklichkeit zu fragen. Er weiß, daß sich im ganzen Bereiche der Wirklichkeit kein Anlaß dazu findet. Er sieht in der Wahrnehmungswelt, wie sie unmittelbar dem Wahrnehmen vorliegt, ein halbes Wirkliches; in der Vereinigung derselben mit der Begriffswelt findet er die volle Wirklichkeit. Der metaphysische Realist kann dem Anhänger des Monismus einwenden: Es mag sein, daß für deine Organisation deine Erkenntnis in sich vollkommen ist, daß kein Glied fehlt; du weißt aber nicht, wie sich die Welt in einer Intelligenz abspiegelt, die anders organisiert ist als die deinige. Die Antwort des Monismus wird sein: Wenn es andere Intelligenzen gibt als die menschlichen, wenn ihre Wahrnehmungen eine andere Gestalt haben als die unsrigen, so hat für mich Bedeutung nur dasjenige, was von ihnen zu mir durch Wahrnehmen und Begriff gelangt. Ich bin durch mein Wahrnehmen, und zwar durch dieses spezifische menschliche Wahrnehmen als Subjekt dem Objekt gegenübergestellt. Der Zusammenhang der Dinge ist damit unterbrochen. Das Subjekt stellt durch das Denken diesen Zusammenhang wieder her. Damit hat es sich dem Weltganzen wieder eingefügt.

Da nur durch unser Subjekt dieses Ganze an der Stelle zwischen unserer Wahrnehmung und unserem Begriff zerschnitten erscheint, so ist in der Vereinigung dieser beiden auch eine wahre Erkenntnis gegeben. Für Wesen mit einer andern Wahrnehmungswelt (zum Beispiel mit der doppelten Anzahl von Sinnesorganen) erschiene der Zusammenhang an einer andern Stelle unterbrochen, und die Wiederherstellung müßte demnach auch eine diesen Wesen spezifische Gestalt haben. Nur für den naiven und den metaphysischen Realismus, die beide in dem Inhalte der Seele nur eine ideelle Repräsentation der Welt sehen, besteht die Frage nach der Grenze des Erkennens. Für sie ist nämlich das außerhalb des Subjektes Befindliche ein Absolutes, ein in sich Beruhendes, und der Inhalt des Subjektes ein Bild desselben, das schlechthin außerhalb dieses Absoluten steht. Die Vollkommenheit der Erkenntnis beruht auf der größeren oder geringeren Ähnlichkeit des Bildes mit dem absoluten Objekte. Ein Wesen, bei dem die Zahl der Sinne kleiner ist, als beim Menschen, wird weniger, eines, bei dem sie größer ist, mehr von der Welt wahrnehmen. Das erstere wird demnach eine unvollkommenere Erkenntnis haben als das letztere.

Für den Monismus liegt die Sache anders. Durch die Organisation des wahrnehmenden Wesens wird die Gestalt bestimmt, wo der Weltzusammenhang in Subjekt und Objekt auseinandergerissen erscheint. Das Objekt ist kein absolutes, sondern nur ein relatives, in bezug auf dieses bestimmte Subjekt. Die Überbrückung des Gegensatzes kann demnach auch nur wieder in der ganz spezifischen, gerade dem menschlichen Subjekt eigenen Weise geschehen. Sobald das Ich, das in dem Wahrnehmen von der Welt abgetrennt ist, in der denkenden Betrachtung wieder in den Weltzusammenhang sich einfügt, dann hört alles weitere Fragen, das nur eine Folge der Trennung war, auf.

Ein anders geartetes Wesen hätte eine anders geartete Erkenntnis. Die unsrige ist ausreichend, um die durch unser eigenes Wesen aufgestellten Fragen zu beantworten. Der metaphysische Realismus muß fragen: Wodurch ist das als Wahrnehmung Gegebene gegeben; wodurch wird das Subjekt affiziert?

Für den Monismus ist die Wahrnehmung durch das Subjekt bestimmt. Dieses hat aber in dem Denken zugleich das Mittel, die durch es selbst hervorgerufene Bestimmtheit wieder aufzuheben. Der metaphysische Realismus steht vor einer weiteren Schwierigkeit, wenn er die Ähnlichkeit der Weltbilder verschiedener menschlicher Individuen erklären will. Er muß sich fragen: Wie kommt es, daß das Weltbild, das ich aus meiner subjektiv bestimmten Wahrnehmung und meinen Begriffen aufbaue, gleichkommt dem, das ein anderes menschliches Individuum aus denselben beiden subjektiven Faktoren aufbaut? Wie kann ich überhaupt aus meinem subjektiven Weltbilde auf das eines andern Menschen schließen? Daraus, daß die Menschen sich miteinander praktisch abfinden, glaubt der metaphysische Realist die Ähnlichkeit ihrer subjektiven Weltbilder erschließen zu können. Aus der Ähnlichkeit dieser Weltbilder schließt er dann weiter auf die Gleichheit der den einzelnen menschlichen Wahrnehmungssubjekten zugrunde liegenden Individualgeister oder der den Subjekten zugrunde liegenden «Ich an sich».

Dieser Schluß ist also ein solcher aus einer Summe von Wirkungen auf den Charakter der ihnen zugrunde liegenden Ursachen. Wir glauben aus einer hinreichend großen Anzahl von Fällen den Sachverhalt so zu erkennen, daß wir wissen, wie sich die erschlossenen Ursachen in andern Fällen verhalten werden. Einen solchen Schluß nennen wir einen Induktionsschluß. Wir werden uns genötigt sehen, die Resultate desselben zu modifizieren, wenn in einer weitern Beobachtung etwas Unerwartetes sich ergibt, weil der Charakter des Resultates doch nur durch die individuelle Gestalt der geschehenen Beobachtungen bestimmt ist. Diese bedingte Erkenntnis der Ursachen reiche aber für das praktische Leben vollständig aus, behauptet der metaphysische Realist.

Der Induktionsschluß ist die methodische Grundlage des modernen metaphysischen Realismus. Es gab eine Zeit, in der man aus Begriffen glaubte etwas herauswickeln zu können, was nicht mehr Begriff ist. Man glaubte aus den Begriffen die metaphysischen Realwesen, deren der metaphysische Realismus einmal bedarf, erkennen zu können. Diese Art des Philosophierens gehört heute zu den überwundenen Dingen. Dafür aber glaubt man, aus einer genügend großen Anzahl von Wahrnehmungstatsachen auf den Charakter des Dinges an sich schließen zu können, das diesen Tatsachen zugrunde liegt. Wie früher aus dem Begriffe, so meint man heute das Metaphysische aus den Wahrnehmungen herauswickeln zu können. Da man die Begriffe in durchsichtiger Klarheit vor sich hat, so glaubte man aus ihnen auch das Metaphysische mit absoluter

Sicherheit ableiten zu können. Die Wahrnehmungen liegen nicht mit gleich durchsichtiger Klarheit vor. Jede folgende stellt sich wieder etwas anders dar, als die gleichartigen vorhergehenden. Im Grunde wird daher das aus den vorhergehenden Erschlossene durch jede folgende etwas modifiziert. Die Gestalt, die man auf diese Weise für das Metaphysische gewinnt, ist also nur eine relativ richtige zu nennen; sie unterliegt der Korrektur durch künftige Fälle. Einen durch diesen methodischen Grundsatz bestimmten Charakter trägt die Metaphysik Eduard von Hartmanns, der als Motto auf das Titelblatt seines ersten Hauptwerkes gesetzt hat: «Spekulative Resultate nach induktiv naturwissenschaftlicher Methode.»

Die Gestalt, die der metaphysische Realist gegenwärtig seinen Dingen an sich gibt, ist eine durch Induktionsschlüsse gewonnene. Von dem Vorhandensein eines objektiv-realen Zusammenhanges der Welt neben dem «subjektiven» durch Wahrnehmung und Begriff erkennbaren, ist er durch Erwägungen über den Erkenntnisprozeß überzeugt. Wie diese objektive Realität beschaffen ist, das glaubt er durch Induktionsschlüsse aus seinen Wahrnehmungen heraus bestimmen zu können.

Zusatz zur Neuauflage (1918)
Für die unbefangene Beobachtung des Erlebens in Wahrnehmung und Begriff, wie sie in den vorangehenden Ausführungen zu schildern versucht worden ist, werden gewisse Vorstellungen immer wieder störend sein, die auf dem Boden der Naturbetrachtung entstehen. Man sagt sich, auf diesem Boden stehend, durch das Auge werden im Lichtspektrum Farben wahrgenommen vom Rot bis zum Violett. Aber über das Violett hinaus liegen im Strahlungsraum des Spektrums Kräfte, welchen keine Farbwahrnehmung des Auges, wohl aber eine chemische Wirkung entspricht; ebenso liegen über die Grenze der Rotwirksamkeit hinaus Strahlungen, die nur Wärmewirkungen haben. Man kommt durch Überlegungen, die auf solche und ähnliche Erscheinungen gerichtet sind, zu der Ansicht: der Umfang der menschlichen Wahrnehmungswelt ist durch den Umfang der Sinne des Menschen bestimmt, und dieser würde eine ganz andere Welt vor sich haben, wenn er zu den seinigen noch andere, oder wenn er überhaupt andere Sinne hätte. Wer sich ergehen mag in den ausschweifenden Phantasien, zu denen, nach dieser Richtung hin, namentlich die glänzenden Entdeckungen der neueren Naturforschung eine recht verführerische Veranlassung bieten, der kann wohl zu dem Bekenntnisse kommen: In des Menschen Beobachtungsfeld fällt doch nur dasjenige herein, was auf die aus seiner Organisation heraus gestalteten Sinne zu wirken vermag. Er hat kein Recht, dieses von ihm durch seine Organisation begrenzte Wahrgenommene als irgendwie maßgeblich für die Wirklichkeit anzusehen. Jeder neue Sinn müßte ihn vor ein anderes Bild der Wirklichkeit stellen. – Dies alles ist, in den entsprechenden Grenzen gedacht, eine durchaus berechtigte Meinung. Wenn aber jemand sich durch diese Meinung in der unbefangenen Beobachtung des in diesen Ausführungen geltend gemachten Verhältnisses von Wahrnehmung und Begriff beirren läßt, so verbaut er sich den Weg zu einer in der Wirklichkeit wurzelnden Welt- und Menschenerkenntnis. Das Erleben der Wesenheit des Denkens, also die tätige Erarbeitung der Begriffswelt ist etwas durchaus anderes als das Erleben eines Wahrnehmbaren durch die Sinne. Welche Sinne immer der Mensch noch haben könnte: keiner gäbe ihm eine Wirklichkeit, wenn er nicht das durch ihn vermittelte Wahrgenommene denkend mit Begriffen durchsetzte; und jeder wie immer geartete Sinn gibt, so durchsetzt, dem Menschen die Möglichkeit, in der Wirklichkeit drinnen zu leben. Mit der Frage: wie der Mensch in der wirklichen Welt steht, hat die Phantasie von dem möglichen ganz anderen Wahrnehmungsbild bei anderen Sinnen nichts zu tun. Man muß eben einsehen, daß jedes Wahrnehmungsbild seine Gestalt erhält von der Organisation des wahrnehmenden Wesens, daß aber das von der erlebten denkenden Betrachtung durchsetzte Wahrnehmungsbild den Menschen in die Wirklichkeit führt. Nicht die phantastische Ausmalung, wie anders eine Welt für andere als die menschlichen Sinne aussehen müßte, kann den Menschen veranlassen, Erkenntnis zu suchen über sein Verhältnis zur Welt, sondern die Einsicht, daß jede Wahrnehmung nur einen Teil der in ihr steckenden Wirklichkeit gibt, daß sie also von ihrer eigenen Wirklichkeit hinwegführt. Dieser Einsicht tritt dann die andere zur Seite, daß das Denken in den durch die Wahrnehmung an ihr selbst verborgenen Teil der Wirklichkeit hineinführt. Störend für die unbefangene Beobachtung des hier dargestellten Verhältnisses zwischen Wahrnehmung und denkend erarbeitetem Begriff kann auch werden, wenn im Gebiete der physikalischen Erfahrung sich die Nötigung ergibt, gar nicht von unmittelbar anschaulich wahrnehmbaren Elementen, sondern von unanschaulichen Größen wie elektrischen oder magnetischen Kraftlinien und so weiter zu sprechen. Es kann scheinen, als ob die Wirklichkeitselemente, von denen die Physik spricht, weder mit dem Wahrnehmbaren, noch mit dem im tätigen Denken erarbeiteten Begriff etwas zu tun hätten. Doch beruhte eine solche Meinung auf einer Selbsttäuschung. Zunächst kommt es darauf an, daß alles in der Physik Erarbeitete, insofern es nicht unberechtigte Hypothesen darstellt, die ausgeschlossen bleiben sollten, durch Wahrnehmung und Begriff gewonnen ist. Was scheinbar unanschaulicher Inhalt ist, das wird aus einem richtigen Erkenntnisinstinkt des Physikers heraus durchaus in das Feld versetzt, auf dem die Wahrnehmungen liegen, und es wird in Begriffen gedacht, mit denen man sich auf diesem Felde betätigt. Die Kraftstärken im elektrischen und magnetischen Felde und so weiter werden, dem Wesen nach, nicht durch einen andern Erkenntnisvorgang gewonnen als durch denjenigen, der sich zwischen Wahrnehmung und Begriff abspielt. – Eine Vermehrung oder Andersgestaltung der menschlichen Sinne würde ein anderes Wahrnehmungsbild ergeben, eine Bereicherung oder Andersgestaltung der menschlichen Erfahrung; aber eine wirkliche Erkenntnis müßte auch dieser Erfahrung gegenüber durch die Wechselwirkung von Begriff und Wahrnehmung gewonnen werden. Die Vertiefung der Erkenntnis hängt von den im Denken sich auslebenden Kräften der Intuition ab. Diese Intuition kann in demjenigen Erleben, das im Denken sich ausgestaltet, in tiefere oder weniger tiefe Untergründe der Wirklichkeit tauchen. Durch die Erweiterung des Wahrnehmungsbildes kann dieses Untertauchen Anregungen empfangen und auf diese Art mittelbar gefördert werden. Allein niemals sollte das Tauchen in die Tiefe, als das Erreichen der Wirklichkeit, verwechselt werden mit dem Gegenüberstehen von weiterem oder engerem Wahrnehmungsbild, in dem stets nur eine halbe Wirklichkeit, wie sie von der erkennenden Organisation bedingt wird, vorliegt. Wer nicht in Abstraktionen sich verliert, der wird einsehen, wie auch die Tatsache für die Erkenntnis des Menschenwesens in Betracht kommt, daß für die Physik im Wahrnehmungsfelde Elemente erschlossen werden müssen, für welche nicht ein Sinn wie für Farbe oder Ton unmittelbar abgestimmt ist. Das konkrete Wesen des Menschen ist nicht nur durch dasjenige bestimmt, was er durch seine Organisation sich als unmittelbare Wahrnehmung gegenüberstellt, sondern auch dadurch, daß er anderes von dieser unmittelbaren Wahrnehmung ausschließt. Wie dem Leben neben dem bewußten Wachzustande der unbewußte Schlafzustand notwendig ist, so ist dem Sich-Erleben des

Menschen neben dem Umkreis seiner Sinneswahrnehmung notwendig ein – viel größerer sogar – Umkreis von nicht sinnlich wahrnehmbaren Elementen in dem Felde, aus dem die Sinneswahrnehmungen stammen. Dies alles ist mittelbar schon ausgesprochen in der ursprünglichen Darstellung dieser Schrift. Deren Verfasser fügt hier diese Erweiterung des Inhaltes an, weil er die Erfahrung gemacht hat, daß mancher Leser nicht genau genug gelesen hat. – Bedacht sollte auch werden, daß die Idee von der Wahrnehmung, wie sie in dieser Schrift entwickelt wird, nicht verwechselt werden darf mit derjenigen von äußerer Sinneswahrnehmung, die nur ein Spezialfall von ihr ist. Man wird aus dem schon Vorangehenden, aber noch mehr aus dem später Ausgeführten ersehen, daß hier alles sinnlich und geistig an den Menschen Herantretende als Wahrnehmung aufgefaßt wird, bevor es von dem tätig erarbeiteten Begriff erfaßt ist. Um Wahrnehmungen seelischer oder geistiger Art zu haben, sind nicht Sinne von gewöhnlich gemeinter Art nötig. Man könnte sagen, solche Erweiterung des üblichen Sprachgebrauches sei unstatthaft. Allein sie ist unbedingt notwendig, wenn man sich nicht auf gewissen Gebieten eben durch den Sprachgebrauch in der Erkenntniserweiterung fesseln lassen will. Wer von Wahrnehmung nur im Sinne von sinnlicher Wahrnehmung spricht, der kommt auch über diese sinnliche Wahrnehmung nicht zu einem für die Erkenntnis brauchbaren Begriff. Man muß manchmal einen Begriff erweitern, damit er auf einem engeren Gebiete seinen ihm angemessenen Sinn erhält. Man muß auch zuweilen zu dem, was in einem Begriffe zunächst gedacht wird, anderes hinzufügen, damit das so Gedachte seine Rechtfertigung oder auch Zurechtrückung findet. So findet man auf Seite 107 dieses Buches gesagt: «Die Vorstellung ist also ein individualisierter Begriff.» Demgegenüber wurde mir eingewendet, das sei ein ungewöhnlicher Wortgebrauch. Aber dieser Wortgebrauch ist notwendig, wenn man dahinterkommen will, was Vorstellung eigentlich ist. Was sollte aus dem Fortgang der Erkenntnis werden, wenn man jedem, der in die Notwendigkeit versetzt ist, Begriffe zurechtzurücken, den Einwand machte: «Das ist ein ungewöhnlicher Wortgebrauch.»

6. Human Individuality

In explaining mental pictures, philosophers have found the chief difficulty in the fact that we ourselves are not the outer things, and yet our mental pictures must have a form corresponding to the things. But on closer inspection it turns out that this difficulty does not really exist. We certainly are not the external things, but we belong together with them to one and the same world.

That section of the world which I perceive to be myself as subject is permeated by the stream of the universal cosmic process. To my perception I am, in the first instance, confined within the limits bounded by my skin. But all that is contained within this skin belongs to the cosmos as a whole. Hence, for a relation to subsist between my organism and an object external to me, it is by no means necessary that something of the object should slip into me, or make an impression on my mind, like a signet ring on wax.

The question: “How do I get information about that tree ten feet away from me?” is utterly misleading. It springs from the view that the boundaries of my body are absolute barriers, through which information about things filters into me. The forces which are at work inside my body are the same as those which exist outside. Therefore I really am the things; not, however, “I” in so far as I am a percept of myself as subject, but “I” in so far as I am a part of the universal world process. The percept of the tree belongs to the same whole as my I.

This universal world process produces equally the percept of the tree out there and the percept of my I in here. Were I not a world knower, but world creator, object and subject (percept and I) would originate in one act. For each implies the other. In so far as these are entities that belong together, I can as world knower discover the common element in both only through thinking, which relates one to the other by means of concepts.

The most difficult to drive from the field are the so-called physiological proofs of the subjectivity of our percepts. When I exert pressure on my skin I perceive it as a pressure sensation. This same pressure can be sensed as light by the eye, as sound by the ear.

An electric shock is perceived by the eye as light, by the ear as noise, by the nerves of the skin as impact, and by the nose as a phosphoric smell. What follows from these facts? Only this: I perceive an electric shock (or a pressure, as the case may be) followed by an impression of light, or sound, or perhaps a certain smell, and so on. If there were no eye present, then no perception of light would accompany the perception of the mechanical disturbance in my environment; without the presence of the ear, no perception of sound, and so on. But what right have we to say that in the absence of sense organs the whole process would not exist at all?

Those who, from the fact that an electrical process calls forth light in the eye, conclude that what we sense as light is only a mechanical process of motion when outside our organism, forget that they are only passing from one percept to another, and not at all to something lying beyond percepts. Just as we can say that the eye perceives a mechanical process of motion in its surroundings as light, so we could equally well say that a regular and systematic change in an object is perceived by us as a process of motion.

If I draw twelve pictures of a horse on the circumference of a rotating disc, reproducing exactly the attitudes which the horse’s body successively assumes when galloping, I can produce the illusion of movement by rotating the disc. I need only look through an opening in such a way that, in the proper intervals, I see the successive positions of the horse. I do not see twelve separate pictures of a horse but the picture of a single galloping horse.

The physiological fact mentioned above cannot therefore throw any light on the relation of percept to mental picture. We must go about it rather differently.

The moment a percept appears in my field of observation, thinking also becomes active through me. An element of my thought system, a definite intuition, a concept, connects itself with the percept. Then, when the percept disappears from my field of vision, what remains? My intuition, with the reference to the particular percept which it acquired in the moment of perceiving. The degree of vividness with which I can subsequently recall this reference depends on the manner in which my mental and bodily organism is working.

A mental picture is nothing but an intuition related to a particular percept; it is a concept that was once connected with a certain percept, and which retains the reference to this percept. My concept of a lion is not formed out of my percepts of lions; but my mental picture of a lion is very definitely formed according to a percept. I can convey the concept of a lion to someone who has never seen a lion. I cannot convey to him a vivid mental picture without the help of his own perception.

Thus the mental picture is an individualised concept. And now we can see how real objects can be represented to us by mental pictures. The full reality of a thing is given to us in the moment of observation through the fitting together of concept and percept. By means of a percept, the concept acquires an individualised form, a relation to this particular percept. In this individualised form, which carries the reference to the percept as a characteristic feature, the concept lives on in us and constitutes the mental picture of the thing in question.

If we come across a second thing with which the same concept connects itself, we recognise the second as belonging to the same kind as the first; if we come across the same thing a second time, we find in our conceptual system, not merely a corresponding concept, but the individualised concept with its characteristic relation to the same object, and thus we recognise the object again.

Thus the mental picture stands between percept and concept. It is the particularised concept which points to the percept.

The sum of those things about which I can form mental pictures may be called my total experience. The man who has the greater number of individualised concepts will be the man of richer experience. A man who lacks all power of intuition is not capable of acquiring experience. He loses the objects again when they disappear from his field of vision, because he lacks the concepts which he should bring into relation with them.

A man whose faculty of thinking is well developed, but whose perception functions badly owing to his clumsy sense organs, will just as little be able to gather experience. He can, it is true, acquire concepts by one means or another; but his intuitions lack the vivid reference to definite things. The unthinking traveler and the scholar living in abstract conceptual systems are alike incapable of acquiring a rich sum of experience.

Reality shows itself to us as percept and concept; the subjective representative of this reality shows itself to us as mental picture.

If our personality expressed itself only in cognition, the totality of all that is objective would be given in percept, concept and mental picture.

However, we are not satisfied merely to refer the percept, by means of thinking, to the concept, but we relate them also to our particular subjectivity, our individual ego. The expression of this individual relationship is feeling, which manifests itself as pleasure or displeasure.

Thinking and feeling correspond to the two-fold nature of our being to which reference has already been made. Thinking is the element through which we take part in the universal cosmic process; feeling is that through which we can withdraw ourselves into the narrow confines of our own being.

Our thinking links us to the world; our feeling leads us back into ourselves and thus makes us individuals. Were we merely thinking and perceiving beings, our whole life would flow along in monotonous indifference. Were we able merely to know ourselves as selves, we should be totally indifferent to ourselves. It is only because we experience self-feeling with self-knowledge, and pleasure and pain with the perception of objects, that we live as individual beings whose existence is not limited to the conceptual relations between us and the rest of the world, but who have besides this a special value for ourselves.

One might be tempted to see in the life of feeling an element that is more richly saturated with reality than is the contemplation of the world through thinking. But the reply to this is that the life of feeling, after all, has this richer meaning only for my individual self. For the universe as a whole my life of feeling can have value only if, as a percept of my self, the feeling enters into connection with a concept and in this roundabout way links itself to the cosmos.

Our life is a continual oscillation between living with the universal world process and being our own individual selves. The farther we ascend into the universal nature of thinking where in the end what is individual interests us only as an example or specimen of the concept, the more the character of the separate being, of the quite definite single personality, becomes lost in us.

The farther we descend into the depths of our own life and allow our feelings to resound with our experiences of the outer world, the more we cut ourselves off from universal being. A true individuality will be the one who reaches up with his feelings to the farthest possible extent into the region of the ideal. There are men in whom even the most general ideas that enter their heads still bear that peculiar personal tinge which shows unmistakably the connection with their author. There are others whose concepts come before us without the least trace of individual character as if they had not been produced by a man of flesh and blood at all.

Making mental pictures gives our conceptual life at once an individual stamp. Each one of us has his own particular place from which he surveys the world. His concepts link themselves to his percepts. He thinks the general concepts in his own special way. This special determination results for each of us from the place where we stand in the world, from the range of percepts peculiar to our place in life.

Distinct from this determination is another which depends on our particular organisation. Our organisation is indeed a special, fully determined entity. Each of us combines special feelings, and these in the most varying degrees of intensity, with his percepts. This is just the individual element in the personality of each one of us. It is what remains over when we have allowed fully for all the determining factors in our surroundings.

A life of feeling, wholly devoid of thinking, would gradually lose all connection with the world. But man is meant to be a whole, and for him knowledge of things will go hand in hand with the development and education of the life of feeling.

Feeling is the means whereby, in the first instance, concepts gain concrete life.

6. Human Individuality

In explaining mental pictures, philosophers have had the greatest difficulty with the fact that we are not ourselves external things, but our mental pictures are supposed to have a form corresponding to them. On closer inspection, however, this difficulty turns out to be non-existent. To be sure, we are not external things, but we belong with them to one and the same world. The segment of the world that I perceive as my subject is run through by the stream of the universal world process. With regard to my perception, I am at first confined within the boundary of my skin. But what is contained within this skin belongs to the cosmos as a whole. Therefore, for a relationship to exist between my organism and an object outside me, it is not at all necessary for something of the object to slip into me or to impress itself on my mind like a signet ring on wax. Thus the question, “How do I learn anything about the tree that stands ten paces from me?” is all wrong. It arises from the view that the boundaries of my body are absolute barriers, through which news about things filters into me.

The forces acting within my skin are the same as those existing outside it. Therefore, I really am the things: to be sure, not “I” as a perceived subject, but “I” as a part of the universal world process. The percept of the tree lies with my I in the same whole. The universal world process calls forth equally the percept of the tree there, and the percept of my I here. Were I a world creator, not a world knower, then object and subject (percept and I) would arise in one act. For they determine each other mutually. As world knower, I can find the common element of the two, as two sides of being that belong together, only through thinking, which relates them to each other through concepts.

The so-called physiological proofs of the subjectivity of percepts will be the hardest of all to drive from the field. If I exert pressure on my skin, I perceive it as a sensation of pressure. The same pressure may be experienced by me through the eye as light, and through the ear as sound. I perceive an electric shock through the eye as light, through the ear as sound, through the nerves of the skin as impact, and through the nose as an odor of phosphorus. What follows from this? Only that I perceive an electric shock (or pressure) and then a quality of light, or a sound, or a certain smell, and so forth. If there were no eye, there would be no percept of light accompanying the percept of mechanical change in the environment; without an ear, no percept of sound, etc. What right have we to say that, without organs of perception, the whole process would not exist? Those who conclude—from the fact that an electrical process in the eye evokes light—that what we sense as light is, outside our organism, only a mechanical process of motion, forget that they are merely passing from one percept to another and not at all to something outside perception. Just as we can say that the eye perceives a mechanical process of motion in its environment as light, so we could just as well claim that any systematic change in an object is perceived by us as a process of motion. If I draw twelve pictures of a horse on the circumference of a rotating disc, in exactly the positions that its body assumes in the course of a gallop, then I can by rotating the disc evoke the illusion of movement. I need only look through an opening in such a way that I see the successive positions of the horse at appropriate intervals. Then I see, not twelve pictures of a horse, but the image of a single horse galloping.

Thus, the physiological fact mentioned above can throw no light on the relation of percepts to mental pictures. We must find our way by some other means.

The moment a percept emerges on the horizon of my observation, thinking, too, is activated in me. An element of my thought system—a specific intuition, a concept— unites with the percept. Then, when the percept disappears from my field of vision, what remains? What remains is my intuition, with its relationship to the specific percept that formed in the moment of perceiving. How vividly I can then later represent this relationship to myself depends upon how my spiritual and bodily organism is functioning. A mental picture is nothing but an intuition related to a specific percept. It is a concept, once linked to a percept, for which the relation to that percept has remained. My concept of a lion is not formed out of my percepts of lions. Yet my mental picture of a lion is certainly formed by means of perception. I can convey the concept of a lion to those who have never seen a lion. But without their own perceiving, I will not succeed in conveying a vivid mental picture.

A mental picture, then, is an individualized concept. We can now understand how mental pictures can represent the things of reality for us. The full reality of a thing is revealed to us in the moment of observation, out of the merging of a concept and a percept. Through a percept, the concept receives an individualized form, a relationship to that specific percept. The concept survives in us in this individual form, with its characteristic relationship to the percept, and forms the mental picture of the corresponding thing. If we encounter a second thing and the same concept combines itself with it, then we recognize it as belonging to the same species as the first, for we find not only a corresponding concept in our conceptual system, but the individualized concept with its characteristic relationship to this same object, and we recognize the object once again.

Thus, a mental picture stands between a percept and a concept. A mental picture is the specific concept that points to the percept.

The sum of everything of which I can form mental pictures I can call my “experience.” Hence, the greater the number of individualized concepts a person has, the richer their experience will be. A person lacking intuitive capacity, on the other hand, is unsuited to acquire experience. For such a person, once objects are out of sight they are lost, because the concepts that ought to be brought into relationship with them are lacking. A person whose capacity to think is well developed but who perceives poorly because of coarse sensory equipment will be equally incapable of gathering experience. Such persons might acquire concepts somehow, but their intuitions will lack a vivid relationship to specific things. A thoughtless traveler and a scholar living in abstract conceptual systems are equally unable to have rich experience.

Reality reveals itself to us as percepts and concepts; the subjective representation of that reality reveals itself as mental pictures.

If our personality manifested only cognitively, the sum of everything objective would be given in percepts, concepts, and mental pictures.

Yet we are not satisfied with relating a percept to a concept by means of thinking. We also relate it to our particular subjectivity, to our individual I. The expression of this individual relation is feeling, which manifests as pleasure or displeasure.

Thinking and feeling correspond to the dual nature of our being, on which we have already reflected. Thinking is the element through which we participate in the universal process of the cosmos; feeling is the element through which we can withdraw into the confines of our own being.

Our thinking unites us with the world; our feeling leads us back into ourselves and makes us individuals. If we were only thinking and perceiving beings, then our whole life would flow past in monotonous indifference. If we could only know ourselves as selves, then we would be completely indifferent to ourselves. It is only because we have self-feeling along with self-cognition, and pleasure and pain along with the perception of things, that we live as individual beings whose existence is not limited to our conceptual relation to the rest of the world, but who also have a special value for ourselves. Some might be tempted to see in the life of feeling an element more richly imbued with reality than thinking contemplation of the world. The reply to this is that the life of feeling has this richer meaning only for my individuality. For the world as a whole, my feeling life can attain value only if the feeling, as a percept of my self, combines with a concept and so integrates itself indirectly into the cosmos.

Our life is a continual oscillation between our individual existence and living with the universal world process. The farther we rise into the universal nature of thinking, where what is individual continues to interest us only as an example, an instance of a concept, the more we let go of our character as particular entities—as completely specific, separate personalities. The more we descend into the depths of our own life, allowing our feelings to resonate with the experiences of the outer world, the more we separate ourselves from universal being. A true individual will be the person who reaches highest, with his or her feelings, into the region of ideals. There are people for whom even the most universal ideas entering their heads still retain a special coloring that shows them unmistakably connected with their bearer. There are others whose concepts meet us so completely without trace of ownership as to seem unconnected to anyone of flesh and blood.

Making mental pictures already gives our conceptual life an individual stamp. After all, each of us has a standpoint from which to view the world. Our concepts connect themselves to our percepts. We think universal concepts in our own special way. This characteristic quality is a result of our standpoint in the world, of the sphere of perception connected to our place in life.

In contrast to this particularity is another, dependent on our individual constitution. How we are constituted, after all, makes for a special, well-defined entity. We each connect special feelings with our percepts, and do so in the most varying degrees of intensity. This is the individual aspect of our personality. It remains left over after we have accounted for the specificities of the stage on which we act out our lives.

A feeling life completely devoid of thought must gradually lose all connection with the world. Yet for human beings, oriented as they are toward wholeness, knowledge of things will go hand in hand with education and development of the life of feeling.

Feeling is the means by which concepts first gain concrete life.

6. Die menschliche Individualität

Die Hauptschwierigkeit bei der Erklärung der Vorstellungen wird von den Philosophen in dem Umstande gefunden, daß wir die äußeren Dinge nicht selbst sind, und unsere Vorstellungen doch eine den Dingen entsprechende Gestalt haben sollen. Bei genauerem Zusehen stellt sich aber heraus, daß diese Schwierigkeit gar nicht besteht. Die äußeren Dinge sind wir allerdings nicht, aber wir gehören mit den äußeren Dingen zu ein und derselben Welt. Der Ausschnitt aus der Welt, den ich als mein Subjekt wahrnehme, wird von dem Strome des allgemeinen Weltgeschehens durchzogen. Für mein Wahrnehmen bin ich zunächst innerhalb der Grenzen meiner Leibeshaut eingeschlossen. Aber was da drinnen steckt in dieser Leibeshaut, gehört zu dem Kosmos als einem Ganzen. Damit also eine Beziehung bestehe zwischen meinem Organismus und dem Gegenstande außer mir, ist es gar nicht nötig, daß etwas von dem Gegenstande in mich hereinschlüpfe oder in meinen Geist einen Eindruck mache, wie ein Siegelring in Wachs. Die Frage: wie bekomme ich Kunde von dem Baume, der zehn Schritte von mir entfernt steht, ist völlig schief gestellt. Sie entspringt aus der Anschauung, daß meine Leibesgrenzen absolute Scheidewände seien, durch die die Nachrichten von den Dingen in mich hereinwandern. Die Kräfte, welche innerhalb meiner Leibeshaut wirken, sind die gleichen wie die außerhalb bestehenden. Ich bin also wirklich die Dinge; allerdings nicht Ich, insoferne ich Wahrnehmungssubjekt bin, aber Ich, insofern ich ein Teil innerhalb des allgemeinen Weltgeschehens bin. Die Wahrnehmung des Baumes liegt mit meinem Ich in demselben Ganzen. Dieses allgemeine Weltgeschehen ruft in gleichem Maße dort die Wahrnehmung des Baumes hervor, wie hier die Wahrnehmung meines Ich. Wäre ich nicht Welterkenner, sondern Weltschöpfer, so entstünde Objekt und Subjekt (Wahrnehmung und Ich) in einem Akte. Denn sie bedingen einander gegenseitig. Als Welterkenner kann ich das Gemeinsame der beiden als zusammengehöriger Wesenseiten nur durch Denken finden, das durch Begriffe beide aufeinander bezieht.

Am schwierigsten aus dem Felde zu schlagen werden die Sogenannten physiologischen Beweise für die Subjektivität unserer Wahrnehmungen sein. Wenn ich einen Druck auf die Haut meines Körpers ausführe, so nehme ich ihn als Druckempfindung wahr.

Denselben Druck kann ich durch das Auge als Licht, durch das Ohr als Ton wahrnehmen. Einen elektrischen Schlag nehme ich durch das Auge als Licht, durch das Ohr als Schall, durch die Hautnerven als Stoß, durch das Geruchsorgan als Phosphorgeruch wahr. Was folgt aus dieser Tatsache? Nur dieses: Ich nehme einen elektrischen Schlag wahr (respektive einen Druck) und darauf eine Lichtqualität, oder einen Ton beziehungsweise einen gewissen Geruch und so weiter. Wenn kein Auge da wäre, so gesellte sich zu der Wahrnehmung der mechanischen Erschütterung in der Umgebung nicht die Wahrnehmung einer Lichtqualität, ohne die Anwesenheit eines Gehörorgans keine Tonwahrnehmung usw. Mit welchem Rechte kann man sagen, ohne Wahrnehmungsorgane wäre der ganze Vorgang nicht vorhanden? Wer von dem Umstande, daß ein elektrischer Vorgang im Auge Licht hervorruft, zurückschließt also ist das, was wir als Licht empfinden, außer unserem Organismus nur ein mechanischer Bewegungsvorgang, der vergißt, daß er nur von einer Wahrnehmung auf die andere übergeht und durchaus nicht auf etwas außerhalb der Wahrnehmung. Ebensogut wie man sagen kann: das Auge nimmt einen mechanischen Bewegungsvorgang seiner Umgebung als Licht wahr, ebenso gut kann man behaupten: eine gesetzmäßige Veränderung eines Gegenstandes wird von uns als Bewegungsvorgang wahrgenommen. Wenn ich auf den Umfang einer rotierenden Scheibe ein Pferd zwölfmal male, und zwar genau in den Gestalten, die sein Körper im fortgehenden Laufe annimmt, so kann ich durch Rotieren der Scheibe den Schein der Bewegung hervorrufen. Ich brauche nur durch eine Öffnung zu blicken und zwar so, daß ich in den entsprechenden Zwischenzeiten die aufeinanderfolgenden Stellungen des Pferdes sehe. Ich sehe nicht zwölf Pferdebilder, sondern das Bild eines dahineilenden Pferdes.

Die erwähnte physiologische Tatsache kann also kein Licht auf das Verhältnis von Wahrnehmung und Vorstellung werfen. Wir müssen uns auf andere Weise zurechtfinden.

In dem Augenblicke, wo eine Wahrnehmung in meinem Beobachtungshorizonte auftaucht, betätigt sich durch mich auch das Denken. Ein Glied in meinem Gedankensysteme, eine bestimmte Intuition, ein Begriff verbindet sich mit der Wahrnehmung. Wenn dann die Wahrnehmung aus meinem Gesichtskreise verschwindet: was bleibt zurück? Meine Intuition mit der Beziehung auf die bestimmte Wahrnehmung, die sich im Momente des Wahrnehmens gebildet hat. Mit welcher Lebhaftigkeit ich dann später diese Beziehung mir wieder vergegenwärtigen kann, das hängt von der Art ab, in der mein geistiger und körperlicher Organismus funktioniert.

Die Vorstellung ist nichts anderes als eine auf eine bestimmte Wahrnehmung bezogene Intuition, ein Begriff, der einmal mit einer Wahrnehmung verknüpft war, und dem der Bezug auf diese Wahrnehmung geblieben ist. Mein Begriff eines Löwen ist nicht aus meinen Wahrnehmungen von Löwen gebildet. Wohl aber ist meine Vorstellung vom Löwen an der Wahrnehmung gebildet. Ich kann jemandem den Begriff eines Löwen beibringen, der nie einen Löwen gesehen hat. Eine lebendige Vorstellung ihm beizubringen, wird mir ohne sein eigenes Wahrnehmen nicht gelingen.

Die Vorstellung ist also ein individualisierter Begriff. Und nun ist es uns erklärlich, daß für uns die Dinge der Wirklichkeit durch Vorstellungen repräsentiert werden können. Die volle Wirklichkeit eines Dinges ergibt sich uns im Augenblicke der Beobachtung aus dem Zusammengehen von Begriff und Wahrnehmung. Der Begriff erhält durch eine Wahrnehmung eine individuelle Gestalt, einen Bezug zu dieser bestimmten Wahrnehmung. In dieser individuellen Gestalt, die den Bezug auf die Wahrnehmung als eine Eigentümlichkeit in sich trägt, lebt er in uns fort und bildet die Vorstellung des betreffenden Dinges. Treffen wir auf ein zweites Ding, mit dem sich derselbe Begriff verbindet, so erkennen wir es mit dem ersten als zu derselben Art gehörig; treffen wir dasselbe Ding ein zweites Mal wieder, so finden wir in unserem Begriffssysteme nicht nur überhaupt einen entsprechenden Begriff, sondern den individualisierten Begriff mit dem ihm eigentümlichen Bezug auf denselben Gegenstand, und wir erkennen den Gegenstand wieder.

Die Vorstellung steht also zwischen Wahrnehmung und Begriff. Sie ist der bestimmte, auf die Wahrnehmung deutende Begriff. Die Summe desjenigen, worüber ich Vorstellungen bilden kann, darf ich meine Erfahrung nennen. Derjenige Mensch wird die reichere Erfahrung haben, der eine größere Zahl individualisierter Begriffe hat. Ein Mensch, dem jedes Intuitionsvermögen fehlt, ist nicht geeignet, sich Erfahrung zu erwerben. Er verliert die Gegenstände wieder aus seinem Gesichtskreise, weil ihm die Begriffe fehlen, die er zu ihnen in Beziehung setzen soll. Ein Mensch mit gut entwickeltem Denkvermögen, aber mit einem infolge grober Sinneswerkzeuge schlecht funktionierenden Wahrnehmen, wird ebensowenig Erfahrung sammeln können. Er kann sich zwar auf irgendeine Weise Begriffe erwerben; aber seinen Intuitionen fehlt der lebendige Bezug auf bestimmte Dinge. Der gedankenlose Reisende und der in abstrakten Begriffssystemen lebende Gelehrte sind gleich unfähig, sich eine reiche Erfahrung zu erwerben.

Als Wahrnehmung und Begriff stellt sich uns die Wirklichkeit, als Vorstellung die subjektive Repräsentation dieser Wirklichkeit dar. Wenn sich unsere Persönlichkeit bloß als erkennend äußerte, so wäre die Summe alles Objektiven in Wahrnehmung, Begriff und Vorstellung gegeben. Wir begnügen uns aber nicht damit, die Wahrnehmung mit Hilfe des Denkens auf den Begriff zu beziehen, sondern wir beziehen sie auch auf unsere besondere Subjektivität, auf unser individuelles Ich. Der Ausdruck dieses individuellen Bezuges ist das Gefühl, das sich als Lust oder Unlust auslebt. Denken und Fühlen entsprechen der Doppelnatur unseres Wesens, der wir schon gedacht haben. Das Denken ist das Element, durch das wir das allgemeine Geschehen des Kosmos mitmachen; das Fühlen das, wodurch wir uns in die Enge des eigenen Wesens zurückziehen können.

Unser Denken verbindet uns mit der Welt; unser Fühlen fährt uns in uns selbst zurück, macht uns erst zum Individuum. Wären wir bloß denkende und wahrnehmende Wesen, so müßte unser ganzes Leben in unterschiedloser Gleichgültigkeit dahinfließen. Wenn wir uns bloß als Selbst erkennen könnten, so wären wir uns vollständig gleichgültig. Erst dadurch, daß wir mit der Selbsterkenntnis das Selbstgefühl, mit der Wahrnehmung der Dinge Lust und Schmerz empfinden, leben wir als individuelle Wesen, deren Dasein nicht mit dem Begriffsverhältnis erschöpft ist, in dem sie zu der übrigen Welt stehen, sondern die noch einen besonderen Wert für sich haben.

Man könnte versucht sein, in dem Gefühlsleben ein Element zu sehen, das reicher mit Wirklichkeit gesättigt ist als das denkende Betrachten der Welt. Darauf ist zu erwidern, daß das Gefühlsleben eben doch nur für mein Individuum diese reichere Bedeutung hat. Für das Weltganze kann mein Gefühlsleben nur einen Wert erhalten, wenn das Gefühl, als Wahrnehmung an meinem Selbst, mit einem Begriffe in Verbindung tritt und sich auf diesem Umwege dem Kosmos eingliedert.

Unser Leben ist ein fortwährendes Hin- und Herpendeln zwischen dem Mitleben des allgemeinen Weltgeschehens und unserem individuellen Sein. Je weiter wir hinaufsteigen in die allgemeine Natur des Denkens, wo uns das Individuelle zuletzt nur mehr als Beispiel, als Exemplar des Begriffes interessiert, desto mehr verliert sich in uns der Charakter des besonderen Wesens, der ganz bestimmten einzelnen Persönlichkeit. Je weiter wir herabsteigen in die Tiefen des Eigenlebens und unsere Gefühle mitklingen lassen mit den Erfahrungen der Außenwelt, desto mehr sondern wir uns ab von dem universellen Sein. Eine wahrhafte Individualität wird derjenige sein, der am weitesten hinaufreicht mit seinen Gefühlen in die Region des Ideellen. Es gibt Menschen, bei denen auch die allgemeinsten Ideen, die in ihrem Kopfe sich festsetzen, noch jene besondere Färbung tragen, die sie unverkennbar als mit ihrem Träger im Zusammenhange zeigt. Andere existieren, deren Begriffe so ohne jede Spur einer Eigentümlichkeit an uns herankommen, als wären sie gar nicht aus einem Menschen entsprungen, der Fleisch und Blut hat.

Das Vorstellen gibt unserem Begriffsleben bereits ein individuelles Gepräge. Jedermann hat ja einen eigenen Standort, von dem aus er die Welt betrachtet. An seine Wahrnehmungen schließen sich seine Begriffe an. Er wird auf seine besondere Art die allgemeinen Begriffe denken. Diese besondere Bestimmtheit ist ein Ergebnis unseres Standortes in der Welt, der an unseren Lebensplatz sich anschließenden Wahrnehmungssphäre.

Dieser Bestimmtheit steht entgegen eine andere, von unserer besonderen Organisation abhängige. Unsere Organisation ist ja eine spezielle, vollbestimmte Einzelheit. Wir verbinden jeder besondere Gefühle, und zwar in den verschiedensten Stärkegraden mit unseren Wahrnehmungen.

Dies ist das Individuelle unserer Eigenpersönlichkeit. Es bleibt als Rest zurück, wenn wir die Bestimmtheiten des Lebensschauplatzes alle in Rechnung gebracht haben.

Ein völlig gedankenleeres Gefühlsleben müßte allmählich allen Zusammenhang mit der Welt verlieren. Die Erkenntnis der Dinge wird bei dem auf Totalität angelegten Menschen Hand in Hand gehen mit der Ausbildung und Entwickelung des Gefühlslebens.

Das Gefühl ist das Mittel, wodurch die Begriffe zunächst konkretes Leben gewinnen.

5. Knowing the World – 1

It follows from our considerations so far that we cannot prove our percepts are mental pictures by investigating the content of our observations. Such proof is supposedly established by showing that—if the perceptual process occurs as it is believed to do on the basis of naive-realistic assumptions about the psychological and physiological constitution of the individual—we have to do not with things in themselves but only with mental pictures of things. However, if naive realism, consistently pursued, leads to results that represent the exact opposite of its assumptions, then those assumptions must be seen as unsuitable for founding a worldview and dropped. In any case, it is invalid to reject the assumptions and accept the consequences, as the critical idealists do who base their claim that the world is my mental picture on the above line of argument. (Eduard von Hartmann gives a detailed presentation of this line of argument in The Fundamental Problems of Epistemology.)

The correctness of critical idealism is one thing; the power of its proofs to convince us is another. How things stand with the former will emerge later in our discussion. But the power of its proofs to convince is zero. When someone builds a house and the ground floor collapses during construction of the second floor, then the second floor falls along with it. Naive realism is to critical idealism as this ground floor is to the second floor.

For anyone who believes that the whole perceived world is only a mental picture, and in fact is the effect on my soul of things unknown to me, the real epistemological question of course has to do with the things that lie beyond our consciousness, independent of us, and not with the mental pictures that are present only in our souls. Then the question becomes: Since the things, which are independent of us, are inaccessible to our direct observation, how much can we know of them indirectly? Those who hold this point of view are concerned not with the inner connection of their conscious percepts but only with the non-conscious causes of those percepts. For them, these causes exist independently and, according to their belief, the percepts disappear as soon as their senses are turned away from things. From this point of view, consciousness acts as a mirror whose images of specific things also disappear the moment that its mirroring surface is not turned toward them. But whoever does not see the things themselves but only their mirror images must learn to draw conclusions about the nature of the things indirectly, from the behavior of the reflections. Modern natural science takes this position. It uses percepts only as a last resort in gaining information about the material processes standing behind them. For it, only these truly exist. If philosophers as critical idealists acknowledge existence at all, then their search for knowledge, while making use of mental pictures as a means, aims only at this existence. Such philosophers’ interest skips over the subjective world of mental pictures and directs itself to what produces them.

A critical idealist might go so far as to say: “I am enclosed within my world of mental pictures, and I cannot leave it. If I think that there is something behind these mental pictures, then this thought, too, is nothing more than a mental picture.” An idealist of this kind will therefore either deny the thing-in-itself entirely, or at least explain that it has no significance for human beings; that is, since we can know nothing about it, it is as good as nonexistent.

To a critical idealist of this kind, the whole world appears like a dream, in the face of which every attempt at knowledge would be simply meaningless. In this view, there can be only two kinds of people: biased ones who take their own dreamy fabrications for real things, and wise ones who see through the nothingness of this dream world and gradually lose all desire to bother themselves further about it. From this vantage point, even one’s own personality can become a mere dream image. Just as one’s own dream image appears among other dream images in sleep, so the mental picture of one’s own I joins the mental pictures of the external world. Therefore our consciousness does not contain our real I, but only the mental picture of our I. For those who deny that there are things, or that we can know anything of them, must also deny the existence, or at least the knowledge, of their own personality. Critical idealism thus arrives at the statement, “All reality is transformed into a wonderful dream—without there being a life that is dreamed about or a spirit that is doing the dreaming—a dream that coheres in a dream of itself.”

For those who believe they know immediate life is a dream, it does not matter whether they suspect that nothing exists behind it, or whether they refer their mental pictures to real things. For them, life itself loses all scientific interest. Science is an absurdity to those who believe that the accessible universe is exhausted in dreams, while to those who believe themselves equipped to reason from mental pictures to things, it consists in the investigation of “things-in-themselves.” We may call the first view absolute illusionism; transcendental realism is the name given the second view by its most consistent exponent, Eduard von Hartmann.

These two views agree with naive realism in that they seek to gain a footing in the world by an investigation of percepts. But nowhere in this realm can they find a firm base.

One of the main questions for proponents of transcendental realism must be: “How does the I bring the world of mental pictures out of itself?” A world given to us as mental pictures, which disappears as soon as we close our senses to the external world, can still be of interest in the serious search for knowledge, insofar as it is a means for indirectly investigating the world of the self-existent I. If the things we experience were mental pictures, then everyday life would be like a dream, and knowledge of the true state of affairs would be like waking up. Our dream images, too, interest us only as long as we dream and so do not see through their dream nature. The moment we awaken, we no longer ask about the inner connection of our dream images, but about the physical, physiological, and psychological processes that underlie them. In the same way, philosophers who hold the world to be their mental picture cannot interest themselves in the inner connection of its details. If they admit an existent I at all, they will not ask how one of their mental pictures connects with another. Rather, they will ask what is going on in the soul that exists independently from themselves, while their consciousness contains a specific sequence of mental pictures. If I dream that I am drinking wine that causes burning in my throat, and then wake up with a cough, the plot of the dream ceases to be of any interest to me at the moment of awakening. My attention is now directed only to the physiological and psychological processes through which the sore throat expresses itself symbolically in the dream. Similarly, as soon as philosophers are convinced that the given world has the character of a mental picture, they should immediately pass over it to the real soul lying behind it. Of course, the matter is worse if illusionism completely denies an I-in-itself behind the mental pictures, or at least holds it to be unknowable. We can be led to such a view very easily if we observe that, in contrast to dreaming, there is a state of waking, in which we have an opportunity to see through dreams and relate them to real events, but that there is no state that stands in a similar relationship to waking consciousness. Those who profess this view, however, lack the insight that there is, in fact, something that relates to mere perception as experiences in the waking state relate to dreaming. That something is thinking.

This lack of insight cannot be attributed to the naive ob server. Such people give themselves over to life and consider things to be as real as they seem in experience. But the first step to be taken beyond this naive standpoint can only be to ask: “How does thinking relate to perception?”

Regardless of whether or not the percept, in the form given to me, persists before and after my mental picturing, it is only with the aid of thinking that I can say anything about it. If I say that the world is my mental picture, then I have spoken the result of a process of thinking, and if my thinking is not applicable to the world, then that result is an error. Between the percept and any kind of statement about it, thinking inserts itself.

I have already indicated the reason why thinking is generally overlooked during the contemplation of things. It is because we direct our attention only to the object of our thinking, and not simultaneously to our thinking itself. Naive consciousness therefore treats thinking as something that has nothing to do with things and stands altogether apart from them, making its observations about the world. For naive consciousness, the picture of the phenomena of the world sketched by a thinker does not count as something integral to the things of the world, but as something that exists only in the human head; the world is complete even without this picture. The world is complete and finished with all its substances and forces; and human beings make a picture of this finished world. To those who think like this, we need only ask: “By what right do you declare the world to be finished without thinking? Does not the world bring forth thinking in human heads with the same necessity as it brings forth blossoms on the plant? Plant a seed in the earth. It puts forth roots and stem. It unfolds into leaves and blossoms. Set the plant before you. It links itself to a specific concept in your soul. Why does this concept belong to the plant any less than leaves and blossoms do? You might reply that leaves and blossoms are present without a perceiving subject, while the concept appears only when a human being confronts the plant. Very well. But blossoms and leaves arise in the plant only when there is earth in which the seed can be laid and light and air in which leaves and blossoms can unfold. Just so, the concept of the plant arises when thinking consciousness approaches the plant.”

It is quite arbitrary to consider as a totality, a whole, the sum of what we experience of a thing through perception alone, and to regard what results from a thinking contemplation as something appended, that has nothing to do with the thing itself. If I am given a rosebud today, then the picture that offers itself to my perception is limited to the present moment. But if I put the bud in water, then I will get a completely different picture of my object tomorrow. And if I can keep my eyes turned toward the rosebud, then I shall see today’s state change continuously into tomorrow’s through countless intermediate stages. The picture offering itself to me in a specific moment is but an accidental crosssection of an object that is caught up in a continual process of becoming. If I do not put the bud in water, then it will fail to develop a whole series of states lying within it as possibilities. And tomorrow I might be prevented from observing the blossom further, and so form an incomplete picture of it.

It is completely unrealistic to grasp at accidental elements and to declare, of the picture revealed at a particular time: that is the thing.

It is just as untenable to declare the sum of perceptual characteristics to be the object in question. Certainly it would be possible for a spirit to be able to receive a concept at the same time as, and unseparated from, a percept. Such a spirit would then never think of regarding the concept as something not belonging to the object, but would ascribe it an existence inseparable from the object.

Let me make my point clearer with an example. When I throw a stone through the air horizontally, I see it in different places in succession. I connect these places into a line.

In mathematics, I come to know various kinds of line, among them the parabola. I know the parabola to be a line that results when a point moves in a certain lawful way. If I investigate the conditions according to which the thrown stone moves, I find that the line of its movement is identical with what I know as a parabola. That the stone moves precisely in a parabola is a consequence of the given conditions, and follows necessarily from them. The parabolic form belongs to the whole phenomenon, like all its other aspects. The spirit described above, which has no need of the detour of thinking, would take as given not only the sum of visual sensations in various places but also, united with the phenomenon, the parabolic form of the trajectory that we only add to the phenomenon by means of thinking.

It is not due to the objects that they are initially given to us without the corresponding concepts but to our spiritual organization. Our whole being functions in such a way that for everything in reality, the elements flow to us from two sides—from the side of perceiving and from the side of thinking.

How I am organized to comprehend things has nothing to do with their nature. The divide between perceiving and thinking comes into being only at the instant that I, the observer, come over against things. Yet which elements belong to the thing, and which do not, can in no way depend upon how I come to know those elements.

Humans are limited beings. First, they are beings among other beings. Their existence belongs to space and time. Therefore, only a limited part of the whole universe is accessible to them. This limited part, however, is linked on all sides, temporally and spatially, to other things. If our existence were so united with the things that every world event was at the same time our event, then there would be no difference between us and the things. But then, too, there would be no individual things for us. Everything that happens would continually merge with everything else. The cosmos would be a unity, a self-enclosed whole. The stream of events would be interrupted nowhere. Because of our limitedness, what is not really separate appears separate to us. For example, the individual quality of red never exists in isolation. It is surrounded on all sides by other qualities, to which it belongs and without which it could not exist. We, however, must lift out of the world certain cross-sections of it and consider them on their own. From a many-hued whole, our eye can comprehend only a succession of individual colors. From a connected conceptual system, our reason can grasp only individual concepts. This separation is a subjective act: it depends on the fact that we are not identical with the world-process; rather, we are single beings among other beings.

Everything, then, depends upon determining the relationship between other beings and the being that we ourselves are. This determination must be distinguished from merely becoming aware of our self. The latter relies upon perceiving, as does awareness of every other thing. Perceiving myself reveals to me a number of qualities that I combine into the whole of my personality, just as I combine the qualities yellow, metallically gleaming, hard, etc. into the unity “gold.” Self-perception does not lead me outside the realm of what belongs to me.Such self-perceiving must be distinguished from self-definition through thinking. Just as, in thinking, I integrate a single percept from the external world into the context of the world, so, likewise through thinking, I also integrate the percepts of myself into the world process. My self-perceiving encloses me within certain limits; but my thinking has nothing to do with those limits. In this sense, I am a twofold creature. I am enclosed within the realm that I perceive as that of my personality, but I am also the bearer of an activity that determines my limited existence from a higher sphere. Our thinking, unlike our sensing and feeling, is not individual. It is universal. Only because it is related to the individual’s feeling and sensing does it receive an individual stamp in each separate human being. Human beings differentiate themselves from one another through these particular colorations of universal thinking. There is only one concept “triangle.” It makes no difference to the content of this concept whether it is grasped by A or B—by this or that human carrier of consciousness. But each bearer of consciousness will grasp it in an individual way.

A common prejudice that is hard to overcome stands opposed to this thought. This prejudice cannot rise to the insight that the concept of the triangle grasped by me is the same as that grasped by my neighbor. Naive human beings consider themselves the builders of their concepts. Therefore they believe that every person has individual concepts. It is a fundamental requirement of philosophical thinking to overcome this prejudice. The single, unitary concept of the triangle does not become many by being thought by many thinkers. For the thinking of many thinkers is itself a unity.

In thinking, we are given the element that unites our particular individuality with the whole of the cosmos. When we sense, feel (and also perceive) we are separate; when we think, we are the all-one being that penetrates all. This is the deeper basis of our dual nature. Within us, we see an absolute force come into existence, a force that is universal. Yet we do not come to know it as it streams forth from the center of the world, but only at a point on the periphery. If we came to know it as it streamed forth from the center of the world, then we would know the whole riddle of the world at the instant we came to consciousness. Since we stand at a point on the periphery, however, and find our own existence enclosed within certain limits, we must find out about the realm situated outside our own being with the help of thinking that extends into us from universal world existence.

The urge for knowledge arises in us because thinking in us reaches out beyond our separateness and relates itself to universal world existence. Beings without thinking do not have this urge. If other things confront them, no questions arise. Other things remain external to such beings. For thinking beings, a concept arises from the encounter with an external thing. The concept is that part of a thing that we do not receive from without, but from within. Knowledge, cognition is meant to accomplish the balance or union of the two elements, inner and outer.

A percept, then, is not something finished or closed off. It is one side of the total reality. The other side is the concept. The act of knowing (cognition) is the synthesis of percept and concept. Only percept and concept together make up the whole thing.

5. Knowing the World – 2

The preceding discussion demonstrates that it is meaningless to look for any common element among the world’s individual entities other than the conceptual content presented by thinking. Any attempt to find a world unity other than this self-consistent conceptual content— which we gain by thinking contemplation of our percepts—must fail. For us, neither a human, personal God, nor force, nor matter, nor even the idealess will (Schopenhauer) can be considered the universal element of the world. All these entities belong merely to a limited area of our observation. We perceive a humanly limited personality only in ourselves; force and matter only in external things. As for the will, it can be seen only as an expression of our limited personality’s activity. Schopenhauer wants to avoid making “abstract” thinking the bearer of the universal world element, and instead seeks something that presents itself to him immediately as real. This philosopher believes that we misjudge the world if we see it as external.

Indeed, the sought after significance of the world confronting me merely as my mental picture, or the transition from it as a mere mental picture of the cognizing subject to what it may be beyond this, would never be discoverable if the investigator himself were nothing other than the purely cognizing subject (a winged cherub without a body). But he too is rooted in that world, finds himself within it as an individual, that is, his cognition, which supports and determines the whole world as mental picture, is mediated throughout by a body whose affections are, as shown above, the intellect’s starting point for contemplation of that world. For the purely cognizing subject as such, this body is a mental picture like any other, an object among objects: its movements, its actions are known to him no differently from the changes in all other observable objects, and would be just as strange and incomprehensible to him, if their meaning were not deciphered for him in a completely different way. … For the subject of cognizing, which appears as an individual through its identity with the body, this body is given in two quite distinct ways: first as mental picture for the intellect’s contemplation, as object among objects and subject to their laws; but at the same time in a quite different way, namely as that which is known immediately to everyone by the word will. Every true act of his will is instantly and unfailingly a movement of his body as well: he cannot really will the act without at the same time perceiving that it appears as movement of the body. The act of will and the action of the body are not two different, objectively known states linked by the tie of causality; their relationship is not one of cause and effect; rather, they are one and the same thing, but given in two altogether different ways: once quite immediately and once for the intellect’s contemplation.

With this analysis, Schopenhauer feels justified in locating the “objectivity” of the will in the body. He believes that one can feel a reality—the thing-in-itself in concreto —immediately in the actions of the body. Against this analysis, we must point out that the actions of our body only come to our awareness through self-percepts, and as such have no advantage over other percepts. If we wish to know their essence, then we can only do so through thinking observation; that is, by organizing them within the conceptual system of our concepts and ideas.

The view that thinking is abstract, without any concrete content—that it offers at most a “conceptual” mirror image of world unity, but not this unity itself—is very deeply rooted in naive human consciousness. Whoever believes this has never become clear about what a percept without a concept really is. Let us consider the world of percepts by itself. It appears as a mere juxtaposition in space, a mere succession in time, an aggregate of unconnected details. None of the things that enter and exit from the perceptual stage appears to have anything to do with any another. In the world of percepts considered by itself, the world is a multiplicity of uniform objects. None plays a greater role than any other in the hurlyburly of the world. If we are to have the insight that this or that fact has greater significance than another, then we must consult our thinking. Without the function of thinking, a rudimentary organ that is without significance for an animal’s life appears equal in value with the most important limb of its body. The separate facts emerge in all their significance, both in themselves and for everything else, only when thinking weaves its threads from entity to entity. This activity of thinking is full of content. It is only through a very specific, concrete content that I can know why a snail stands at a lower level of development than a lion. The mere sight—the percept—gives me no content that could inform me about any relative perfection in their organization.

Thinking brings this content to the percept out of the human being’s world of concepts and ideas. In contrast to perceptual content, which is given us from without, thought content appears within. We shall call the form in which thought content first arises intuition. Intuition is to thinking as observation is to perception. Intuition and observation are the sources of our knowledge. We remain alienated from an object we have observed in the world as long as we do not have within us the corresponding intuition, which supplies us with the piece of reality missing from the percept. Full reality remains closed off to anyone without the ability to find intuitions corresponding to things. Just as a colorblind person sees only shades of brilliance without hue, so a person without intuition observes only unconnected perceptual fragments.

To explain a thing, to make it comprehensible, means nothing other than to place it into the context from which it has been torn by the arrangement of our organization, described above. There is no such thing as an object cut off from the world as a whole. All separation has merely a subjective validity for us, for the way we are organized. For us, the world whole splits into above and below, before and after, cause and effect, object and mental picture, matter and force, object and subject, and so forth. What meets us in observation as separate details is linked, item by item, through the coherent, unitary world of our intuitions. Through thinking we join together into one everything that we separated through perceiving.

The enigmatic quality of an object lies in its separate existence. But this separate existence is called forth by us and can, within the conceptual world, be dispelled and returned to unity again.

Nothing is given to us directly except through thinking and perceiving. The question now arises: “What is the significance of the percept according to the reasoning here?” We have, to be sure, recognized that critical idealism’s proof of the subjective nature of percepts collapses in itself. But insight into the incorrectness of the proof does not yet confirm that the doctrine itself is based on error. Critical idealism’s proof does not proceed from the absolute nature of thinking; rather, it is based on the fact that naive realism, if followed consistently, cancels itself out. But how do things stand if the absoluteness of thinking is recognized?

Let us suppose that a specific percept—for example, red—appears in my consciousness. On continued investigation, this percept proves to be linked with other percepts—for example, to a specific form and to certain percepts of temperature and touch. I call this combination: “an object in the sense world.” I can now ask myself what else is located in that section of space where these percepts appear to me aside from what has been listed so far. I find mechanical, chemical, and other processes within that part of space. Going further, I investigate the processes that I find on the path from the object to my sense organs. I find processes of motion in an elastic medium that by their nature have nothing in common with the original percepts. If I investigate the further mediation occurring between the sense organs and the brain, I obtain the same result. I form new percepts in each of these areas, but what weaves through all of these spatially and temporally disparate percepts as the unifying medium—is thinking.

The vibrations of the air that mediate sound are given to me as percepts in exactly the same way as the sound itself. Thinking alone links all such percepts to one another and shows them in their mutual relationships. Other than what is immediately perceived, we cannot speak of there being anything except what is known through the conceptual connections between the percepts—connections that are accessible to thinking. Therefore any relationship between perceived objects and perceived subjects that goes beyond what is merely perceived is purely ideal, that is, it is expressible only through concepts. Only if I could perceive how the percept of an object affects the percept of the subject, or—conversely—only if I could observe the construction of a perceptual form by the subject, would it be possible to speak like modern physiology and the critical idealism built upon it. This view confuses an ideal relation (of the object to the subject) with a process that could only be spoken of if it were perceived. Therefore the phrase, “no color without a color sensing eye” cannot mean that the eye produces color, but only that a conceptual connection, knowable through thinking, exists between the percept “color” and the percept “eye.” Empirical science will have to ascertain how the qualities of the eye and those of color relate to one another and how the organ of sight transmits the perception of colors, etc. I can track how one percept follows another and how it stands in spatial relation to others. I can then bring this to conceptual expression. But I cannot perceive how a percept proceeds out of the unperceivable. All efforts to seek other than conceptual relations between percepts must necessarily fail.

What, then, is a percept? Asked in this general way, the question is absurd. A percept always appears as a quite specific, concrete content. This content is immediately given and is limited to what is given. Of what is given, we can ask only what it is apart from perception—that is, what it is for thinking. Therefore the question of what a percept is can aim only at the conceptual intuition corresponding to it. From this perspective, the question of the subjectivity of the percept, in the sense meant by critical idealism, cannot be raised at all. Only what is perceived as belonging to the subject can be characterized as subjective. The link between the subjective and the objective is not built by any real process (in the naive sense)—that is, by any perceptible event. It is built by thinking alone. For this reason what seems to lie outside the perceived subject is objective for us. The percept of myself as subject remains perceivable for me when the table now before me has vanished from my observational field. But observation of the table has evoked in me an alteration that also remains. I retain the capacity to create an image of the table again later. This capacity to produce an image remains united with me. Psychology calls this image a memory picture. Yet it is the only thing that can properly be called the mental picture of the table. For it corresponds to the perceptible alteration in my own state through the presence of the table in my field of sight. It does not, in fact, signify a change in some “I-in-itself” standing behind the perceived subject, but rather a change in the perceptible subject itself. The mental picture is thus a subjective percept in contrast to the objective percept of a thing lying within the perceptual horizon. The confusion of subjective percepts with objective percepts leads in idealism to the misunderstanding that the world is my mental picture.

We must now define the concept of mental picture more narrowly. What we have put forward about it so far is not its concept, but merely points the way toward finding the mental picture within our perceptual field. The exact concept of the mental picture will then make it possible for us also to achieve a satisfactory understanding of the relationship between the mental picture and its object. This will also lead us over the boundary where the relationship between the human subject and the object belonging to the world is brought down from the purely conceptual field of cognition into concrete, individual life. Once we know what to make of the world, it will be easy for us to behave accordingly. We can act with our full strength only when we know the object belonging to the world to which we are devoting our activity.

Addendum to the new edition (1918)

The view characterized here can be regarded as one to which at first we are driven quite naturally when we begin to reflect on our relationship to the world. But we then see ourselves entangled in a thought structure that dissolves itself as we build it. This thought structure is such that it requires more than merely theoretical refutation. It must be lived through, so as to find a way out through insight into the error to which it leads. It must appear in any discussion of the relationship between human beings and the world, not because we wish to refute others whom we believe have an incorrect view of this relationship, but because we realize what confusion any initial reflection on such a relationship can bring. The insight we must achieve is of how, in such reflections, we can refute ourselves. The preceding discussion was meant from just such a point of view.

Anyone who wishes to work out a view of the relationship of human beings to the world becomes aware that we ourselves produce at least a part of this relationship through making mental pictures of the things and processes in the world. Our attention is thereby withdrawn from what is outside in the world, and turned toward our inner world. We can begin by reflecting that we cannot have a connection to a thing or person if a mental picture does not arise within us. From this, it is but a step to the realization that, after all, we experience only our mental pictures; we know of a world outside ourselves only to the extent that it is a mental picture within us. And with this, the naive attitude toward reality, taken up before any reflection on our relation to the world, is abandoned. From a naive standpoint, we believe that we are dealing with real things. Self-reflection drives us from this point of view. It does not allow us to look at a reality such as naive consciousness believes it has before it. Such self-reflection allows us to look only at our mental pictures; these insert themselves between our own being and a supposedly real world of the kind that the naive standpoint imagines it can assert. Because of the intervening mental pictures, we can no longer look upon such a reality. We must assume that we are blind for that reality. Thus the thought of a thing-in-itself, that is unattainable to cognition, arises.

Indeed, as long as we continue to focus on the relationship to the world that we enter through the life of mental pictures, we shall never escape this thought construction. Unless we wish to close off the urge for knowledge artificially, we cannot remain at the viewpoint of naive reality. The very existence of this urge for knowledge of the relation between human beings and the world shows us that this naive standpoint must be abandoned. If the naive standpoint gave us something that could be recognized as truth, then we would not feel this urge.

Yet we do not arrive at something which could be seen as truth merely by abandoning the naive standpoint while at the same time—without noticing it—retaining the style of thought that it requires. We fall into this kind of error when we think that we experience only mental pictures— that though we believe we are dealing with realities, we are in fact conscious only of our mental pictures of realities—and therefore suppose true realities to lie beyond the scope of our consciousness, as “things-in-themselves,” of which we know nothing directly, and which somehow approach and influence us, with the result that a world of mental pictures comes to life within us. Those who think in this way only add another world, in thought, to the world lying before them; but with regard to this world they really have to begin at the beginning again. For they do not think about the unknown “thing-in-itself” any differently, as far as its relationship to the individual human being is concerned, than about the known thing of the naive view of reality.

We avoid the confusion we fall into through critical reflection about this view only when we notice that there is something within what we can experience through perception in ourselves and outside in the world—something that cannot fall prey to the problems that arise when a mental picture interposes itself between the process and the observing human being. This something is thinking. In relation to thinking, a human being can remain with the naive view of reality. If we do not keep to this view, it is only because we notice that we have abandoned this viewpoint for another, but are unaware that the insight we have achieved is inapplicable to thinking. If we do become aware of this, then we allow ourselves entry into the other insight—that in thinking and through thinking we must recognize that to which we apparently blinded ourselves by interposing our life of mental pictures between the world and ourselves.

Someone highly esteemed by the author of this book has raised the objection that during his explication of thinking the author maintains a naive realist view of thinking, as if the real world and the mentally pictured world were one and the same. Yet the author believes that he has proved by the present discussion that the validity of “naive realism” for thinking follows necessarily from an unprejudiced observation of thinking; and that naive realism, which is invalid elsewhere, is overcome through knowledge of thinking’s true essence.

5. Das Erkennen der Welt – 2

Die vorangehenden Ausführungen liefern den Beweis, daß es ein Unding ist, etwas anderes Gemeinsames in den Einzelwesen der Welt zu suchen, als den ideellen Inhalt, den uns das Denken darbietet. Alle Versuche müssen scheitern, die nach einer anderen Welteinheit streben als nach diesem in sich zusammenhängenden ideellen Inhalt, welchen wir uns durch denkende Betrachtung unserer Wahrnehmungen erwerben. Nicht ein menschlich-persönlicher Gott, nicht Kraft oder Stoff, noch der ideenlose Wille (Schopenhauers) können uns als eine universelle Welteinheit gelten. Diese Wesenheiten gehören sämtlich nur einem beschränkten Gebiet unserer Beobachtung an. Menschlich begrenzte Persönlichkeit nehmen wir nur an uns, Kraft und Stoff an den Außendingen wahr. Was den Willen betrifft, so kann er nur als die Tätigkeitsäußerung unserer beschränkten Persönlichkeit gelten. Schopenhauer will es vermeiden, das «abstrakte» Denken zum Träger der Welteinheit zu machen und sucht statt dessen etwas, das sich ihm unmittelbar als ein Reales darbietet. Dieser Philosoph glaubt, daß wir der Welt nimmermehr beikommen, wenn wir sie als Außenwelt ansehen. «In der Tat würde die nachgeforschte Bedeutung der mir lediglich als meine Vorstellung gegenüberstehenden Welt, oder der Übergang von ihr, als bloßer Vorstellung des erkennenden Subjekts, zu dem, was sie noch außerdem sein mag, nimmermehr zu finden sein, wenn der Forscher selbst nichts weiter als das rein erkennende Subjekt (geflügelter Engelskopf ohne Leib) wäre. Nun aber wurzelt er selbst in jener Welt, findet sich nämlich in ihr als Individuum, das heißt sein Erkennen, welches der bedingende Träger der ganzen Welt als Vorstellung ist, ist dennoch durchaus vermittelt durch einen Leib, dessen Affektionen, wie gezeigt, dem Verstande der Ausgangspunkt der Anschauung jener Welt sind. Dieser Leib ist dem rein erkennenden Subjekt als solchem eine Vorstellung wie jede andere, ein Objekt unter Objekten: die Bewegungen, die Aktionen desselben sind ihm insoweit nicht anders, als wie die Veränderungen aller anderen anschaulichen Objekte bekannt, und wären ihm ebenso fremd und unverständlich, wenn die Bedeutung derselben ihm nicht etwa auf eine ganz andere Art enträtselt wäre. … Dem Subjekt des Erkennens, welches durch seine Identität mit dem Leibe als Individuum auftritt, ist dieser Leib auf zwei ganz verschiedene Weisen gegeben: einmal als Vorstellung in verständiger Anschauung, als Objekt unter Objekten, und den Gesetzen dieser unterworfen; sodann aber auch zugleich auf eine ganz andere Weise, nämlich als jenes jedem unmittelbar Bekannte, welches das Wort Wille bezeichnet. Jeder wahre Akt seines Willens ist sofort und unausbleiblich auch eine Bewegung seines Leibes: er kann den Akt nicht wirklich wollen, ohne zugleich wahrzunehmen, daß er als Bewegung des Leibes erscheint. Der

Willensakt und die Aktion des Leibes sind nicht zwei objektiv erkannte verschiedene Zustände, die das Band der Kausalität verknüpft, stehen nicht im Verhältnis der Ursache und Wirkung; sondern sie sind eines und dasselbe, nur auf zwei gänzlich verschiedene Weisen gegeben: einmal ganz unmittelbar und einmal in der Anschauung für den Verstand.» Durch diese Auseinandersetzungen glaubt sich Schopenhauer berechtigt, in dem Leibe des Menschen die «Objektivität» des Willens zu finden. Er ist der Meinung, in den Aktionen des Leibes unmittelbar eine Realität, das Ding an sich in concreto zu fühlen. Gegen diese Ausführungen muß eingewendet werden, daß uns die Aktionen unseres Leibes nur durch Selbstwahrnehmungen zum Bewußtsein kommen und als solche nichts voraus haben vor anderen Wahrnehmungen. Wenn wir ihre Wesenheit erkennen wollen, so können wir dies nur durch denkende Betrachtung, das heißt durch Eingliederung derselben in das ideelle System unserer Begriffe und Ideen.

Am tiefsten eingewurzelt in das naive Menschheitsbewußtsein ist die Meinung: das Denken sei abstrakt, ohne allen konkreten Inhalt. Es könne höchstens ein «ideelles» Gegenbild der Welteinheit liefern, nicht etwa diese selbst. Wer so urteilt, hat sich niemals klar gemacht, was die Wahrnehmung ohne den Begriff ist. Sehen wir uns nur diese Welt der Wahrnehmung an: als ein bloßes Nebeneinander im Raum und Nacheinander in der Zeit, ein Aggregat zusammenhangloser Einzelheiten erscheint sie. Keines der Dinge, die da auftreten und abgehen auf der Wahrnehmungsbühne, hat mit dem andern unmittelbar etwas zu tun, was sich wahrnehmen läßt. Die Welt ist da eine Mannigfaltigkeit von gleichwertigen Gegenständen. Keiner spielt eine größere Rolle als der andere im Getriebe der Welt. Soll uns klar werden, daß diese oder jene Tatsache größere Bedeutung hat als die andere, so müssen wir unser Denken befragen. Ohne das funktionierende Denken erscheint uns das rudimentäre Organ des Tieres, das ohne Bedeutung für dessen Leben ist, gleichwertig mit dem wichtigsten Körpergliede. Die einzelnen Tatsachen treten in ihrer Bedeutung in sich und für die übrigen Teile der Welt erst hervor, wenn das Denken seine Fäden zieht von Wesen zu Wesen. Diese Tätigkeit des Denkens ist eine inhaltvolle. Denn nur durch einen ganz bestimmten konkreten Inhalt kann ich wissen, warum die Schnecke auf einer niedrigeren Organisationsstufe steht als der Löwe. Der bloße Anblick, die Wahrnehmung gibt mir keinen Inhalt, der mich über die Vollkommenheit der Organisation belehren könnte.

Diesen Inhalt bringt das Denken der Wahrnehmung aus der Begriffs- und Ideenwelt des Menschen entgegen. Im Gegensatz zum Wahrnehmungsinhalte, der uns von außen gegeben ist, erscheint der Gedankeninhalt im Innern. Die Form, in der er zunächst auftritt, wollen wir als Intuition bezeichnen. Sie ist für das Denken, was die Beobachtung für die Wahrnehmung ist. Intuition und Beobachtung sind die Quellen unserer Erkenntnis. Wir stehen einem beobachteten Dinge der Welt so lange fremd gegenüber, so lange wir in unserem Innern nicht die entsprechende Intuition haben, die uns das in der Wahrnehmung fehlende Stück der Wirklichkeit ergänzt. Wer nicht die Fähigkeit hat, die den Dingen entsprechenden Intuitionen zu finden, dem bleibt die volle Wirklichkeit verschlossen. Wie der Farbenblinde nur Helligkeitsunterschiede ohne Farbenqualitäten sieht, so kann der Intuitionslose nur unzusammenhängende Wahrnehmungsfragmente beobachten.

Ein Ding erklären, verständlich machen heißt nichts anderes, als es in den Zusammenhang hineinversetzen, aus dem es durch die oben geschilderte Einrichtung unserer Organisation herausgerissen ist. Ein von dem Weltganzen abgetrenntes Ding gibt es nicht. Alle Sonderung hat bloß subjektive Geltung für unsere Organisation. Für uns legt sich das Weltganze auseinander in: oben und unten, vor und nach, Ursache und Wirkung, Gegenstand und Vorstellung, Stoff und Kraft, Objekt und Subjekt usw. Was uns in der Beobachtung an Einzelheiten gegenübertritt, das verbindet sich durch die zusammenhängende, einheitliche Welt unserer Intuitionen Glied für Glied; und wir fügen durch das Denken alles wieder in eins zusammen, was wir durch das Wahrnehmen getrennt haben.

Die Rätselhaftigkeit eines Gegenstandes liegt in seinem Sonderdasein. Diese ist aber von uns hervorgerufen und kann, innerhalb der Begriffswelt, auch wieder aufgehoben werden.

Außer durch Denken und Wahrnehmen ist uns direkt nichts gegeben. Es entsteht nun die Frage: wie steht es gemäß unseren Ausführungen mit der Bedeutung der Wahrnehmung?

Wir haben zwar erkannt, daß der Beweis, den der kritische Idealismus für die subjektive Natur der Wahrnehmungen vorbringt, in sich zerfällt; aber mit der Einsicht in die Unrichtigkeit des Beweises ist noch nicht ausgemacht, daß die Sache selbst auf einem Irrtume beruht. Der kritische Idealismus geht in seiner Beweisführung nicht von der absoluten Natur des Denkens aus, sondern stützt sich darauf, daß der naive Realismus, konsequent verfolgt, sich selbst aufhebe. Wie stellt sich die Sache, wenn die Absolutheit des Denkens erkannt ist?

Nehmen wir an, es trete eine bestimmte Wahrnehmung, zum Beispiel Rot, in meinem Bewußtsein auf. Die Wahrnehmung erweist sich bei fortgehender Betrachtung in Zusammenhang stehend mit anderen Wahrnehmungen, zum Beispiel einer bestimmten Figur, mit gewissen Temperatur- und Tastwahrnehmungen. Diesen Zusammenhang bezeichne ich als einen Gegenstand der Sinnenwelt. Ich kann mich nun fragen: was findet sich außer dem angeführten noch in jenem Raumausschnitte, in dem mir obige Wahrnehmungen erscheinen. Ich werde mechanische, chemische und andere Vorgänge innerhalb des Raumteiles finden. Nun gehe ich weiter und untersuche die Vorgänge, die ich auf dem Wege von dem Gegenstande zu meinem Sinnesorgane finde. Ich kann Bewegungsvorgänge in einem elastischen Mittel finden, die ihrer Wesenheit nach nicht das geringste mit den ursprünglichen Wahrnehmungen gemein haben. Das gleiche Resultat erhalte ich, wenn ich die weitere Vermittelung vom Sinnesorgane zum Gehirn untersuche. Auf jedem dieser Gebiete mache ich neue Wahrnehmungen; aber was als bindendes Mittel sich durch alle diese räumlich und zeitlich auseinanderlegenden Wahrnehmungen hindurchgeht, das ist das Denken. Die den Schall vermittelnden Schwingungen der Luft sind mir gerade so als Wahrnehmungen gegeben wie der Schall selbst. Nur das Denken gliedert alle diese Wahrnehmungen aneinander und zeigt sie in ihren gegenseitigen Beziehungen. Wir können nicht davon sprechen, daß es außer dem unmittelbar Wahrgenommenen noch anderes gibt, als dasjenige, was durch die ideellen (durch das Denken aufzudeckenden) Zusammenhänge der Wahrnehmungen erkannt wird. Die über das bloß Wahrgenommene hinausgehende Beziehung der Wahrnehmungsobjekte zum Wahrnehmungssubjekte ist also eine bloß ideelle, das heißt nur durch Begriffe ausdrückbare. Nur in dem Falle, wenn ich wahrnehmen könnte, wie das Wahrnehmungsobjekt das Wahrnehmungssubjekt affiziert, oder umgekehrt, wenn ich den Aufbau des Wahrnehmungsgebildes durch das Subjekt beobachten könnte, wäre es möglich, so zu sprechen, wie es die moderne Physiologie und der auf sie gebaute kritische Idealismus tun. Diese Ansicht verwechselt einen ideellen Bezug (des Objekts auf das Subjekt) mit einem Prozeß, von dem nur gesprochen werden könnte, wenn er wahrzunehmen wäre. Der Satz «Keine Farbe ohne farbenempfindendes Auge» kann daher nicht die Bedeutung haben, daß das Auge die Farbe hervorbringt, sondern nur die, daß ein durch das Denken erkennbarer ideeller Zusammenhang besteht zwischen der Wahrnehmung Farbe und der Wahrnehmung Auge. Die empirische Wissenschaft wird festzustellen haben, wie sich die Eigenschaften des Auges und die der Farben zueinander verhalten; durch welche Einrichtungen das Sehorgan die Wahrnehmung der Farben vermittelt usw. Ich kann verfolgen, wie eine Wahrnehmung auf die andere folgt, wie sie räumlich mit andern in Beziehung steht; und dies dann in einen begrifflichen Ausdruck bringen; aber ich kann nicht wahrnehmen, wie eine Wahrnehmung aus dem Unwahrnehmbaren hervorgeht. Alle Bemühungen, zwischen den Wahrnehmungen andere als Gedankenbezüge zu suchen, müssen notwendig scheitern.

Was ist also die Wahrnehmung? Diese Frage ist, im allgemeinen gestellt, absurd. Die Wahrnehmung tritt immer als eine ganz bestimmte, als konkreter Inhalt auf. Dieser Inhalt ist unmittelbar gegeben, und erschöpft sich in dem Gegebenen. Man kann in bezug auf dieses Gegebene nur fragen, was es außerhalb der Wahrnehmung, das ist: für das Denken ist. Die Frage nach dem «Was» einer Wahrnehmung kann also nur auf die begriffliche Intuition gehen, die ihr entspricht. Unter diesem Gesichtspunkte kann die Frage nach der Subjektivität der Wahrnehmung im Sinne des kritischen Idealismus gar nicht aufgeworfen werden. Als subjektiv darf nur bezeichnet werden, was als zum Subjekte gehörig wahrgenommen wird. Das Band zu bilden zwischen Subjektivem und Objektivem kommt keinem im naiven Sinn realen Prozeß, das heißt einem wahrnehmbaren Geschehen zu, sondern allein dem Denken. Es ist also für uns objektiv, was sich für die Wahrnehmung als außerhalb des Wahrnehmungssubjektes gelegen darstellt. Mein Wahrnehmungssubjekt bleibt für mich wahrnehmbar, wenn der Tisch, der soeben vor mir steht, aus dem Kreise meiner Beobachtung verschwunden sein wird. Die Beobachtung des Tisches hat eine, ebenfalls bleibende, Veränderung in mir hervorgerufen. Ich behalte die Fähigkeit zurück, ein Bild des Tisches später wieder zu erzeugen. Diese Fähigkeit der Hervorbringung eines Bildes bleibt mit mir verbunden. Die Psychologie bezeichnet dieses Bild als Erinnerungsvorstellung. Es ist aber dasjenige, was allein mit Recht Vorstellung des Tisches genannt werden kann. Es entspricht dies nämlich der wahrnehmbaren Veränderung meines eigenen Zustandes durch die Anwesenheit des Tisches in meinem Gesichtsfelde. Und zwar bedeutet sie nicht die Veränderung irgendeines hinter dem Wahrnehmungssubjekte stehenden «Ich an sich», sondern die Veränderung des wahrnehmbaren Subjektes selbst. Die Vorstellung ist also eine subjektive Wahrnehmung im Gegensatz zur objektiven Wahrnehmung bei Anwesenheit des Gegenstandes im Wahrnehmungshorizonte. Das Zusammenwerfen jener subjektiven mit dieser objektiven Wahrnehmung führt zu dem Mißverständnisse des Idealismus: die Welt ist meine Vorstellung.

Es wird sich nun zunächst darum handeln, den Begriff der Vorstellung näher zu bestimmen. Was wir bisher über sie vorgebracht haben, ist nicht der Begriff derselben, sondern weist nur den Weg, wo sie im Wahrnehmungsfelde zu finden ist. Der genaue Begriff der Vorstellung wird es uns dann auch möglich machen, einen befriedigenden Aufschluß über das Verhältnis von Vorstellung und Gegenstand zu gewinnen. Dies wird uns dann auch über die Grenze führen, wo das Verhältnis zwischen menschlichem Subjekt und der Welt angehörigem Objekt von dem rein begrifflichen Felde des Erkennens hinabgeführt wird in das konkrete individuelle Leben. Wissen wir erst, was wir von der Welt zu halten haben, dann wird es ein leichtes sein, auch uns danach einzurichten. Wir können erst mit voller Kraft tätig sein, wenn wir das der Welt angehörige Objekt kennen, dem wir unsere Tätigkeit widmen.

Zusatz zur Neuauflage (1918).
Die Anschauung, die hier gekennzeichnet ist, kann als eine solche angesehen werden, zu welcher der Mensch wie naturgemäß zunächst getrieben wird, wenn er beginnt, über sein Verhältnis zur Welt nachzudenken. Er sieht sich da in eine Gedankengestaltung verstrickt, die sich ihm auflöst, indem er sie bildet. Diese Gedankengestaltung ist eine solche, mit deren bloßer theoretischer Widerlegung nicht alles für sie Notwendige getan ist. Man muß sie durchleben, um aus der Einsicht in die Verirrung, in die sie führt, den Ausweg zu finden. Sie muß in einer Auseinandersetzung über das Verhältnis des Menschen zur Welt erscheinen nicht darum, weil man andere widerlegen will, von denen man glaubt, daß sie über dieses Verhältnis eine unrichtige Ansicht haben, sondern weil man kennen muß, in welche Verwirrung sich jedes erste Nachdenken über ein solches Verhältnis bringen kann. Man muß die Einsicht gewinnen, wie man sich selbst in bezug auf dieses erste Nachdenken widerlegt. Von einem solchen Gesichtspunkte aus sind die obigen Ausführungen gemeint.

Wer sich eine Anschauung über das Verhältnis des Menschen zur Welt erarbeiten will, wird sich bewußt, daß er mindestens einen Teil dieses Verhältnisses dadurch herstellt, daß er sich über die Weltdinge und Weltvorgänge Vorstellungen macht. Dadurch wird sein Blick von dem, was draußen in der Welt ist, abgezogen und auf seine Innenwelt, auf sein Vorstellungsleben gelenkt. Er beginnt sich zu sagen: ich kann zu keinem Ding und zu keinem Vorgang eine Beziehung haben, wenn nicht in mir eine Vorstellung auftritt. Von dem Bemerken dieses Tatbestandes ist dann nur ein Schritt zu der Meinung: ich erlebe aber doch nur meine Vorstellungen; von einer Welt draußen weiß ich nur, insofern sie Vorstellung in mir ist. Mit dieser Meinung ist der naive Wirklichkeitsstandpunkt verlassen, den der Mensch vor allem Nachsinnen über sein Verhältnis zur Welt einnimmt. Von diesem Standpunkt aus glaubt er, er habe es mit den wirklichen Dingen zu tun. Von diesem Standpunkt drängt die Selbstbesinnung ab. Sie läßt den Menschen gar nicht hinblicken auf eine Wirklichkeit, wie sie das naive Bewußtsein vor sieh zu haben meint. Sie läßt ihn bloß auf seine Vorstellungen blicken; diese schieben sich ein zwischen die eigene Wesenheit und eine etwa wirkliche Welt, wie sie der naive Standpunkt glaubt behaupten zu dürfen. Der Mensch kann nicht mehr durch die eingeschobene Vorstellungswelt auf eine solche Wirklichkeit schauen. Er muß annehmen er sei blind für diese Wirklichkeit. So entsteht der Gedanke von einem für die Erkenntnis unerreichbaren «Ding an sich». – Solange man bei der Betrachtung des Verhältnisses stehenbleibt, in das der Mensch durch sein Vorstellungsleben mit der Welt zu treten scheint, wird man dieser Gedankengestaltung nicht entgehen können. Auf dem naiven Wirklichkeitsstandpunkt kann man nicht bleiben, wenn man sich dem Drang nach

Erkenntnis nicht künstlich verschließen will. Daß dieser Drang nach Erkenntnis des Verhältnisses von Mensch und Welt vorhanden ist, zeigt, daß dieser naive Standpunkt verlassen werden muß. Gäbe der naive Standpunkt etwas, was man als Wahrheit anerkennen kann, so könnte man diesen Drang nicht empfinden. Aber man kommt nun nicht zu etwas anderem, das man als Wahrheit ansehen könnte, wenn man bloß den naiven Standpunkt verläßt, aber – ohne es zu bemerken – die Gedankenart beibehält, die er aufnötigt. Man verfällt in einen solchen Fehler, wenn man sich sagt: ich erlebe nur meine Vorstellungen, und während ich glaube, ich habe es mit Wirklichkeiten zu tun, sind mir nur meine Vorstellungen von Wirklichkeiten bewußt; ich muß deshalb annehmen, daß außerhalb des Umkreises meines Bewußtseins erst wahre Wirklichkeiten, «Dinge an sich» liegen, von denen ich unmittelbar gar nichts weiß, die irgendwie an mich herankommen und mich so beeinflussen, daß in mir meine Vorstellungswelt auflebt. Wer so denkt, der setzt in Gedanken zu der ihm vorliegenden Welt nur eine andere hinzu; aber er müßte bezüglich dieser Welt eigentlich mit seiner Gedankenarbeit wieder von vorne beginnen. Denn das unbekannte «Ding an sich» wird dabei gar nicht anders gedacht in seinem Verhältnisse zur Eigenwesenheit des Menschen als das bekannte des naiven Wirklichkeitsstandpunktes. Man entgeht der Verwirrung, in die man durch die kritische Besonnenheit in bezug auf diesen Standpunkt gerät, nur, wenn man bemerkt, daß es innerhalb dessen, was man innen in sich und außen in der Welt wahrnehmend erleben kann, etwas gibt, das dem Verhängnis gar nicht verfallen kann, daß sich zwischen Vorgang und betrachtenden Menschen die Vorstellung einschiebt. Und dieses ist das Denken. Dem Denken gegenüber kann der Mensch auf dem naiven Wirklichkeitsstandpunkt verbleiben. Tut er es nicht, so geschieht das nur deshalb, weil er bemerkt hat, daß er für anderes diesen Standpunkt verlassen muß, aber nicht gewahr wird, daß die so gewonnene Einsicht nicht anwendbar auf das Denken ist. Wird er dies gewahr, dann eröffnet er sich den Zugang zu der anderen Einsicht, daßim Denken und durch das Denken dasjenige erkannt werden muß, wofür sich der Mensch blind zu machen scheint, indem er zwischen der Welt und sich das Vorstellungsleben einschieben muß. Von durch den Verfasser dieses Buches sehr geschätzter Seite ist diesem der Vorwurf gemacht worden, daß er mit seiner Ausführung über das Denken bei einem naiven Realismus des Denkens stehenbleibe, wie ein solcher vorliege, wenn man die wirkliche Welt und die vorgestellte Welt für eines hält. Doch der Verfasser dieser Ausführungen glaubt eben in ihnen erwiesen zu haben, daß die Geltung dieses «naiven Realismus» für das Denken sich aus einer unbefangenen Beobachtung desselben notwendig ergibt; und daß der für anderes nicht geltende naive Realismus durch die Erkenntnis der wahren Wesenheit des Denkens überwunden wird.

Anmerkungen:
(1) Tranzendental wird im Sinne dieser Weltanschauung eine Erkenntnis genannt welche sich bewußt glaubt, daß über die Dinge an sich nicht direkt etwas ausgesagt werden könne, sondern welche indirekt Schlüsse von dem bekannten subjektiven auf das Unbekannte, jenseits des subjektiven Liegende (Transzendente) macht. Das Ding an sich ist nach dieser Ansicht jenseits des Gebietes der uns unmittelbar erkennbaren Welt, d. i. transzendent. Unsere Welt kann aber auf das Transzendente transzendental bezogen werden. Realismus heißt Hartmanns Anschauung, weil sie über das subjektive, Ideale hinaus, auf das Transzendente, Reale geht.

5. Das Erkennen der Welt – 1

Aus den vorhergehenden Betrachtungen folgt die Unmöglichkeit, durch Untersuchung unseres Beobachtungsinhalts den Beweis zu erbringen, daß unsere Wahrnehmungen Vorstellungen sind. Dieser Beweis soll nämlich dadurch erbracht werden, daß man zeigt: wenn der Wahrnehmungsprozeß in der Art erfolgt, wie man ihn gemäß den naiv-realistischen Annahmen über die psychologische und physiologische Konstitution unseres Individuums sich vorstellt, dann haben wir es nicht mit Dingen an sich, sondern bloß mit unseren Vorstellungen von den Dingen zu tun. Wenn nun der naive Realismus, konsequent verfolgt, zu Resultaten führt, die das gerade Gegenteil seiner Voraussetzungen darstellen, so müssen diese Voraussetzungen als ungeeignet zur Begründung einer Weltanschauung bezeichnet und fallen gelassen werden. Jedenfalls ist es unstatthaft, die Voraussetzungen zu verwerfen und die Folgerungen gelten zu lassen, wie es der kritische Idealist tut, der seiner Behauptung: die Welt ist meine Vorstellung, den obigen Beweisgang zugrunde legt. (Eduard von Hartmann gibt in seiner Schrift «Das Grundproblem der Erkenntnistheorie» eine ausführliche Darstellung dieses Beweisganges.)

Ein anderes ist die Richtigkeit des kritischen Idealismus, ein anderes die Überzeugungskraft seiner Beweise. Wie es mit der ersteren steht, wird sich später im Zusammenhange unserer Ausführungen ergeben. Die Überzeugungskraft seines Beweises ist aber gleich Null. Wenn man ein Haus baut, und bei Herstellung des ersten Stockwerkes bricht das Erdgeschoß in sich zusammen, so stürzt das erste Stockwerk mit. Der naive Realismus und der kritische Idealismus verhalten sich wie dies Erdgeschoß zum ersten Stockwerk.

Wer der Ansicht ist, daß die ganze wahrgenommene Welt nur eine vorgestellte ist, und zwar die Wirkung der mir unbekannten Dinge auf meine Seele, für den geht die eigentliche Erkenntnisfrage natürlich nicht auf die nur in der Seele vorhandenen Vorstellungen, sondern auf die jenseits unseres Bewußtseins liegenden, von uns unabhängigen Dinge. Er fragt: Wieviel können wir von den letzteren mittelbar erkennen, da sie unserer Beobachtung unmittelbar nicht zugänglich sind? Der auf diesem Standpunkt Stehende kümmert sich nicht um den inneren Zusammenhang seiner bewußten Wahrnehmungen, sondern um deren nicht mehr bewußte Ursachen, die ein von ihm unabhängiges Dasein haben, während, nach seiner Ansicht, die Wahrnehmungen verschwinden, sobald er seine Sinne von den Dingen abwendet. Unser Bewußtsein wirkt, von diesem Gesichtspunkte aus, wie ein Spiegel, dessen Bilder von bestimmten Dingen auch in dem Augenblicke verschwinden, in dem seine spiegelnde Fläche ihnen nicht zugewandt ist. Wer aber die Dinge selbst nicht sieht, sondern nur ihre Spiegelbilder, der muß aus dem Verhalten der letzteren über die Beschaffenheit der ersteren durch Schlüsse indirekt sich unterrichten. Auf diesem Standpunkte steht die neuere Naturwissenschaft, welche die Wahrnehmungen nur als letztes Mittel benutzt, um Aufschluß über die hinter denselben stehenden und allein wahrhaft seienden Vorgänge des Stoffes zu gewinnen. Wenn der Philosoph als kritischer Idealist überhaupt ein Sein gelten läßt, dann geht sein Erkenntnisstreben mit mittelbarer Benutzung der Vorstellungen allein auf dieses Sein. Sein Interesse überspringt die subjektive Welt der Vorstellungen [82] und geht auf das Erzeugende dieser Vorstellungen los.

Der kritische Idealist kann aber so weit gehen, daß er sagt ich bin in meine Vorstellungswelt eingeschlossen und kann aus ihr nicht hinaus. Wenn ich ein Ding hinter meinen Vorstellungen denke, so ist dieser Gedanke doch auch weiter nichts als meine Vorstellung. Ein solcher Idealist wird dann das Ding an sich entweder ganz leugnen oder wenigstens davon erklären, daß es für uns Menschen gar keine Bedeutung habe, das ist, so gut wie nicht da sei, weil wir nichts von ihm wissen können.

Einem kritischen Idealisten dieser Art erscheint die ganze Welt als ein Traum, dem gegenüber jeder Erkenntnisdrang einfach sinnlos wäre. Für ihn kann es nur zwei Gattungen von Menschen geben: Befangene, die ihre eigenen Traumgespinste für wirkliche Dinge halten, und Weise, die die Nichtigkeit dieser Traumwelt durchschauen, und die nach und nach alle Lust verlieren müssen, sich weiter darum zu bekümmern. Für diesen Standpunkt kann auch die eigene Persönlichkeit zum bloßen Traumbilde werden. Gerade so wie unter den Bildern des Schlaftraums unser eigenes Traumbild erscheint, so tritt im wachen Bewußtsein die Vorstellung des eigenen Ich zu der Vorstellung der Außenwelt hinzu. Wir haben im Bewußtsein dann nicht unser wirkliches Ich, sondern nur unsere Ichvorstellung gegeben. Wer nun leugnet, daß es Dinge gibt, oder wenigstens, daß wir von ihnen etwas wissen können: der muß auch das Dasein beziehungsweise die Erkenntnis der eigenen Persönlichkeit leugnen. Der kritische Idealist kommt dann zu der Behauptung: ,Alle Realität verwandelt sich in einen wunderbaren Traum, ohne ein Leben, von welchem geträumt wird, und ohne einen Geist, dem da träumt; in einen Traum, der in einem Traume von sich selbst zusammenhängt» (vergleiche Fichte, Die Bestimmung des Menschen).

Gleichgültig, ob derjenige, der das unmittelbare Leben als Traum zu erkennen glaubt, hinter diesem Traum nichts mehr vermutet, oder ob er seine Vorstellungen auf wirkliche Dinge bezieht: das Leben selbst muß für ihn alles wissenschaftliche Interesse verlieren. Während aber für denjenigen, der mit dem Traume das uns zugängliche All erschöpft glaubt, alle Wissenschaft ein Unding ist, wird für den andern, der sich befugt glaubt, von den Vorstellungen auf die Dinge zu schließen, die Wissenschaft in der Erforschung dieser «Dinge an sich» bestehen. Die erstere Weltansicht kann mit dem Namen absoluter Illusionismus bezeichnet werden, die zweite nennt ihr konsequentester Vertreter, Eduard von Hartmann, transzendentalen Realismus.

Diese beiden Ansichten haben mit dem naiven Realismus das gemein, daß sie Fuß in der Welt zu fassen suchen durch eine Untersuchung der Wahrnehmungen. Sie können aber innerhalb dieses Gebietes nirgends einen festen Punkt finden.

Eine Hauptfrage für den Bekenner des transzendentalen Realismus müßte sein: wie bringt das Ich aus sich selbst die Vorstellungswelt zustande? Für eine uns gegebene Welt von Vorstellungen, die verschwindet, sobald wir unsere Sinne der Außenwelt verschließen, kann ein ernstes Erkenntnisstreben sich insofern erwärmen, als sie das Mittel ist, die Welt des an sich seienden Ich mittelbar zu erforschen. Wenn die Dinge unserer Erfahrung Vorstellungen wären, dann gliche unser alltägliches Leben einem Traume und die Erkenntnis des wahren Tatbestandes dem Erwachen. Auch unsere Traumbilder interessieren uns so lange, als wir träumen, folglich die Traumnatur nicht durchschauen. In dem Augenblicke des Erwachens fragen wir nicht mehr nach dem inneren Zusammenhange unserer Traumbilder, sondern nach den physikalischen, physiologischen und psychologischen Vorgängen, die ihnen zum Grunde liegen. Ebensowenig kann sich der Philosoph, der die Welt für seine Vorstellung hält, für den inneren Zusammenhang der Einzelheiten in derselben interessieren. Falls er überhaupt ein seiendes Ich gelten läßt, dann wird er nicht fragen, wie hängt eine seiner Vorstellungen mit einer anderen zusammen, sondern was geht in der von ihm unabhängigen Seele vor, während sein Bewußtsein einen bestimmten Vorstellungsablauf enthält. Wenn ich träume, daß ich Wein trinke, der mir ein Brennen im Kehlkopf verursache und dann mit Hustenreiz aufwache (vergleiche Weygandt, Entstehung der Träume, 1893), so hört im Augenblicke des Erwachens die Traumhandlung auf, für mich ein Interesse zu haben. Mein Augenmerk ist nur noch auf die physiologischen und psychologischen Prozesse gerichtet, durch die der Hustenreiz sich symbolisch in dem Traumbilde zum Ausdruck bringt. In ähnlicher Weise muß der Philosoph, sobald er von dem Vorstellungscharakter der gegebenen Welt überzeugt ist, von dieser sofort auf [85] die dahinter steckende wirkliche Seele überspringen. Schlimmer steht die Sache allerdings, wenn der Illusionismus das Ich an sich hinter den Vorstellungen ganz leugnet, oder es wenigstens für unerkennbar hält. Zu einer solchen Ansicht kann sehr leicht die Beobachtung führen, daß es dem Träumen gegenüber zwar den Zustand des Wachens gibt, in dem wir Gelegenheit haben, die Träume zu durchschauen und auf reale Verhältnisse zu beziehen, daß wir aber keinen zu dem wachen Bewußtseinsleben in einem ähnlichen Verhältnisse stehenden Zustand haben. Wer zu dieser Ansicht sich bekennt, dem geht die Einsicht ab, daß es etwas gibt, das sich in der Tat zum bloßen Wahrnehmen verhält wie das Erfahren im wachen Zustande zum Träumen. Dieses Etwas ist das Denken.

Dem naiven Menschen kann der Mangel an Einsicht, auf den hier gedeutet wird, nicht angerechnet werden. Er gibt sich dem Leben hin und hält die Dinge so für wirklich, wie sie sich ihm in der Erfahrung darbieten. Der erste Schritt aber, der über diesen Standpunkt hinaus unternommen wird, kann nur in der Frage bestehen: wie verhält sich das Denken zur Wahrnehmung? Ganz einerlei, ob die Wahrnehmung in der mir gegebenen Gestalt vor und nach meinem Vorstellen weiterbesteht oder nicht: wenn ich irgend etwas über sie aussagen will, so kann es nur mit Hilfe des Denkens geschehen.

Wenn ich sage: die Welt ist meine Vorstellung, so habe ich das Ergebnis eines Denkprozesses ausgesprochen, und wenn mein Denken auf die Welt nicht anwendbar ist, so ist dieses Ergebnis ein Irrtum. Zwischen die Wahrnehmung und jede Art von Aussage über dieselbe schiebt sich das Denken ein.

Den Grund, warum das Denken bei der Betrachtung der Dinge zumeist übersehen wird, haben wir bereits angegeben (vergleiche Seite 42 f.). Er liegt in dem Umstande, daß wir nur auf den Gegenstand, über den wir denken, nicht aber zugleich auf das Denken unsere Aufmerksamkeit richten. Das naive Bewußtsein behandelt daher das Denken wie etwas, das mit den Dingen nichts zu tun hat, sondern ganz abseits von denselben steht und seine Betrachtungen über die Welt anstellt. Das Bild, das der Denker von den Erscheinungen der Welt entwirft, gilt nicht als etwas, was zu den Dingen gehört, sondern als ein nur im Kopfe des Menschen existierendes; die Welt ist auch fertig ohne dieses Bild. Die Welt ist fix und fertig in allen ihren Substanzen und Kräften; und von dieser fertigen Welt entwirft der Mensch ein Bild. Die so denken, muß man nur fragen: mit welchem Rechte erklärt ihr die Welt für fertig, ohne das Denken? Bringt nicht mit der gleichen Notwendigkeit die Welt das Denken im Kopfe des Menschen hervor, wie die Blüte an der Pflanze? Pflanzet ein Samenkorn in den Boden. Es treibt Wurzel und Stengel. Es entfaltet sich zu Blättern und Blüten. Stellet die Pflanze euch selbst gegenüber. Sie verbindet sich in eurer Seele mit einem bestimmten Begriffe. Warum gehört dieser Begriff weniger zur ganzen Pflanze als Blatt und Blüte? Ihr saget: die Blätter und Blüten sind ohne ein wahrnehmendes Subjekt da; der Begriff erscheint erst, wenn sich der Mensch der Pflanze gegenüberstellt. Ganz wohl. Aber auch Blüten und Blätter entstehen an der Pflanze nur, wenn Erde da ist, in die der Keim gelegt werden kann, wenn Licht und Luft da sind, in denen sich Blätter und Blüten entfalten können. Gerade so entsteht der Begriff der Pflanze, wenn ein denkendes Bewußtsein an die Pflanze herantritt.

Es ist ganz willkürlich, die Summe dessen, was wir von einem Dinge durch die bloße Wahrnehmung erfahren, für eine Totalität, für ein Ganzes zu halten, und dasjenige, was sich durch die denkende Betrachtung ergibt, als ein solches Hinzugekommenes, das mit der Sache selbst nichts zu tun habe. Wenn ich heute eine Rosenknospe erhalte, so ist das Bild, das sich meiner Wahrnehmung darbietet, nur zunächst ein abgeschlossenes. Wenn ich die Knospe in Wasser setze, so werde ich morgen ein ganz anderes Bild meines Objektes erhalten, wenn ich mein Auge von der Rosenknospe nicht abwendet, So sehe ich den heutigen Zustand in den morgigen durch unzählige Zwischenstufen kontinuierlich übergehen. Das Bild, das sich mir in einem bestimmten Augenblicke darbietet, ist nur ein zufälliger Ausschnitt aus dem in einem fortwährenden Werden begriffenen Gegenstande. Setze ich die Knospe nicht in Wasser, so bringt sie eine ganze Reihe von Zuständen nicht zur Entwickelung, die der Möglichkeit nach in ihr lagen. Ebenso kann ich morgen verhindert sein, die Blüte weiter zu beobachten und dadurch ein unvollständiges Bild haben.

Es ist eine ganz unsachliche, an Zufälligkeiten sich heftende Meinung, die von dem in einer gewissen Zeit sich darbietenden Bilde erklärte: das ist die Sache.

Ebensowenig ist es statthaft, die Summe der Wahrnehmungsmerkmale für die Sache zu erklären. Es wäre sehr wohl möglich, daß ein Geist zugleich und ungetrennt von der Wahrnehmung den Begriff mitempfangen könnte. Ein solcher Geist würde gar nicht auf den Einfall kommen, den Begriff als etwas nicht zur Sache Gehöriges zu betrachten. Er müßte ihm ein mit der Sache unzertrennlich verbundenes Dasein zuschreiben.

Ich will mich noch durch ein Beispiel deutlicher machen. Wenn ich einen Stein in horizontaler Richtung durch die Luft werfe, so sehe ich ihn nacheinander an verschiedenen Orten. Ich verbinde diese Orte zu einer Linie. In der Mathematik lerne ich verschiedene Linienformen kennen, darunter auch die Parabel. Ich kenne die Parabel als eine Linie, die entsteht, wenn sich ein Punkt in einer gewissen gesetzmäßigen Art bewegt. Wenn ich die Bedingungen untersuche, unter denen sich der geworfene Stein bewegt, so finde ich, daß die Linie seiner Bewegung mit der identisch ist, die ich als Parabel kenne. Daß sich der Stein gerade in einer Parabel bewegt, das ist eine Folge der gegebenen Bedingungen und folgt mit Notwendigkeit aus diesen. Die Form der Parabel gehört zur ganzen Erscheinung, wie alles andere, was an derselben in Betracht kommt. Dem oben beschriebenen Geist, der nicht den Umweg des Denkens nehmen müßte, wäre nicht nur eine Summe von Gesichtsempfindungen an verschiedenen Orten gegeben, sondern ungetrennt von der Erscheinung auch die parabolische Form der Wurflinie, die wir erst durch Denken zu der Erscheinung hinzufügen.

Nicht an den Gegenständen liegt es, daß sie uns zunächst ohne die entsprechenden Begriffe gegeben werden, sondern an unserer geistigen Organisation. Unsere totale Wesenheit funktioniert in der Weise, daß ihr bei jedem Dinge der Wirklichkeit von zwei Seiten her die Elemente zufließen, die für die Sache in Betracht kommen: von seiten des Wahrnehmens und des Denkens.

Es hat mit der Natur der Dinge nichts zu tun, wie ich organisiert bin, sie zu erfassen. Der Schnitt zwischen Wahrnehmen und Denken ist erst in dem Augenblicke vorhanden, wo ich, der Betrachtende, den Dingen gegenübertrete. Welche Elemente dem Dinge angehören und welche nicht, kann aber durchaus nicht davon abhängen, auf welche Weise ich zur Kenntnis dieser Elemente gelange.

Der Mensch ist ein eingeschränktes Wesen. Zunächst ist er ein Wesen unter anderen Wesen. Sein Dasein gehört dem Raum und der Zeit an. Dadurch kann ihm auch immer nur ein beschränkter Teil des gesamten Universums gegeben sein. Dieser beschränkte Teil schließt sich aber ringsherum sowohl zeitlich wie räumlich an anderes an. Wäre unser Dasein so mit den Dingen verknüpft, daß jedes Weltgeschehen zugleich unser Geschehen wäre, dann gäbe es den Unterschied zwischen uns und den Dingen nicht. Dann aber gäbe es für uns auch keine Einzeldinge. Da ginge alles Geschehen kontinuierlich ineinander über. Der Kosmos wäre eine Einheit und eine in sich beschlossene Ganzheit. Der Strom des Geschehens hätte nirgends eine Unterbrechung. Wegen unserer Beschränkung erscheint uns als Einzelheit, was in Wahrheit nicht Einzelheit ist. Nirgends ist zum Beispiel die Einzelqualität des Rot abgesondert für sich vorhanden. Sie ist allseitig von anderen Qualitäten umgeben, zu denen sie gehört, und ohne die sie nicht bestehen könnte. Für uns aber ist es eine Notwendigkeit, gewisse Ausschnitte aus der Welt herauszuheben, und sie für sich zu betrachten. Unser Auge kann nur einzelne Farben nacheinander aus einem vielgliedrigen Farbenganzen, unser Verstand nur einzelne Begriffe aus einem zusammenhängenden Begriffssysteme erfassen. Diese Absonderung ist ein subjektiver Akt, bedingt durch den Umstand, daß wir nicht identisch sind mit dem Weltprozeß, sondern ein Wesen unter anderen Wesen.

Es kommt nun alles darauf an, die Stellung des Wesens, das wir selbst sind, zu den anderen Wesen zu bestimmen. Diese Bestimmung muß unterschieden werden von dem bloßen Bewußtwerden unseres Selbst. Das letztere beruht auf dem Wahrnehmen wie das Bewußtwerden jedes anderen Dinges. Die Selbstwahrnehmung zeigt mir eine Summe von Eigenschaften, die ich ebenso zu dem Ganzen meiner Persönlichkeit zusammenfasse, wie ich die Eigenschaften: gelb, metallglänzend, hart usw. zu der Einheit «Gold» zusammenfasse. Die Selbstwahrnehmung führt mich nicht aus dem Bereiche dessen hinaus, was zu mir gehört. Dieses Selbstwahrnehmen ist zu unterscheiden von dem denkenden Selbstbestimmen. Wie ich eine einzelne Wahrnehmung der Außenwelt durch das Denken eingliedere in den Zusammenhang der Welt, so gliedere ich die an mir selbst gemachten Wahrnehmungen in den Weltprozeß durch das Denken ein. Mein Selbstwahrnehmen schließt mich innerhalb bestimmter Grenzen ein; mein Denken hat nichts zu tun mit diesen Grenzen. In diesem Sinne bin ich ein Doppelwesen. Ich bin eingeschlossen in das Gebiet, das ich als das meiner Persönlichkeit wahrnehme, aber ich bin Träger einer Tätigkeit, die von einer höheren Sphäre aus mein begrenztes Dasein bestimmt. Unser Denken ist nicht individuell wie unser Empfinden und Fühlen. Es ist universell. Es erhält ein individuelles Gepräge in jedem einzelnen Menschen nur dadurch, daß es auf sein individuelles Fühlen und Empfinden bezogen ist. Durch diese besonderen Färbungen des universellen Denkens unterscheiden sich die einzelnen Menschen voneinander. Ein Dreieck hat nur einen einzigen Begriff. Für den Inhalt dieses Begriffes ist es gleichgültig, ob ihn der menschliche Bewußtseinsträger A oder B faßt. Er wird aber von jedem der zwei Bewußtseinsträger in individueller Weise erfaßt werden.

Diesem Gedanken steht ein schwer zu überwindendes Vorurteil der Menschen gegenüber. Die Befangenheit kommt nicht bis zu der Einsicht, daß der Begriff des Dreieckes, den mein Kopf erfaßt, derselbe ist, wie der durch den Kopf meines Nebenmenschen ergriffene. Der naive Mensch hält sich für den Bildner seiner Begriffe. Er glaubt deshalb, jede Person habe ihre eigenen Begriffe. Es ist eine Grundforderung des philosophischen Denkens, dieses Vorurteil zu überwinden. Der eine einheitliche Begriff des Dreiecks wird nicht dadurch zu einer Vielheit, daß er von vielen gedacht wird. Denn das Denken der Vielen selbst ist eine Einheit.

In dem Denken haben wir das Element gegeben, das unsere besondere Individualität mit dem Kosmos zu einem Ganzen zusammenschließt. Indem wir empfinden und fühlen (auch wahrnehmen), sind wir einzelne, indem wir denken, sind wir das all-eine Wesen, das alles durchdringt. Dies ist der tiefere Grund unserer Doppelnatur: Wir sehen in uns eine schlechthin absolute Kraft zum Dasein kommen, eine Kraft, die universell ist, aber wir lernen sie nicht bei ihrem Ausströmen aus dem Zentrum der Welt kennen, sondern in einem Punkte der Peripherie. Wäre das erstere der Fall, dann wüßten wir in dem Augenblicke, in dem wir zum Bewußtsein kommen, das ganze Welträtsel. Da wir aber in einem Punkte der Peripherie stehen und unser eigenes Dasein in bestimmte Grenzen eingeschlossen finden, müssen wir das außerhalb unseres eigenen Wesens gelegene Gebiet mit Hilfe des aus dem allgemeinen Weltensein in uns hereinragenden Denkens kennen lernen.

Dadurch, daß das Denken in uns übergreift über unser Sondersein und auf das allgemeine Weltensein sich bezieht, entsteht in uns der Trieb der Erkenntnis. Wesen ohne Denken haben diesen Trieb nicht. Wenn sich ihnen andere Dinge gegenüberstellen, so sind dadurch keine Fragen gegeben. Diese anderen Dinge bleiben solchen Wesen äußerlich. Bei denkenden Wesen stößt dem Außendinge gegenüber der Begriff auf. Er ist dasjenige, was wir von dem Dinge nicht von außen, sondern von innen empfangen. Den Ausgleich, die Vereinigung der beiden Elemente, des inneren und des äußeren, soll die Erkenntnis liefern.

Die Wahrnehmung ist also nichts Fertiges, Abgeschlossenes, sondern die eine Seite der totalen Wirklichkeit. Die andere Seite ist der Begriff. Der Erkenntnisakt ist die Synthese von Wahrnehmung und Begriff. Wahrnehmung und Begriff eines Dinges machen aber erst das ganze Ding aus.

5. The Act of Knowing the World – 2

The foregoing arguments show that it is senseless to look for any common element in the separate entities of the world other than the ideal content that thinking offers us. All attempts to find a unity in the world other than this internally coherent ideal content, which we gain by a thoughtful contemplation of our percepts, are bound to fail. Neither a humanly personal God, nor force, nor matter, nor the blind will (Schopenhauer), can be valid for us as a universal world unity. All these entities belong only to limited spheres of our observation.

Humanly limited personality we perceive only in ourselves; force and matter in external things. As far as the will is concerned, it can be regarded only as the expression of the activity of our finite personality. Schopenhauer wants to avoid making “abstract” thinking the bearer of unity in the world, and seeks instead something which presents itself to him immediately as real. This philosopher believes that we can never approach the world so long as we regard it as “external” world.

In point of fact, the sought for meaning of the world which confronts me is nothing more than mental picture, or the passage from the world as mere mental picture of the knowing subject to whatever it may be besides this, could never be found at all if the investigator himself were nothing more than the purely knowing subject (a winged cherub without a body). But he himself is rooted in that world: he finds himself in it as an individual, that is to say, his knowledge, which is the determining factor supporting the whole world as mental picture, is thus always given through the medium of a body, whose affections are, for the intellect, the starting point for the contemplation of that world, as we have shown.

For the purely knowing subject as such, this body is a mental picture like any other, an object among objects; its movements and actions are so far known to him in precisely the same way as the changes of all other perceived objects, and would be just as strange and incomprehensible to him if their sense were not made clear for him in an entirely different way …. To the subject of knowledge, who appears as an individual through his identity with the body, this body is given in two entirely different ways: once as a mental picture for intelligent consideration, as an object among objects and obeying their laws; but at the same time, in quite a different way, namely as the thing immediately known to everyone by the word will.

Every true act of his will is at once and without exception also a movement of his body: he cannot will the act without at the same time perceiving that it appears as a movement of the body. The act of will and the action of the body are not two things objectively known to be different, which the bond of causality unites; they do not stand in the relation of cause and effect; they are one and the same, but they are given in two entirely different ways: once quite directly and once in contemplation for the intellect.

Schopenhauer considers himself entitled by these arguments to find in the human body the “objectivity” of the will. He believes that in the activities of the body he feels an immediate reality -the thing-in-itself in the concrete. Against these arguments it must be said that the activities of our body come to our consciousness only through percepts of the self, and that, as such, they are in no way superior to other percepts.

If we want to know their real nature, we can do so only by a thinking investigation, that is, by fitting them into the ideal system of our concepts and ideas.

Rooted most deeply in the naive consciousness of mankind is the opinion that thinking is abstract, without any concrete content; it can at most give us an “ideal” counterpart of the unity of the world, but never the unity itself. Whoever judges in this way has never made it clear to himself what a percept without the concept really is. Let us see what this world of percepts is like: a mere juxtaposition in space, a mere succession in time, a mass of unconnected details – that is how it appears.

None of the things which come and go on the stage of perception has any direct connection, that can be perceived, with any other. The world is thus a multiplicity of objects of equal value. None plays any greater part in the whole machinery of the world than any other. If it is to become clear to us that this or that fact has greater significance than another, we must consult our thinking. Were thinking not to function, the rudimentary organ of an animal which has no significance in its life would appear equal in value to the most important limb of its body.

The separate facts appear in their true significance, both in themselves and for the rest of the world only when thinking spins its threads from one entity to another. This activity of thinking is one full of content. For it is only through a quite definite concrete content that I can know why the snail belongs to a lower level of organisation than the lion. The mere appearance, the percept, gives me no content which could inform me as to the degree of perfection of the organisation.

Thinking offers this content to the percept, from man’s world of concepts and ideas. In contrast to the content of percept which is given to us from without, the content of thinking appears inwardly. The form in which this first makes its appearance we will call intuition. Intuition is for thinking what observation is for percept. Intuition and observation are the sources of our knowledge.

An observed object of the world remains unintelligible to us until we have within ourselves the corresponding intuition which adds that part of reality which is lacking in the percept. To anyone who is incapable of finding intuitions corresponding to the things, the full reality remains inaccessible. Just as the colour-blind person sees only differences of brightness without any colour qualities, so can the person without intuition observe only unconnected perceptual fragments.

To explain a thing, to make it intelligible, means nothing else than to place it into the context from which it has been torn by the peculiar character of our organisation as already described. A thing cut off from the world-whole does not exist. All isolating has only subjective validity for our organisation.

For us the universe divides itself up into above and below, before and after, cause and effect, thing and mental picture, matter and force, object and subject, etc. What appears to us in observation as separate parts becomes combined, bit by bit, through the coherent, unified world of our intuitions. By thinking we fit together again into one piece all that we have taken apart through perceiving.

The enigmatic character of an object consists in its separateness. But this separation is our own making and can, within the world of concepts, be overcome again.

Except through thinking and perceiving nothing is given to us directly. The question now arises: What is the significance of the percept, according to our line of argument? We have learnt that the proof which critical idealism offers of the subjective nature of perceptions collapses. But insight into the falsity of the proof is not alone sufficient to show that the doctrine itself is erroneous.

Critical idealism does not base its proof on the absolute nature of thinking, but relies on the argument of naive realism, when followed to its logical conclusion, cancels itself out. How does the matter appear when we have recognised the absoluteness of thinking?

Let us assume that a certain perception, for example, red, appears in my consciousness. To continued observation, this percept shows itself to be connected with other percepts, for example, a definite figure and with certain temperature- and touch-percepts. This combination I call an object belonging to the sense-perceptible world. I can now ask myself: Over and above the percepts just mentioned, what else is there in the section of space in which they appear? I shall then find mechanical, chemical and other processes in that section of space. I next go further and study the processes I find on the way from the object to my sense organs.

I can find movements in an elastic medium, which by their very nature have not the slightest in common with the percepts from which I started. I get the same result when I go on and examine the transmission from sense organs to brain. In each of these fields I gather new percepts, but the connecting medium which weaves through all these spatially and temporally separated percepts is thinking.

The air vibrations which transmit sound are given to me as percepts just like the sound itself. Thinking alone links all these percepts to one another and shows them to us in their mutual relationship. We cannot speak of anything existing beyond what is directly perceived except what can be recognised through the ideal connections of percepts, that is, connections accessible to thinking). The way objects as percepts are related to the subject as percept — a relationship that goes beyond what is merely perceived — is therefore purely ideal, that is, it can be expressed only by means of concepts.

Only if I could perceive how the percept object affects the percept subject, or, conversely, could watch the building up of the perceptual pattern by the subject, would it be possible to speak as modern physiology and the critical idealism based on it do. Their view confuses an ideal relation (that of the object to the subject) with a process which we could speak of only if it were possible to perceive it. The proposition, “No colour without a colour-sensing eye,” cannot be taken to mean that the eye produces the colour, but only that an ideal relation, recognisable by thinking, subsists between the percept “colour” and the percept “eye”.

Empirical science will have to ascertain how the properties of the eye and those of the colours are related to one another, by what means the organ of sight transmits the perception of colours, and so forth. I can trace how one percept succeeds another in time and is related to others in space, and I can formulate these relations in conceptual terms, but I can never perceive how a percept originates out of the non-perceptible. All attempts to seek any relations between percepts other than thought relations must of necessity fail.

What, then is a percept? The question, asked in this general way, is absurd. A percept emerges always as something perfectly definite, as a concrete content. This content is directly given and is completely contained in what is given. The only question one can ask concerning the given content is what it is apart from perception, that is, what it is for thinking? The question concerning the “what” of a percept can, therefore, only refer to the conceptual intuition that corresponds to this percept.

From this point of view, the question of the subjectivity of percepts, in the sense of critical idealism, cannot be raised at all. Only what is perceived as belonging to the subject can be termed “subjective.” To form a link between something subjective and something objective is impossible for any process that is “real” in the naive sense, that is, one that can be perceived; it is possible only for thinking. Therefore what appears for our perception to be external to the percept of myself as subject is for us “objective”.

The percept of myself as subject remains perceptible to me after the table which now stands before me has disappeared from my field of observation. The observation of the table has produced in me a modification which likewise persists. I retain the faculty to produce later on an image of the table. This faculty of producing an image remains connected with me. Psychology calls this image as a memory-picture.

It is in fact the only thing which can justifiably be called the mental picture of the table. For it corresponds to the perceptible modification of my own state through the presence of the table in my visual field. Moreover, it does not mean a modification of some “Ego-in-itself” standing behind the percept of the subject, but the modification of the perceptible subject itself. The mental picture is, therefore, a subjective percept, in contrast with the objective percept which occurs when the object is present in the field of vision. Confusing the subjective percept with the objective percept leads to the misconception of contained in idealism – that the world is my mental picture.

Our next task must be to define the concept of “mental picture” more closely. What we have said about it so far does not give us the concept of it but only shows us whereabouts in the perceptual field the mental picture is to be found. The exact concept of mental picture will make it possible for us also to obtain a satisfactory explanation of the way that mental picture and object are related. This will then lead us over the border line where the relationship between the human subject and the object belonging to the world is brought down from the purely conceptual field of cognition into concrete individual life. Once we know what to make of the world, it will be a simple matter to direct ourselves accordingly. We can only act with full energy when we know what it is in the world to which we devote our activity.

Author’s addition, 1918

The view I have outlined here may be regarded as one to which man is at first quite naturally driven when he begins to reflect upon his relation to the world. He then finds himself caught in a system of thoughts which dissolves for him as fast as he frames it. The thought formation is such that it requires something more than mere theoretical refutation. We have to live through it in order to understand the aberration into which it leads us and thence to find the way out. It must figure in any discussion of the relation of man to the world, not for the sake of refuting others whom one believes to be holding mistaken views about this relation, but because it is necessary to understand the confusion to which every first effort at reflection about such a relation is apt to lead. One needs to arrive at just that insight which will enable one to refute oneself with respect to these first reflections. This is the point of view from which the arguments of the preceding chapter are put forward.

Whoever tries to work out for himself a view of the relation of man to the world becomes aware of the fact that he creates this relation, at least in part, by forming mental pictures about the things and events in the world. In consequence, his attention is deflected from what exists outside in the world and is directed towards his inner world, the life of his mental pictures. He begins to say to himself: It is impossible for me to have a relationship to any thing or event unless a mental picture appears in me.

Once we have noticed this fact, it is but a step to the opinion: After all, I experience only my mental pictures; I know of a world outside me only in so far as it is a mental picture in me. With this opinion, the standpoint of naive realism, which man takes up prior to all reflection about his relation to the world, is abandoned. So long as he keeps that standpoint, he believes that he is dealing with real things, but reflection about himself drives him away from it.

Reflection prevents him from turning his gaze towards a real world such as naive consciousness believes it has before it. It allows him to gaze only upon his mental picture — these interpose themselves between his own being and a supposedly real world, such as the naive point of view believes itself entitled to affirm. Man can no longer see such a real world through the intervening world of mental pictures. He must suppose to that he is blind to this reality. Thus arises the thought of a “thing-in-itself” which is inaccessible to knowledge.

So long as we considers only the relationship to the world, into which man appears to enter through the life of his mental pictures, we cannot escape from this form of thought. Yet one cannot remain at the standpoint of naive realism except by closing one’s mind artificially to the craving for knowledge. The very existence of this craving for knowledge about the relation of man to the world shows that this naive point of view must be abandoned. If the naive point of view yielded anything we could acknowledge as truth, we could never experience this craving.

But we do not arrive at anything else which we could regard as truth if we merely abandon the naive point of view while unconsciously retaining the type of thought which it necessitates. This is just the mistake made by the man who says to himself: “I experience only my mental pictures, and though I believe that I am dealing with realities, I am actually conscious only of my mental pictures of reality; I must therefore suppose that the true reality, the ‘things-in-themselves’, exist only beyond the horison of my consciousness, that I know absolutely nothing of them directly, and that they somehow approach me and influence me so that my world of mental pictures arises in me.”

Whoever thinks in this way is merely adding another world in his thoughts to the world already spread out before him. But with regard to this additional world, he ought strictly to begin his thinking activity all over again. For the unknown “thing-in-itself”, in its relation to man’s own nature, is conceived in exactly the same way as is the known thing in the sense of naive realism.

One only avoids the confusion into which one falls through the critical attitude based on this naive standpoint, if one notices that, inside everything we can experience by means of perceiving, be it within ourselves or outside in the world, there is something which cannot suffer the fate of having a mental picture interpose itself between the process and the person observing it. This something is thinking. With regard to thinking, we can maintain the point of view of naive realism. If we fail to do so, it is only because we have learnt that we must abandon it in the case of other things, but overlook that what we have found to be true for these other things does not apply to thinking. When we realise this, we open the way to the further insight that in thinking and through thinking man must recognise the very thing to which he has apparently blinded himself by having to interpose his life of mental pictures between the world and himself.

From a source greatly respected by the author of this book comes the objection that this discussion of thinking remains at the level of a naive realism of thinking, just as one might object if someone held the real world and the world of mental pictures to be one and the same. However, the author believes himself to have shown in this very discussion that the validity of this “naive realism” for thinking results inevitably from an unprejudiced observation of thinking; and that naive realism, in so far as it is invalid for other things, is overcome through the recognition of the true nature of thinking.

5. The Act of Knowing the World – 1

From the foregoing considerations it follows that it is impossible to prove by investigating the content of our observation that our percepts are mental pictures. Such proof is supposed to be established by showing that, if the process of perceiving takes place in the way in which — on the basis of naive- realistic assumptions about our psychological and physiological constitution — we imagine that it does, then we have to do, not with things in themselves, but only with our mental pictures of things.

Now if naive realism, when consistently thought out, leads to results which directly contradict its presuppositions, then these presuppositions must be discarded as unsuitable for the foundation of a universal philosophy. In any case, it is not permissible to reject the presuppositions and yet accept the consequences, as the critical idealist does when he bases his assertion that the world is my mental picture on the line of argument already described. (Eduard von Hartmann gives a full account of this line of argument in his work, Das Grundproblem der Erkenntnistheorie.)

The truth of critical idealism is one thing, the force of its proof another. How it stands with the former will appear later on in the course of this book, but the force of its proof is exactly nil. If one builds a house, and the ground floor collapses while the first floor is being built, then the first floor collapses also. Naive realism and critical idealism is related as ground floor to the first floor in this simile.

For someone who believes that the whole perceived world is only an imagined one, a mental picture, and is in fact the effect upon my soul of things unknown to me, the real problem of knowledge is naturally concerned not with the mental pictures present only in the soul but with the things which are independent of us and which lie outside our consciousness.

He asks: How much can we learn about these things indirectly, seeing that we cannot observe them directly? From this point of view, he is concerned not with the inner connection of his conscious percepts with one another but with their causes which transcend his consciousness and exist independently of him, since the percepts, in his opinion, disappear as soon as he turns his senses away from things. Our consciousness, on this view, works like a mirror from which the pictures of definite things disappear the moment its reflecting surface is not turned toward them. If, now, we do not see the things themselves but only their reflections, then we must learn indirectly about the nature of things by drawing conclusions from the behavior of the reflections.

Modern science takes this attitude in that it uses percepts only as a last resort in obtaining information about the processes of matter which lie behind them, and which alone really “are.” If the philosopher, as critical idealist, admits real existence at all, then his search for knowledge through the medium of mental pictures is directed solely toward this existence. His interest skips over the subjective world of mental pictures and goes straight for what produces these pictures.

The critical idealist can, however, go even further and say: I am confined to the world of my mental pictures and escape from it. If I think of a thing as being behind my mental picture, then thought is again nothing but a mental picture. An idealist of this type will either deny the thing-in-itself entirely or at any rate assert that it has no significance for human beings, in other words, that it is as good as non-existent since we can know nothing of it.

To this kind of critical idealist the whole world seems a dream, in the face of which all striving for knowledge is simply meaningless. For him there can be only two sorts of men: victims of the illusion that their own dream structures are real things, and the wise ones who see through the nothingness of this dream world and who must therefore gradually lose all desire to trouble themselves further about it. From this point of view, even one’s own personality may become a mere dream phantom. Just as during sleep there appears among my dream images an image of myself, so in waking consciousness the mental picture of my own I is added to the mental picture of the outer world.

We have then given to us in consciousness, not our real I, but only our mental picture of our I. Whoever denies that things exist, or at least that we can know anything of them, must also deny the existence, or at least the knowledge, of one’s own personality. The critical idealist then comes to the conclusion that “All reality resolves itself into a wonderful dream, without a life which is dreamed about, and without a spirit which is having the dream; into a dream which hangs together in a dream of itself.”

For the person who believes that he recognises our immediate life to be a dream, it is immaterial whether he postulates nothing more behind this dream or whether he relates his mental pictures to actual things. In both cases life must lose all academic interest for him. But whereas all learning must be meaningless for those who believe that the whole of the accessible universe is exhausted in dreams, yet for others who feel entitled to argue from mental pictures to things, learning will consist in the investigation of these “things-in-themselves.” The first of these theories may be called absolute illusionism, the second is called transcendental realism by its most rigorously logical exponent, Eduard von Hartmann.

Both these points of views have this in common with naive realism, that they seek to gain a footing in the world by means of an investigation of perceptions. Within this sphere, however, they are unable to find a firm foundation.

One of the most important questions for an adherent of transcendental realism would have to be: How does the Ego produce the world of mental pictures out of itself? A world of mental pictures which was given to us, and which disappeared as soon as we shut our senses to the external world, might kindle as earnest desire for knowledge, in so far as it was a means of investigating indirectly the world of the I-in-itself. If the things of our experience were “mental pictures”, then our everyday life would be like a dream, and the discovery of the true state of affairs would be like waking.

Now our dream images interest us as long as we dream and consequently do not detect their dream character. But as soon as we wake, we no longer look for the inner connections of our dream images among themselves, but rather for the physical, physiological and psychological processes which underlie them. In the same way, a philosopher who holds the world to be his mental picture cannot be interested in the mutual relations of the details within the picture. If he allows for the existence of a real Ego at all, then his question will be, not how one of his mental pictures is linked with another, but what takes place in the independently existing soul while a certain train of mental pictures passes through his consciousness.

If I dream that I am drinking wine which makes my throat dry, and then wake up with a cough I cease, the moment I wake, to be interested in progress of the dream for its own sake. My attention is now concerned only with the physiological and psychological processes by means of which the irritation which causes me to cough comes to be symbolically expressed in the dream picture. Similarly, once the philosopher is convinced that the given world consists of nothing but mental pictures, his interest is bound to switch at once from this world to the real soul which lies behind.

The matter is more serious, however, for the adherent of illusionism who denies altogether the existence of an Ego-in-itself behind the mental pictures, or at least holds this Ego to be unknowable. We might very easily be led to such a view by the observation that, in contrast to dreaming, there is indeed the waking state in which we have the opportunity of seeing through our dreams and referring them to the real relations of things, but that there is no state of the self which is related similarly to our waking conscious life. Whoever takes this view fails to see that there is, in fact, something which is related to mere perceiving in the way that our waking experience is related to our dreaming. This something is thinking.

The naive man cannot be charged with the lack of insight referred to here. He accepts life as it is, and regards things as real just as they present themselves to him in experience. The first step, however, which we take beyond this standpoint can be only this, that we ask how thinking is related to percept. It makes no difference whether or no the percept, in the shape given to me, exists continuously before and after my forming a mental picture; if I want to assert anything whatever about it, I can do so only with the help of thinking.

If I assert that the world is my mental picture, I have enunciated the result of an act of thinking. and if my thinking is not applicable to the world, then this result is false. Between a percept and every kind of assertion about it there intervenes thinking.

The reason why we generally overlook thinking in our consideration of things has already been given. It lies in the fact that our attention is concentrated only on the object we are thinking about, but not at the same time on the thinking itself. The naive consciousness, therefore, treats thinking as something which has nothing to do with things, but stands altogether aloof from them and contemplates them.

The picture which the thinker makes of the phenomena of the world is regarded not as something belonging to the things but as existing only in the human head. The world is complete in itself without this picture. It is finished and complete with all its substances and forces, and of this ready-made world man makes a picture. Whoever thinks thus need only be asked one question. What right have you to declare the world to be complete without thinking? Does not the world produce thinking in the heads of men with the same necessity as it produces the blossom on a plant? Plant a seed in the earth. It puts forth root and stem, it unfolds into leaves and blossoms. Set the plant before yourself. It connects itself, in your mind, with a definite concept. Why should this concept belong any less to the whole plant than leaf and blossom? You say the leaves and blossoms exist quite apart from a perceiving subject, but the concept appears only when a human being confronts the plant. Quite so. But leaves and blossoms also appear on the plant only if there is soil in which the seed can be planted, and light and air in which the leaves and blossoms can unfold. Just so the concept of a plant arises when a thinking consciousness approaches the plant.

It is quite arbitrary to regard the sum of what we experience of a thing through bare perception as a totality, as the whole thing, while that which reveals itself through thoughtful contemplation is regarded as a mere accretion which has nothing to do with the thing itself. If I am given a rosebud today, the picture that offers itself to my perception is complete only for the moment.

If I put the bud into water, I shall tomorrow get a very different picture of my object. If I watch the rosebud without interruption, I shall see today’s state change continuously into tomorrow’s through an infinite number of intermediate stages. The picture which presents itself to me at any one moment is only a chance cross-section of an object which is in a continual process of development. If I do not put the bud into water, a whole series of states which lay as possibilities within the bud will not develop. Similarly I may be prevented tomorrow from observing the blossom further, and will thereby have an incomplete picture of it.

It would be a quite unobjective and fortuitous kind of opinion that declared of the purely momentary appearance of a thing: this is the thing.

Just as little is it legitimate to regard the sum of perceptual characteristics as the thing. It might be quite possible for a spirit to receive the concept at the same time as, and united with, the percept. It would never occur to such a spirit that the concept did not belong to the thing. It would have to ascribe to the concept an existence indivisibly bound up with the thing.

I will make myself clearer by an example. If I throw a stone horisontally through the air, I perceive it in different places one after the other. I connect these places so as to form a line. Mathematics teaches me to know various kinds of lines, one of which is the parabola. I know the parabola to be a line which is produced when a point moves according to a particular law. If I examine the conditions under which the stone thrown by me moves, I find the path traversed is identical with the line I know as a parabola. That the stone moves just in a parabola is a result of the given conditions and follows necessarily from them.

The form of the parabola belongs to the whole phenomenon as much as any other feature of it does. The spirit described above who has no need of the detour of thinking would find itself presented not only a sequence of visual percepts at different points but, as part and parcel of these phenomena, also with the parabolic form of the path which we add to the phenomenon only by thinking.

It is not due to the objects that they are given us at first without the corresponding concepts, but to our mental organisation. Our whole being functions in such a way that from every real thing the relevant elements come to us from two sides, from perceiving and from thinking.

The way I am organised for apprehending the things has nothing to do with the nature of the things themselves. The gap between perceiving and thinking exists only from the moment that I as spectator confront the things. Which elements do, and which do not, belong to the things cannot depend at all on the manner in which I obtain my knowledge of these elements.

Man is a limited being. First of all, he is a being among other beings. His existence belongs to space and time. Thus, only a limited part of the total universe that can be given him at any one time. This limited part, however, is linked up with other parts in all directions both in time and in space. If our existence were so linked up with the things that every occurrence in the world were at the same time also an occurrence in us, the distinction between ourselves and the things would not exist. But then there would be no separate things at all for us. All occurrences would pass continuously one into the other. The cosmos would be a unity and a whole, complete in itself.

The stream of events would nowhere be interrupted. It is owing to our limitations that a thing appears to us as single and separate when in truth it is not a separate thing at all. Nowhere, for example, is the single quality “red” to be found by itself in isolation. It is surrounded on all sides by other qualities to which it belongs, and without which it could not subsist.

For us, however, it is necessary to isolate certain sections of the world and to consider them by themselves. Our eye can grasp only single colours one after another out of a manifold totality of colour, and our understanding, can grasp only single concepts out of a connected conceptual system. This separating off is a subjective act, which is due to the fact that we are not identical with the world process, but are a single being among other beings.

The all important thing now is to determine how the being that we ourselves are is related to the other entities. This determination must be distinguished from merely becoming conscious of ourselves. For this latter self-awareness we depend on perceiving just as we do for our awareness of any other thing. The perception of myself reveals to me a number of qualities which I combine into my personality as a whole, just as I combine the qualities yellow, metallic, hard, etc., in the unity “gold.”

The perception of myself does not take me beyond the sphere of what belongs to me. This perceiving of myself must be distinguished from determining myself by means of thinking. Just as, by means of thinking, I fit any single external percept into the whole world context, so by means of thinking I integrate into the world process the percepts I have made of myself.

My self-perception confines me within certain limits, but my thinking is not concerned with these limits. In this sense I am a two-sided being. I am enclosed within the sphere which I perceive as that of my personality, but I am also the bearer of an activity which, from a higher sphere, defines my limited existence. Our thinking is not individual like our sensing and feeling; it is universal. It receives an individual stamp in each separate human being only because it comes to be related to his individual feelings and sensations.

By means of these particular colourings of the universal thinking, individual men differentiate themselves from one another. There is only one single concept of “triangle”. It is quite immaterial for the content of this concept whether it is grasped in A’s consciousness or in B’s. It will, however, be grasped by each of the two in his own individual way.

This thought is opposed by a common prejudice very hard to overcome. This prejudice prevents one from seeing that the concept of a triangle that my head grasps is the same as the concept that my neighbor’s head grasps. The naive man believes himself to be the creator of his concepts. Hence he believes that each person has his own concepts. It is a fundamental requirement of philosophic thinking that it should overcome this prejudice. The one uniform concept of “triangle” does not become a multiplicity because it is thought by many persons. For the thinking of the many is itself a unity.

In thinking, we have that element given us which welds our separate individuality into one whole with the cosmos. In so far as we sense and feel (and also perceive), we are single beings; in so far as we think, we are the all-one being that pervades everything. This is the deeper meaning of our two-sided nature: We see coming into being in us a force complete and absolute in itself, a force which is universal but which we learn to know, not as it issues from the center of the world, but rather at a point in the periphery.

Were we to know it at its source, we should understand the whole riddle of the universe the moment we became conscious. But since we stand at a point in the periphery, and find that our own existence is bounded by definite limits, we must explore the region which lies outside our own being with the help of thinking, which projects into us from the universal world existence.

Through the fact that the thinking, in us, reaches out beyond our separate existence and relates itself to the universal world existence, gives rise to the fundamental desire for knowledge in us. Beings without thinking do not have this desire. When they are faced with other things, no questions arise for them. These other things remain external to such beings. But in thinking beings the concept rises up when they confront the external thing. It is that part of the thing which we receive not from outside but from within. To match up, to unite the two elements, inner and outer, is the task of knowledge.

The percept is thus not something finished and self-contained, but one side of the total reality. The other side is the concept. The act of knowing is the synthesis of percept and concept. Only percept and concept together constitute the whole thing.

4. The World as Percept – 3

I perceive the mental picture in my self in the same sense as I perceive colour, sound, etc., in other objects. I am now also able to distinguish these other objects that confront me, by calling them the outer world, whereas the content of my percept of my self I call my inner world. The failure to recognise the true relationship between mental picture and object has led to the greatest misunderstandings in modern philosophy.

The perception of a change in me, the modification my self undergoes, has been thrust into the foreground, while the object which causes this modification is lost sight of altogether. It has been said that we perceive not objects but only our mental pictures. I know, so it is said, nothing of the table in itself, which is the object of my observation, but only of the change which occurs within me while I am perceiving the table.

This view should not be confused with the Berkeleyan theory mentioned above. Berkeley maintains the subjective nature of the content of my percepts, but he does not say that my knowledge is limited to my mental pictures. He limits my knowledge to my mental pictures because, in his opinion, there are no objects apart from mental picturing. What I take to be a table no longer exists, according to Berkeley, when I cease to look at it.

This is why Berkeley holds that my percepts arise directly through the omnipotence of God. I see a table because God calls up this percept in me. For Berkeley, therefore, there are no real beings other than God and human spirits. What we call the “world” exists only in these spirits. What the naive man calls the outer world, or corporeal nature, is for Berkeley non-existent.

This theory is confronted by the now predominant Kantian view which limits our knowledge of the world to our mental pictures, not because it is convinced that things cannot exist beyond these mental pictures, but because it believes us to be so organised that we can experience only the changes of our own selves, but not the things-in-themselves that cause these changes. This view concludes from the fact that I know only my mental pictures, not that there is no reality independent of them, but only that the subject cannot directly assimilate such reality.

The subject can merely, “through the medium of its subjective thoughts, imagine it, invent it, think it, cognise it, or perhaps even fail to cognise it.” This (Kantian) conception believes it gives expression to something absolutely certain, something which is immediately evident, requiring no proof.

The first fundamental proposition which the philosopher must bring to clear consciousness is the recognition that our knowledge, to begin with, is limited to our mental pictures. Our mental pictures are the only things that we know directly, experience directly; and just because we have direct experience of them, even the most radical doubt cannot rob us of our knowledge of them. On the other hand, the knowledge which goes beyond my mental pictures – taking mental pictures here in the widest possible sense, so as to include all psychical processes – is not proof against doubt. Hence, at the very beginning of all philosophising we must explicitly set down all knowledge which goes beyond mental pictures as being open to doubt.

These are the opening sentences of Volkelt’s book on Immanuel Kant’s Theory of Knowledge. What is here put forward as an immediate and self-evident truth is in reality the result of a thought operation which runs as follows: The naive man believes that things, just as we perceive them, exist also outside our consciousness. Physics, physiology, and psychology, however, seem to teach us that for our percepts our organisation is necessary, and that therefore we cannot know anything about external objects except what our organisation transmits to us.

Our percepts are thus modifications of our organisation, not things-in-themselves. This train of thought has in fact been characterised by Eduard von Hartmann as the one which must lead to the conviction that we can have direct knowledge only of our mental pictures. (see fn 4) Because, outside our organism, we find vibrations of physical bodies and of the air which are perceived by us as sound, it is concluded that what we call sound is nothing more than a subjective reaction of our organism to these motions in the external world.

Similarly, it is concluded that colour and warmth are merely modifications of our organism. And, further, these two kinds of percepts are held to be produced in us through processes in the external world which are utterly different from what we experience as warmth or as colour. When these processes stimulate the nerves in my skin, I have the subjective percept of warmth; when they stimulate the optic nerve, I perceive light and colour. Light, colour, and warmth, then, are the responses of my sensory nerves to external stimuli.

Even the sense of touch reveals to me, not the objects of the outer world, but only states of my own body. In the sense of modern physics one could somehow think that bodies consist of infinitely small particles called molecules, and that these molecules are not in direct contact, but are at certain distances from one another. Between them, therefore, is empty space. Across this space they act on one another by forces of attraction and repulsion.

If I put my hand on a body, the molecules of my hand by no means touch those of the body directly, but there remains a certain distance between body and hand, and what I experience as the body’s resistance is nothing but the effect of the force of repulsion which its molecules exert on my hand. I am absolutely external to the body and perceive only its effects on my organism.

In amplification of this discussion, there is the theory of the so-called Specific Nerve Energies, advanced by J. Muller (1801 – 1858). It asserts that each sense has the peculiarity that it responds to all external stimuli in one particular way only. If the optic nerve is stimulated, perception of light results, irrespective of whether the stimulation is due to what we call light, or whether mechanical pressure or an electric current works upon the nerve. On the other hand, the same external stimulus applied to different senses gives rise to different percepts. The conclusion from these facts seems to be that our senses can transmit only what occurs in themselves, but nothing of the external world. They determine our percepts, each according to its own nature.

Physiology shows that there can be no direct knowledge even of the effects which objects produce on our sense organs. Through following up the processes which occur in our own bodies, the physiologist finds that, even in the sense organs, the effects of the external movement are transformed in the most manifold ways. We can see this most clearly in the case of eye and ear. Both are very complicated organs which modify the external stimulus considerably before they conduct it to the corresponding nerve. From the peripheral end of the nerve the already modified stimulus is then conducted to the brain. Only now can the central organs be stimulated.

Therefore it is concluded that the external process undergoes a series of transformations before it reaches consciousness. What goes on in the brain is connected by so many intermediate links with the external process, that any similarity to the latter is out of the question. What the brain ultimately transmits to the soul is neither external processes, nor processes in the sense organs, but only such as occur in the brain. But even these are not perceived directly by the soul. What we finally have in consciousness are not brain processes at all, but sensations.

My sensation of red has absolutely no similarity to the process which occurs in the brain when I sense red. The redness, again, only appears as an effect in the soul, and the brain process is merely its cause. This is why Hartmann says, “What the subject perceives, therefore, are always only modifications of his own psychical states and nothing else.” (see fn 5) When I have the sensations, however, they are as yet very far from being grouped into what I perceive as “things”. Only single sensations can be transmitted to me by the brain. The sensations of hardness and softness are transmitted to me by the sense of touch, those of colour and light by the sense of sight. Yet all these are to be found united in one and the same object.

This unification, therefore, can only be brought about by the soul itself; that is, the soul combines the separate sensations, mediated through the brain, into bodies. My brain conveys to me singly, and by widely different paths, the visual, tactile, and auditory sensations which the soul then combines into the mental picture of a trumpet. It is just this very last link in a process (the mental picture of the trumpet) which for my consciousness is the very first thing that is given. In it nothing can any longer be found of what exists outside me and originally made an impression on my senses. The external object has been entirely lost on the way to the brain and through the brain to the soul.

It would be hard to find in the history of human culture another edifice of thought which has been built up with greater ingenuity, and which yet, on closer analysis, collapses into nothing. Let us look a little closer at the way it has been constructed. One starts with what is given in naive consciousness, with the thing as perceived. Then one shows that none of the qualities which we find in this thing would exist for us had we no sense organs.

No eye – no colour. Therefore the colour is not yet present in that which affects the eye. It arises first through the interaction of the eye and the object. The latter is, therefore, colourless. But neither is the colour in the eye, for in the eye there is only a chemical or physical process which is first conducted by the optic nerve to the brain, and there initiates another process. Even this is not yet the colour.

That is only produced in the soul by means of the brain process. Even then it does not yet enter my consciousness, but is first transferred by the soul to a body in the external world. There, upon this body, I finally believe myself to perceive it. We have traveled in a complete circle. We became conscious of a coloured body. That is the first thing. Here the thought operation starts.

If I had no eye, the body would be, for me, colourless. I cannot therefore attribute the colour to the body. I start on the search for it. I look for it in the eye — in vain; in the nerve — in vain; in the brain — in vain once more; in the soul — here I find it indeed, but not attached to the body. I find the coloured body again only on returning to my starting point. The circle is completed. I believe that I am cognising as a product of my soul that which the naive man regards as existing outside him, in space.

As long as one stops here everything seems to fit beautifully. But we must go over the whole thing again from the beginning. Hitherto I have been dealing with something — the external percept — of which, from my naive standpoint, I have had until now a totally wrong conception. I thought that the percept, just as I perceive it, had objective existence. But now I observe that it disappears together with my mental picture, that it is only a modification of my inner state of soul.

Have I, then, any right at all to start from it in my arguments? Can I say of it that it acts on my soul? I must henceforth treat the table, of which formerly I believed that it acted on me and produced a mental picture of itself in me, as itself a mental picture. But from this it follows logically that my sense organs and the processes in them are also merely subjective. I have no right to speak of a real eye but only of my mental picture of the eye. Exactly the same is true of the nerve paths, and the brain process, and no less of the process in the soul itself, through which things are supposed to be built up out of the chaos of manifold sensations.

If, assuming the truth of the first circle of argumentation, I run through the steps of my act of cognition once more, the latter reveals itself as a tissue of mental pictures which, as such, cannot act on one another. I cannot say that my mental picture of the object acts on my mental picture of the eye, and that from this interaction my mental picture of colour results. Nor is it necessary that I should say this. For as soon as I see clearly that my sense organs and their activity, my nerve and soul processes, can also be known to me only through perception, the train of thought which I have outlined reveals itself in its full absurdity.

It is quite true that I can have no percept without the corresponding sense organ. But just as little can I be aware of a sense organ without perception. From the percept of a table I can pass to the eye which sees it, or the nerves in the skin which touch it, but what takes place in these I can, in turn, learn only from perception. And then I soon notice that there is no trace of similarity between the process which takes place in the eye and the colour which I perceive. I cannot eliminate my colour percept by pointing to the process which takes place in the eye during this perception. No more can I rediscover the colour in the nerve or brain processes. I only add new percepts, localised within the organism, to the first percept, which the naive man localises outside his organism. I merely pass from one percept to another.

Moreover there is a gap in the whole argument. I can follow the processes in my organism up to those in my brain, even though my assumptions become more and more hypothetical as I approach the central processes of the brain. The path of external observation ceases with the process in my brain, more particularly with the process which I should observe if I could deal with the brain using the instruments and methods of physics and chemistry. The path of inner observation begins with the sensation, and continues up to the building of things out of the material of sensation. At the point of transition from brain process to sensation, the path of observation is interrupted.

The way of thinking here described, known as critical idealism, in contrast to the standpoint of naive consciousness known as naive realism, makes the mistake of characterising the one percept as mental picture while taking the other in the very same sense as does the naive realism which it apparently refutes. It wants to prove that percepts have the character of mental pictures by naively accepting the percepts connected with one’s own organism as objectively valid facts; and over and above this, it fails to see that it confuses two spheres of observation, between which it can find no connection.

Critical idealism can refute naive realism only by itself assuming, in naive-realistic fashion, that one’s own organism has objective existence. As soon as the idealist realises that the percepts connected with his own organism are exactly of the same nature as those which naive realism assumes to have objective existence, he can no longer use those percepts as a safe foundation for his theory. He would have to regard even his own subjective organisation as a mere complex of mental pictures. But this removes the possibility of regarding the content of the perceived world as a product of our spiritual organisation. One would have to assume that the mental picture “colour” was only a modification of the mental picture “eye”. So-called critical idealism cannot be proved without borrowing from naive realism. Naive realism can be refuted only if, in another sphere, its own assumptions are accepted without proof as being valid.

This much, then, is certain: Investigation within the world of percepts cannot establish critical idealism, and consequently, cannot strip percepts of their objective character. Still less can the principle “the perceived world is my mental picture” be claimed as obvious and needing no proof. Schopenhauer begins his chief work with the words:

The world is my mental picture — this is a truth which holds good for everything that lives and cognises, though man alone can bring it into reflective and abstract consciousness. If he really does this, he has attained to philosophical discretion. It then becomes clear and certain to him that he knows no sun and no earth, but only an eye that sees a sun, a hand that feels an earth; that the world which surrounds him is there only as mental picture, that is, only in relation to something else, to the one who pictures it, which is he himself. If any truth can be asserted a priori, it is this one, for it is the expression of that form of all possible and thinkable experience which is more universal than all others, than time, space, or causality, for all these presuppose it …

This whole theory is wrecked by the fact, already mentioned, that the eye and the hand are percepts no less than the sun and the earth. Using Schopenhauer’s expressions in his own sense, we could reply: My eye that sees the sun, my hand that feels the earth, are my mental pictures just as much as the sun and the earth themselves. That with this the whole theory cancels itself, is clear without further argument. For only my real eye and my real hand could have the mental pictures “sun” and “earth” as modifications of themselves; the mental pictures “eye” and “hand” cannot have them. Yet it is only of these mental pictures that critical idealism is allowed to speak.

Critical idealism is totally unfitted to form an opinion about the relationship between percept and mental picture. It cannot begin to make the distinction, mentioned above, between what happens to the percept in the process of perception and what must be inherent in it prior to perception. We must, therefore, tackle this problem in another way.

4. The World as Percept – 2

We must next ask ourselves how that other element, which we have so far simply called the object of observation and which meets the thinking in our consciousness, comes into our consciousness at all.

In order to answer this question we must eliminate from our field of observation everything that has been imported by thinking. For at any moment the content of our consciousness will already be interwoven with concepts in the most varied ways.

We must imagine that a being with fully developed human intelligence originates out of nothing and confronts the world. What it would be aware of, before it sets its thinking in motion, would be the pure content of observation. The world would then appear to this being as nothing but a mere disconnected aggregate of objects of sensation: colours, sounds, sensations of pressure, of warmth, of taste and smell; also feelings of pleasure and pain. This aggregate is the content of pure, unthinking observation. Over against it stands thinking, ready to begin its activity as soon as a point of attack presents itself. Experience shows at once that this does happen.

Thinking is able to draw threads from one element of observation to another. It links definite concepts with these elements and thereby establishes a relationship between them. We have already seen how a noise which we hear becomes connected with another observation by our identifying the former as the effect of the latter.

If now we recollect that the activity of thinking is on no account to be considered as merely subjective, then we shall also not be tempted to believe that the relationships thus established by thinking have merely subjective validity.

Our next task is to discover by means of thoughtful reflection what relation the immediately given content of observation mentioned above has to the conscious subject.

The ambiguity of current speech makes it necessary for me to come to an agreement with my readers concerning the use of a word which I shall have to employ in what follows. I shall apply the word “percept” to the immediate objects of sensation enumerated above, in so far as the conscious subject apprehends them through observation. It is, then, not the process of observation but the object of observation which I call the “percept”.

I do not choose the term “sensation”, since this has a definite meaning in physiology which is narrower than that of my concept of “percept”. I can speak of a feeling in myself (emotion) as percept, but not as sensation in the physiological sense of the term. Even my feeling becomes known to me by becoming a percept for me. And the way in which we gain knowledge of our thinking through observation is such that thinking too, in its first appearance for our consciousness, may be called a percept.

The naive man regards his percepts, such as they appear to his immediate apprehension, as things having an existence wholly independent of him. When he sees a tree he believes in the first instance that it stands in the form which he sees, with the colours of its various parts, and so on, there on the spot towards which his gaze is directed. When the same man sees the sun in the morning appear as a disc on the horison, and follows the course of this disc, he believes that all this actually exists and happens just as he observes it.

To this belief he clings until he meets with further percepts which contradict his former ones. The child who as yet has no experience of distance grasps at the moon, and only corrects its picture of the reality, based on first impressions, when a second percept contradicts the first. Every extension of the circle of my percepts compels me to correct my picture of the world. We see this in everyday life, as well as in the spiritual development of mankind.

The picture which the ancients made for themselves of the relation of the earth to the sun and other heavenly bodies had to be replaced by another when Copernicus found that it was not in accordance with some percepts, which in those early days were unknown. A man who had been born blind said, when operated on by Dr. Franz, that the picture of the sise of objects which he had formed by his sense of touch before his operation, was a very different one. He had to correct his tactual percepts by his visual percepts.

How is it that we are compelled to make these continual corrections to our observations?

A simple reflection gives the answer to this question. When I stand at one end of an avenue, the trees at the other end, away from me, seem smaller and nearer together than those where I stand. My percept-picture changes when I change the place from which I am looking. Therefore the form in which it presents itself to me is dependent on a condition which is due not to the object but to me, the perceiver. It is all the same to the avenue wherever I stand. But the picture I have of it depends essentially on just this viewpoint. In the same way, it makes no difference to the sun and the planetary system that human beings happen to look at them from the earth; but the percept-picture of the heavens presented to them is determined by the fact that they inhabit the earth.

This dependence of our percept-picture on our place of observation is the easiest one to understand. The matter becomes more difficult when we realise how our world of percepts is dependent on our bodily and spiritual organisation. The physicist shows us that within the space in which we hear a sound there are vibrations of the air, and also that the body in which we seek the origin of the sound exhibits a vibrating movement of its parts. We perceive this movement as sound only if we have a normally constructed ear.

Without this the world would be for ever silent for us. Physiology tells us that there are people who perceive nothing of the magnificent splendor of colour which surrounds us. Their percept-picture has only degrees of light and dark. Others are blind only to one colour, for example, red. Their world picture lacks this hue, and hence it is actually a different one from that of the average man. I should like to call the dependence of my percept-picture on my place of observation, “mathematical”, and its dependence on my organisation, “qualitative”. The former determines the proportions of sise and mutual distances of my percepts, the latter their quality. The fact that I see a red surface as red – this qualitative determination – depends on the organisation of my eye.

My percept-pictures, then, are in the first instance subjective. The recognition of the subjective character of our percepts may easily lead us to doubt whether there is any objective basis for them at all. When we realise that a percept, for example that of a red colour or of a certain tone, is not possible without a specific structure of our organism, we may easily be led to believe that it has no permanency apart from our subjective organisation and that, were it not for our act of perceiving it as an object, it would not exist in any sense. The classical representative of this view is George Berkeley, who held that from the moment we realise the importance of the subject for perception, we are no longer able to believe in the existence of a world without a conscious Spirit.

Some truths there are so near and obvious to the mind that man need only open his eyes to see them. Such I take this important one to be, to wit, that all the choir of heaven and furniture of the earth, in a word, all those bodies which compose the mighty frame of the world, have not any subsistence without a mind, that their being is to be perceived or known; that, consequently, so long as they are not actually perceived by me, or do not exist in my mind or that of any other created spirit, they must either have no existence at all, or else subsist in the mind of some Eternal Spirit.

On this view, when we take away the fact of its being perceived, nothing remains of the percept. There is no colour when none is seen, no sound when none is heard. Extension, form, and motion exist as little as colour and sound apart from the act of perception. Nowhere do we see bare extension or shape, but these are always bound up with colour or some other quality unquestionably dependent upon our subjectivity. If these latter disappear when we cease to perceive them, then the former, being bound up with them, must disappear likewise.

To the objection that there must be things that exist apart from consciousness and to which the conscious percept-pictures are similar, even though figure, colour, sound, and so on, have no existence except within the act of perceiving, the above view would answer that a colour can be similar only to a colour, a figure only to a figure. Our percepts can be similar only to our percepts and to nothing else. Even what we call an object is nothing but a collection of percepts which are connected in a particular way.

If I strip a table of its shape, extension, colour, etc. — in short, of all that is merely my percept — then nothing remains over. This view, followed up logically, leads to the assertion that the objects of my perceptions exist only through me, and indeed only in as far as, and as long as, I perceive them; they disappear with my perceiving and have no meaning apart from it. Apart from my percepts, I know of no objects and cannot know of any.

No objection can be made to this assertion as long as I am merely referring to the general fact that the percept is partly determined by the organisation of myself as subject. The matter would appear very different if we were in a position to say just what part is played by our perceiving in the bringing forth of a percept. We should then know what happens to a percept while it is being perceived, and we should also be able to determine what character it must already possess before it comes to be perceived.

This leads us to turn our attention from the object of perception to the subject of perception. I perceive not only other things, but also myself. The percept of myself contains, to begin with, the fact that I am the stable element in contrast to the continual coming and going of the percept-pictures. The percept of my “I” can always come up in my consciousness while I am having other percepts.

When I am absorbed in the perception of a given object I am for the time being aware only of this object. To this the percept of my self can be added. I am then conscious not only of the object but also of my own personality which confronts the object and observes it. I do not merely see a tree, but I also know that it is I who am seeing it. I know, moreover, that something happens in me while I am observing the tree. When the tree disappears from my field of vision, an after-effect of this process remains in my consciousness – a picture of the tree.

This picture has become associated with my self during my observation. My self has become enriched; its content has absorbed a new element. This element I call my mental picture of the tree.I should never have occasion to speak of mental pictures did I not experience them in the percept of my own self. Percepts would come and go; I should let them slip by. Only because I perceive my self, and observe that with each percept the content of my self, too, is changed, am I compelled to connect the observation of the object with the changes in my own condition, and to speak of my mental picture.

4. The World as Percept – 1

Through thinking, concepts and ideas arise. What a concept is cannot be expressed in words. Words can do no more than draw our attention to the fact that we have concepts. When someone sees a tree, his thinking reacts to his observation, an ideal element is added to the object, and he considers the object and the ideal counterpart as belonging together. When the object disappears from his field of observation, only the ideal counterpart of it remains. This latter is the concept of the object. The more our range of experience is widened, the greater becomes the sum of our concepts. But concepts certainly do not stand isolated from one another. They combine to form a systematically ordered whole. The concept “organism”, for instance, links up with those of “orderly development” and “growth”. Other concepts which are based on single objects merge together into a unity.

All concepts I may form of lions merge into the collective concept “lion”. In this way all the separate concepts combine to form a closed conceptual system in which each has its special place. Ideas do not differ qualitatively from concepts. They are but fuller, more saturated, more comprehensive concepts. I must attach special importance to the necessity of bearing in mind, here, that I make thinking my starting point, and not concepts and ideas which are first gained by means of thinking. For these latter already presuppose thinking.

My remarks regarding the self-supporting and self-determined nature of thinking cannot, therefore, be simply transferred to concepts. (I make special mention of this, because it is here that I differ from Hegel, who regards the concept as something primary and original.)

Concepts cannot be gained through observation. This follows from the simple fact that the growing human being only slowly and gradually forms the concepts corresponding to the objects which surround him. Concepts are added to observation.

A philosopher widely read at the present day — Herbert Spencer, — describes the mental process which we carry out with respect to observation as follows:

If, when walking through the fields some day in September, you hear a rustle a few yards in advance, and on observing the ditch-side where it occurs, see the herbage agitated, you will probably turn towards the spot to learn by what this sound and motion are produced. As you approach there flutters into the ditch a partridge; on seeing which your curiosity is satisfied – you have what you call an explanation of the appearances. The explanation, mark, amounts to this; that whereas throughout life you have had countless experiences of disturbance among small stationary bodies, accompanying the movement of other bodies among them, and have generalised the relation between such disturbances and such movements, you consider this particular disturbance explained on finding it to present an instance of the like relation.

A closer analysis shows matters to stand very differently from the way described above. When I hear a noise, I first look for the concept which fits this observation. It is this concept which first leads me beyond the mere noise. If one thinks no further, one simply hears the noise and is content to leave it at that. But my reflecting makes it clear to me that I have to regard the noise as an effect. Therefore not until I have connected the concept of effect with the perception of the noise, do I feel the need to go beyond the solitary observation and look for the cause. The concept of effect calls up that of cause, and my next step. is to look for the object which is being the cause, which I find in the shape of the partridge. But these concepts, cause and effect, I can never gain through mere observation, however many instances the observation may cover. Observation evokes thinking, and it is thinking that first shows me how to link one separate experience to another.

If one demands of a “strictly objective science” that it should take its content from observation alone, then one must at the same time demand that it should forego all thinking. For thinking, by its very nature, goes beyond what is observed.

We must now pass from thinking to the being that thinks; for it is through the thinker that thinking is combined with observation. Human consciousness is the stage upon which concept and observation meet and become linked to one another. In saying this we have in fact characterised this (human) consciousness. It is the mediator between thinking and observation. In as far as we observe a thing it appears to us as given; in as far as we think, we appear to ourselves as being active. We regard the thing as object and ourselves as thinking subject. Because we direct our thinking upon our observation, we have consciousness of objects; because we direct it upon ourselves, we have consciousness of ourselves, or self-consciousness.

Human consciousness must of necessity be at the same time self-consciousness because it is a consciousness which thinks. For when thinking contemplates its own activity, it makes its own essential being, as subject, into a thing, as object.

It must, however, not be overlooked that only with the help of thinking am I able to determine myself as subject and contrast myself with objects. Therefore thinking must never be regarded as a merely subjective activity. Thinking lies beyond subject and object. It produces these two concepts just as it produces all others. When, therefore, I, as thinking subject, refer a concept to an object, we must not regard this reference as something purely subjective. It is not the subject that makes the reference, but thinking.

The subject does not think because it is a subject; rather it appears to itself as subject because it can think. The activity exercised by man as a thinking being is thus not merely subjective. Rather is it something neither subjective nor objective, that transcends both these concepts. I ought never to say that my individual subject thinks, but much more that my individual subject lives by the grace of thinking. Thinking is thus an element which leads me out beyond myself and connects me with the objects. But at the same time it separates me from them, inasmuch as it sets me, as subject, over against them.

It is just this which constitutes the double nature of man. He thinks, and thereby embraces both himself and the rest of the world. But at the same time it is by means of thinking that he determines himself as an individual confronting the things.

4. The World As Percept – 3

I perceive mental pictures in my self in the same way that I perceive colors, sounds, and so forth in other objects. From this point of view, I can now make a distinction, calling these other objects that stand over against me the outer world, while designating the content of my self-percept as the inner world. Failure to recognize the relation between the mental picture and the object has led to the greatest misunderstandings in modern philosophy. The perception of an inner change, the modification that my self undergoes, has been thrust into the foreground, and the object causing this modification has been lost sight of altogether. It has been said that we do not perceive objects, but only our mental pictures. I am not supposed to know anything of the object of my observation, the table in itself, but only of the change that occurs in my self while I perceive the table. This view must not be confused with the Berkeleyan view mentioned above. Berkeley asserts the subjective nature of my perceptual content, but he does not say that I can know only my mental pictures. He limits my knowledge to my mental pictures because he believes that there are no objects outside mental picturing. In this view, once I cease directing my gaze toward it, what I regard as a table no longer exists. Hence for Berkeley my percepts arise immediately from the power of God. I see a table because God calls forth this percept in me. Berkeley knows of no real beings other than God and human spirits. What we call the world is present only within spirits. What the naive human being calls the outer world, corporeal nature, does not exist for Berkeley.

Berkeley’s view stands in contrast to the currently prevailing Kantian view. This also limits our knowledge of the world to our mental pictures. But it does not do so because of the conviction that no things except these mental pictures can exist. Rather, the Kantian view believes us to be so organized that we can learn only of modifications in our own self, not of the things-in-themselves that cause them. From the circumstance that I know only my mental pictures, the Kantian view draws the conclusion not that there is no existence independent of these mental pictures, but only that the subject cannot directly receive such an existence into itself. This view then concludes that only through “the medium of its subjective thoughts can it imagine, fantasize, think, cognize, or even perhaps fail to cognize” this existence. This (Kantian) view believes it is saying something absolutely certain, something that is immediately evident without any proof.

The first fundamental proposition that the philosopher must bring to clear consciousness consists in the recognition that our knowledge does not initially extend beyond our mental pictures. Our mental pictures are the only things that we know directly, experience directly; and just because we experience them immediately, even the most radical doubt cannot tear from us our knowledge of them. By contrast, the knowledge that goes beyond our mental pictures—I use this expression in its widest sense, so that it includes all psychical events—is not safe from doubt. Hence, at the start of philosophizing, all knowledge that goes beyond mental pictures must be explicitly posited as open to doubt.

This is how Volkelt’s book, Immanuel Kant’s Epistemology, begins. But what is presented in it as if it were an immediate and self-evident truth is really the result of the following kind of thought process. “The naive human being believes that objects, just as we perceive them, also exist outside human consciousness. But physics, physiology and psychology seem to teach that our organization is necessary for our perceptions and that consequently we cannot know anything about things other than what our organization transmits to us. Hence our percepts are modifications of our organization and not things in themselves.” Eduard von Hartmann characterizes this train of thought as necessarily leading to the conviction that we can have direct knowledge only of our mental pictures. Because we find, outside our organism, vibrations of bodies and of the air that appear to us as sound, this view reasons that what we call sound is nothing more than a subjective reaction of our organization to these vibrations in the outer world. In the same way, color and warmth are only modifications of our organism. According to this view, the percepts of warmth and color are evoked in us by the effects of processes in the outer world that are utterly different from our experience of warmth or color. When these processes stimulate the nerves in my skin, I have the subjective percept of warmth; when they stimulate the optic nerve, I perceive light and color. Light, color, and warmth are therefore what my sense nerves create as responses to outside stimuli. Even the sense of touch presents me not with objects of the external world, but only with my own states. Following modern physics, we might think that the body consists of infinitesimal particles—molecules—and that these molecules do not border one another immediately but are a certain distance apart. Between them, then, is empty space. They affect one another through this space by means of forces of attraction and repulsion. When I bring my hand near a body, the molecules of my hand never touch those of the body immediately. There always remains a certain distance between body and hand. What I feel as the resistance of the body is nothing more than the effect of the repellent force that its molecules exercise on my hand. I am completely outside the body in question and merely perceive its effect on my organism.

To complete these considerations, we have the teaching of the so-called specific sense energies proposed by J. Muller. According to this theory, our senses have the peculiar quality that each sense responds to all external stimuli in only one specific fashion. If a stimulus is applied to the optic nerve, then the percept of light arises, whether the excitation occurs through what we call light, through mechanical pressure, or through an electrical current impinging on the nerve. On the other hand, the same external stimuli evoke different percepts in the different senses. It appears to follow from this that our senses can transmit only what occurs within them and transmit nothing from the outer world. The senses determine the percepts according to their nature.

Physiology shows that there can also be no direct knowledge of what effect objects have within our sense organs. When physiologists follow the processes in our own body, they find the effects of external motion already transformed within the sense organs in the most various ways. We see this most clearly in the eye and the ear. Both are very complicated organs, which fundamentally alter an external stimulus before bringing it to the corresponding nerve. From the peripheral nerve ending, the already modified stimulus is now led on to the brain. Here, the central organs must in turn be stimulated. From this, the conclusion is drawn that the external process undergoes a series of transformations before coming to consciousness. What goes on in the brain is connected to the external process through so many intermediate processes that we cannot imagine any similarity between them. What the brain then finally transmits to the soul are neither external processes, nor processes in the sense organs, but only processes within the brain. Yet even these the soul does not perceive directly. What we ultimately have in consciousness are not brain processes at all, but sensations. My sensation of red has no similarity to the process occurring in the brain when I sense redness. Redness emerges again only as an effect in the soul, and is caused by the brain process alone. Therefore, Hartmann says: “What the subject perceives are therefore always only modifications of its own psychic states and nothing else.” When I have the sensations, however, these are still far from being grouped into what I perceive as things. After all, only individual sensations can be transmitted to me through the brain. Sensations of hardness and softness are transmitted to me through the sense of touch; color and light through the sense of sight. Yet these are united in one and the same object. Such union, then, can only be effected by the soul itself. That is, the soul assembles separate sensations, transmitted by the brain, into bodies. My brain conveys to me separately, and by altogether different pathways, sensations of sight, taste, and hearing that the soul then combines into the mental picture of a trumpet. This final stage of a process (the mental picture of the trumpet) is given to my consciousness as the very first. In it, nothing may be found of what is outside me and originally made the impression on my senses. On the way to the brain and, through the brain, to the soul, the external object has been completely lost.

It would be hard to find another edifice of thought in the history of human culture that has been constructed with more ingenuity and that nevertheless, on closer scrutiny, collapses into nothing. Let us look more closely at how this edifice has been built up. It begins with what is given to naive consciousness of the thing perceived. Then it shows that everything found there would be non-existent for us if we had no senses. No eye, no color. So color is not yet present in what affects the eye. It first arises through the interaction of the eye with the object. The object, then, is colorless. But the color is not present in the eye either. In the eye there is a chemical or physical process that is first led through the nerve to the brain, where it sets off another process. This process is still not yet color. It is only through the brain process that the color is evoked in the soul. There, it still does not yet enter my consciousness, but is first transferred outward by the soul onto a body. Finally I believe I am perceiving it there. We have come full circle. We have become conscious of a colored body. That comes first. Now the thought operation begins. If I had no eyes, the body would be colorless for me. Therefore I cannot attribute color to the body. I go looking for it. I look for it in the eye, in vain; in the nerve, also in vain; in the brain, again in vain. Finally, I look for it in the soul. There I find it, to be sure, but unconnected with the body. I find the colored body only where I began. The circle has been closed. I recognize as the product of my soul what the naive human being imagines as externally present in space.

As long as we keep to this, everything seems to fit beautifully. But we must begin again at the beginning. After all, so far I have been dealing with an entity, the external percept, of which, as a naive human being, I had an altogether false view. I believed that it had an objective permanence just as I perceived it. Now I notice that it disappears with my mental picturing; that it is only a modification of my own soul states. Do I still have the right to take it as a starting point for my reflections? Can I say that it has an effect on my soul? From now on, I must treat the table itself—which I used to believe affected me, and produced a mental picture of itself within me—as a mental picture. But then to be consistent my sense organs and the processes in them must also be only subjective. I have no right to speak of a real eye, only of my mental picture of the eye. It is the same with nerve conduction and brain processes, and no less so with the process, in the soul itself, by which things are supposedly built up out of the chaos of the various sensations. If I run through the elements of the act of cognition once again, assuming the correctness of that first circuit of thoughts, then the cognitive act reveals itself as a tissue of mental pictures that, as such, can have no effect on one another. I cannot say: my mental picture of the object has an effect on my mental picture of the eye, and from this interaction there proceeds the mental picture of the color. Nor do I need to do so. For as soon as it is clear to me that even my sense organs and their activities, the processes of my nerves and soul, can be given only through perception, then the above train of thought reveals itself in its perfect impossibility. So much is correct then: I can have no percept without the corresponding sense organ. But neither can I have a sense organ without perception. I can pass from my percept of the table to the eye that sees it, or to the nerves in the skin that touch it; but what takes place within these I can learn, once again, only through perception. Then I soon notice that there is no trace of similarity between the process occurring in the eye and what I perceive as color. I cannot deny my color percept by pointing to the process in the eye that takes place during this perception. Nor can I find the color in the nerve and brain processes; I only connect new percepts within my organism to the first percept, which the naive person places outside the organism. I only pass from one percept to the next.

Moreover, there is a gap in the whole train of argument. I am in a position to follow the processes within my organism, up to the processes in my brain, even though my assumptions become ever more hypothetical the closer I come to its central processes. The path of external observation ends with the process in my brain; more precisely, it ends with what I would perceive if I could examine the brain with physical and chemical means and methods. The path of inner observation begins with sensation and goes as far as the construction of things from the material of sensation. At the point of transition from brain process to sensation, the path of observation is interrupted.

This way of thinking, which calls itself “critical idealism”—in contrast to the standpoint of naive consciousness, which it calls “naive realism”—makes the error of characterizing one percept as a mental picture, while accepting another percept in exactly the same way as the naive realism it had ostensibly refuted. Critical idealism seeks to prove that percepts have the character of mental pictures, while naively accepting the percepts of one’s own organism as objectively valid facts. What is more, it fails to notice that it is throwing together two fields of observation between which it can find no connection.

Critical idealism can only refute naive realism if, in naive realist fashion, it accepts one’s own organism as something that exists objectively. The moment it becomes aware that the percepts connected to one’s own organism and those assumed by naive realism to exist objectively are completely equivalent, it can no longer base itself on the former as if on a sure foundation. It is forced to regard its own subjective organization, too, as a mere complex of mental pictures. But thereby the possibility of thinking that the content of the perceived world is caused by our mental organization is lost. We would have to assume that the mental picture “color” was only a modification of the mental picture “eye.” So called critical idealism cannot be proved without borrowing from naive realism, while naive realism can be refuted only by accepting its own presuppositions, unexamined, in another sphere.

This much, then, is certain: investigation in the perceptual realm can neither prove critical idealism, nor strip the percept of its objective character. Still less can the proposition, “The perceived world is mental picture,” be hailed as self-evident and in need of no proof.

Schopenhauer begins his main work, ‘The World as Will and Representation [Mental Picture]’, with the words: The world is my mental picture. This truth applies to every living and cognizing being, though human beings alone can bring it into reflected abstract consciousness. And when they actually do so, then philosophical understanding has dawned upon them. It is then clear and evident that we know no sun and no earth, but always only an eye that sees a sun, a hand that feels the earth; that the world around us is present only as a mental picture, that is, only in relation to something that pictures it, namely ourselves. If any truth may be asserted a priori it is this one: for it expresses the one form of all possible and conceivable experience that is more universal than any other, than time, space, and causality, for all of these presuppose it….

This whole proposition collapses in the face of the fact, noted above, that the eye and hand are percepts no less than the sun and the earth. And thus, in Schopenhauer’s sense, and using his style of expression, we could answer: My eye, which sees the sun, and my hand, which feels the earth, are mental pictures in exactly the same way as the sun and the earth are. With this insight and without further ado, it is clear that I cancel out Schopenhauer’s proposition. For only my real eye and my real hand could have the mental pictures of sun and earth as their modifications, but my mental pictures of eye and hand could not. Yet critical idealism can speak only of these mental pictures.

Critical idealism is completely unable to gain insight into the relationship of percepts and mental pictures. It cannot begin to make the distinction, mentioned above between what happens to the percept during the process of perceiving and what must already be present in it before it is perceived. To do this, we must take a different path.

4. The World As Percept – 2

Next, we must ask ourselves how the other element, which until now we have characterized merely as the object of observation, enters consciousness where it encounters thinking.

To answer this question, we must purge our field of observation of everything that thinking has already brought into it. For the content of our consciousness at any moment is always already permeated by concepts in the most varied way.

We must imagine that a being with a fully developed human intelligence arises from nothing and confronts the world. What this being would be aware of, before it brought thinking into action, is the pure content of observation. The world would then reveal to this being only the pure, relationless aggregate of sensory objects: colors, sounds, sensations of pressure, warmth, taste, and smell, and then feelings of pleasure and unpleasure. This aggregate is the content of pure, thought-free observation. Over against it stands thinking, which is ready to unfurl its activity when a point of departure is found. Experience soon teaches that it is found. Thinking is able to draw threads from one element of observation to another. It joins specific concepts to these elements and thus brings them into a relationship with each other. We have already seen how a noise we encounter is linked with another observation, in that we characterize the former as the effect of the latter.

If we recall that the activity of thinking should never be considered subjective, we will not be tempted to believe that such relationships, which are established by thinking, have merely a subjective validity.

It now becomes a question of discovering, through thinking contemplation, how the immediately given content of observation- the pure, relationless aggregate of sensory objects – relates to our conscious subject.

Because of shifting habits of speech, it seems necessary for me to come to an agreement with my reader on the use of a word that I must employ from now on. The word is percept. I will use the word “percept” to refer to “the immediate objects of sensation” mentioned above, insofar as the conscious subject knows these objects through observation. Thus, it is not the process of observation but the object of observation that I designate with this name.

I have not chosen to use the term sensation, because sensation has a specific meaning in physiology that is narrower than that of my concept of the percept. I can easily characterize a feeling within myself as a percept, but not as a sensation in the physiological sense. By its becoming percept for me, I gain knowledge even of my feeling. And because we gain knowledge of our thinking, too, through observation, we can even call thinking, as it first appears to our consciousness, a percept.

The naive person considers percepts, as they first appear, to be things that have an existence quite independent of the human being in question. If we see a tree, we initially believe that the tree, in the form that we see it, with its various colors, etc., is standing there in the spot to which our gaze is directed. From this naive standpoint, if we see the sun appear in the morning as a disc on the horizon and then follow the progress of this disc, we believe that all of this exists and occurs just as we observe it. We cling fast to this belief until we meet other percepts that contradict the first. The child, with no experience of distances, reaches for the moon, and only when a second percept comes to contradict the first can the child correct what at first seemed real to it. Every extension in the sphere of my percepts makes me correct my image of the world. This is evident in daily life, just as it is in the spiritual evolution of humankind. The ancient image of the relation of the earth to the sun and the other heavenly bodies had to be replaced by that of Copernicus, because the ancient image did not agree with new, previously unknown percepts. When Dr. Franz operated on someone born blind, the latter said that before his operation he had arrived through the sense of touch at a very different image of the size of objects. He had to correct his tactile percepts with his visual percepts.

Why are we compelled continually to correct our observations?

A simple reflection provides the answer to this question. If I stand at the end of an avenue, the trees at the other end appear to me smaller and closer together than those where I am standing. My perceptual picture changes as I change the place from which I make my observations. Thus the form in which the perceptual image confronts me depends on conditions determined not by the object but by me, the perceiver. The avenue does not care where I stand. But the image that I have of the avenue is fundamentally dependent on where I stand. In the same way, it makes no difference to the sun and the solar system that human beings regard them just from the earth. But the perceptual image of the heavens that presents itself to human beings is determined by their living on the earth. This dependence of the perceptual image on our place of observation is the easiest kind of dependence to understand. The issue becomes more difficult when we realize the dependence of our perceptual world on our bodily and spiritual organization. The physicist shows that vibrations of the air are present in the space where we hear a sound, and that even the body in which we seek the source of the sound displays a vibrating movement in its parts. But we become aware of this movement as sound only if we have a normally constructed ear. Without this, the whole world would be forever silent for us. Physiology teaches us that there are some people who perceive nothing of the magnificent splendor of color surrounding us. Their perceptual picture shows only nuances of dark and light. Others fail to perceive only a specific color, such as red. Their image of the world lacks this hue, and is therefore actually different from that of the average human being. I should like to call the dependence of my perceptual image on my place of observation a “mathematical” one, and its dependence on my organization a “qualitative” one. The relative sizes and distances of my percepts are determined through the former; their quality through the latter. That I see a red surface as red—this qualitative determination—depends on the organization of my eye.

Initially, then, our perceptual images are subjective. This recognition of the subjective character of our percepts can easily lead us to doubt whether anything objective underlies them at all. If we know that a percept, for example the color red or a particular sound, is only possible thanks to the structure of our own organism, then we can easily come to believe that the percept does not exist outside our subjectivity, and that apart from the act of perceiving, whose object it is, it has no kind of existence. This view found its classic expression in George Berkeley, who believed that as soon as we become aware of the importance of the subject for percepts, we can no longer believe in a world that exists apart from the conscious spirit:

Some truths are so near and so obvious to the mind that man need only open his eyes to see them. Such I take this important truth to be, to wit, that all the choir of heaven and furniture of the earth, in a word, all those bodies which compose the mighty frame of the world, have not any subsistence with out a mind, that their being is to be perceived or known; that, consequently, so long as they are not actually perceived by me, or do not exist in my mind or that of any other created spirit, they must either have no existence at all, or else subsist in the mind of some Eternal Spirit.

From this point of view, nothing remains of the percept if we exclude the process of its being perceived. There is no color when none is seen, no sound when none is heard. Outside the act of perception, categories such as extension, form, and movement exist just as little as color and sound. Nowhere do we see extension or form alone; rather, we always see these in conjunction with color or other qualities indisputably dependent on our subjectivity. If the latter disappear with our perception, then so must the former, which are bound to them.

To the objection that, even if figure, color, sound, and so forth do not exist outside the act of perception, there must still be things that exist without consciousness and are similar to the conscious perceptual images, the Berkeleyan response would be to say that a color can only be similar to a color, a figure similar to a figure. Our percepts can be similar only to our percepts, not to any other kind to in this claim, as long as it remains merely a general consideration of how the percept is partly determined by the organization of the subject. The matter would appear fundamentally different, however, if we were in a position to describe the exact function of our perceiving in the origin of a percept. We would then know what happens to the percept during perceiving, and could also determine what aspect of the percept must already exist before it is perceived.

With this, our investigation is directed away from the object of perception and toward its subject. I do not perceive only other things; I also perceive myself. In contrast to the perceptual images that continually come and go, I am what remains. This, initially, is the content of my percept of myself. When I have other percepts, the percept of the I can always appear in my consciousness. However, when I am immersed in the perception of a given object, then for the time being I am conscious only of the latter. The percept of my self can be added to this. I am then not merely conscious of the object, but also of my personality, which stands over against the object and observes it. I not only see a tree, I also know that I am the one who sees it. Moreover, I realize that something goes on in me while I observe the tree. If the tree disappears from my view, a remnant of this process remains in my consciousness: an image of the tree. As I was observing, this image united itself with my self. My self is thereby enriched: its content has received a new element into itself. I call this element my mental picture (Vorstellung) of the tree. There would be no need to speak of mental pictures if I did not experience them in the percept of my self. In that case, percepts would come and go; I would let them pass by. It is only because I perceive my self, and notice that with every percept the content of my self also changes, that I find myself compelled to connect the observation of the object with my own changed state, and to speak of my mental picture.

4. The World As Percept – 1

Concepts and ideas arise through thinking. Words cannot say what a concept is. Words can only make us notice that we have concepts. When we see a tree, our thinking reacts to our observation, a conceptual counterpart joins the object, and we consider the object and the conceptual counterpart as belonging together. When the object disappears from our field of observation, only the conceptual counterpart remains. The latter is the concept of the object. The wider our experience extends, the greater the sum of our concepts. But the concepts by no means stand apart from one another. They combine into a lawful whole. For example, the concept “organism” combines with others, such as “lawful development” and “growth.” Other concepts, formed from individual things, collapse wholly into a unity. Thus, all concepts that I form about lions combine into the general concept “lion.” In this way, individual concepts link together into a closed conceptual system, in which each has its particular place. Ideas are not qualitatively different from concepts. They are only concepts with more content, more saturated, and more inclusive. I emphasize here that it is important to note at this point that my point of departure is thinking, not concepts or ideas, which must first be gained by thinking. Concepts and ideas already presuppose thinking. Therefore, what I have said about the nature of thinking—that it rests within itself and is determined by nothing—cannot simply be transferred to concepts. (I note this explicitly here, because this is where I differ from Hegel, who posits the concept as first and original.)

Concepts cannot be won by observation. This can already be seen from the fact that children form concepts for the objects in their environment only slowly and gradually. Concepts are added onto observation.

A popular contemporary philosopher, Herbert Spencer, portrays the spiritual process that we perform in response to observation as follows:

If, wandering through the fields on a September’s day, we hear a noise a few steps in front of us, and see the grass in motion by the side of the ditch whence the noise seemed to proceed, then we will probably approach the place to find out what produced the noise and movement. At our approach, there flutters in the ditch a partridge, and with this our curiosity is satisfied: we have what we call an explanation of the phenomena. Carefully examined, this explanation depends on the following: because in life we have countless times experienced that a disturbance in the peaceful state of small bodies accompanies the movement of other bodies located among them, and because we have therefore generalized the relationships between such disturbances and such movements, we consider this particular disturbance explained as soon as we find that it represents an example of just this relationship.

Examined more closely, however, the situation looks quite different than this description suggests. When I hear a noise, I first seek the concept that fits this observation. Someone who thinks no more of it simply hears the noise and leaves it at that. But by thinking about it, it becomes clear to me that I must regard the noise as an effect. Only when I combine the concept of effect with the perception of the noise am I inclined to go beyond the individual observation itself and seek a cause. The concept of effect evokes that of cause, and I then seek the causative object, which I find in the form of a partridge. But I can never gain the concepts of cause and effect by mere observation, no matter how many cases I may observe. Observation calls forth thinking, and it is only the latter that shows me how to link one isolated experience with another.

When people demand of a “strictly objective science” that it draw its content from observation alone, then they must at the same time demand that it renounce all thinking. For thinking, by its very nature, goes over and above what has been observed.

This is the moment to move from thinking to the being who thinks. For it is through the thinker that thinking is linked to observation. Human consciousness is the stage where concept and observation meet and are connected to one another. This is, in fact, what characterizes human consciousness. It is the mediator between thinking and observation. To the extent that human beings observe things, things appear as given; to the extent that human beings think, they experience themselves as active. They regard things as objects, and themselves as thinking subjects. Because they direct their thinking to what they observe, they are conscious of objects; because they direct their thinking to themselves, they are conscious of themselves, they have self-consciousness. Human consciousness must necessarily at the same time also be self consciousness, because it is a thinking consciousness. For when thinking directs its gaze toward its own activity, it has before it as its object its very own being, that is, its subject.

But we must not overlook that it is only with the help of thinking that we can define ourselves as subjects, and contrast ourselves to objects. Therefore, thinking must never be regarded as a merely subjective activity. Thinking is beyond subject and object. It forms both of these concepts, just as it does all others. Thus, when we as thinking subjects relate a concept to an object, we must not regard this relationship as something merely subjective. It is not the subject that introduces the relationship, but thinking. The subject does not think because it is a subject; rather, it appears to itself as a subject because it can think. The activity that human beings exercise as thinking beings is therefore not merely subjective, but it is a kind of activity that is neither subjective nor objective; it goes beyond both these concepts. I should never say that my individual subject thinks; rather, it lives by the grace of thinking. Thus, thinking is an element that leads me beyond myself and unites me with objects. But it separates me from them at the same time, by setting me over against them as subject.

Just this establishes the dual nature of the human being: we think, and our thinking embraces ourselves along with the rest of the world; but at the same time we must also, by means of thinking, define ourselves as individuals standing over against things.

3. Thinking in the Service of Understanding the World -1

When I observe how a billiard ball, once struck, transfers its movement to another, I remain completely without influence over the course of this process. The direction of motion and the velocity of the second ball are determined by the direction and velocity of the first.

As long as I remain a mere observer, I can say something about the movement of the second ball only after it has actually begun. But the situation is different when I begin to think about the content of my observation. The purpose of my thinking is to form concepts about the process I observe. I connect the concept of an elastic sphere with certain other concepts of mechanics and take into consideration the particular circumstances prevailing in the given case. Thus, to the process that plays itself out without my participation I seek to add a second process, which goes on in the conceptual sphere. This sphere depends on me, as is evident in my being able to content myself with observation, renouncing any search for concepts, if I have no need of them. But if this need is present, then I am satisfied only when I have brought concepts such as “sphere,” “elasticity,” “movement,” “impact,” “velocity,” etc. into a certain connection with each other. To this interconnection of concepts the observed process then stands in a particular relation. Certainly the process that I observe completes itself independently of me. Just as certainly, however, the conceptual process cannot play itself out without my participation.

Whether my activity is really an expression of my independent essence, or whether contemporary physiologists are right in saying that I cannot think as I wish, but rather have to think as the thoughts and thought-connections currently in my consciousness determine —this will be the subject of later discussion. For the time being, we wish merely to establish that, with regard to the objects and processes given us without our participation, we feel compelled continually to seek concepts and conceptual connections that stand in a certain relationship to those objects and processes. For the moment, we shall leave aside the question of whether this activity is really our activity, or whether we carry it out in accord with unalterable necessity. Certainly, it is unquestionable that it initially appears as our own. We know perfectly well that the cor-responding concepts are not given with the objects. That I am myself the active one may depend upon an illusion; nevertheless, that is how immediate observation portrays the matter. Therefore the question is: what do we gain by finding the conceptual counterpart to an event?

There is a profound difference, for me, between the way in which the parts of an event relate to one another before and after the discovery of the corresponding concepts. Mere observation can follow the parts of a given event in succession, but their connection remains obscure until concepts are brought in to help. I see the first billiard ball move toward the second in a certain direction and with a certain velocity; I must wait to see what will happen upon impact and, even then, I can only follow what happens with my eyes. Let us suppose that, at the moment of impact, someone conceals from me the area where the process goes on. As a mere observer, I am then without knowledge of what happens next. The situation is different if, before the process is concealed from me, I discover the concepts corresponding to the constellation of relationships. In that case, I can report what happens even if I can no longer observe it. By itself, a process or object that is merely observed suggests nothing about its connection to other processes or objects. The connection only becomes evident if observation is linked to thinking.

Insofar as we are conscious of it, observation and thinking are the two points of departure for all human spiritual striving. The workings of both common human understanding and the most complicated scientific investigations rest on these two pillars of our spirit. Philosophers have proceeded from various primal oppositions— such as idea and reality, subject and object, appearance and thing-in-itself, I and Not-I, idea and will, concept and matter, force and substance, conscious and unconscious—but it can easily be shown that the contrast between observation and thinking precedes all of these as the most important antithesis for human beings.

No matter what principle we wish to establish, we must either show that we have observed it somewhere or we must express it in the form of a clear thought that anyone can rethink. When philosophers begin to speak about their first principles, they must put things in conceptual form and therefore they must make use of thinking. Thus, indirectly, they admit that their activity presupposes thinking. Nothing is being said yet about whether thinking or something else is the chief element of world evolution. But it is clear from the start that, without thinking, philosophers can gain no knowledge of such an element. Thinking might play a minor role in the origin of world phenomena, but in the origin of a view of those phenomena, it surely plays a major role.

As for observation, we need it because of the way we are organized. Our thinking about a horse and the object horse are two things that arise separately for us. And the object is accessible to us only through observation. Merely staring at a horse does not enable us to produce the concept horse, and neither will mere thinking bring forth the corresponding object.

Chronologically, observation even precedes thinking. For we can become aware of thinking, too, only through observation. At the beginning of this chapter, when we showed how thinking lights up in the face of an event and goes beyond what it finds given without its assistance, this was essentially the description of an observation. It is through observation that we first become aware of anything entering the circle of our experience. The content of sensations, perceptions, views, feelings, acts of will, dream and fantasy constructions, representations, concepts and ideas, illusions and hallucinations—the content of all of these is given to us through observation.

Thinking differs essentially, as an object of observation, from all other things. The observation of a table or a tree occurs for me as soon as the objects enter the horizon of my experience. But I do not observe my thinking about the objects at the same time as I observe them. I observe the table, and I carry out my thinking about the table, but I do not observe that thinking in the same moment as my observation of the table. If I want to observe, along with the table, my thinking about the table, I must first take up a standpoint outside my own activity. While observation of objects and processes, and thinking about them, are both everyday situations that fill my ongoing life, the observation of thinking is a kind of exceptional state. We must take this fact properly into account if we are to determine the relationship of thinking to all other contents of observation. We must be clear that, when we observe thinking, we are applying to thinking a procedure that is normal when we consider all the rest of our world-content but that is not normally applied to thinking itself.

Someone could object that what I have noted here about thinking applies equally to feeling and other spiritual activities. The feeling of pleasure, for example, is also kindled by an object, and I observe the object, but not the feeling of pleasure. This objection is based on an error. Pleasure does not at all stand in the same relation to its object as the concept formed by thinking does. I am definitely aware that the concept of a thing is formed by my activity, while pleasure is created in me by an object in the same way as, for example, a falling stone causes a change in an object on which it falls. For observation, pleasure is given in exactly the same way as the process that occasions it. The same is not true of concepts. I can ask why a specific process creates the feeling of pleasure in me. But I certainly cannot ask why a process creates a specific number of concepts in me. To do so would simply be meaningless. Thinking about a process has nothing to do with an effect on me. I learn nothing at all about myself by knowing the concepts corresponding to the observed change that a hurled stone causes in a pane of glass. But I learn a great deal about my personality if I know the feeling that a specific process awakens within me. If I say of an observed object, “This is a rose,” then I express nothing at all about myself. But if I say of the rose, “It gives me a feeling of pleasure,” then I have characterized not only the rose but also myself in relationship to the rose.

As objects of observation, then, thinking and feeling cannot be equated. The same conclusion could easily be derived for the other activities of the human spirit. Unlike thinking, these can be grouped with other observed ob-jects and processes. It is part of the peculiar nature of thinking that it is an activity directed only to the observed object, and not to the thinker. This is clear from how we express our thoughts about a thing, compared to how we express our feelings or acts of will. If I see an object and recognize it as a table, I do not generally say “I am think-ing about a table,” but rather “This is a table.” Yet I could certainly say, “I am pleased with the table.” In the first case, I am not concerned with communicating that I have entered into a relationship with the table; but in the second case it is precisely this relationship that is significant. Furthermore, with the statement, “I am thinking about a table,” I have already entered into the exceptional state mentioned above, in which I make into an object of observation something that is always contained within my spiritual activity but not as an observed object.

This is the characteristic nature of thinking. The thinker forgets thinking while doing it. What concerns the thinker is not thinking, but the observed object of thinking.

Hence the first observation that we make about thinking is that it is the unobserved element in our normal spiritual life. It is because thinking is based on our own activity that we do not observe it in everyday spiritual life. What I do not produce myself enters my observational field as an object. I see it as something that arose without me. It confronts me; and I must accept it as the prerequisite for my process of thinking. While thinking about the object, I am occupied with it and my gaze is turned toward it. My attention is directed not toward my activity, but toward the object of this activity. In other words, when I think, I do not look at my thinking, which I myself am producing, but at the object of thinking, which I am not producing.

I am in the same situation even if I allow the exceptional state of affairs to occur and think about my thinking itself. I can never observe my present thinking; only after I have thought can I take the experiences I have had during my thinking process as the object of my thinking. If I wanted to observe my present thinking, I would have to split myself into two personalities, one that thinks and one that looks on during this thinking, which I cannot do. I can observe my present thinking only in two separate acts. The thinking to be observed is never the one currently active, but a different one. For this purpose, it does not matter whether I make observations about my own earlier thinking, follow the thought process of another person, or, as with the movement of billiard balls, suppose an imaginary thought process.

3. Thinking in the Service of Understanding the World – 2

These two are therefore incompatible: active production and contemplative confrontation. The first book of Moses already recognizes this. In the Book of Genesis, God produces the world in the first six days of creation; only once it is there is it possible to contemplate it: “And God looked at everything he had made, and behold, it was very good.” The same holds true of our thinking. It must first be there if we are to observe it.

It is impossible for us to observe thinking as it occurs at each moment for the same reason that we can know our thinking more immediately and intimately than any other process in the world. Precisely because we ourselves produce our thinking, we know the characteristics of its course and how it occurs. What can be found only indirectly in other spheres of observation—the appropriate connections and the relationship of individual objects— we know in a completely immediate way in thinking. Without going beyond the phenomena, I cannot know why thunder follows lightning for my observation. But I know immediately, from the content of the two concepts, why my thinking links the concept of thunder with that of lightning. Naturally it is not a question of whether I have correct concepts of lightning and thunder. The connection between those that I do have is clear, by means of the very concepts themselves.

This transparent clarity we experience in relation to the thinking process is completely independent of our knowledge of the physiological bases of thinking. I am speaking here of thinking as given by observation of our spiritual activity. I am not concerned with how one material process in the brain occasions or influences another when I carry out an operation in thought. What I observe about thinking is not the process in my brain linking the concepts of lightning and thunder, but rather the process enabling me to bring the two concepts into a specific relationship. Observation tells me that nothing guides me in combining my thoughts except the content of my thoughts. I am not guided by the material processes in my brain. In a less materialistic age than our own, this observation would of course be completely superfluous. But today—when there are people who believe that once we know what matter is we will also know how matter thinks—it must still be stated that one can talk about thinking without immediately running into brain physiology. Most people today find it hard to grasp the concept of thinking in its purity. Whoever immediately counters the view of thinking developed here with the statement of Cabanis that “the brain secretes thoughts as the liver does gall or the salivary ducts saliva” simply does not know what I am talking about. Such a person wants to find thinking through a mere process of observation—wants to proceed with thinking in the same way as we proceed with other objects of the world content. But thinking cannot be found in this way, because precisely as an object of world content thinking eludes normal observation, as I have shown. Those who cannot overcome materialism lack the capacity to induce in themselves the exceptional state that brings into consciousness what remains unconscious during all other spiritual activity. Just as one cannot discuss color with the blind, so one cannot discuss thinking with those who lack the good will to place themselves in this position. But at least they should not imagine that we take physiological processes to be thinking. They cannot explain thinking because they simply do not see it.

But for everyone who has the capacity to observe thinking—and, with good will, every normally constituted human being has this capacity—the observation of thinking is the most important observation that can be made. For in thinking we observe something of which we ourselves are the producers. We find ourselves facing something that to begin with is not foreign to us, but our own activity. We know how the thing we are observing comes about. We see through the relationships and the connections. A secure point has been won, from which we can reasonably hope to seek an explanation of the other world phenomena.

The feeling of having such a secure point caused the founder of modern philosophy, Rene Descartes, to base the whole of human knowledge on the sentence, “I think, therefore I am.” All other things, all other events, exist without me, but whether as truth or as fantasy and dream, I cannot say. I am absolutely certain of only one thing, for I myself bring it to its secure existence: my thinking. It might have another source for its existence. It might come from God or somewhere else. But that it exists in the sense that I bring it forth myself—of that, I am certain. Descartes initially had no justification to ascribe a different meaning to his sentence. He could only claim that, in thinking, I lay hold of myself in the activity that is, of all the world’ s content, the most my own. What the tacked-on therefore I am might mean has been much disputed. But it can be meaningful only under one condition. The simplest statement that I can make about a thing is that it is, that it exists. I cannot immediately say how the existence of anything entering the horizon of my experience might be characterized more precisely. To determine in what sense an object can be described as existent, it would have to be examined in relation to others. An experienced event can be a series of perceptions, but it can also be a dream, a hallucination, and so forth. In brief, I cannot say in what sense an object exists. I cannot derive its existence from the experienced event itself, but I can learn it when I consider the event in relation to other things. But there, too, I cannot know more than how it stands in relation to those things. My search finds firm ground only when I find an object the meaning of whose existence I can draw out of itself. As a thinker, I am myself such an object. I endow my existence with the definite, self-reposing content of thinking activity. From there, I can now proceed to ask whether other things exist in the same or in a different sense.

When we make thinking into an object of observation, we add to the rest of the observed world-content something that normally escapes our attention, but we do not change the way in which we relate to it, which is the same as to other things. We increase the number of the objects of our observation, but not our method of observing. As we observe other things, a process that is overlooked intermingles in world events (in which I now include the act of observation itself). Something is present that differs from all other events, and is not taken into consideration.

But when I observe my thinking, no such unconsidered element is present. For what now hovers in the background is itself only, once again, thinking. The observed object is qualitatively the same as the activity that directs itself toward it. And this is again a special characteristic of thinking. When we make thinking into an object of observation, we are not compelled to do so with the aid of something that is qualitatively different to it; we can remain within the same element.

If I weave into my thinking an object that is given without my participation, I go beyond my observation, and the question will arise: What gives me the right to do so? Why don’ t I simply allow the object to work upon me? How is it possible for my thinking to have a relation to the object? These are questions that all who think about their own thought processes must ask themselves. But they fall away when we think about thinking itself. We add nothing foreign to thinking, and thus need not excuse ourselves for such an addition.

Schelling says, “To know nature is to create nature.” Anyone who takes these words of the bold nature philosopher literally must renounce forever all knowledge of nature. For nature is simply there, and to create it a second time, one would have to know the principles according to which it arose. One would first have to look at the conditions for the existence of nature as it is, in order to apply these to the nature one wished to create. But this “looking,” which would have to precede any creating, would be to know nature already, even if, after successfully looking, one did not then go on to create. The only kind of nature that one could create without previously knowing it would be a nature that did not yet exist.

What is impossible with nature—creation before cognition—we achieve with thinking. If we waited, before thinking, until we already understood it, then we would never get to that point. We must think resolutely ahead, in order later to arrive by observation at a knowledge of what we have done. We ourselves create the object for the observation of thinking. The presence of all other objects has been taken care of without our participation.

Someone could oppose my proposition that we must think before we can observe thinking with the proposition that we also have to digest before we can observe the process of digestion. That objection would be similar to the one Pascal made to Descartes, claiming that one could also say, “I go for a walk, therefore I am.” Certainly, I must also go ahead and digest before I have studied the physiological process of digestion. But this could only be compared with the contemplation of thinking if afterward I did not contemplate digestion in thinking, but wanted to eat and digest it. It is, after all, not without reason that digesting cannot become the object of digesting, but thinking can very well become the object of thinking.

Without a doubt: in thinking we hold a corner of the world process where we must be present if anything is to occur. And this is exactly the point at issue. This is exactly why things stand over against me so puzzlingly: because I am so uninvolved in their creation. I simply find them present. But in the case of thinking, I know how it is done. This is why, for the contemplation of the whole world process, there is no more primal starting point than thinking.

I will mention a widespread error regarding thinking. It consists in saying that thinking, as it is in itself, is nowhere given to us. The thinking that links the observations of our experience, interweaving them with a conceptual network, is said to be not at all the same as that which we afterward scoop out of the objects and make into the object of our contemplation. What we first weave unconsciously into things is said to be something completely different from what we then extract from them consciously.

Those who reason like this do not understand that they cannot escape thinking in this way. If I want to look at thinking, I cannot leave thinking behind. If we distinguish preconscious thinking from later, conscious thinking, we should at least not forget that this distinction is quite external and has nothing to do with the matter at hand. I in no way make a thing into something else by contemplating it in thinking. I can imagine that a being with altogether different sense organs and with a differently functioning intellect would have a very different mental picture of a horse than I do, but I cannot imagine that my own thinking becomes something else because I observe it. I myself observe what I myself produce. The issue is not how my thinking appears to an intellect different from my own, but how it appears to me. In any case, the picture of my thinking in a different intellect cannot be a truer one than in my own. Only if I were myself not the being who thinks, and this thinking confronted me as the activity of a being alien to me, only then could I say that although my image of its thinking arises in a certain way, I cannot know how its thinking is in itself.

For the moment, however, there is not the slightest reason for me to regard my own thinking from a different standpoint. I contemplate the rest of the world with the help of thinking. Why should I make an exception for my thinking?

I believe I have now justified beginning my consideration of the world with thinking. When Archimedes had invented the lever, he thought that he could use it to lift the whole cosmos on its hinges, if only he could find a secure point to set his instrument. For this, he needed something that was supported by itself, not by something else. In thinking, we have a principle that exists through itself. Starting with thinking, then, let us attempt to understand the world. We can grasp thinking through itself. The only question is whether we can also grasp anything else through it.

Thus far I have spoken of thinking without giving account of its vehicle, human consciousness. Most contemporary philosophers would object that there has to be a consciousness before there can be thinking. According to them, we should therefore proceed from consciousness and not from thinking, since there would be no thinking without consciousness. To this I would have to reply that if I want to understand the relationship between thinking and consciousness, I must think about it. Therefore I presuppose thinking. One can certainly still reply that, if a philosopher wishes to understand consciousness, then he or she makes use of thinking, and presupposes it to that extent; yet, in the normal course of life, thinking arises within consciousness and therefore presupposes the latter. If this answer were given to the creator of the world, who wanted to make thinking from scratch, then it would doubtless be justified. Naturally, the creator could not let thinking arise without first having consciousness come about. For philosophers, however, it is not a question of creating the world but of understanding it. Hence they do not need to seek a starting point for creating the world, but rather one for understanding it. I find it very peculiar when people reproach philosophers for concerning themselves in the first place with the correctness of their principles and not immediately with the objects they want to understand. The creator of the world had to know how to find a vehicle for thinking, but the philosopher has to seek a secure foundation from which to understand what already exists. What good does it do to begin with consciousness and subject it to a thinking contemplation, if before we do so we do not know whether thinking contemplation can offer insight into things?

We must first consider thinking completely neutrally, without reference to a thinking subject or a thought object. For in subject and object we already have concepts that are formed through thinking. We cannot deny that, before anything else can be understood, thinking must be understood. Those who deny this forget that, as human beings, they are not the first but the last link in the chain of creation. To explain the world through concepts, we cannot proceed from the earliest elements of existence. Rather, we must proceed from the element that is given to us as the nearest, the most intimate. We cannot, in a single bound, set ourselves at the beginning of the world and begin our study there. Instead, we must proceed from the present moment and see whether we can rise from the later to the earlier. As long as geology spoke of imagined catastrophes to explain the present state of the earth, it groped in the dark. Only when it made its starting point the investigation of those processes that are still active on earth today, and reasoned backward from these to the past, did it win for itself a secure foundation. As long as philosophy assumes all kinds of principles—such as atoms, movement, matter, will, and the unconscious—it will hover in the air.

Only when the philosopher regards the absolutely last thing as the first can the goal be reached. But this absolutely last thing achieved by world evolution is thinking.

Some say that, even so, we cannot know for certain whether our thinking in itself is correct, and therefore that, to this extent, the point of departure remains a doubtful one. This statement is just as reasonable as to entertain doubts about whether a tree in itself is correct. Thinking is a fact, and to speak about the correctness or falsehood of a fact is meaningless. At most, I can have doubts about whether thinking is used correctly, just as I can doubt whether a certain tree gives the right wood for a certain tool. The task of the present work is precisely to show how the application of thinking to the world is right or wrong. I can understand someone doubting that thinking can know something of the world, but it is incomprehensible to me that anyone could doubt the intrinsic correctness of thinking itself.

Addendum to the new edition (1918) [1]
The preceding discussion points to the significant difference between thinking and all other activities of the soul, a fact that reveals itself to truly unprejudiced observation. Anyone who does not strive for such unprejudiced observation will be tempted to make such objections as: “When I think about a rose, this thinking expresses only a relationship of my “I” to the rose, just as it does when I feel the beauty of the rose. A relationship exists between the “I” and the object in thinking just as it does, for example, in feeling or perceiving.” This objection fails to take into account that it is only in the act of thinking that the “I” knows itself as one being with what is active in all aspects of the activity. With no other activity of the soul is this completely so. For example, when pleasure is felt, subtler observation can easily distinguish to what degree the “I” knows itself as one with what is active, and to what degree something passive is present within it, with the result that the pleasure simply arises for the “I.” And the same is true of the other activities of the soul as well. But we must not confuse “having thought pictures” with working out thoughts by means of thinking. Thought pictures can emerge dreamily in the soul, like vague suggestions. But this is not thinking.

To be sure, someone could now point out that, if thinking is meant in this way, then there is willing hidden in the thinking, so that not just thinking but also the willing of thinking is involved. But this would only justify our saying that real thinking must always be willed. Yet this is irrelevant to our previous characterization of thinking. It may be that the essence of thinking requires that it always be willed. But the point is that in this case nothing is willed that, in its execution, does not appear to the “I” as wholly its own, self-supervised activity. We must even acknowledge that it is precisely because of the essential nature of thinking put forward here that thinking appears to the observer as completely willed. Anyone who makes the effort really to see into all that is relevant to an assessment of thinking cannot but notice that the special characteristic discussed here does indeed belong to this activity of the soul.

A person whom the author of this book values very highly as a thinker has objected that one cannot speak of thinking as I have done here, because what we believe we observe as active thinking is only an appearance. In reality, one only observes the results of a non-conscious activity that lies at the basis of thinking. And only because this non-conscious activity is unobserved does the illusion arise that the thinking that we do observe exists in itself, as when we imagine ourselves to see movement in a rapid succession of electrical sparks. This objection, too, rests on an inexact view of the facts. It fails to take into account that it is the “I” itself that—within thinking—observes its own activity. If it could be fooled, as we are by the rapid succession of electrical sparks, the “I” would have to be outside thinking. We could say instead that anyone who makes such a comparison deceives himself or herself mightily, a bit like one who claims that a light perceived to be in motion is relit by an unknown hand wherever it appears.—No, whoever wishes to see in thinking something other than what is produced within the “I” itself as surveyable activity must first become blind to the simple state of affairs available to observation, in order then to lay a hypothetical activity at the base of thinking. Those who do not blind themselves must recognize that whatever they “think up” in this way and add to thinking leads away from the essence of thinking. Unprejudiced observation shows that nothing can be attributed to the essence of thinking that is not found within thinking itself. One cannot arrive at anything that causes thinking if one leaves the realm of thinking behind.

3. Thinking in the Service of Knowledge – 2

There are two things which are incompatible with one another: productive activity and the simultaneous contemplation of it. This is recognised even in Genesis (1, 31). Here God creates the world in the first six days, and only when it is there is any contemplation of it possible: “And God saw everything that he had made and, behold, it was very good.” The same applies to our thinking. It must be there first, if we would observe it.

The reason why it is impossible to observe thinking in the actual moment of its occurrence, is the very one which makes it possible for us to know it more immediately and more intimately than any other process in the world. Just because it is our own creation do we know the characteristic features of its course, the manner in which the process takes place. What in all other spheres of observation can be found only indirectly, namely, the relevant context and the relationship between the individual objects, is, in the case of thinking, known to us in an absolutely direct way. I do not on the face of it know why, for my observation, thunder follows lightning; but I know directly, from the very content of the two concepts, why my thinking connects the concept of thunder with the concept of lightning. It does not matter in the least whether I have the right concepts of lightning and thunder. The connection between those concepts that I do have is clear to me, and this through the very concepts themselves.

This transparent clearness concerning our thinking process is quite independent of our knowledge of the physiological basis of thinking. Here I am speaking of thinking in so far as we know it from the observation of our own spiritual activity. How one material process in my brain causes or influences another while I am carrying out a thinking operation, is quite irrelevant. What I observe about thinking is not what process in my brain connects the concept lightning with the concept thunder but what causes me to bring the two concepts into a particular relationship.

My observation shows me that in linking one thought with another there is nothing to guide me but the content of my thoughts; I am not guided by any material processes in my brain. In a less materialistic age than our own, this remark would of course be entirely superfluous. Today, however, when there are people who believe that once we know what matter is we shall also know how it thinks, we do have to insist that one may talk about thinking without trespassing on the domain of brain physiology.

Many people today find it difficult to grasp the concept of thinking in its purity. Anyone who challenges the description of thinking which I have given here by quoting Cabanis’ statement that “the brain secretes thoughts as the liver does gall or the spittle-glands spittle …”, simply does not know what I am talking about. He tries to find thinking by a process of mere observation in the same way that we proceed in the case of other objects that make up the world. But he cannot find it in this way because, as I have shown, it eludes just this ordinary observation.

Whoever cannot transcend materialism lacks the ability to bring about the exceptional condition I have described, in which he becomes conscious of what in all other spiritual activity remains unconscious. If someone is not willing to take this standpoint, then one can no more discuss thinking with him than one can discuss colour with a blind man. But in any case he must not imagine that we regard physiological processes as thinking. He fails to explain thinking because he simply does not see it.

For everyone, however, who has the ability to observe thinking — and with good will every normal man has this ability — this observation is the most important one he can possibly make. For he observes something of which he himself is the creator; he finds himself confronted, not by an apparently foreign object, but by his own activity. He knows how the thing he is observing comes into being. He sees into its connections and relationships. A firm point has now been reached from which one can, with some hope of success, seek an explanation of all other phenomena of the world.

The feeling that he had found such a firm point led the father of modern philosophy, Descartes, to base the whole of human knowledge on the principle: I think, therefore I am. All other things, all other events, are there independently of me. Whether they be truth, or illusion, or dream, I know not. There is only one thing of which I am absolutely certain, for I myself give it its certain existence; and that is my thinking.

Whatever other origin it may ultimately have, may it come from God or from elsewhere, of one thing I am certain: that it exists in the sense that I myself bring it forth. Descartes had, to begin with, no justification for giving his statement more meaning than this. All that he had any right to assert was that within the whole world content I apprehend myself in my thinking as in that activity which is most uniquely my own. What the attached “therefore I am” is supposed to mean has been much debated. It can have a meaning on one condition only. The simplest assertion I can make of a thing is that it is, that it exists. How this existence can be further defined in the case of any particular thing that appears on the horison of my experience, is at first sight impossible to say.

Each object must first be studied in its relation to others before we can determine in what sense it can be said to exist. An experienced event may be a set of percepts or it may be a dream, an hallucination, or something else. In short, I am unable to say in what sense it exists. I cannot gather this from the event in itself, but I shall find it out when I consider the event in its relation to other things. But here again I cannot know more than just how it stands in relation to these other things.

My investigation touches firm ground only when I find an object which exists in a sense which I can derive from the object itself. But I am myself such an object in that I think, for I give to my existence the definite, self-determined content of the thinking activity. From here I can go on to ask whether other things exist in the same or in some other sense.

When we make thinking an object of observation, we add to the other observed contents of the world something which usually escapes our attention, But the way we stand in relation to the other things is in no way altered. We add to the number of objects of observation, but not to the number of methods. While we are observing the other things, there enters among the processes of the world — among which I now include observation – one process which is overlooked. Something is present which is different from all other processes, something which is not taken into account. But when I observe my own thinking, no such neglected element is present. For what now hovers in the background is once more just thinking itself. The object of observation is qualitatively identical with the activity directed upon it. This is another characteristic feature of thinking. When we make it an object of observation, we are not compelled to do so with the help of something qualitatively different, but can remain within the same element.

When I weave an independently given object into my thinking, I transcend my observation, and the question arises: What right have I to do this? Why do I not simply let the object impress itself upon me? How is it possible for my thinking to be related to the object? These are questions which everyone must put to himself who reflects on his own thought processes. But all these questions cease to exist when we think about thinking itself. We then add nothing to our thinking that is foreign to it, and therefore have no need to justify any such addition.

Schelling says, “To know Nature means to create Nature.” If we take these words of this bold Nature-philosopher literally, we shall have to renounce for ever all hope of gaining knowledge of Nature. For Nature is there already, and in order to create it a second time, we must first know the principles according to which it has originated.

From the Nature that already exists we should have to borrow or crib the fundamental principles for the Nature we want to begin by creating. This borrowing, which would have to precede the creating, would however mean knowing Nature, and this would still be so even if after the borrowing no creation were to take place. The only kind of Nature we could create without first having knowledge of it would be a Nature that does not yet exist.

What is impossible for us with regard to Nature, namely, creating before knowing, we achieve in the case of thinking. Were we to refrain from thinking until we had first gained knowledge of it, we would never come to it at all. We must resolutely plunge right into the activity of thinking, so that afterwards, by observing what we have done, we may gain knowledge of it. For the observation of thinking, we ourselves first create an object; the presence of all other objects is taken care of without any activity on our part.

My contention that we must think before we can examine thinking might easily be countered by the apparently equally valid contention that we cannot wait with digesting until we have first observed the process of digestion. This objection would be similar to that brought by Pascal against Descartes, when he asserted that we might also say, “I walk, therefore I am.”

Certainly I must go straight ahead with digesting and not wait until I have studied the physiological process of digestion. But I could only compare this with the study of thinking if, after digestion, I set myself not to study it by thinking, but to eat and digest it. It is after all not without reason that, whereas digestion cannot become the object of digestion, thinking can very well become the object of thinking.

This then is indisputable, that in thinking we have got hold of one corner of the whole world process which requires our presence if anything is to happen. And this is just the point upon which everything turns. The very reason why things confront me in such a puzzling way is just that I play no part in their production. They are simply given to me, whereas in the case of thinking I know how it is done. Hence for the study of all that happens in the world there can be no more fundamental starting point than thinking itself.

I should now like to mention a widely current error which prevails with regard to thinking. It is often said that thinking, as it is in itself, is nowhere given to us: the thinking that connects our observations and weaves a network of concepts about them is not at all the same as that which we subsequently extract from the objects of observation in order to make it the object of our study. What we first weave unconsciously into the things is said to be quite different from what we consciously extract from them again.

Those who hold this view do not see that it is impossible in this way to escape from thinking. I cannot get outside thinking when I want to study it. If we want to distinguish between thinking before we have become conscious of it, and thinking of which we have subsequently become aware, we should not forget that this distinction is a purely external one which has nothing to do with the thing itself. I do not in any way alter a thing by thinking about it.

I can well imagine that a being with quite differently constructed sense organs and with a differently functioning intelligence, would have a very different mental picture of a horse from mine, but I cannot imagine that my own thinking becomes something different through the fact that I observe it. I myself observe what I myself produce. Here we are not talking of how my thinking looks to an intelligence other than mine, but of how it looks to me.

In any case the picture of my thinking which another intelligence might have cannot be a truer one than my own. Only if I were not myself the being doing the thinking, but if the thinking were to confront me as the activity of a being quite foreign to me, might I then say that although my own picture of the thinking may arise in a particular way, what the thinking of that being may be like in itself, I am quite unable to know.

So far, there is not the slightest reason why I should regard my own thinking from any point of view other than my own. After all, I contemplate the rest of the world by means of thinking. Why should I make my thinking an exception?

I believe I have give sufficient reasons for making thinking the starting point for my study of the world. When Archimedes had discovered the lever, he thought he could lift the whole cosmos from its hinges, if only he could find a point of support for his instrument. He needed something that was supported by itself and by nothing else. In thinking we have a principle which subsists through itself. Let us try, therefore, to understand the world starting from this basis. We can grasp thinking by means of itself. The question is, whether we can also grasp anything else through it.

I have so far spoken of thinking without taking account of its vehicle, human consciousness. Most present-day philosophers would object that before there can be thinking, there must be consciousness. Hence we ought to start, not from thinking, but from consciousness. There is no thinking, they say, without consciousness. To this I must reply that in order to clear up the relation between thinking and consciousness, I must think about it. Hence I presuppose thinking. Nevertheless one could still argue that although, when the philosopher tries to understand consciousness he makes use of thinking and to that extent presupposes it, yet in the ordinary course of life thinking does arise within consciousness and therefore presupposes consciousness.

Now if this answer were given to the world creator when he was about to create thinking, it would doubtless be to the point. Naturally it is not possible to create thinking before consciousness. The philosopher, however, is not concerned with creating the world but with understanding it. Accordingly he has to seek the starting points not for the creation of the world but for the understanding of it. It seems to me very strange that the philosopher should be reproached for troubling himself first and foremost about the correctness of his principles instead of turning straight to the objects which he seeks to understand.

The world creator had above all to know how to find a vehicle for thinking, but the philosopher has to seek a secure foundation for his attempts to understand what already exists. How does it help us to start with consciousness and subject it to the scrutiny of thinking, if we do not first know whether thinking is in fact able to give us insight into things at all?

We must first consider thinking quite impartially, without reference to a thinking subject or a thought object. For both subject and object are concepts formed by thinking. There is no denying that before anything else can be understood, thinking must be understood. Whoever denies this fails to realise that man is not the first link in the chain of creation but the last.

Hence, in order to explain the world by means of concepts, we cannot start from the elements of existence which came first in time, but we must begin with that element which is given to us as the nearest and most intimate. We cannot at one bound transport ourselves back to the beginning of the world in order to begin our studies from there, but we must start from the present moment and see whether we can ascend from the later to the earlier. As long as Geology invented fabulous catastrophes to account for the present state of the earth, it groped in darkness.

It was only when it began to study the processes at present at work on the earth, and from these to argue back to the past, that it gained a firm foundation. As long as Philosophy goes on assuming all sorts of basic principles, such as atom, motion, matter, will, or the unconscious, it will hang in the air. Only if the philosopher recognises that which is last in time as his first point of attack, can he reach his goal. This absolutely last thing at which world evolution has arrived is in fact thinking.

There are people who say it is impossible to ascertain with certainty whether our thinking is right or wrong, and thus our starting point is in any case a doubtful one. It would be just as sensible to doubt whether a tree is in itself right or wrong. Thinking is a fact, and it is meaningless to speak of the truth or falsity of a fact. I can, at most, be in doubt as to whether thinking is correctly applied, just as I can doubt whether a certain tree supplies wood adapted to the making of this or that useful object.

To show how far the application of thinking to the world is right or wrong, is precisely the task of this book. I can understand anyone doubting whether, by means of thinking, we can gain knowledge of the world, but it is incomprehensible to me how anyone can doubt the rightness of thinking in itself.

Author’s addition, 1918
In the preceding discussion I have pointed out the significant difference between thinking and all other activities of the soul, as a fact which presents itself to genuinely unprejudiced observation. Anyone who does not strive towards this unprejudiced observation will be tempted to bring against my arguments such objections as these: When I think about a rose, this after all only expresses a relation of my “I” to the rose, just as when I feel the beauty of the rose. There is a relation between “I” and object in the case of thinking just as much as in the case of feeling or perceiving. Such an objection leaves out of account the fact that only in the thinking activity does the “I” know itself to be one and the same being with that which is active, right into all the ramifications of this activity.

With no other soul activity is this so completely the case. For example, in a feeling of pleasure it is perfectly possible for a more delicate observation to discriminate between the extent to which the “I” knows itself to be one and the same being with what is active, and the extent to which there is something passive in the “I” to which the pleasure merely presents itself. The same applies to the other soul activities. Above all one should not confuse the “having of thought-images” with the elaboration of thought by thinking.

Thought-images may appear in the soul after the fashion of dreams, like vague intimations. But this is not thinking. True, someone might now say: If this is what you mean by “thinking”, then your thinking involves willing and you have to do not merely with thinking but also with the will in the thinking. However, this would simply justify us in saying: Genuine thinking must always be willed. But this is quite irrelevant to the characterisation of thinking as this has been given in the preceding discussion.

Granted that the nature of thinking necessarily implies its being willed, the point that matters is that nothing is willed which, in being carried out, does not appear to the “I” as an activity completely its own and under its own supervision. Indeed, we must say that owing to the very nature of thinking as here defined, it must appear to the observer as willed through and through. If we really make the effort to grasp everything that is relevant to a judgment about the nature of thinking, we cannot fail to see that this soul activity does have the unique character we have here described.

A person whom the author of this book rates very highly as a thinker has objected that it is impossible to speak about thinking as we are doing here, because what one believes oneself to have observed as active thinking is nothing but an illusion. In reality one is observing only the results of an unconscious activity which lies at the basis of thinking. Only because this unconscious activity is not observed does the illusion arise that the observed thinking exists in its own right, just as when in an illumination by means of a rapid succession of electric sparks we believe that we are seeing a continuous movement.

This objection, too, rests only on an inaccurate view of the facts. In making it, one forgets that it is the “I” itself which, from its standpoint inside the thinking, observes its own activity. The “I” would have to stand outside the thinking in order to suffer the sort of deception which is caused by an illumination with a rapid succession of electric sparks. It would be much truer to say that precisely in using such an analogy one is forcibly deceiving oneself, just as if someone seeing a moving light were to insist that it is being freshly lit by an unknown hand at every point where it appears.

No, whoever is determined to see in thinking anything other than a clearly surveyable activity produced by the “I” itself, must first shut his eyes to the plain facts that are there for the seeing, in order then to invent a hypothetical activity as the basis of thinking. If he does not thus blind himself, he will have to recognise that everything which he “thinks up” in this way as an addition to the thinking only leads him away from its real nature.

Unprejudiced observation shows that nothing is to be counted as belonging to the nature of thinking except what is found in thinking itself. One will never arrive at something which is the cause of thinking if one steps outside the realm of thinking itself.

3. Thinking in the service of Knowledge – 1

When I observe how a billiard ball, when struck, communicates its motion to another, I remain entirely without influence on the course of this observed process. The direction of motion and the velocity of the second ball are determined by the direction and velocity of the first. As long as I remain a mere spectator, I can only say anything about the movement of the second ball when it has taken place.

It is quite different when I begin to reflect on the content of my observation. The purpose of my reflection is to form concepts of the occurrence. I connect the concept of an elastic ball with certain other concepts of mechanics, and take into consideration the special circumstances which obtain in the instance in question. I try, in other words, to add to the occurrence which takes place without my assistance a second process which takes place in the conceptual sphere. This latter one is dependent on me.

This is shown by the fact that I can rest content with the observation, and renounce all search for concepts if I have no need of them. If however, this need is present, then I am not satisfied until I have brought the concepts Ball, Elasticity, Motion, Impact, Velocity, etc., into a certain connection, to which the observed process is related in a definite way. As surely as the occurrence goes on independently of me, so surely is the conceptual process unable to take place without my assistance.

We shall have to consider later whether this activity of mine really proceeds from my own independent being, or whether those modern physiologists are right who say that we cannot think as we will, but that we must think just as those thoughts and thought-connections determine that happen to be present in our consciousness. For the present we wish merely to establish the fact that we constantly feel obliged to seek for concepts and connections of concepts, which stand in a certain relation to the objects and events which are given independently of us.

Whether this activity is really ours or whether we perform it according to an unalterable necessity, is a question we need not decide at present. That it appears in the first instance to be ours is beyond question. We know for certain that we are not given the concepts together with the objects. That I am myself the agent in the conceptual process may be an illusion, but to immediate observation it certainly appears to be so. The question is, therefore: What do we gain by supplementing an event with a conceptual counterpart?

There is a profound difference between the ways in which, for me, the parts of an event are related to one another before, and after, the discovery of the corresponding concepts. Mere observation can trace the parts of a given event as they occur, but their connection remains obscure without the help of concepts. I see the first billiard ball move towards the second in a certain direction and with a certain velocity.

What will happen after the impact I must await, and again I can only follow it with my eyes. Suppose someone, at the moment of impact, obstructs my view of the field where the event is taking place, then, as mere spectator, I remain ignorant of what happens afterwards. The situation is different if prior to the obstruction of my view I have discovered the concepts corresponding to the pattern of events. In that case I can say what will happen even when I am no longer able to observe. An event or an object which is merely observed, does not of itself reveal anything about its connection with other events or objects. This connection becomes evident only when observation is combined with thinking.

Observation and thinking are the two points of departure for all the spiritual striving of man, in so far as he is conscious of such striving. The workings of common sense, as well as the most complicated scientific researches, rest on these two fundamental pillars of our spirit. Philosophers have started from various primary antitheses: idea and reality, subject and object, appearance and thing-in-itself, “I” and “Not-I”, idea and will, concept and matter, force and substance, the conscious and the unconscious. It is easy to show, however, that all these antitheses must be preceded by that of observation and thinking, this being for man the most important one.

Whatever principle we choose to lay down, we must either prove that somewhere we have observed it, or we must enunciate it in the form of a clear thought which can be re-thought by any other thinker. Every philosopher who sets out to discuss his fundamental principles must express them in conceptual form and thus use thinking. He therefore indirectly admits that his activity presupposes thinking.

Whether thinking or something else is the chief factor in the evolution of the world will not be decided at this point. But that without thinking, the philosopher can gain no knowledge of such evolution, is clear from the start. In the occurrence of the world phenomena, thinking may play a minor part; but in the forming of a view about them, there can be no doubt that, its part is a leading one.

As regards observation, our need of it is due to the way we are constituted. Our thinking about a horse and the object “horse” are two things which for us emerge apart from each other. This object is accessible to us only by means of observation. As little as we can form a concept of a horse by merely staring at the animal, just as little are we able by mere thinking to produce a corresponding object.

In sequence of time, observation does in fact come before thinking. For even thinking we must get to know first through observation. It was essentially a description of an observation when, at the beginning of this chapter, we gave an account of how thinking lights up in the presence of an event and goes beyond what is merely presented. Everything that enters the circle of our experience, we first become aware of through observation. The content of sensation, perception and contemplation, all feelings, acts of will, dreams and fancies, mental pictures, concepts and ideas, all illusions and hallucinations, are given to us through observation.

But thinking as an object of observation differs essentially from all other objects. The observation of a table, or a tree, occurs in me as soon as these objects appear upon the horison of my experience. Yet I do not, at the same time, observe my thinking about these things. I observe the table, and I carry out the thinking about the table, but I do not at the same moment observe this. I must first take up a standpoint outside my own activity if, in addition to observing the table, I want also to observe my thinking about the table. Whereas observation of things and events, and thinking about them, are everyday occurrences filling up the continuous current of my life, observation of the thinking itself is a kind of exceptional state.

This fact must be properly taken into account when we come to determine the relationship of thinking to all other contents of observation. We must be quite clear about the fact that, in observing thinking, we are applying to it a procedure which constitutes the normal course of events for the study of the whole of the rest of the world-content, but which in this normal course of events is not applied to thinking itself.

Someone might object that what I have said about thinking applies equally to feeling and to all other spiritual activities. Thus for instance, when I have a feeling of pleasure, the feeling is also kindled by the object, and it is this object that I observe, but not the feeling of pleasure. This objection, however, is based on an error. Pleasure does not stand at all in the same relation to its object as the concept formed by thinking. I am conscious, in the most positive way, that the concept of a thing is formed through my activity; whereas pleasure is produced in me by an object in the same way as, for instance, a change is caused in an object by a stone which falls on it.

For observation, a pleasure is given in exactly the same way as the event which causes it. The same is not true of the concept. I can ask why a particular event arouses in me a feeling of pleasure, but I certainly cannot ask why an event produces in me a particular set of concepts. The question would be simply meaningless. In reflecting upon an event, I am in no way concerned with an effect upon myself. I can learn nothing about myself through knowing the concepts which correspond to the observed change in a pane of glass by a stone thrown against it. But I do very definitely learn something about my personality when I know the feeling which a certain event arouses in me. When I say of an observed object, “This is a rose,” I say absolutely nothing about myself; but when I say of the same thing that “it gives me a feeling of pleasure,” I characterise not only the rose, but also myself in my relation to the rose.

There can, therefore, be no question of putting thinking and feeling on a level as objects of observation. And the same could easily be shown of other activities of the human spirit. Unlike thinking, they must be classed with other observed objects or events. The peculiar nature of thinking lies just in this, that it is an activity which is directed solely upon the observed object and not on the thinking personality. This is apparent even from the way in which we express our thoughts about an object, as distinct from our feelings or acts of will.

When I see an object and recognise it as a table, I do not as a rule say, “I am thinking of a table,” but, “this is a table.” On the other hand, I do say, “I am pleased with the table.” In the former case, I am not at all interested in stating that I have entered into a relation with the table; whereas in the latter case, it is just this relation that matters. In saying, “I am thinking of a table,” I already enter the exceptional state characterised above, in which something that is always contained — though not as an observed object – within our spiritual activity, is itself made into an object of observation.

This is just the peculiar nature of thinking, that the thinker forgets his thinking while actually engaged in it. What occupies his attention is not his thinking, but the object of his thinking, which he is observing.
The first observation which we make about thinking is therefore this: that it is the unobserved element in our ordinary mental and spiritual life.

The reason why we do not observe the thinking that goes on in our ordinary life is none other than this, that it is due to our own activity. Whatever I do not myself produce, appears in my field of observation as an object; I find myself confronted by it as something that has come about independently of me. It comes to meet me. I must accept it as something that precedes my thinking process, as a premise. While I am reflecting upon the object, I am occupied with it, my attention is focussed upon it. To be thus occupied is precisely to contemplate by thinking. I attend, not to my activity, but to the object of this activity. In other words, while I am thinking I pay no heed to my thinking, which is of my own making, but only to the object of my thinking, which is not of my making.

I am, moreover, in the same position when I enter into the exceptional state and reflect on my own thinking. I can never observe my present thinking; I can only subsequently take my experiences of my thinking process as the object of fresh thinking. If I wanted to watch my present thinking, I should have to split myself into two persons, one to think, the other to observe this thinking. But this I cannot do. I can only accomplish it in two separate acts. The thinking to be observed is never that in which I am actually engaged, but another one. Whether, for this purpose, I make observations of my own former thinking, or follow the thinking process of another person, or finally, as in the example of the motions of the billiard balls, assume an imaginary thinking process, is immaterial.

2. The Fundamental Urge for Knowledge

Two souls, alas, dwell within my breast,
Each wants to separate from the other;
One, in hearty lovelust,
Clings to earth with clutching organs;
The other lifts itself mightily from the dust
To high ancestral regions.
Goethe, Faust I, 1112

With these words, Goethe characterizes a trait deeply based in human nature. As human beings, we are not organized in a fully integrated, unified way. We always demand more than the world freely offers. Nature gives us needs, and the satisfaction of some of these she leaves to our own activity. The gifts allotted to us are abundant, but even more abundant is our desire. We seem born for dissatisfaction. The urge to know is only a special case of this dissatisfaction. We look at a tree twice. The first time, we see its branches at rest, the second time in motion. We are unsatisfied with this observation. Why, we ask, does the tree present itself to us now at rest, now in motion? Every glance at nature engenders a host of questions within us. We receive a new problem with each phenomenon that greets us. Every experience becomes a riddle. We see a creature similar to the mother animal emerging from the egg, and we ask the reason for this similarity. We observe a living creature’s growth and development to a certain degree of perfection, and we seek the conditions of this experience. Nowhere are we content with what nature displays before our senses.

We look everywhere for what we call an explanation of the facts. That which we seek in things, over and above what is given to us immediately, splits our entire being into two parts. We become aware of standing in opposition to the world, as independent beings. The universe appears to us as two opposites: I and world.

We set up this barrier between ourselves and the world as soon as consciousness lights up within us. But we never lose the feeling that we do belong to the world, that a link exists that connects us to it, that we are creatures not outside, but within, the universe. This feeling engenders an effort to bridge the opposition. And, in the final analysis, the whole spiritual striving of humankind consists in bridging this opposition. The history of spiritual life is a continual searching for the unity between the I and the world. Religion, art, and science share this as their goal. The religious believer seeks the solution to the world-riddle posed by the I, which is unsatisfied by the merely phenomenal world, in the revelation meted out by God. Artists try to incorporate the ideas of their I in various materials to reconcile what lives within them to the outer world. They, too, feel unsatisfied with the merely phenomenal world and seek to build into it the something more that their I, going above and beyond the world of phenomena, contains. Thinkers seek the laws of phenomena, striving to penetrate in thinking what they experience through observation. Only when we have made the world content into our thought content do we rediscover the connection from which we have sundered ourselves. We shall see later that this goal is reached only when the tasks of scientific research are understood much more profoundly than often occurs.

The whole relation between the I and the world that I have portrayed here meets us on the stage of history in the contrast between a unitary worldview, or monism, and a two-world theory, or dualism. Dualism directs its gaze solely to the separation that human consciousness effects between the I and the world. Its whole effort is a futile struggle to reconcile these opposites, which it may call spirit and matter, subject and object, or thinking and phenomenon. It feels that a bridge between the two worlds must exist, but it is incapable of finding it. When human beings experience themselves as “I,” they can do no other than think of this “I” as being on the side of spirit. When to this I they then oppose the world, they ascribe to the latter the perceptual world given to the senses: the material world. In this way, human beings locate themselves within the opposition of spirit and matter. They do so all the more because their own bodies belong to the material world. The “I” thus belongs to the spiritual, as a part of it; while material things and processes, which are perceived by the senses, belong to the “world.” All the riddles, therefore, that have to do with spirit and matter must be rediscovered by human beings in the fundamental riddle of their own essential being. Monism directs its gaze exclusively to unity, and seeks to deny or erase the opposites, present though these are. Neither monism nor dualism is satisfactory, for neither does justice to the facts. Dualism sees spirit (I) and matter (world) as two fundamentally different entities, and therefore it cannot understand how the two can affect one another. How could spirit know what is going on in matter, if matter’s specific nature is altogether foreign to spirit? Or, given these conditions, how could spirit affect matter so that intentions translate into deeds? The most ingenious and absurd hypotheses have been proposed to answer these questions. Yet, to the present day, things are hardly better with monism which, until now, has attempted three solutions: either it denies spirit and becomes materialism; or it denies matter, seeking salvation through spiritualism; or else it claims that matter and spirit are inseparably united even in the simplest entity, so that it should come as no surprise if these two forms of existence, which after all are never apart, appear together in human beings.

Materialism can never offer a satisfactory explanation of the world. For every attempt at an explanation must begin with one’s forming thoughts about phenomena. Thus, materialism starts with the thought of matter or of material processes. In so doing, it already has two different kinds of facts on hand: the material world and thoughts about it. Materialism attempts to understand the latter by seeing them as a purely material process. It believes that thinking occurs in the brain in the same way as digestion occurs in the animal organism. Just as it ascribes mechanical and organic effects to matter, materialism also assigns to matter the capacity, under certain circumstances, to think. But it forgets that all it has done is to shift the problem to another location. Materialists ascribe the capacity to think to matter rather than to themselves. And this brings them back to the starting point. How does matter manage to think about its own existence? Why does it not simply go on existing, perfectly content with itself? Materialism turns aside from the specific subject, our own I, and arrives at an unspecific, hazy configuration: matter. Here the same riddle comes up again. The materialist view can only displace the problem, not solve it.

And what of the spiritualist view? Pure spiritualists deny matter any independent existence and conceive of it only as a product of spirit. If they apply this view to the riddle of their own human existence, they are driven into a corner. Over against the I, which may be placed on the side of spirit, there suddenly appears the sensory world. No spiritual point of entry into it seems open; it has to be perceived and experienced by the I through material processes. As long as it tries to explain itself solely as a spiritual entity, the “I” cannot find such material processes within itself. What it works out for itself spiritually never contains the sense world. It is as if the “I” has to admit that the world remains closed to it unless it puts itself into an unspiritual relationship to the world. Similarly, when we decide to act, we must translate our intentions into reality with the help of material stuff and forces. We are thus referred back to the outer world. The most extreme spiritualist, or perhaps the thinker who, through his absolute idealism, presents himself as an extreme spiritualist, is Johann Gottlieb Fichte. Fichte at-tempted to derive the whole world structure from the “I.” What he in fact succeeded in creating was a magnificent thought picture of the world, but one without any expe-riential content. Just as it is impossible for the materialist to declare spirit out of existence, so the spiritualist cannot disavow the external material world.

When we direct our cognition to the “I,” we initially perceive the activity of this “I” in the development of a world of ideas unfolded through thought. Because of this, those with a spiritualist worldview sometimes feel themselves tempted, in regard to their own human essence, to acknowledge nothing of the spirit except this world of ideas. In such cases, spiritualism becomes one-sided idealism. It does not arrive at the point of seeking a spiritual world through a world of ideas. It sees the spiritual world in the idea-world itself. Its world view is forced to remain fixed, as if spellbound, within the activity of the “I” itself.

A curious variant of idealism is the view of Friedrich Albert Lange, as represented in his widely read History of Materialism .2 Lange takes the position that materialism is quite right when it explains all world phenomena, including our thinking, as products of purely material processes, while, conversely, matter and its processes are themselves a product of thinking.
The senses give us effects of things, not faithful pictures, let alone the things themselves. But these mere effects include the senses along with the brain and the molecular vibrations within it.

That is, our thinking is produced by material processes, and these are produced by the thinking of the “I.” Lange’s philosophy is thus nothing but the conceptual version of the story of the brave Munchhausen, who holds himself up in the air by his own pigtail.

A third form of monism sees both essences, matter and spirit, as already united in the simplest entity (the atom). But here too, nothing is achieved except that the question, which actually originates in our consciousness, is displaced to a different arena. If it is an indivisible unity, how does a unitary entity manage to express itself in a twofold way?

In regard to all these points of view, we must emphasize that the fundamental and primal opposition confronts us first in our own consciousness. It is we who separate ourselves from the native ground of nature and place ourselves as “I” in opposition to the “world.” Goethe gives this its classical expression in his essay, “Nature,” even if his style initially appears quite unscientific: “We live in her (Nature’s) midst and are strangers to her. She speaks with us continually, yet does not betray her secret to us.” But Goethe also knows the reverse aspect: “All humans are within her and she in them.”

It is true that we have estranged ourselves from nature; but it is just as true that we feel we are in her and belong to her. It can only be her activity that lives in us.

We must find the way back to her again. A simple reflection can show us the way. To be sure, we have torn ourselves away from nature, but we must still have taken something with us into our own being. We must seek out this natural being within ourselves, and then we shall also rediscover the connection to her. Dualism fails to do this.

It considers the inner human as a spiritual being, quite foreign to nature, and then seeks to attach this being to nature. No wonder that it cannot find the connecting link. We can only find nature outside us if we first know her within us. What is akin to her within us will be our guide. Our way is thus mapped out for us. We do not wish to speculate about the interaction of nature and spirit. We wish to descend into the depths of our own being, to find there those elements that we have saved in our flight out of nature.

The investigation of our own being must bring us the solution to the riddle. We must come to a point where we can say to ourselves: Here I am no longer merely “I.” There is something here that is more than “I.”

I am aware that some who have read to this point will not find my explanations correspond to “the present state of science.” I can only reply that up to now I have been concerned not with scientific results but rather with a simple description of what we all experience in our own con-sciousnesses. Diverse statements about attempts to reconcile consciousness with the world also entered the stream of argument, but only to clarify the actual facts. For this reason, too, I attach no value to using the individual expressions, such as “I,” “spirit,” “world,” “nature,” and so forth, in the precise way that is usual in psychology and philosophy. Everyday consciousness is unfamiliar with the sharp distinctions of science, and up to this point, my intention has been to survey the facts of everyday life. What concerns me is not how science until now has interpreted consciousness but rather how consciousness experiences itself hour by hour.

2 – The Fundamental Desire for Knowledge

Two souls reside, alas, within my breast,
And each one from the other would be parted.
The one holds fast, in sturdy lust for love,
With clutching organs clinging to the world;
The other strongly rises from the gloom
To lofty fields of ancient heritage.
Faust I, Scene 2

In these words Goethe expresses a characteristic feature which is deeply rooted in human nature. Man is not organised as a self-consistent unity. He always demands more than the world, of its own accord, gives him. Nature has endowed us with needs; among them are some that she leaves to our own activity to satisfy. Abundant as are the gifts she has bestowed upon us, still more abundant are our desires. We seem born to be dissatisfied. And our thirst for knowledge is but a special instance of this dissatisfaction. We look twice at a tree. The first time we see its branches at rest, the second time in motion. We are not satisfied with this observation.

Why, we ask, does the tree appear to us now at rest, now in motion? Every glance at Nature evokes in us a multitude of questions. Every phenomenon we meet sets us a new problem. Every experience is a riddle. We see that from the egg there emerges a creature like the mother animal, and we ask the reason for the likeness. We observe a living being grow and develop to a certain degree of perfection, and we seek the underlying conditions for this experience. Nowhere are we satisfied with what Nature spreads out before our senses. Everywhere we seek what we call the explanation of the facts.

The something more which we seek in things, over and above what is immediately given to us in them, splits our whole being into two parts. We become conscious of our antithesis to the world. We confront the world as independent beings. The universe appears to us in two opposite parts: I and World.

We erect this barrier between ourselves and the world as soon as consciousness first dawns in us. But we never cease to feel that, in spite of all, we belong to the world, that there is a connecting link between it and us, and that we are beings within, and not without, the universe.

This feeling makes us strive to bridge over this antithesis, and in this bridging lies ultimately the whole spiritual striving of mankind. The history of our spiritual life is a continuing search for the unity between ourselves and the world. Religion, art and science follow, one and all, this aim.

The religious believer seeks in the revelation which God grants him the solution to the universal riddle which his I, dissatisfied with the world of mere appearance, sets before him. The artist seeks to embody in his material the ideas that are in his I, in order to reconcile what lives in him with the world outside. He too feels dissatisfied with the world of mere appearance and seeks to mould into it that something more which his I, transcending it, contains.

The thinker seeks the laws of phenomena, and strives to penetrate by thinking what he experiences by observing. Only when we have made the world-content into our thought-content do we again find the unity out of which we had separated ourselves. We shall see later that this goal can be reached only if the task of the research scientist is conceived at a much deeper level than is often the case. The whole situation I have described here presents itself to us on the stage of history in the conflict between the one-world theory, or monism, and the two-world theory, or dualism.

Dualism pays attention only to the separation between I and World which the consciousness of man has brought about. All its efforts consist in a vain struggle to reconcile these opposites, which it calls now spirit and matter, now subject and object, now thinking and appearance. It feels that there must be a bridge between the two worlds but is not in a position to find it. In that man is aware of himself as “I”, he cannot but think of this “I” as being on the side of the spirit; and in contrasting this “I” with the world, he is bound to put on the world’s side the realm of percepts given to the senses, that is, the world of matter.

In doing so, man puts himself right into the middle of this antithesis of spirit and matter. He is the more compelled to do so because his own body belongs to the material world. Thus the “I”, or Ego, belongs to the realm of spirit as a part of it; the material objects and events which are perceived by the senses belong to the “World”. All the riddles which relate to spirit and matter, man must inevitably rediscover in the fundamental riddle of his own nature.

Monism pays attention only to the unity and tries either to deny or to slur over the opposites, present though they are. Neither of these two points of view can satisfy us, for they do not do justice to the facts. Dualism sees in spirit (I) and matter (World) two fundamentally different entities, and cannot, therefore, understand how they can interact with one another. How should spirit be aware of what goes on in matter, seeing that the essential nature of matter is quite alien to spirit? Or how in these circumstances should spirit act upon matter, so as to translate its intentions into actions?

The most ingenious and the most absurd hypotheses have been propounded to answer these questions. Up to the present, however, monism is not in a much better position. It has tried three different ways of meeting the difficulty. Either it denies spirit and becomes materialism; or it denies matter in order to seek its salvation in spiritualism (see fn 1); or it asserts that even in the simplest entities in the world, spirit and matter are indissolubly bound together so that there is no need to marvel at the appearance in man of these two modes of existence, seeing that they are never found apart.

Materialism can never offer a satisfactory explanation of the world. For every attempt at an explanation must begin with the formation of thoughts about the phenomena of the world. Materialism thus begins with the thought of matter or material processes. But, in doing so, it is already confronted by two different sets of facts: the material world, and the thoughts about it. The materialist seeks to make these latter intelligible by regarding them as purely material processes.

He believes that thinking takes place in the brain, much in the same way that digestion takes place in the animal organs. Just as he attributes mechanical and organic effects to matter, so he credits matter in certain circumstances with the capacity to think. He overlooks that, in doing so, he is merely shifting the problem from one place to another. He ascribes the power of thinking to matter instead of to himself. And thus he is back again at his starting point. How does matter come to think about its own nature?

Why is it not simply satisfied with itself and content just to exist? The materialist has turned his attention away from the definite subject, his own I, and has arrived at an image of something quite vague and indefinite. Here the old riddle meets him again. The materialistic conception cannot solve the problem; it can only shift it from one place to another.

What of the spiritualistic theory? The genuine spiritualist denies to matter all independent existence and regards it merely as a product of spirit. But when he tries to use this theory to solve the riddle of his own human nature, he finds himself driven into a corner. Over against the “I” or Ego, which can be ranged on the side of spirit, there stands directly the world of the senses.

No spiritual approach to it seems open. Only with the help of material processes can it be perceived and experienced by the “I”. Such material processes the “I” does not discover in itself so long as it regards its own nature as exclusively spiritual. In what it achieves spiritually by its own effort, the sense-perceptible world is never to be found. It seems as if the “I” had to concede that the world would be a closed book to it unless it could establish a non-spiritual relation to the world. Similarly, when it comes to action, we have to translate our purposes into realities with the help of material things and forces. We are, therefore, referred back to the outer world.

The most extreme spiritualist — or rather, the thinker who through his absolute idealism appears as extreme spiritualist – is Johann Gottlieb Fichte. He attempts to derive the whole edifice of the world from the “I”. What he has actually accomplished is a magnificent thought-picture of the world, without any content of experience. As little as it is possible for the materialist to argue the spirit away, just as little is it possible for the spiritualist to argue away the outer world of matter.

When man reflects upon the “I”, he perceives in the first instance the work of this “I” in the conceptual elaboration of the world of ideas. Hence a world-conception that inclines towards spiritualism may feel tempted, in looking at man’s own essential nature, to acknowledge nothing of spirit except this world of ideas. In this way spiritualism becomes one-sided idealism. Instead of going on to penetrate through the world of ideas to the spiritual world, idealism identifies the spiritual world with the world of ideas itself. As a result, it is compelled to remain fixed with its world-outlook in the circle of activity of the Ego, as if bewitched.

A curious variant of idealism is to be found in the view which Friedrich Albert Lange has put forward in his widely read History of Materialism. He holds that the materialists are quite right in declaring all phenomena, including our thinking, to be the product of purely material processes, but, conversely, matter and its processes are for him themselves the product of our thinking. The senses give us only the effects of things, not true copies, much less the things themselves. But among these mere effects we must include the senses themselves together with the brain and the molecular vibrations which we assume to go on there.

That is, our thinking is produced by the material processes, and these by the thinking of our I. Lange’s philosophy is thus nothing more than the story, in philosophical terms, of the intrepid Baron Munchhausen, who holds himself up in the air by his own pigtail.

The third form of monism is the one which finds even in the simplest entity (the atom) both matter and spirit already united. But nothing is gained by this either, except that the question, which really originates in our consciousness, is shifted to another place. How comes it that the simple entity manifests itself in a two-fold manner, if it is an indivisible unity?

Against all these theories we must urge the fact that we meet with the basic and primary opposition first in our own consciousness. It is we ourselves who break away from the bosom of Nature and contrast ourselves as “I” with the “World”. Goethe has given classic expression to this in his essay Nature, although his manner may at first sight be considered quite unscientific: “Living in the midst of her (Nature) we are strangers to her. Ceaselessly she speaks to us, yet betrays none of her secrets.” But Goethe knows the reverse side too: “Men are all in her and she in all.”

However true it may be that we have estranged ourselves from Nature, it is none the less true that we feel we are in her and belong to her. It can be only her own working which pulsates also in us. We must find the way back to her again. A simple reflection can point this way out to us. We have, it is true, torn ourselves away from Nature, but we must none the less have taken something of her with us into our own being. This element of Nature in us we must seek out, and then we shall find the connection with her once more. Dualism fails to do this.

It considers human inwardness as a spiritual entity utterly alien to Nature, and then attempts somehow to hitch it on to Nature. No wonder that it cannot find the connecting link. We can find Nature outside us only if we have first learned to know her within us. What is akin to her within us must be our guide. This marks out our path of enquiry. We shall attempt no speculations concerning the interaction of Nature and spirit. Rather shall we probe into the depths of our own being, to find there those elements which we saved in our flight from Nature.
Investigation of our own being must give us the answer to the riddle. We must reach a point where we can say to ourselves, “Here we are no longer merely ‘I’, here is something which is more than ‘I’.”

I am well aware that many who have read thus far will not find my discussion “scientific”, as this term is used today. To this I can only reply that I have so far been concerned not with scientific results of any kind, but with the simple description of what every one of us experiences in his own consciousness.

The inclusion of a few phrases about attempts to reconcile man’s consciousness and the world serves solely to elucidate the actual facts. I have therefore made no attempt to use the various expressions “I”, “Spirit”, “World”, “Nature”, in the precise way that is usual in psychology and philosophy. The ordinary consciousness is unaware of the sharp distinctions made by the sciences, and my purpose so far has been solely to record the facts of everyday experience. I am concerned, not with the way in which science, so far, has interpreted consciousness, but with the way in which we experience it in every moment of our lives.

Footnotes:
1. The author refers to philosophical “spiritualism” as opposed to philosophical “materialism”. See reference to Fichte that follows. — Translator’s Footnote.

1. Conscoius Human Action

Is a human being spiritually free, or subject to the iron necessity of purely natural law? Few questions have excited so much ingenuity. The idea of the freedom of human will has found both sanguine supporters and stiff-necked opponents in plenty. There are those who, in their moral zeal, cast aspersions on the intellect of anyone who can deny so obvious a fact as freedom. They are opposed by others who see the acme of unscientific thinking in the belief that the lawfulness of nature fails to apply to the area of human action and thinking. One and the same thing is explained equally often as the most precious possession of humankind and as its worst illusion. Infinite subtlety has been expended to explain how human freedom is consistent with the workings of nature of which, after all, human beings are also a part. No less effort has gone into the attempt from the other side to explain how such a delusion could ever have arisen. All but the most superficial thinkers feel that we have to do here with one of the most important questions of life, religion, conduct, and science. And it is among the sad signs of the superficiality of contemporary thinking that a book intending to coin a “new belief” from the results of recent scientific research – David Friedrich Strauss’s The Old and New Belief – contains nothing on this question but the words:
We need not here go into the question of the freedom of human will. The supposed freedom of indifferent choice has been recognized as an empty phantom by every philosophy worthy of the name, while the moral valuation of human conduct and character remains untouched by the question.

I cite this passage, not because I think the book from which it derives has any special significance, but because it seems to me to express the opinion which the majority of our thinking contemporaries have been able to achieve on this question. Today, everyone who can claim to have outgrown scientific kindergarten appears to know that freedom cannot consist in choosing arbitrarily between two possible actions. There is always, so it is claimed, a quite specific reason why a person performs one specific action from among several possibilities.

This seems obvious. Nevertheless, present-day opponents of freedom direct their principal attacks only against freedom of choice. After all, Herbert Spencer, whose views daily gain wider acceptance, says:
That anyone could desire or not desire arbitrarily, which is the real proposition concealed in the dogma of free will, is refuted as much through the analysis of consciousness as through the content of the preceding chapter [on psychology].

Others also proceed from the same point of view when they combat the concept of free will. Their arguments can all be found in germinal form as early as Spinoza. What he presented with clarity and simplicity against the idea of freedom has since been repeated countless times, only generally sheathed in the most sophistic theoretical doctrines, so that it becomes difficult to recognize the simple course of thought on which everything depends. In a letter of October or November, 1674, Spinoza writes:
Thus, I call a thing free that exists and acts out of the pure necessity of its nature; and I call it compelled, if its existence and activity are determined in a precise and fixed manner by something else. Thus God, for example, though necessary, is free, because he exists only out of the necessity of his nature. Similarly, God knows himself and everything else freely, because it follows from the neces-sity of his nature alone that he should know everything. You see, then, that I locate freedom not in free decision, but in free necessity.

Let us, however, descend to created things, which are all determined to exist and to act in fixed and precise ways by outside causes. To see this more clearly, let us imagine a very simple case. A stone, for example, receives a certain momentum from an external cause that comes into contact with it, so that later, when the impact of the external cause has ceased, it necessarily continues to move. This persistence of the stone is compelled, and not necessary, because it had to be established by the impact of an external cause. What applies here to the stone, applies to everything else, no matter how complex and multifaceted; everything is necessarily determined by an outside cause to exist and to act in a fixed and precise manner.

Now please assume that the stone, as it moves, thinks and knows that it is trying, as much as it can, to continue in motion. This stone, which is only conscious of its effort and by no means indifferent, will believe that it is quite free and that it continues in its motion not because of an external cause but only because it wills to do so. But this is that human freedom that all claim to possess and that only consists in people being aware of their desires, but not knowing the causes by which they are determined. Thus the child believes that it freely desires the milk; the angry boy, that he freely demands revenge; and the coward flight. Again, drunkards believe it is a free decision to say what, when sober again, they will wish that they had not said, and since this prejudice is inborn in all humans, it is not easy to free oneself from it. For, although experience teaches us sufficiently that people are least able to moderate their desires and that, moved by contradictory passions, they see what is better and do what is worse, yet they still consider themselves free, and this because they desire some things less intensely and because some desires can be easily inhibited through the recollection of something else that is familiar.
Because this view is expressed clearly and definitely, it is easy to discover the fundamental error in it. Just as a stone necessarily carries out a specific movement in response to an impact, human beings are supposed to carry out an action by a similar necessity if impelled to it by any reason. Human beings imagine themselves to be the free originators of their actions only because they are aware of these actions. In so doing, however, they overlook the causes driving them, which they must obey unerringly. The error in this train of thought is easy to find. Spinoza and all who think like him overlook the human capacity to be aware not only of one’s actions, but also of the causes by which one’s actions are guided. No one will dispute that a child is unfree when it desires milk, as is a drunkard who says things and later regrets them. Both know nothing of the causes, active in the depths of their organism, that exercise irresistible control over them. But is it justifiable to lump together actions of this kind with those in which humans are conscious not only of their actions but also of the reasons that motivate them? Are the actions of human beings really all of a single kind? Should the acts of a warrior on the battlefield, a scientist in the laboratory, a diplomat involved in complex negotiations, be set scientifically on the same level as that of a child when it desires milk? It is certainly true that the solution to a problem is best sought where it is simplest. But the lack of a capacity to discriminate has often brought about endless confusion. And there is, after all, a profound difference between knowing and not knowing why I do something. This seems self-evident. Yet the opponents of freedom never ask whether a motive that I know, and see through, compels me in the same sense as the organic process that causes a child to cry for milk.

Eduard von Hartmann, in his Phenomenology of Moral Consciousness, claims that human willing depends on two main factors: motive and character. If we consider all human beings as the same, or at least see their differences as negligible, then their will appears to be determined from without, namely by the circumstances they encounter. But if we consider that different human beings make an idea or mental picture into a motive only when their character is such that the idea in question gives rise to a desire, then human beings appear to be determined from within and not from without. But because we must ourselves make an idea that impinges from without into a motive of action in accordance with our character, we imagine that we are free, that is, independent of external motivation. But, according to Eduard von Hartmann, the truth is that even though we ourselves first raise ideas into motives, yet we do this not arbitrarily, but according to the necessity of our characterological organization; that is, we are anything but free.

Here, too, no consideration is given to the difference between motives that I allow to affect me only after having permeated them with my consciousness, and those that I follow without having a clear knowledge of them.

This leads immediately to the standpoint from which the matter will be considered here. Can the question of the freedom of our will be posed narrowly by itself? And, if not, with what other questions must it necessarily be linked?

If there is a difference between a conscious motive and an unconscious drive, then the conscious motive will bring with it an action that must be judged differently from an action done out of blind impulse. Our first question will concern this difference. The position we must take on freedom itself will depend on the result of this inquiry.

What does it mean to have knowledge of the motives of one’s actions? This question has been given too little attention, because we always tear in two the inseparable whole that is the human being. We distinguish between the doer and the knower, but we have nothing to say about the one who matters most: the one who acts out of knowledge.

People say that human beings are free when they obey reason alone and not animal desires. Or they say that freedom means being able to determine one’s life and actions according to purposes and decisions.

Nothing is gained by such claims. For the question is precisely whether reason, purposes, and decisions exercise control over human beings in the same way as animal desires. If a reasonable decision arises in me of itself, with the same necessity as hunger and thirst, then I can but obey its compulsion, and my freedom is an illusion.

Another turn of phrase puts it thus: to be free does not mean being able to will whatever one wills, but being able to do what one wills. In his Atomistics of the Will, the poet-philosopher Robert Hamerling expresses this idea incisively:
Human beings can certainly do what they will— but they cannot will what they will, since their willing is determined by motives. They cannot will what they will? Let us look at these words more closely. Do they contain any reasonable meaning? Must freedom of the will then consist in being able to will something without having grounds, without a motive? But what does willing mean other than having grounds to do or attempt this rather than that? To will something, without grounds, without motive, would mean willing something without willing it. The concept of motivation is inseparably linked to the concept of the will. Without a determining motive, the will is an empty capacity: it only becomes active and real through the motive. Thus it is quite correct that the human will is not ‘free,’ inasmuch as its direction is always determined by the strongest motive. But it is absurd, in contrast to this ‘unfreedom,’ to speak of a conceivable ‘freedom’ of the will that involves being able to will what one does not will.

Even here, only motives in general are discussed, without considering the difference between conscious and unconscious motives. If a motive acts upon me, and I am forced to follow it because it proves to be the “strongest” of its kind, then the thought of freedom ceases to have any meaning. Why should it matter to me whether I can do something or not, if I am forced by the motive to do it? The first question is not whether I can or cannot do something once the motive has operated upon me, but whether there exist only motives of the kind that operate with compelling necessity. If I have to will something, then I may even be utterly indifferent as to whether I can actually do it. If, because of my character and the circumstances prevailing in my environment, a motive were forced upon me that my thinking showed me was unreasonable, then I wouldeven have to be glad if I could not do what I will.

It is not a question of whether I can execute a decision once it is made, but of how the decision arises within me.

What distinguishes humans from all other organic beings rests on rational thinking. Activity we have in common with other organisms. Seeking analogies for human action in the animal kingdom does not help to clarify the concept of freedom. Modern natural science loves such analogies. And when science succeeds in finding among animals something similar to human action, it believes it has touched on the most important question of the science of humanity. Paul Ree’s book, The Illusion of Free Will offers one example of the misunderstandings to which this opinion leads. On page 5, Ree states, with regard to freedom, It is easy to explain why it appears to us as if the movement of the stone is necessary while the donkey’s will is not. The causes that move the stone are, after all, external and visible. But the causes by which the donkey desires are internal and invisible: between us and the site of their activity there lies the donkey’s skull. One does not see the causal determination and therefore imagines that it is not present. The will, we say, while it is the cause of the donkey’s turning around, is itself undetermined; it is an absolute beginning.

Here, too, is an utter disregard for human actions in which the human being has an awareness of the reasons for the action, for Ree explains, “between us and the site of their activity there lies the donkey’s skull.” We can see from these words alone that Ree has no inkling that there exist actions (not a donkey’s, but a human’s) for which there lies, between us and the action, the motive that has become conscious. He proves this again a few pages later when he says: “We are not aware of the causes by which our will is determined, and so we imagine that it is not causally determined at all.” But enough of examples proving that many fight against freedom without at all knowing what freedom is.

Obviously, my action cannot be free if I, as the actor, do not know why I carry it out. But what about an action for which the reasons are known? This leads us to ask: what is the origin and the significance of thinking? For without understanding the soul’s activity of thinking, no concept of the knowledge of anything, including an action, is possible. When we understand what thinking means in general, it will be easy to clarify the role that thinking plays in human action. As Hegel rightly says, “Thinking turns the soul, with which beasts too are gifted, into spirit.” Therefore thinking will also give to human action its characteristic stamp.

This is by no means to claim that all our actions flow only from the sober deliberations of our reason. I am far from calling human, in the highest sense, only those actions that proceed from abstract judgment alone. But as soon as our actions lift themselves above the satisfaction of purely animal desires, our motives are always permeated by thoughts. Love, pity, patriotism are springs of action that cannot be reduced to cold rational concepts. People say that the heart, the sensibility, comes into its own in such matters. No doubt. But heart and sensibility do not create the motives of action. They presuppose them and then receive them into their own realm. Pity appears in my heart when the mental image of a person who arouses pity in me enters my consciousness. The way to the heart goes through the head. Love is no exception here. If it is not a mere expression of the sexual drive, then love is based on mental pictures that we form of the beloved. And the more idealistic these mental pictures are, the more blessed is the love. Here, too, thought is the father of feeling. People say that love makes us blind to the beloved’s flaws. But we can also turn this around and claim that love opens our eyes to the beloved’s strengths. Many pass by these good qualities without noticing them. One person sees them and, just for this reason, love awakens in the soul. What else has this person done but make a mental picture of what a hundred others have ignored? Love is not theirs because they lack the mental picture.

We can approach the matter however we like: it only grows clearer that the question regarding the nature of human actions presupposes another, that of the origin of thinking. I shall therefore turn to this question next.

1 – Conscious Human Action

Is man in his thinking and acting a spiritually free being, or is he compelled by the iron necessity of purely natural law? There are few questions upon which so much sagacity has been brought to bear. The idea of the freedom of the human will has found enthusiastic supporters and stubborn opponents in plenty. There are those who, in their moral fervor, label anyone a man of limited intelligence who can deny so patent a fact as freedom.

Opposed to them are others who regard it as the acme of unscientific thinking for anyone to believe that the uniformity of natural law is broken in the sphere of human action and thinking. One and the same thing is thus proclaimed, now as the most precious possession of humanity, now as its most fatal illusion. Infinite subtlety has been employed to explain how human freedom can be consistent with the laws working in nature, of which man, after all, is a part.

No less is the trouble to which others have gone to explain how such a delusion as this could have arisen. That we are dealing here with one of the most important questions for life, religion, conduct, science, must be felt by anyone who includes any degree of thoroughness at all in his make-up. It is one of the sad signs of the superficiality of present-day thought that a book which attempts to develop a new faith out of the results of recent scientific research, (see fn 1) has nothing more to say on this question than these words:

With the question of the freedom of the human will we are not concerned. The alleged freedom of indifferent choice has been recognised as an empty illusion by every philosophy worthy of the name. The moral valuation of human action and character remains untouched by this problem.

It is not because I consider that the book in which it occurs has any special importance that I quote this passage, but because it seems to me to express the view to which the thinking of most of our contemporaries manages to rise in this matter. Everyone who claims to have grown beyond the kindergarten stage of science appears to know nowadays that freedom cannot consist in choosing, at one’s pleasure, one or other of two possible courses of action.

There is always, so we are told, a perfectly definite reason why, out of several possible actions, we carry out just one and no other.

This seems obvious. Nevertheless, down to the present day, the main attacks of the opponents of freedom are directed only against freedom of choice. Even Herbert Spencer, whose doctrines are gaining ground daily, says,

That everyone is at liberty to desire or not to desire, which is the real proposition involved in the dogma of free will, is negated as much by the analysis of consciousness, as by the contents of the preceding chapter. (see fn 2)

Others, too, start from the same point of view in combating the concept of free will. The germs of all the relevant arguments are to be found as early as Spinoza. All that he brought forward in clear and simple language against the idea of freedom has since been repeated times without number, but as a rule enveloped in the most hair-splitting theoretical doctrines, so that it is difficult to recognise the straightforward train of thought which is all that matters. Spinoza writes in a letter of October or November, 1674, I call a thing free which exists and acts from the pure necessity of its nature, and I call that unfree, of which the being and action are precisely and fixedly determined by something else. Thus, for example, God, though necessary, is free because he exists only through the necessity of his own nature. Similarly, God cognises himself and all else freely, because it follows solely from the necessity of his nature that he cognises all. You see, therefore, that for me freedom consists not in free decision, but in free necessity.

But let us come down to created things which are all determined by external causes to exist and to act in a fixed and definite manner. To perceive this more clearly, let us imagine a perfectly simple case. A stone, for example, receives from an external cause acting upon it a certain quantity of motion, by reason of which it necessarily continues to move, after the impact of the external cause has ceased.

The continued motion of the stone is due to compulsion, not to the necessity of its own nature, because it requires to be defined by the thrust of an external cause. What is true here for the stone is true also for every other particular thing, however complicated and many-sided it may be, namely, that everything is necessarily determined by external causes to exist and to act in a fixed and definite manner.

Now, please, suppose that this stone during its motion thinks and knows that it is striving to the best of its ability to continue in motion. This stone, which is conscious only of its striving and is by no means indifferent, will believe that it is absolutely free, and that it continues in motion for no other reason than its own will to continue. But this is just the human freedom that everybody claims to possess and which consists in nothing but this, that men are conscious of their desires, but ignorant of the causes by which they are determined.

Thus the child believes that he desires milk of his own free will, the angry boy regards his desire for vengeance as free, and the coward his desire for flight. Again, the drunken man believes that he says of his own free will what, sober again, he would fain have left unsaid, and as this prejudice is innate in all men, it is difficult to free oneself from it. For, although experience teaches us often enough that man least of all can temper his desires, and that, moved by conflicting passions, he sees the better and pursues the worse, yet he considers himself free because there are some things which he desires less strongly, and some desires which he can easily inhibit through the recollection of something else which it is often possible to recall.

Because this view is so clearly and definitely expressed it is easy to detect the fundamental error that it contains. The same necessity by which a stone makes a definite movement as the result of an impact, is said to compel a man to carry out an action when impelled thereto by any reason. It is only because man is conscious of his action that he thinks himself to be its originator. But in doing so he overlooks the fact that he is driven by a cause which he cannot help obeying. The error in this train of thought is soon discovered. Spinoza, and all who think like him, overlook the fact that man not only is conscious of his action, but also may become conscious of the causes which guide him. Nobody will deny that the child is unfree when he desires milk, or the drunken man when he says things which he later regrets. Neither knows anything of the causes, working in the depths of their organisms, which exercise irresistible control over them. But is it justifiable to lump together actions of this kind with those in which a man is conscious not only of his actions but also of the reasons which cause him to act? Are the actions of men really all of one kind?

Should the act of a soldier on the field of battle, of the scientific researcher in his laboratory, of the statesman in the most complicated diplomatic negotiations, be placed scientifically on the same level with that of the child when it desires milk: It is no doubt true that it is best to seek the solution of a problem where the conditions are simplest. But inability to discriminate has before now caused endless confusion. There is, after all, a profound difference between knowing why I am acting and not knowing it.

At first sight this seems a self-evident truth. And yet the opponents of freedom never ask themselves whether a motive of action which I recognise and see through, is to be regarded as compulsory for me in the same sense as the organic process which causes the child to cry for milk Eduard von Hartmann asserts that the human will depends on two chief factors, the motives and the character. (see fn 3) If one regards men as all alike, or at any rate the differences between them as negligible, then their will appears as determined from without, that is to say, by the circumstances which come to meet them.

But if one bears in mind that a man adopts an idea, or mental picture, as the motive of his action only if his character is such that this mental picture arouses a desire in him, then he appears as determined from within and not from without.

Now because, in accordance with his character, he must first adopt as a motive a mental picture given to him from without, a man believes he is free, that is, independent of external impulses. The truth, however, according to Eduard von Hartmann, is that even though we ourselves first adopt a mental picture as a motive, we do so not arbitrarily, but according to the necessity of our characterological disposition, that is, we are anything but free.

Here again the difference between motives which I allow to influence me only after I have permeated them with my consciousness, and those which I follow without any clear knowledge of them, is absolutely ignored.

This leads us straight to the standpoint from which the subject will be considered here. Have we any right to consider the question of the freedom of the will by itself at all? And if not, with what other question must it necessarily be connected?

If there is a difference between a conscious motive of action and an unconscious urge, then the conscious motive will result in an action which must be judged differently from one that springs from blind impulse. Hence our first question will concern this difference, and on the result of this enquiry will depend what attitude we shall have to take towards the question of freedom proper.

What does it mean to have knowledge of the reasons for one’s action? Too little attention has been paid to this question because, unfortunately, we have torn into two what is really an inseparable whole: Man. We have distinguished between the knower and the doer and have left out of account precisely the one who matters most of all – the knowing doer.

It is said that man is free when he is controlled only by his reason and not by his animal passions. Or again, that to be free means to be able to determine one’s life and action by purposes and deliberate decisions.

Nothing is gained by assertions of this sort. For the question is just whether reason, purposes, and decisions exercise the same kind of compulsion over a man as his animal passions. If without my cooperation, a rational decision emerges in me with the same necessity with which hunger and thirst arise, then I must needs obey it, and my freedom is an illusion.

Another form of expression runs: to be free does not mean to be able to want as one wills, but to be able to do as one wills. This thought has been expressed with great clearness by the poet-philosopher Robert Hamerling.

Man can certainly do as he wills, but he cannot want as he wills, because his wanting is determined by motives. He cannot want as he wills? Let us consider these phrases more closely. Have they any intelligible meaning: Freedom of will would then mean being able to want without ground, without motive. But what does wanting mean if not to have grounds for doing, or trying to do, this rather than that: To want something without ground or motive would be to want something without wanting it.

The concept of wanting cannot be divorced from the concept of motive. Without a determining motive the will is an empty faculty; only through the motive does it become active and real. It is, therefore, quite true that the human will is not “free” inasmuch as its direction is always determined by the strongest motive. But on the other hand it must be admitted that it is absurd, in contrast with this “unfreedom”, to speak of a conceivable freedom of the will which would consist in being able to want what one does not want. (see fn 4)

Here again, only motives in general are mentioned, without taking into account the difference between unconscious and conscious motives. If a motive affects me, and I am compelled to act on it because it proves to be the “strongest” of its kind, then the thought of freedom ceases to have any meaning. How should it matter to me whether I can do a thing or not, if I am forced by the motive to do it?

The primary question is not whether I can do a thing or not when a motive has worked upon me, but whether there are any motives except such as impel me with absolute necessity. If I am compelled to want something, then I may well be absolutely indifferent as to whether I can also do it. And if, through my character, or through circumstances prevailing in my environment, a motive is forced on me which to my thinking is unreasonable, then I should even have to be glad if I could not do what I want.

The question is not whether I can carry out a decision once made, but how the decision comes about within me.

What distinguishes man from all other organic beings arises from his rational thinking. Activity he has in common with other organisms. Nothing is gained by seeking analogies in the animal world to clarify the concept of freedom as applied to the actions of human beings.

Modern science loves such analogies. When scientists have succeeded in finding among animals something similar to human behavior, they believe they have touched on the most important question of the science of man. To what misunderstandings this view leads is seen, for example, in the book The Illusion of Freewill, by P. Ree, where the following remark on freedom appears:

It is easy to explain why the movement of a stone seems to us necessary, while the volition of a donkey does not. The causes which set the stone in motion are external and visible, while the causes which determine the donkey’s volition are internal and invisible. Between us and the place of their activity there is the skull of the ass. … The determining causes are not visible and therefore thought to be non-existent. The volition, it is explained, is, indeed, the cause of the donkey’s turning round, but is itself unconditioned; it is an absolute beginning. (see fn 5)

Here again human actions in which there is a consciousness of the motives are simply ignored, for Ree declares that “between us and the place of their activity there is the skull of the ass.” To judge from these words, it has not dawned on Ree that there are actions, not indeed of the ass, but of human beings, in which between us and the action lies the motive that has become conscious. Ree demonstrates his blindness once again, a few pages further on, when he says,

We do not perceive the causes by which our will is determined, hence we think it is not causally determined at all.

But enough of examples which prove that many argue against freedom without knowing in the least what freedom is.

That an action, of which the agent does not know why he performs it, cannot be free, goes without saying. But what about an action for which the reasons are known?

This leads us to the question of the origin and meaning of thinking. For without the recognition of the thinking activity of the soul, it is impossible to form a concept of knowledge about anything, and therefore of knowledge about an action. When we know what thinking in general means, it will be easy to get clear about the role that thinking plays in human action. As Hegel rightly says, “It is thinking that turns the soul, which the animals also possess, into spirit.” Hence it will also be thinking that gives to human action its characteristic stamp.

On no account should it be said that all our action springs only from the sober deliberations of our reason. I am very far from calling human in the highest sense only those actions that proceed from abstract judgment. But as soon as our conduct rises above the sphere of the satisfaction of purely animal desires, our motives are always permeated by thoughts. Love, pity, and patriotism are driving forces for actions which cannot be analysed away into cold concepts of the intellect. It is said that here the heart, the mood of the soul, hold sway. No doubt. But the heart and the mood of the soul do not create the motives. They presuppose them and let them enter. Pity enters my heart when the mental picture of a person who arouses pity appears in my consciousness. The way to the heart is through the head, Love is no exception. Whenever it is not merely the expression of bare sexual instinct, it depends on the mental picture we form of the loved one. And the more idealistic these mental pictures are, just so much the more blessed is our love.

Here too, thought is the father of feeling. It is said that love makes us blind to the failings of the loved one. But this can be expressed the other way round, namely, that it is just for the good qualities that love opens the eyes. Many pass by these good qualities without noticing them. One, however, perceives them, and just because he does, love awakens in his soul. What else has he done but made a mental picture of what hundreds have failed to see? Love is not theirs, because they lack the mental picture.

However we approach the matter, it becomes more and more clear that the question of the nature of human action presupposes that of the origin of thinking. I shall, therefore, turn next to this question.

Footnotes:

David Freidrich Strauss, Der alte und neue Glaube.
The Principles of Psychology, 1855, German edition 1882; Part IV, Chap. ix, par. 219.
Phaenomenologie des sittlichen Bewusstseins, p. 451.
Atomistik des Willens, Vol. 2, p. 213 ff.

Die Illusion der Willensfreiheit, 1885, page 5.

IV. Die Welt als Wahrnehmung – 3

Die Vorstellung nehme ich an meinem Selbst wahr, in dem Sinne, wie Farbe, Ton usw. an andern Gegenständen. Ich kann jetzt auch den Unterschied machen, daß ich diese andern Gegenstände, die sich mir gegenüberstellen, Außenwelt nenne, während ich den Inhalt meiner Selbstwahrnehmung als Innenwelt bezeichne. Die Verkennung des Verhältnisses von Vorstellung und Gegenstand hat die größten Mißverständnisse in der neueren Philosophie herbeigeführt. Die Wahrnehmung einer Veränderung in uns, die Modifikation, die mein Selbst erfährt, wurde in den Vordergrund gedrängt und das diese Modifikation veranlassende Objekt ganz aus dem Auge verloren. Man hat gesagt: wir nehmen nicht die Gegenstände wahr, sondern nur unsere Vorstellungen. Ich soll nichts wissen von dem Tische an sich, der Gegenstand meiner Beobachtung ist, sondern nur von der Veränderung, die mit mir selbst vorgeht, während ich den Tisch wahrnehme. Diese Anschauung darf nicht mit der vorhin erwähnten Berkeleyschen verwechselt werden. Berkeley behauptet die subjektive Natur meines Wahrnehmungsinhaltes, aber er sagt nicht, daß ich nur von meinen Vorstellungen wissen kann. Er schränkt mein Wissen auf meine Vorstellungen ein, weil er der Meinung ist, daß es keine Gegenstände außerhalb des Vorstellens gibt. Was ich als Tisch ansehe, das ist im Sinne Berkeleys nicht mehr vorhanden, sobald ich meinen Blick nicht mehr darauf richte. Deshalb läßt Berkeley meine Wahrnehmungen unmittelbar durch die Macht Gottes entstehen. Ich sehe einen Tisch, weil Gott diese Wahrnehmung in mir hervorruft. Berkeley kennt daher keine anderen realen Wesen als Gott und die menschlichen Geister. Was wir Welt nennen, ist nur innerhalb der Geister vorhanden. Was der naive Mensch Außenwelt, körperliche Natur nennt, ist für Berkeley nicht vorhanden. Dieser Ansicht steht die jetzt herrschende Kantsche gegenüber, welche unsere Erkenntnis von der Welt nicht deshalb auf unsere Vorstellungen einschränkt, weil sie überzeugt ist, daß es außer diesen Vorstellungen keine Dinge geben kann, sondern weil sie uns so organisiert glaubt, daß wir nur von den Veränderungen unseres eigenen Selbst, nicht von den diese Veränderungen veranlassenden Dingen an sich erfahren können. Sie folgert aus dem Umstande, daß ich nur meine Vorstellungen kenne, nicht, daß es keine von diesen Vorstellungen unabhängige Existenz gibt, sondern nur, daß das Subjekt eine solche nicht unmittelbar in sich aufnehmen, sie nicht anders als durch das «Medium seiner subjektiven Gedanken imaginieren, fingieren, denken, erkennen, vielleicht auch nicht erkennen kann» (O. Liebmann, Zur Analysis der Wirklichkeit, Seite 28). Diese Anschauung glaubt etwas unbedingt Gewisses zu sagen, etwas, was ohne alle Beweise unmittelbar einleuchtet. «Der erste Fundamentalsatz, den sich der Philosoph zu deutlichem Bewußtsein zu bringen hat, besteht in der Erkenntnis, daß unser Wissen sich zunächst auf nichts weiter als auf unsere Vorstellungen erstreckt. Unsere Vorstellungen sind das Einzige, was wir unmittelbar erfahren, unmittelbar erleben; und eben weil wir sie unmittelbar erfahren, deswegen vermag uns auch der radikalste Zweifel das Wissen von denselben nicht zu entreißen. Dagegen ist das Wissen, das über unser Vorstellen — ich nehme diesen Ausdruck hier überall im weitesten Sinne, so daß alles psychische Geschehen darunter fällt — hinausgeht, vor dem Zweifel nicht geschützt. Daher muß zu Beginn des Philosophierens alles über die Vorstellungen hinausgehende Wissen ausdrücklich als bezweifelbar hingestellt werden», so beginnt Volkelt sein Buch über «Immanuel Kants Erkenntnistheorie». Was hiermit so hingestellt wird, als ob es eine unmittelbare und selbstverständliche Wahrheit sei, ist aber in Wirklichkeit das Resultat einer Gedankenoperation, die folgendermaßen verläuft: Der naive Mensch glaubt, daß die Gegenstände, so wie er sie wahrnimmt, auch außerhalb seines Bewußtseins vorhanden sind. Die Physik, Physiologie und Psychologie scheinen aber zu lehren, daß zu unseren Wahrnehmungen unsere Organisation notwendig ist, daß wir folglich von nichts wissen können, als von dem, was unsere Organisation uns von den Dingen überliefert. Unsere Wahrnehmungen sind somit Modifikationen unserer Organisation, nicht Dinge an sich. Den hier angedeuteten Gedankengang hat Eduard von Hartmann in der Tat als denjenigen charakterisiert, der zur Überzeugung von dem Satze führen muß, daß wir ein direktes Wissen nur von unseren Vorstellungen haben können (vergleiche dessen «Grundproblem der Erkenntnistheorie», S. 16-40). Weil wir außerhalb unseres Organismus Schwingungen der Körper und der Luft finden, die sich uns als Schall darstellen, so wird gefolgert, daß das, was wir Schall nennen, nichts weiter sei als eine subjektive Reaktion unseres Organismus auf jene Bewegungen in der Außenwelt. In derselben Weise findet man, daß Farbe und Wärme nur Modifikationen unseres Organismus seien. Und zwar ist man der Ansicht, daß diese beiden Wahrnehmungsarten in uns hervorgerufen werden durch die Wirkung von Vorgängen in der Außenwelt, die von dem, was Wärmeerlebnis oder Farbenerlebnis ist, durchaus verschieden sind. Wenn solche Vorgänge die Hautnerven meines Körpers erregen, so habe ich die subjektive Wahrnehmung der Wärme, wenn solche Vorgänge den Sehnerv treffen, nehme ich Licht und Farbe wahr. Licht, Farbe und Wärme sind also das, womit meine Sinnesnerven auf den Reiz von außen antworten. Auch der Tastsinn liefert mir nicht die Gegenstände der Außenwelt, sondern nur meine eigenen Zustände. Im Sinne der modernen Physik könnte man etwa denken, daß die Körper aus unendlich kleinen Teilen, den Molekülen bestehen, und daß diese Moleküle nicht unmittelbar aneinandergrenzen, sondern gewisse Entfernungen voneinander haben. Es ist also zwischen ihnen der leere Raum. Durch diese wirken sie aufeinander mittelst anziehender und abstoßender Kräfte. Wenn ich meine Hand einem Körper nähere, so berühren die Moleküle meiner Hand keineswegs unmittelbar diejenigen des Körpers, sondern es bleibt eine gewisse Entfernung zwischen Körper und Hand, und was ich als Widerstand des Körpers empfinde, das ist nichts weiter als die Wirkung der abstoßenden Kraft, die seine Moleküle auf meine Hand ausüben. Ich bin schlechthin außerhalb des Körpers und nehme nur seine Wirkung auf meinen Organismus wahr.

Ergänzend zu diesen Überlegungen tritt die Lehre von den sogenannten spezifischen Sinnesenergien, die J. Müller (1801-1858) aufgestellt hat. Sie besteht darin, daß jeder Sinn die Eigentümlichkeit hat, auf alle äußeren Reize nur in einer bestimmten Weise zu antworten. Wird auf den Sehnerv eine Wirkung ausgeübt, so entsteht Lichtwahrnehmung, gleichgültig ob die Erregung durch das geschieht, was wir Licht nennen, oder ob ein mechanischer Druck oder ein elektrischer Strom auf den Nerv einwirkt. Andrerseits werden in verschiedenen Sinnen durch die gleichen äußeren Reize verschiedene Wahrnehmungen hervorgerufen. Daraus scheint hervorzugehen, daß unsere Sinne nur das überliefern können, was in ihnen selbst vorgeht, nichts aber von der Außenwelt. Sie bestimmen die Wahrnehmungen je nach ihrer Natur.

Die Physiologie zeigt, daß auch von einem direkten Wissen dessen keine Rede sein kann, was die Gegenstände in unseren Sinnesorganen bewirken. Indem der Physiologe die Vorgänge in unserem eigenen Leibe verfolgt, findet er, daß schon in den Sinnesorganen die Wirkungen der äußeren Bewegung in der mannigfaltigsten Weise umgeändert werden. Wir sehen das am deutlichsten an Auge und Ohr. Beide sind sehr komplizierte Organe, die den äußeren Reiz wesentlich verändern, ehe sie ihn zum entsprechenden Nerv bringen. Von dem peripherischen Ende des Nervs wird nun der schon veränderte Reiz weiter zum Gehirn geleitet. Hier erst müssen wieder die Zentralorgane erregt werden. Daraus wird geschlossen, daß der äußere Vorgang eine Reihe von Umwandlungen erfahren hat, ehe er zum Bewußtsein kommt. Was da im Gehirne sich abspielt, ist durch so viele Zwischenvorgänge mit dem äußeren Vorgang verbunden, daß an eine Ähnlichkeit mit demselben nicht mehr gedacht werden kann. Was das Gehirn der Seele zuletzt vermittelt, sind weder äußere Vorgänge, noch Vorgänge in den Sinnesorganen, sondern nur solche innerhalb des Gehirnes. Aber auch die letzteren nimmt die Seele noch nicht unmittelbar wahr. Was wir im Bewußtsein zuletzt haben, sind gar keine Gehirnvorgänge, sondern Empfindungen. Meine Empfindung des Rot hat gar keine Ähnlichkeit mit dem Vorgange, der sich im Gehirn abspielt, wenn ich das Rot empfinde. Das letztere tritt erst wieder als Wirkung in der Seele auf und wird nur verursacht durch den Hirnvorgang. Deshalb sagt Hartmann (Grundproblem der Erkenntnistheorie, S. 37): «Was das Subjekt wahrnimmt, sind also immer nur Modifikationen seiner eigenen psychischen Zustände und nichts anderes.» Wenn ich die Empfindungen habe, dann sind diese aber noch lange nicht zu dem gruppiert, was ich als Dinge wahrnehme. Es können mir ja nur einzelne Empfindungen durch das Gehirn vermittelt werden. Die Empfindungen der Härte und Weichheit werden mir durch den Tast, die Farben, und Lichtempfindungen durch den Gesichtssinn vermittelt. Doch finden sich dieselben an einem und demselben Gegenstande vereinigt. Diese Vereinigung muß also erst von der Seele selbst bewirkt werden. Das heißt, die Seele setzt die einzelnen durch das Gehirn vermittelten Empfindungen zu Körpern zusammen. Mein Gehirn überliefert mir einzeln die Gesichts, Tast, und Gehörempfindungen, und zwar auf ganz verschiedenen Wegen, die dann die Seele zu der Vorstellung Trompete zusammen setzt. Dieses Endglied (Vorstellung der Trompete) eines Prozesses ist es, was für mein Bewußtsein zu allererst gegeben ist. Es ist in demselben nichts mehr von dem zu finden, was außer mir ist und ursprünglich einen Eindruck auf meine Sinnegemacht hat. Der äußere Gegenstand ist auf dem Wege zum Gehirn und durch das Gehirn zur Seele vollständig verlorengegangen.

Es wird schwer sein, ein zweites Gedankengebäude in der Geschichte des menschlichen Geisteslebens zu finden, das mit größerem Scharfsinn zusammengetragen ist, und das bei genauerer Prüfung doch in nichts zerfällt. Sehen wir einmal näher zu, wie es zustande kommt. Man geht zunächst von dem aus, was dem naiven Bewußtsein gegeben ist, von dem wahrgenommenen Dinge. Dann zeigt man, daß alles, was an diesem Dinge sich findet, für uns nicht da wäre, wenn wir keine Sinne hätten. Kein Auge: keine Farbe. Also ist die Farbe in dem noch nicht vorhanden, was auf das Auge wirkt. Sie entsteht erst durch die Wechselwirkung des Auges mit dem Gegenstande. Dieser ist also farblos. Aber auch im Auge ist die Farbe nicht vorhanden; denn da ist ein chemischer oder physikalischer Vorgang vorhanden, der erst durch den Nerv zum Gehirn geleitet wird, und da einen andern auslöst. Dieser ist noch immer nicht die Farbe. Sie wird erst durch den Hirnprozeß in der Seele hervorgerufen. Da tritt sie mir noch immer nicht ins Bewußtsein, sondern wird erst durch die Seele nach außen an einen Körper verlegt. An diesem glaube ich sie endlich wahrzunehmen. Wir haben einen vollständigen Kreisgang durchgemacht. Wir sind uns eines farbigen Körpers bewußt geworden. Das ist das Erste. Nun hebt die Gedankenoperation an. Wenn ich keine Augen hätte, wäre der Körper für mich farblos. Ich kann die Farbe also nicht in den Körper verlegen. Ich gehe auf die Suche nach ihr. Ich suche sie im Auge: vergebens; im Nerv: vergebens; im Gehirne: ebenso vergebens; in der Seele: hier finde ich sie zwar, aber nicht mit dem Körper verbunden. Den farbigen Körper finde ich erst wieder da, wo ich ausgegangen bin. Der Kreis ist geschlossen. Ich glaube das als Erzeugnis meiner Seele zu erkennen, was der naive Mensch sich als draußen im Raume vorhanden denkt.

So lange man dabei stehen bleibt, scheint alles in schönster Ordnung. Aber die Sache muß noch einmal von vorne angefangen werden. Ich habe ja bis jetzt mit einem Dinge gewirtschaftet: mit der äußeren Wahrnehmung, von dem ich früher, als naiver Mensch, eine ganz falsche Ansicht gehabt habe. Ich war der Meinung: sie hätte so, wie ich sie wahrnehme, einen objektiven Bestand. Nun merke ich, daß sie mit meinem Vorstellen verschwindet, daß sie nur eine Modifikation meiner seelischen Zustände ist. Habe ich nun überhaupt noch ein Recht, in meinen Betrachtungen von ihr auszugehen? Kann ich von ihr sagen, daß sie auf meine Seele wirkt? Ich muß von jetzt ab den Tisch, von dem ich früher geglaubt habe, daß er auf mich wirkt und in mir eine Vorstellung von sich hervorbringt, selbst als Vorstellung behandeln. Konsequenterweise sind dann aber auch meine Sinnesorgane und die Vorgänge in ihnen bloß subjektiv. Ich habe kein Recht, von einem wirklichen Auge zu sprechen, sondern nur von meiner Vorstellung des Auges. Ebenso ist es mit der Nervenleitung und dem Gehirnprozeß und nicht weniger mit dem Vorgange in der Seele selbst, durch den aus dem Chaos der mannigfaltigen Empfindungen Dinge aufgebaut werden sollen. Durchlaufe ich unter Voraussetzung der Richtigkeit des ersten Gedankenkreisganges die Glieder meines Erkenntnisaktes nochmals, so zeigt sich der letztere als ein Gespinst von Vorstellungen, die doch als solche nicht aufeinander wirken können. Ich kann nicht sagen: meine Vorstellung des Gegenstandes wirkt auf meine Vorstellung des Auges, und aus dieser Wechselwirkung geht die Vorstellung der Farbe hervor. Aber ich habe es auch nicht nötig. Denn sobald mir klar ist, daß mir meine Sinnesorgane und deren Tätigkeiten, mein Nerven, und Seelenprozeß auch nur durch die Wahrnehmung gegeben werden können, zeigt sich der geschilderte Gedankengang in seiner vollen Unmöglichkeit. Es ist richtig: für mich ist keine Wahrnehmung ohne das entsprechende Sinnesorgan gegeben. Aber ebensowenig ein Sinnesorgan ohne Wahrnehmung. Ich kann von meiner Wahrnehmung des Tisches auf das Auge übergehen, das ihn sieht, auf die Hautnerven, die ihn tasten; aber was in diesen vorgeht, kann ich wieder nur aus der Wahrnehmung erfahren. Und da bemerke ich denn bald, daß in dem Prozeß, der sich im Auge vollzieht, nicht eine Spur von Ähnlichkeit ist mit dem, was ich als Farbe wahrnehme. Ich kann meine Farbenwahrnehmung nicht dadurch vernichten, daß ich den Prozeß im Auge aufzeige, der sich während dieser Wahrnehmung darin abspielt. Ebensowenig finde ich in den Nerven, und Gehirnprozessen die Farbe wieder; ich verbinde nur neue Wahrnehmungen innerhalb meines Organismus mit der ersten, die der naive Mensch außerhalb seines Organismus verlegt. Ich gehe nur von einer Wahrnehmung zur andern über.

Außerdem enthält die ganze Schlußfolgerung einen Sprung. Ich bin in der Lage, die Vorgänge in meinem Organismus bis zu den Prozessen in meinem Gehirne zu verfolgen, wenn auch meine Annahmen immer hypothetischer werden, je mehr ich mich den zentralen Vorgängen des Gehirn es nähere. Der Weg der äußeren Beobachtung hört mit demVorgange in meinem Gehirne auf, und zwar mit jenem, den ich wahrnehmen würde, wenn ich mit physikalischen, chemischen usw. Hilfsmitteln und Methoden das Gehirn behandeln könnte. Der Weg der inneren Beobachtung fängt mit der Empfindung an und reicht bis zum Aufbau der Dinge aus dem Empfindungsmaterial. Beim Übergang von dem Hirnprozeß zur Empfindung ist der Beobachtungsweg unterbrochen.

Die charakterisierte Denkart, die sich im Gegensatz zum Standpunkte des naiven Bewußtseins, den sie naiven Realismus nennt, als kritischen Idealismus bezeichnet, macht den Fehler, daß sie die eine Wahrnehmung als Vorstellung charakterisiert, aber die andere gerade in dem Sinne hinnimmt, wie es der von ihr scheinbar widerlegte naive Realismus tut. Sie will den Vorstellungscharakter der Wahrnehmungen beweisen, indem sie in naiver Weise die Wahrnehmungen am eigenen Organismus als objektiv gültige Tatsachen hinnimmt und zu alledem noch übersieht, daß sie zwei Beobachtungsgebiete durcheinander wirft, zwischen denen sie keine Vermittlung finden kann.

Der kritische Idealismus kann den naiven Realismus nur widerlegen, wenn er selbst in naiv-realistischer Weise seinen eigenen Organismus als objektiv existierend annimmt. In demselben Augenblicke, wo er sich der vollständigen Gleichartigkeit der Wahrnehmungen am eigenen Organismus mit den vom naiven Realismus als objektiv existierend angenommenen Wahrnehmungen bewußt wird, kann er sich nicht mehr auf die ersteren als auf eine sichere Grundlage stützen. Er müßte auch seine subjektive Organisation als bloßen Vorstellungskomplex ansehen. Damit geht aber die Möglichkeit verloren, den Inhalt der wahrgenommenen Welt durch die geistige Organisation bewirkt zu denken. Man müßte annehmen, daß die Vorstellung «Farbe» nur eine Modifikation der Vorstellung «Auge» sei. Der sogenannte kritische Idealismus kann nicht bewiesen werden, ohne eine Anleihe beim naiven Realismus zu machen. Der letztere wird nur dadurch widerlegt, daß man dessen eigene Voraussetzungen auf einem anderen Gebiete ungeprüft gelten läßt.

Soviel ist hieraus gewiß: durch Untersuchungen innerhalb des Wahrnehmungsgebietes kann der kritische Idealismus nicht bewiesen, somit die Wahrnehmung ihres objektiven Charakters nicht entkleidet werden.

Noch weniger aber darf der Satz: «Die wahrgenommene Welt ist meine Vorstellung» als durch sich selbst einleuchtend und keines Beweises bedürftig hingestellt werden.

Schopenhauer beginnt sein Hauptwerk «Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung» mit den Worten:
«Die Welt ist meine Vorstellung: — dies ist die Wahrheit, welche in Beziehung auf jedes lebende und erkennende Wesen gilt; wiewohl der Mensch allein sie in das reflektierte abstrakte Bewußtsein bringen kann: und tut er dies wirklich, so ist die philosophische Besonnenheit bei ihm eingetreten. Es wird ihm dann deutlich und gewiß, daß er keine Sonne kennt und keine Erde; sondern immer nur ein Auge, das eine Sonne sieht, eine Hand, die eine Erde fühlt; daß die Welt, welche ihn umgibt, nur als Vorstellung da ist, das heißt durchweg nur in Beziehung auf ein Anderes, das Vorstehende, welches er selbst ist. — Wenn irgend eine Wahrheit a priori ausgesprochen werden kann, so ist es diese: denn sie ist die Aussage derjenigen Form aller möglichen und erdenklichen Erfahrung, welche allgemeiner als alle andern, als Zeit, Raum und Kausalität ist: denn alle diese setzen jene eben schon voraus … »
Der ganze Satz scheitert an dem oben bereits von mir angeführten Umstande, daß das Auge und die Hand nicht weniger Wahrnehmungen sind als die Sonne und die Erde. Und man könnte im Sinne Schopenhauers und mit Anlehnung an seine Ausdrucksweise seinen Sätzen entgegenhalten: Mein Auge, das die Sonne sieht, und meine Hand, die die Erde fühlt, sind meine Vorstellungen gerade so wie die Sonne und die Erde selbst. Daß ich damit aber den Satz wieder aufhebe, ist ohne weiteres klar. Denn nur mein wirkliches Auge und meine wirkliche Hand könnten die Vorstellungen Sonne und Erde als ihre Modifikationen an sich haben, nicht aber meine Vorstellungen Auge und Hand. Nur von diesen aber darf der kritische Idealismus sprechen.

Der kritische Idealismus ist völlig ungeeignet, eine Ansicht über das Verhältnis von Wahrnehmung und Vorstellung zu gewinnen. Die auf Seite 67f. angedeutete Scheidung dessen, was an der Wahrnehmung während des Wahrnehmens geschieht und was an ihr schon sein muß, bevor sie wahrgenommen wird, kann er nicht vornehmen. Dazu muß also ein anderer Weg eingeschlagen werden.

IV. Die Welt als Wahrnehmung – 2

Das nächste wird nun sein, uns zu fragen: Wie kommt das andere Element, das wir bisher bloß als Beobachtungsobjekt bezeichnet haben, und das sich mit dem Denken im Bewußtsein begegnet, in das letztere?

Wir müssen, um diese Frage zu beantworten, aus unserem Beobachtungsfelde alles aussondern, was durch das Denken bereits in dasselbe hineingetragen worden ist. Denn unser jeweiliger Bewußtseinsinhalt ist immer schon mit Begriffen in der mannigfachsten Weise durchsetzt.

Wir müssen uns vorstellen, daß ein Wesen mit vollkommen entwickelter menschlicher Intelligenz aus dem Nichts entstehe und der Welt gegenübertrete. Was es da gewahr würde, bevor es das Denken in Tätigkeit bringt, das ist der reine Beobachtungsinhalt. Die Welt zeigte dann diesem Wesen nur das bloße zusammenhanglose Aggregat von Empfindungsobjekten: Farben, Töne, Druck, Wärme, Geschmacks, und Geruchsempfindungen; dann Lust und Unlustgefühle. Dieses Aggregat ist der Inhalt der reinen, gedankenlosen Beobachtung. Ihm gegenüber steht das Denken, das bereit ist, seine Tätigkeit zu entfalten, wenn sich ein Angriffspunkt dazu findet. Die Erfahrung lehrt bald, daß er sich findet. Das Denken ist imstande, Fäden zu ziehen von einem Beobachtungselement zum andern. Es verknüpft mit diesen Elementen bestimmte Begriffe und bringt sie dadurch in ein Verhältnis. Wir haben oben bereits gesehen, wie ein uns begegnendes Geräusch mit einer anderen Beobachtung dadurch verbunden wird, daß wir das erstere als Wirkung der letzteren bezeichnen.

Wenn wir uns nun daran erinnern, daß die Tätigkeit des Denkens durchaus nicht als eine subjektive aufzufassen ist, so werden wir auch nicht versucht sein zu glauben, daß solche Beziehungen, die durch das Denken hergestellt sind, bloß eine subjektive Geltung haben.

Es wird sich jetzt darum handeln, durch denkende Überlegung die Beziehung zu suchen, die der oben angegebene unmittelbar gegebene Beobachtungsinhalt zu unserem bewußten Subjekt hat.

Bei dem Schwanken des Sprachgebrauches erscheint es mir geboten, daß ich mich mit meinem Leser über den Gebrauch eines Wortes verständige, das ich im folgenden anwenden muß. Ich werde die unmittelbaren Empfindungsobjekte, die ich oben genannt habe, insoferne das bewußte Subjekt von ihnen durch Beobachtung Kenntnis nimmt, Wahrnehmungen nennen. Also nicht den Vorgang der Beobachtung, sondern das Objekt dieser Beobachtung bezeichne ich mit diesem Namen.

Ich wähle den Ausdruck Empfindung nicht, weil dieser in der Physiologie eine bestimmte Bedeutung hat, die enger ist als die meines Begriffes von Wahrnehmung. Ein Gefühl in mir selbst kann ich wohl als Wahrnehmung, nicht aber als Empfindung im physiologischen Sinne bezeichnen. Auch von meinem Gefühle erhalte ich dadurch Kenntnis, daß es Wahrnehmung für mich wird. Und die Art, wie wir durch Beobachtung Kenntnis von unserem Denken erhalten, ist eine solche, daß wir auch das Denken in seinem ersten Auftreten für unser Bewußtsein Wahrnehmung nennen können.

Der naive Mensch betrachtet seine Wahrnehmungen in dem Sinne, wie sie ihm unmittelbar erscheinen, als Dinge, die ein von ihm ganz unabhängiges Dasein haben. Wenn er einen Baum sieht, so glaubt er zunächst, daß dieser in der Gestalt, die er sieht, mit den Farben, die seine Teile haben usw., dort an dem Orte stehe, wohin der Blick gerichtet ist. Wenn derselbe Mensch morgens die Sonne als eine Scheibe am Horizonte erscheinen sieht und den Lauf dieser Scheibe verfolgt, so ist er der Meinung, daß das alles in dieser Weise (an sich) bestehe und vorgehe, wie er es beobachtet. Er hält so lange an diesem Glauben fest, bis er anderen Wahrnehmungen begegnet, die jenen widersprechen. Das Kind, das noch keine Erfahrungen über Entfernungen hat, greift nach dem Monde und stellt das, was es nach dem ersten Augenschein für wirklich gehalten hat, erst richtig, wenn eine zweite Wahrnehmung sich mit der ersten im Widerspruch befindet. Jede Erweiterung des Kreises meiner Wahrnehmungen nötigt mich, mein Bild der Welt zu berichtigen. Das zeigt sich im täglichen Leben ebenso wie in der Geistes-entwickelung der Menschheit. Das Bild, das sich die Alten von der Beziehung der Erde zu der Sonne und den andern Himmelskörpern machten, mußte von Kopernikus durch ein anderes ersetzt werden, weil es mit Wahrnehmungen, die früher unbekannt waren, nicht zusammenstimmte. Als Dr. Franz einen Blindgeborenen operierte, sagte dieser, daß er sich vor seiner Operation durch die Wahrnehmungen seines Tastsinnes ein ganz anderes Bild von der Größe der Gegenstände gemacht habe. Er mußte seine Tastwahrnehmungen durch seine Gesichtswahrnehmungen berichtigen.

Woher kommt es, daß wir zu solchen fortwährenden Richtigstellungen unserer Beobachtungen gezwungen sind?

Eine einfache Überlegung bringt die Antwort auf diese Frage. Wenn ich an dem einen Ende einer Allee stehe, so erscheinen mir die Bäume an dem andern, von mir entfernten Ende kleiner und näher aneinandergerückt als da, wo ich stehe. Mein Wahrnehmungsbild wird ein anderes, wenn ich den Ort ändere, von dem aus ich meine Beobachtungen mache. Es ist also in der Gestalt, in der es an mich herantritt, abhängig von einer Bestimmung, die nicht an dem Objekte hängt, sondern die mir, dem Wahrnehmenden, zukommt. Es ist für eine Allee ganz gleichgültig, wo ich stehe. Das Bild aber, das ich von ihr erhalte, ist wesentlich davon abhängig. Ebenso ist es für die Sonne und das Planetensystem gleichgültig, daß die Menschen sie gerade von der Erde aus ansehen. Das Wahrnehmungsbild aber, das sich diesen darbietet, ist durch diesen ihren Wohnsitz bestimmt. Diese Abhängigkeit des Wahrnehmungsbildes von unserem Beobachtungsorte ist diejenige, die am leichtesten zu durchschauen ist. Schwieriger wird die Sache schon, wenn wir die Abhängigkeit unserer Wahrnehmungswelt von unserer leiblichen und geistigen Organisation kennen lernen. Der Physiker zeigt uns, daß innerhalb des Raumes, in dem wir einen Schall hören, Schwingungen der Luft stattfinden, und daß auch der Körper, in dem wir den Ursprung des Schalles suchen, eine schwingende Bewegung seiner Teile aufweist. Wir nehmen diese Bewegung nur als Schall wahr, wenn wir ein normal organisiertes Ohr haben. Ohne ein solches bliebe uns die ganze Welt ewig stumm. Die Physiologie belehrt uns darüber, daß es Menschen gibt, die nichts wahrnehmen von der herrlichen Farbenpracht, die uns umgibt. Ihr Wahrnehmungsbild weist nur Nuancen von Hell und Dunkel auf. Andere nehmen nur eine bestimmte Farbe, zum Beispiel das Rot, nicht wahr. Ihrem Weltbilde fehlt dieser Farbenton, und es ist daher tatsächlich ein anderes als das eines Durchschnittsmenschen. Ich möchte die Abhängigkeit meines Wahrnehmungsbildes von meinem Beobachtungsorte eine mathematische, die von meiner Organisation eine qualitative nennen. Durch jene werden die Größenverhältnisse und gegenseitigen Entfernungen meiner Wahrnehmungen bestimmt, durch diese die Qualität derselben. Daß ich eine rote Fläche rot sehe — diese qualitative Bestimmung — hängt von der Organisation meines Auges ab.

Meine Wahrnehmungsbilder sind also zunächst subjektiv. Die Erkenntnis von dem subjektiven Charakter unserer Wahrnehmungen kann leicht zu Zweifeln darüber führen, ob überhaupt etwas Objektives denselben zum Grunde liegt. Wenn wir wissen, daß eine Wahrnehmung, zum Beispiel die der roten Farbe, oder eines bestimmten Tones nicht möglich ist ohne eine bestimmte Einrichtung unseres Organismus, so kann man zu dem Glauben kommen, daß dieselbe, abgesehen von unserem subjektiven Organismus, keinen Bestand habe, daß sie ohne den Akt des Wahrnehmens, dessen Objekt sie ist, keine Art des Daseins hat. Diese Ansicht hat in George Berkeley einen klassischen Vertreter gefunden, der der Meinung war, daß der Mensch von dem Augenblicke an, wo er sich derBedeutung des Subjekts für dieWahrnehmung bewußt geworden ist, nicht mehr an eine ohne den bewußten Geist vorhandene Welt glauben könne. Er sagt: «Einige Wahrheiten liegen so nahe und sind so einleuchtend, daß man nur die Augen zu öffnen braucht, um sie zu sehen. Für eine solche halte ich den wichtigen Satz, daß der ganze Chor am Himmel und alles, was zur Erde gehört, mit einem Worte alle die Körper, die den gewaltigen Bau der Welt zusammensetzen, keine Subsistenz außerhalb des Geistes haben, daß ihr Sein in ihrem Wahrgenommen — oder Erkanntwerden besteht, daß sie folglich, solange sie nicht wirklich von mir wahrgenommen werden oder in meinem Bewußtsein oder dem eines anderen geschaffenen Geistes existieren, entweder überhaupt keine Existenz haben oder in dem Bewußtsein eines ewigen Geistes existieren.» Für diese Ansicht bleibt von der Wahrnehmung nichts mehr übrig, wenn man von dem Wahrgenommenwerden absieht. Es gibt keine Farbe, wenn keine gesehen, keinen Ton, wenn keiner gehört wird. Ebensowenig wie Farbe und Ton existieren Ausdehnung, Gestalt und Bewegung außerhalb des Wahrnehmungsaktes. Wir sehen nirgends bloße Ausdehnung oder Gestalt, sondern diese immer mit Farbe oder andern unbestreitbar von unserer Subjektivität abhängigen Eigenschaften verknüpft. Wenn die letzteren mit unserer Wahrnehmung verschwinden, so muß das auch bei den ersteren der Fall sein, die an sie gebunden sind.

Dem Einwand, daß, wenn auch Figur, Farbe, Ton usw. keine andere Existenz als die innerhalb des Wahrnehmungsaktes haben, es doch Dinge geben müsse, die ohne das Bewußtsein da sind und denen die bewußten Wahrnehmungsbilder ähnlich seien, begegnet die geschilderte Ansicht damit, daß sie sagt: eine Farbe kann nur ähnlich einer Farbe, eine Figur ähnlich einer Figur sein. Unsere Wahrnehmungen können nur unseren Wahrnehmungen, aber keinerlei anderen Dingen ähnlich sein. Auch was wir einen Gegenstand nennen, ist nichts anderes als eine Gruppe von Wahrnehmungen, die in einer bestimmten Weise verbunden sind. Nehme ich von einem Tische Gestalt, Ausdehnung, Farbe usw., kurz alles, was nur meine Wahrnehmung ist, weg, so bleibt nichts mehr übrig. Diese Ansicht führt, konsequent verfolgt, zu der Behauptung: Die Objekte meiner Wahrnehmungen sind nur durch mich vorhanden, und zwar nur insoferne und solange ich sie wahrnehme; sie verschwinden mit dem Wahrnehmen und haben keinen Sinn ohne dieses. Außer meinen Wahrnehmungen weiß ich aber von keinen Gegenständen und kann von keinen wissen.

Gegen diese Behauptung ist so lange nichts einzuwenden, als ich bloß im allgemeinen den Umstand in Betracht ziehe, daß die Wahrnehmung von der Organisation meines Subjektes mitbestimmt wird. Wesentlich anders stellte sich die Sache aber, wenn wir imstande wären, anzugeben, welches die Funktion unseres Wahrnehmens beim Zustandekommen einer Wahrnehmung ist. Wir wüßten dann, was an der Wahrnehmung während des Wahrnehmens geschieht, und könnten auch bestimmen, was an ihr schon sein muß, bevor sie wahrgenommen wird.

Damit wird unsere Betrachtung von dem Objekt der Wahrnehmung auf das Subjekt derselben abgeleitet. Ich nehme nicht nur andere Dinge wahr, sondern ich nehme mich selbst wahr. Die Wahrnehmung meiner selbst hat zunächst den Inhalt, daß ich das Bleibende bin gegenüber den immer kommenden und gehenden Wahrnehmungsbildern. Die Wahrnehmung des Ich kann in meinem Bewußtsein stets auftreten, während ich andere Wahrnehmungen habe. Wenn ich in die Wahrnehmung eines gegebenen Gegenstandes vertieft bin, so habe ich vorläufig nur von diesem ein Bewußtsein. Dazu kann dann die Wahrnehmung meines Selbst treten. Ich bin mir nunmehr nicht bloß des Gegenstandes bewußt, sondern auch meiner Persönlichkeit, die dem Gegenstand gegenüber steht und ihn beobachtet. Ich sehe nicht bloß einen Baum, sondern ich weiß auch, daß ich es bin, der ihn sieht. Ich erkenne auch, daß in mir etwas vorgeht, während ich den Baum beobachte. Wenn der Baum aus meinem Gesichtskreise verschwindet, bleibt für mein Bewußtsein ein Rückstand von diesem Vorgange: ein Bild des Baumes. Dieses Bild hat sich während meiner Beobachtung mit meinem Selbst verbunden. Mein Selbst hat sich bereichert; sein Inhalt hat ein neues Element in sich aufgenommen. Dieses Element nenne ich meine Vorstellung von dem Baume. Ich käme nie in die Lage, von Vorstellungen zu sprechen, wenn ich diese nicht in der Wahrnehmung meines Selbst erlebte. Wahrnehmungen würden kommen und gehen; ich ließe sie vorüberziehen. Nur dadurch, daß ich mein Selbst wahrnehme und merke, daß mit jeder Wahrnehmung sich auch dessen Inhalt ändert, sehe ich mich gezwungen, die Beobachtung des Gegenstandes mit meiner eigenen Zustandsveränderung in Zusammenhang zu bringen und von meiner Vorstellung zu sprechen.

III. Das Denken im Dienste der Weltauffassung – 2

Zwei Dinge vertragen sich nicht: tätiges Hervorbringen und beschauliches Gegenüberstellen. Das weiß schon das erste Buch Moses. An den ersten sechs Welttagen läßt es Gott die Welt hervorbringen, und erst als sie da ist, ist die Möglichkeit vorhanden, sie zu beschauen: «Und Gott sahe an alles, was er gemacht hatte; und siehe da, es war sehr gut.» So ist es auch mit unserem Denken. Es muß erst da sein, wenn wir es beobachten wollen.

Der Grund, der es uns unmöglich macht, das Denken in seinem jeweilig gegenwärtigen Verlauf zu beobachten, ist der gleiche wie der, der es uns unmittelbarer und intimer erkennen läßt als jeden andern Prozeß der Welt. Eben weil wir es selbst hervorbringen, kennen wir das Charakteristische seines Verlaufs, die Art, wie sich das dabei in Betracht kommende Geschehen vollzieht. Was in den übrigen Beobachtungssphären nur auf mittelbare Weise gefunden werden kann: der sachlich-entsprechende Zusammenhang und das Verhältnis der einzelnen Gegenstände, das wissen wir beim Denken auf ganz unmittelbare Weise. Warum für meine Beobachtung der Donner auf den Blitz folgt, weiß ich nicht ohne weiteres; warum mein Denken den Begriff Donner mit dem des Blitzes verbindet, weiß ich unmittelbar aus den Inhalten der beiden Begriffe. Es kommt natürlich gar nicht darauf an, ob ich die richtigen Begriffe von Blitz und Donner habe. Der Zusammenhang derer, die ich habe, ist mir klar, und zwar durch sie selbst.

Diese durchsichtige Klarheit in bezug auf den Denkprozeß ist ganz unabhängig von unserer Kenntnis der physiologischen Grundlagen des Denkens. Ich spreche hier von dem Denken, insoferne es sich aus der Beobachtung unserer geistigen Tätigkeit ergibt. Wie ein materieller Vorgang meines Gehirns einen andern veranlaßt oder beeinflußt, während ich eine Gedankenoperation ausführe, kommt dabei gar nicht in Betracht. Was ich am Denken beobachte, ist nicht: welcher Vorgang in meinem Gehirne den Begriff des Blitzes mit dem des Donners verbindet, sondern, was mich veranlaßt, die beiden Begriffe in ein bestimmtes Verhältnis zu bringen. Meine Beobachtung ergibt, daß mir für meine Gedankenverbindungen nichts vorliegt, nach dem ich mich richte, als der Inhalt meiner Gedanken; nicht nach den materiellen Vorgängen in meinem Gehirn richte ich mich. Für ein weniger materialistisches Zeitalter als das unsrige wäre diese Bemerkung natürlich vollständig überflüssig. Gegenwärtig aber, wo es Leute gibt, die glauben: wenn wir wissen, was Materie ist, werden wir auch wissen, wie die Materie denkt, muß doch gesagt werden, daß man vom Denken reden kann, ohne sogleich mit der Gehirnphysiologie in Kollision zu treten. Es wird heute sehr vielen Menschen schwer, den Begriff des Denkens in seiner Reinheit zu fassen. Wer der Vorstellung, die ich hier vom Denken entwickelt habe, sogleich den Satz des Cabanis entgegensetzt: «Das Gehirn sondert Gedanken ab wie die Leber Galle, die Speicheldrüse Speichel usw.», der weiß einfach nicht, wovon ich rede. Er sucht das Denken durch einen bloßen Beobachtungsprozeß zu finden in derselben Art, wie wir bei anderen Gegenständen des Weltinhaltes verfahren. Er kann es aber auf diesem Wege nicht finden, weil es sich, wie ich nachgewiesen habe, gerade da der normalen Beobachtung entzieht. Wer den Materialismus nicht überwinden kann, dem fehlt die Fähigkeit, bei sich den geschilderten Ausnahmezustand herbeizuführen, der ihm zum Bewußtsein bringt, was bei aller andern Geistestätigkeit unbewußt bleibt. Wer den guten Willen nicht hat, sich in diesen Standpunkt zu versetzen, mit dem könnte man über das Denken so wenig wie mit dem Blinden über die Farbe sprechen. Er möge nur aber nicht glauben, daß wir physiologische Prozesse für Denken halten. Er erklärt das Denken nicht, weil er es überhaupt nicht sieht. Für jeden aber, der die Fähigkeit hat, das Denken zu beobachten – und bei gutem Willen hat sie jeder normal organisierte Mensch -, ist diese Beobachtung die allerwichtigste, die er machen kann. Denn er beobachtet etwas, dessen Hervorbringer er selbst ist; er sieht sich nicht einem zunächst fremden Gegenstande, sondern seiner eigenen Tätigkeit gegenüber. Er weiß, wie das zustande kommt, was er beobachtet. Er durchschaut die Verhältnisse und Beziehungen. Es ist ein fester Punkt gewonnen, von dem aus man mit begründeter Hoffnung nach der Erklärung der übrigen Welterscheinungen suchen kann.

Das Gefühl, einen solchen festen Punkt zu haben, veranlaßte den Begründer der neueren Philosophie, Renatus Cartesius, das ganze menschliche Wissen auf den Satz zu gründen: Ich denke, also bin ich. Alle andern Dinge, alles andere Geschehen ist ohne mich da; ich weiß nicht, ob als Wahrheit, ob als Gaukelspiel und Traum. Nur eines weiß ich ganz unbedingt sicher, denn ich bringe es selbst zu seinem sichern Dasein: mein Denken. Mag es noch einen andern Ursprung seines Daseins haben, mag es von Gott oder anderswoher kommen; daß es in dem Sinne da ist, in dem ich es selbst hervorbringe, dessen bin ich gewiß. Einen andern Sinn seinem Satze unterzulegen hatte Cartesius zunächst keine Berechtigung. Nur daß ich mich innerhalb des Weltinhaltes in meinem Denken als in meiner ureigensten Tätigkeit erfasse, konnte er behaupten. Was das daran gehängte: also bin ich heißen soll, darüber ist viel gestritten worden. Einen Sinn kann es aber nur unter einer einzigen Bedingung haben. Die einfachste Aussage, die ich von einem Dinge machen kann, ist die, daß es ist, daß es existiert. Wie dann dieses Dasein näher zu bestimmen ist, das ist bei keinem Dinge, das in den Horizont meiner Erlebnisse eintritt, sogleich im Augenblicke zu sagen. Es wird jeder Gegenstand erst in seinem Verhältnisse zu andern zu untersuchen sein, um bestimmen zu können, in welchem Sinne von ihm als einem existierenden gesprochen werden kann. Ein erlebter Vorgang kann eine Summe von Wahrnehmungen, aber auch ein Traum, eine Halluzination und so weiter sein. Kurz, ich kann nicht sagen, in welchem Sinne er existiert.

Das werde ich dem Vorgange selbst nicht entnehmen können, sondern ich werde es erfahren, wenn ich ihn im Verhältnisse zu andern Dingen betrachte. Da kann ich aber wieder nicht mehr wissen, als wie er im Verhältnisse zu diesen Dingen steht. Mein Suchen kommt erst auf einen festen Grund, wenn ich ein Objekt finde, bei dem ich den Sinn seines Daseins aus ihm selbst schöpfen kann. Das bin ich aber selbst als Denkender, denn ich gebe meinem Dasein den bestimmten, in sich beruhenden Inhalt der denkenden Tätigkeit. Nun kann ich von da ausgehen und fragen: Existieren die andern Dinge in dem gleichen oder in einem andern Sinne?

Wenn man das Denken zum Objekt der Beobachtung macht, fügt man zu dem übrigen beobachteten Weltinhalte etwas dazu, was sonst der Aufmerksamkeit entgeht; man ändert aber nicht die Art, wie sich der Mensch auch den andern Dingen gegenüber verhält. Man vermehrt die Zahl der Beobachtungsobjekte, aber nicht die Methode des Beobachtens. Während wir die andern Dinge beobachten, mischt sich in das Weltgeschehen – zu dem ich jetzt das Beobachten mitzähle – ein Prozeß, der übersehen wird. Es ist etwas von allem andern Geschehen verschiedenes vorhanden, das nicht mitberücksichtigt wird. Wenn ich aber mein Denken betrachte, so ist kein solches unberücksichtigtes Element vorhanden. Denn was jetzt im Hintergrunde schwebt, ist selbst wieder nur das Denken. Der beobachtete Gegenstand ist qualitativ derselbe wie die Tätigkeit, die sich auf ihn richtet. Und das ist wieder eine charakteristische Eigentümlichkeit des Denkens. Wenn wir es zum Betrachtungsobjekt machen, sehen wir uns nicht gezwungen, dies mit Hilfe eines Oualitativ-Verschiedenen zu tun, sondern wir können in demselben Element verbleiben.

Wenn ich einen ohne mein Zutun gegebenen Gegenstand in mein Denken einspinne, so gehe ich über meine Beobachtung hinaus, und es wird sich darum handeln: was gibt mir ein Recht dazu? Warum lasse ich den Gegenstand nicht einfach auf mich einwirken? Auf welche Weise ist es möglich, daß mein Denken einen Bezug zu dem Gegenstande hat? Das sind Fragen, die sich jeder stellen muß, der über seine eigenen Gedankenprozesse nachdenkt. Sie fallen weg, wenn man über das Denken selbst nachdenkt. Wir fügen zu dem Denken nichts ihm Fremdes hinzu, haben uns also auch über ein solches Hinzufügen nicht zu rechtfertigen.

Schelling sagt: Die Natur erkennen, heißt die Natur schaffen. – Wer diese Worte des kühnen Naturphilosophen wörtlich nimmt, wird wohl zeitlebens auf alles Naturerkennen verzichten müssen. Denn die Natur ist einmal da, und um sie ein zweites Mal zu schaffen, muß man die Prinzipien erkennen, nach denen sie entstanden ist. Für die Natur, die man erst schaffen wollte, müßte man der bereits bestehenden die Bedingungen ihres Daseins abgucken. Dieses Abgucken, das dem Schaffen vorausgehen müßte, wäre aber das Erkennen der Natur, und zwar auch dann, wenn nach erfolgtem Abgucken das Schaffen ganz unterbliebe. Nur eine noch nicht vorhandene Natur könnte man schaffen, ohne sie vorher zu erkennen.

Was bei der Natur unmöglich ist: das Schaffen vor dem Erkennen; beim Denken vollbringen wir es. Wollten wir mit dem Denken warten, bis wir es erkannt haben, dann kämen wir nie dazu. Wir müssen resolut darauf losdenken, um hinterher mittels der Beobachtung des Selbstgetanen zu seiner Erkenntnis zu kommen. Der Beobachtung des Denkens schaffen wir selbst erst ein Objekt. Für das Vorhandensein aller anderen Objekte ist ohne unser Zutun gesorgt worden.

Leicht könnte jemand meinem Satze: wir müssen denken, bevor wir das Denken betrachten können, den andern als gleichberechtigt entgegenstellen: wir können auch mit dem Verdauen nicht warten, bis wir den Vorgang des Verdauens beobachtet haben. Das wäre ein Einwand ähnlich dem, den Pascal dem Cartesius machte, indem er behauptete, man könne auch sagen: ich gehe spazieren, also bin ich. Ganz gewiß muß ich auch resolut verdauen, bevor ich den physiologischen Prozeß der Verdauung studiert habe. Aber mit der Betrachtung des Denkens ließe sich das nur vergleichen, wenn ich die Verdauung hinterher nicht denkend betrachten, sondern essen und verdauen wollte. Das ist doch eben auch nicht ohne Grund, daß das Verdauen zwar nicht Gegenstand des Verdauens, das Denken aber sehr wohl Gegenstand des Denkens werden kann.

Es ist also zweifellos: in dem Denken halten wir das Weltgeschehen an einem Zipfel, wo wir dabei sein müssen, wenn etwas zustandekommen soll. Und das ist doch gerade das, worauf es ankommt. Das ist gerade der Grund, warum mir die Dinge so rätselhaft gegenüberstehen: daß ich an ihrem Zustandekommen so unbeteiligt bin. Ich finde sie einfach vor; beim Denken aber weiß ich, wie es gemacht wird. Daher gibt es keinen ursprünglicheren Ausgangspunkt für das Betrachten alles Weltgeschehens als das Denken.

Ich möchte nun einen weitverbreiteten Irrtum noch erwähnen, der in bezug auf das Denken herrscht. Er besteht darin, daß man sagt: das Denken, so wie es an sich selbst ist, ist uns nirgends gegeben. Das Denken, das die Beobachtungen unserer Erfahrungen verbindet und mit einem Netz von Begriffen durchspinnt, sei durchaus nicht dasselbe, wie dasjenige, das wir hinterher wieder von den Gegenständen der Beobachtung herausschälen und zum Gegenstande unserer Betrachtung machen. Was wir erst unbewußt in die Dinge hineinweben, sei ein ganz anderes, als was wir dann mit Bewußtsein wieder herauslösen.

Wer so schließt, der begreift nicht, daß es ihm auf diese Art gar nicht möglich ist, dem Denken zu entschlüpfen. Ich kann aus dem Denken gar nicht herauskommen, wenn ich das Denken betrachten will. Wenn man das vorbewußte Denken von dem nachher bewußten Denken unterscheidet, so sollte man doch nicht vergessen, daß diese Unterscheidung eine ganz äußerliche ist, die mit der Sache selbst gar nichts zu tun hat. Ich mache eine Sache dadurch überhaupt nicht zu einer andern, daß ich sie denkend betrachte. Ich kann mir denken, daß ein Wesen mit ganz anders gearteten Sinnesorganen und mit einer anders funktionierenden Intelligenz von einem Pferde eine ganz andere Vorstellung habe als ich, aber ich kann mir nicht denken, daß mein eigenes Denken dadurch ein anderes wird, daß ich es beobachte. Ich beobachte selbst, was ich selbst vollbringe. Wie mein Denken sich für eine andere Intelligenz ausnimmt als die meine, davon ist jetzt nicht die Rede; sondern davon, wie es sich für mich ausnimmt. Jedenfalls aber kann das Bild meines Denkens in einer andern Intelligenz nicht ein wahreres sein als mein eigenes. Nur wenn ich nicht selbst das denkende Wesen wäre, sondern das Denken mir als Tätigkeit eines mir fremdartigen Wesens gegenüberträte, könnte ich davon sprechen, daß mein Bild des Denkens zwar auf eine bestimmte Weise auftrete; wie das Denken des Wesens aber an sich selber sei, das könne ich nicht wissen.

Mein eigenes Denken von einem anderen Standpunkte aus anzusehen, liegt aber vorläufig für mich nicht die geringste Veranlassung vor. Ich betrachte ja die ganze übrige Welt mit Hilfe des Denkens. Wie sollte ich bei meinem Denken hiervon eine Ausnahme machen?

Damit betrachte ich für genügend gerechtfertigt, wenn ich in meiner Weltbetrachtung von dem Denken ausgehe. Als Archimedes den Hebel erfunden hatte, da glaubte er mit seiner Hilfe den ganzen Kosmos aus den Angeln heben zu können, wenn er nur einen Punkt fände, wo er sein Instrument aufstützen könnte. Er brauchte etwas, was durch sich selbst, nicht durch anderes getragen wird. Im Denken haben wir ein Prinzip, das durch sich selbst besteht. Von hier aus sei es versucht, die Welt zu begreifen. Das Denken können wir durch es selbst erfassen. Die Frage ist nur, ob wir durch dasselbe auch noch etwas anderes ergreifen können.

Ich habe bisher von dem Denken gesprochen, ohne auf seinen Träger, das menschliche Bewußtsein, Rücksicht zu nehmen. Die meisten Philosophen der Gegenwart werden mir einwenden: bevor es ein Denken gibt, muß es ein Bewußtsein geben. Deshalb sei vom Bewußtsein und nicht vom Denken auszugehen. Es gebe kein Denken ohne Bewußtsein. Ich muß dem gegenüber erwidern: Wenn ich darüber Aufklärung haben will, welches Verhältnis zwischen Denken und Bewußtsein besteht, so muß ich darüber nachdenken. Ich setze das Denken damit voraus. Nun kann man darauf allerdings antworten: Wenn der Philosoph das Bewußtsein begreifen will, dann bedient er sich des Denkens; er setzt es insoferne voraus; im gewöhnlichen Verlaufe des Lebens aber entsteht das Denken innerhalb des Bewußtseins und setzt also dieses voraus. Wenn diese Antwort dem Weltschöpfer gegeben würde, der das Denken schaffen will, so wäre sie ohne Zweifel berechtigt. Man kann natürlich das Denken nicht entstehen lassen, ohne vorher das Bewußtsein zustande zu bringen. Dem Philosophen aber handelt es sich nicht um die Weltschöpfung, sondern um das Begreifen derselben. Er hat daher auch nicht die Ausgangspunkte für das Schaffen, sondern für das Begreifen der Welt zu suchen. Ich finde es ganz sonderbar, wenn man dem Philosophen vorwirft, daß er sich vor allen andern Dingen um die Richtigkeit seiner Prinzipien, nicht aber sogleich um die Gegenstände bekümmert, die er begreifen will. Der Weltschöpfer mußte vor allem wissen, wie er einen Träger für das Denken findet, der Philosoph aber muß nach einer sichern Grundlage suchen, von der aus er das Vorhandene begreifen kann. Was frommt es uns, wenn wir vom Bewußtsein ausgehen und es der denkenden Betrachtung unterwerfen, wenn wir vorher über die Möglichkeit, durch denkende Betrachtung Aufschluß über die Dinge zu bekommen, nichts wissen?

Wir müssen erst das Denken ganz neutral, ohne Beziehung auf ein denkendes Subjekt oder ein gedachtes Objekt betrachten. Denn in Subjekt und Objekt haben wir bereits Begriffe, die durch das Denken gebildet sind. Es ist nicht zu leugnen: Ehe anderes begriffen werden kann, muß es das Denken werden. Wer es leugnet, der übersieht, daß er als Mensch nicht ein Anfangsglied der Schöpfung, sondern deren Endglied ist. Man kann deswegen behufs Erklärung der Welt durch Begriffe nicht von den zeitlich ersten Elementen des Daseins ausgehen, sondern von dem, was uns als das Nächste, als das Intimste gegeben ist. Wir können uns nicht mit einem Sprunge an den Anfang der Welt versetzen, um da unsere Betrachtung anzufangen, sondern wir müssen von dem gegenwärtigen Augenblick ausgehen und sehen, ob wir von dem Späteren zu dem Früheren aufsteigen können. Solange die Geologie von erdichteten Revolutionen gesprochen hat, um den gegenwärtigen Zustand der Erde zu erklären, solange tappte sie in der Finsternis. Erst als sie, ihren Anfang damit machte, zu untersuchen, welche Vorgänge gegenwärtig noch auf der Erde sich abspielen und von diesen zurückschloß auf das Vergangene, hatte sie einen sicheren Boden gewonnen. Solange die Philosophie alle möglichen Prinzipien annehmen wird, wie Atom, Bewegung, Materie, Wille, Unbewußtes, wird sie in der Luft schweben.

Erst wenn der Philosoph das absolut Letzte als sein Erstes ansehen wird, kann er zum Ziele kommen. Dieses absolut Letzte, zu dem es die Weltentwickelung gebracht hat, ist aber das Denken.

Es gibt Leute, die sagen: ob unser Denken an sich richtig sei oder nicht, können wir aber doch nicht mit Sicherheit feststellen. Insoferne bleibt also der Ausgangspunkt jedenfalls ein zweifelhafter. Das ist gerade so vernünftig gesprochen, wie wenn man Zweifel hegt, ob ein Baum an sich richtig sei oder nicht. Das Denken ist eine Tatsache; und über die Richtigkeit oder Falschheit einer solchen zu sprechen, ist sinnlos. Ich kann höchstens darüber Zweifel haben, ob das Denken richtig verwendet wird, wie ich zweifeln kann, ob ein gewisser Baum ein entsprechendes Holz zu einem zweckmäßigen Gerät gibt. Zu zeigen, inwieferne die Anwendung des Denkens auf die Welt eine richtige oder falsche ist, wird gerade Aufgabe dieser Schrift sein. Ich kann es verstehen, wenn jemand Zweifel hegt, daß durch das Denken über die Welt etwas ausgemacht werden kann; das aber ist mir unbegreiflich, wie jemand die Richtigkeit des Denkens an sich anzweifeln kann.

Zusatz zur Neuauflage (1918)
In den vorangehenden Ausführungen wird auf den bedeutungsvollen Unterschied zwischen dem Denken und allen andern Seelentätigkeiten hingewiesen als auf eine Tatsache, die sich einer wirklich unbefangenen Beobachtung ergibt. Wer diese unbefangene Beobachtung nicht anstrebt, der wird gegen diese Ausführungen versucht sein, Einwendungen zu machen wie diese: wenn ich über eine Rose denke, so ist damit doch auch nur ein Verhältnis meines «Ich» zur Rose ausgedrückt, wie wenn ich die Schönheit der Rose fühle. Es bestehe geradeso ein Verhältnis zwischen «Ich» und Gegenstand beim Denken, wie zum Beispiel beim Fühlen oder Wahrnehmen. Wer diesen Einwand macht, der zieht nicht in Erwägung, daß nur in der Betätigung des Denkens das «Ich» bis in alle Verzweigungen der Tätigkeit sich mit dem Tätigen als ein Wesen weiß. Bei keiner andern Seelentätigkeit ist dies restlos der Fall. Wenn zum Beispiel eine Lust gefühlt wird, kann eine feinere Beobachtung sehr wohl unterscheiden, inwieferne das «Ich» sich mit einem Tätigen eins weiß und inwiefern in ihm ein Passives vorhanden ist, so daß die Lust für das «Ich» bloß auftritt. Und so ist es auch bei den andern Seelenbetätigungen. Man sollte nur nicht verwechseln: «Gedankenbilder haben» und Gedanken durch das Denken verarbeiten. Gedankenbilder können traumhaft, wie vage Eingebungen in der Seele auftreten. Ein Denken ist dieses nicht. Allerdings könnte nun jemand sagen: wenn das Denken so gemeint ist, steckt das Wollen in dem Denken drinnen, und man habe es dann nicht bloß mit dem Denken, sondern auch mit dem Wollen des Denkens zu tun. Doch würde dies nur berechtigen zu sagen: das wirkliche Denken muß immer gewollt sein. Nur hat dies mit der Kennzeichnung des Denkens, wie sie in diesen Ausführungen gemacht ist, nichts zu schaffen. Mag es das Wesen des Denkens immerhin notwendig machen, daß dieses gewollt wird: es kommt darauf an, daß nichts gewollt wird, was, indem es sich vollzieht, vor dem «Ich» nicht restlos als seine eigene, von ihm überschaubare Tätigkeit erscheint. Man muß sogar sagen, wegen der hier geltend gemachten Wesenheit des Denkens erscheint dieses dem Beobachter als durch und durch gewollt. Wer alles, was für die Beurteilung des Denkens in Betracht kommt, wirklich zu durchschauen sich bemüht, der wird nicht umhin können, zu bemerken, daß dieser Seelenbetätigung die Eigenheit zukommt, von der hier gesprochen ist.

Von einer Persönlichkeit, welche der Verfasser dieses Buches als Denker sehr hochschätzt, ist ihm eingewendet worden, daß so, wie es hier geschieht, nicht über das Denken gesprochen werden könne, weil es nur ein Schein sei, was man als tätiges Denken zu beobachten glaube. In Wirklichkeit beobachte man nur die Ergebnisse einer nicht bewußten Tätigkeit, die dem Denken zugrunde liegt. Nur weil diese nicht bewußte Tätigkeit eben nicht beobachtet werde, entstehe die Täuschung, es bestehe das beobachtete Denken durch sich selbst, wie wenn man bei rasch aufeinanderfolgender Beleuchtung durch elektrische Funken eine Bewegung zu sehen glaubt. Auch dieser Einwand beruht nur auf einer ungenauen Anschauung der Sachlage. Wer ihn macht, berücksichtigt nicht, daß es das «Ich» selbst ist, das im Denken drinnen stehend seine Tätigkeit beobachtet. Es müßte das «Ich» außer dem Denken stehen, wenn es so getäuscht werden könnte, wie bei rasch aufeinanderfolgender Beleuchtung durch elektrische Funken. Man könnte vielmehr sagen: wer einen solchen Vergleich macht, der täuscht sich gewaltsam etwa wie jemand, der von einem in Bewegung begriffenen Licht durchaus sagen wollte: es wird an jedem Orte, an dem es erscheint, von unbekannter Hand neu angezündet. – Nein, wer in dem Denken etwas anderes sehen will als das im « Ich» selbst als überschaubare Tätigkeit Hervorgebrachte, der muß sich erst für den einfachen, der Beobachtung vorliegenden Tatbestand blind machen, um dann eine hypothetische Tätigkeit dem Denken zugrunde legen zu können. Wer sich nicht so blind macht, der muß erkennen, daß alles, was er in dieser Art zu dem Denken «hinzudenkt», aus dem Wesen des Denkens herausführt. Die unbefangene Beobachtung ergibt, daß nichts zum Wesen des Denkens gerechnet werden kann, was nicht im Denken selbst gefunden wird. Man kann nicht zu etwas kommen, was das Denken bewirkt, wenn man den Bereich des Denkens verläßt.

IV. Die Welt als Wahrnehmung – 1

Durch das Denken entstehen Begriffe und Ideen. Was ein Begriff ist, kann nicht mit Worten gesagt werden. Worte können nur den Menschen darauf aufmerksam machen, daß er Begriffe habe. Wenn jemand einen Baum sieht, so reagiert sein Denken auf seine Beobachtung; zu dem Gegenstande tritt ein ideelles Gegenstück hinzu, und er betrachtet den Gegenstand und das ideelle Gegenstück als zusammengehörig. Wenn der Gegenstand aus seinem Beobachtungsfelde verschwindet, so bleibt nur das ideelle Gegenstück davon zurück. Das letztere ist der Begriff des Gegenstandes. Je mehr sich unsere Erfahrung erweitert, desto größer wird die Summe unserer Begriffe. Die Begriffe stehen aber durchaus nicht vereinzelt da. Sie schließen sich zu einem gesetzmäßigen Ganzen zusammen. Der Begriff «Organismus» schließt sich zum Beispiel an die andern: «gesetzmäßige Entwickelung, Wachstum» an. Andere an Einzeldingen gebildete Begriffe fallen völlig in eins zusammen. Alle Begriffe, die ich mir von Löwen bilde, fallen in den Gesamtbegriff «Löwe» zusammen. Auf diese Weise verbinden sich die einzelnen Begriffe zu einem geschlossenen Begriffssystem, in dem jeder seine besondere Stelle hat. Ideen sind qualitativ von Begriffen nicht verschieden. Sie sind nur inhaltsvollere, gesättigtere und umfangreichere Begriffe. Ich muß einen besonderen Wert darauf legen, daß hier an dieser Stelle beachtet werde, daß ich als meinen Ausgangspunkt das Denken bezeichnet habe und nicht Begriffe und Ideen, die erst durch das Denken gewonnen werden. Diese setzen das Denken bereits voraus. Es kann daher, was ich in bezug auf die in sich selbst ruhende, durch nichts bestimmte Natur des Denkens gesagt habe, nicht einfach auf die Begriffe übertragen werden. (Ich bemerke das hier ausdrücklich, weil hier meine Differenz mit Hegel liegt. Dieser setzt den Begriff als Erstes und Ursprüngliches.)

Der Begriff kann nicht aus der Beobachtung gewonnen werden. Das geht schon aus dem Umstande hervor, daß der heranwachsende Mensch sich langsam und allmählich erst die Begriffe zu den Gegenständen bildet, die ihn umgeben. Die Begriffe werden zu der Beobachtung hinzugefügt.

Ein vielgelesener Philosoph der Gegenwart, Herbert Spencer, schildert den geistigen Prozeß, den wir gegenüber der Beobachtung vollziehen, folgendermaßen:

«Wenn wir an einem Septembertag durch die Felder wandelnd, wenige Schritte vor uns ein Geräusch hören und an der Seite des Grabens, von dem es herzukommen schien, das Gras in Bewegung sehen, so werden wir wahrscheinlich auf die Stelle losgehen, um zu erfahren, was das Geräusch und die Bewegung hervorbrachte. Bei unserer Annäherung flattert ein Rebhuhn in den Graben, und damit ist unsere Neugierde befriedigt: wir haben, was wir eine Erklärung der Erscheinungen nennen.»

Diese Erklärung läuft, wohlgemerkt, auf folgendes hinaus: weil wir im Leben unendlich oft erfahren haben, daß eine Störung der ruhigen Lage kleiner Körper die Bewegung anderer zwischen ihnen befindlicher Körper begleitet, und weil wir deshalb die Beziehungen zwischen solchen Störungen und solchen Bewegungen verallgemeinert haben, so halten wir diese besondere Störung für erklärt, sobald wir finden, daß sie ein Beispiel eben dieser Beziehung darbietet.» Genauer besehen stellt sich die Sache ganz anders dar, als sie hier beschrieben ist. Wenn ich ein Geräusch höre, so suche ich zunächst den Begriff für diese Beobachtung. Dieser Begriff erst weist mich über das Geräusch hinaus. Wer nicht weiter nachdenkt, der hört eben das Geräusch und gibt sich damit zufrieden. Durch mein Nachdenken aber ist mir klar, daß ich ein Geräusch als Wirkung aufzufassen habe. Also erst wenn ich den Begriff der Wirkung mit der Wahrnehmung des Geräusches verbinde, werde ich veranlaßt, über die Einzelbeobachtung hinauszugehen und nach der Ursache zu suchen. Der Begriff der Wirkung ruft den der Ursache hervor, und ich suche dann nach dem verursachenden Gegenstande, den ich in der Gestalt des Rebhuhns finde. Diese Begriffe, Ursache und Wirkung, kann ich aber niemals durch bloße Beobachtung, und erstrecke sie sich auf noch so viele Fälle, gewinnen. Die Beobachtung fordert das Denken heraus, und erst dieses ist es, das mir den Weg weist, das einzelne Erlebnis an ein anderes anzuschließen.

Wenn man von einer «streng objektiven Wissenschaft» fordert, daß sie ihren Inhalt nur der Beobachtung entnehme, so muß man zugleich fordern, daß sie auf alles Denken verzichte. Denn dieses geht seiner Natur nach über das Beobachtete hinaus.

Nun ist es am Platze, von dem Denken auf das denkende Wesen überzugehen. Denn durch dieses wird das Denken mit der Beobachtung verbunden. Das menschliche Bewußtsein ist der Schauplatz, wo Begriff und Beobachtung einander begegnen und wo sie miteinander verknüpft werden. Dadurch ist aber dieses (menschliche) Bewußtsein zugleich charakterisiert. Es ist der Vermittler zwischen Denken und Beobachtung. Insoferne der Mensch einen Gegenstand beobachtet, erscheint ihm dieser als gegeben, insoferne er denkt, erscheint er sich selbst als tätig. Er betrachtet den Gegenstand als Objekt, sich selbst als das denkende Subjekt. Weil er sein Denken auf die Beobachtung richtet, hat er Bewußtsein von den Objekten; weil er sein Denken auf sich richtet, hat er Bewußtsein seiner selbst oder Selbstbewußtsein. Das menschliche Bewußtsein muß notwendig zugleich Selbstbewußtsein sein, weil es denkendes Bewußtsein ist. Denn wenn das Denken den Blick auf seine eigene Tätigkeit richtet, dann hat es seine ureigene Wesenheit, also sein Subjekt, als Objekt zum Gegenstande.

Nun darf aber nicht übersehen werden, daß wir uns nur mit Hilfe des Denkens als Subjekt bestimmen und uns den Objekten entgegensetzen können. Deshalb darf das Denken niemals als eine bloß subjektive Tätigkeit aufgefaßt werden. Das Denken ist jenseits von Subjekt und Objekt. Es bildet diese beiden Begriffe ebenso wie alle anderen. Wenn wir als denkendes Subjekt also den Begriff auf ein Objekt beziehen, so dürfen wir diese Beziehung nicht als etwas bloß Subjektives auffassen. Nicht das Subjekt ist es, welches die Beziehung herbeiführt, sondern das Denken. Das Subjekt denkt nicht deshalb, weil es Subjekt ist; sondern es erscheint sich als ein Subjekt, weil es zu denken vermag. Die Tätigkeit, die der Mensch als denkendes Wesen ausübt, ist also keine bloß subjektive, sondern eine solche, die weder subjektiv noch objektiv ist, eine über diese beiden Begriffe hinausgehende. Ich darf niemals sagen, daß mein individuelles Subjekt denkt; dieses lebt vielmehr selbst von des Denkens Gnaden. Das Denken ist somit ein Element, das mich über mein Selbst hinausführt und mit den Objekten verbindet. Aber es trennt mich zugleich von ihnen, indem es mich ihnen als Subjekt gegenüberstellt.

Darauf beruht die Doppelnatur des Menschen: er denkt und umschließt damit sich selbst und die übrige Welt; aber er muß sich mittels des Denkens zugleich als ein den Dingen gegenüberstehendes Individuum bestimmen.

III. Das Denken im Dienste der Weltauffassung – 1

Wenn ich beobachte, wie eine Billardkugel, die gestoßen wird, ihre Bewegung auf eine andere überträgt, so bleibe ich auf den Verlauf dieses beobachteten Vorganges ganz ohne Einfluß. Die Bewegungsrichtung und Schnelligkeit der zweiten Kugel ist durch die Richtung und Schnelligkeit der ersten bestimmt. Solange ich mich bloß als Beobachter verhalte, weiß ich über die Bewegung der zweiten Kugel erst dann etwas zu sagen, wenn dieselbe eingetreten ist. Anders ist die Sache, wenn ich über den Inhalt meiner Beobachtung nachzudenken beginne. Mein Nachdenken hat den Zweck, von dem Vorgange Begriffe zu bilden. Ich bringe den Begriff einer elastischen Kugel in Verbindung mit gewissen anderen Begriffen der Mechanik und ziehe die besonderen Umstände in Erwägung, die in dem vorkommenden Falle obwalten. Ich suche also zu dem Vorgange, der sich ohne mein Zutun abspielt, einen zweiten hinzuzufügen, der sich in der begrifflichen Sphäre vollzieht. Der letztere ist von mir abhängig. Das zeigt sich dadurch, daß ich mich mit der Beobachtung begnügen und auf alles Begriffe suchen verzichten kann, wenn ich kein Bedürfnis danach habe. Wenn dieses Bedürfnis aber vorhanden ist, dann beruhige ich mich erst, wenn ich die Begriffe: Kugel, Elastizität, Bewegung, Stoß, Geschwindigkeit usw. in eine gewisse Verbindung gebracht habe, zu welcher der beobachtete Vorgang in einem bestimmten Verhältnisse steht. So gewiß es nun ist, daß sich der Vorgang unabhängig von mir vollzieht, so gewiß ist es, daß sich der begriffliche Prozeß ohne mein Zutun nicht abspielen kann. Ob diese meine Tätigkeit wirklich der Ausfluß meines selbständigen Wesens ist, oder ob die modernen Physiologen recht haben, welche sagen, daß wir nicht denken können, wie wir wollen, sondern denken müssen, wie es die gerade unserem Bewußtsein vorhandenen Gedanken und Gedankenverbindungen bestimmen (vergleiche Ziehen, Leitfaden der physiologischen Psychologie, Jena 1893, S. 171), wird Gegenstand einer späteren Auseinandersetzung sein. Vorläufig wollen wir bloß die Tatsache feststellen, daß wir ans fortwährend gezwungen fühlen, zu den ohne unser Zutun uns gegebenen Gegenständen und Vorgängen Begriffe sind Begriffsverbindungen zu suchen, die zu jenen in einer gewissen Beziehung stehen. Ob dies Tun in Wahrheit unser Tun ist, oder ob wir es einer unabänderlichen Notwendigkeit gemäß vollziehen, lassen wir vorläufig dahingestellt. Daß es uns zunächst als das unsrige erscheint, ist ohne Frage. Wir wissen ganz genau, daß uns mit den Gegenständen nicht gleich deren Begriffe mitgegeben werden. Daß ich selbst der Tätige bin, mag auf einem Schein beruhen; der unmittelbaren Beobachtung stellt sich die Sache jedenfalls so dar. Die Frage ist nun: was gewinnen wir dadurch, daß wir zu einem Vorgange ein begriffliches Gegenstück hinzufinden?

Es ist ein tiefgreifender Unterschied zwischen der Art, wie sich für mich die Teile eines Vorganges zueinander verhalten vor und nach der Auffindung der entsprechenden Begriffe. Die bloße Beobachtung kann die Teile eines gegebenen Vorganges in ihrem Verlaufe verfolgen; ihr Zusammenhang bleibt aber vor der Zuhilfenahme von Begriffen dunkel. Ich sehe die erste Billardkugel in einer gewissen Richtung und mit einer bestimmten Geschwindigkeit gegen die ‘weite sich bewegen; was nach erfolgtem Stoß geschieht, muß ich abwarten und kann es dann auch wieder nur mit den Augen verfolgen. Nehmen wir an, es verdecke mir im Augenblicke des Stoßes jemand das Feld, auf dem der Vorgang sich abspielt, so bin ich – als bloßer Beobachter – ohne Kenntnis, was nachher geschieht. Anders ist das, wenn ich für die Konstellation der Verhältnisse vor dem Verdecken die entsprechenden Begriffe gefunden habe. In diesem Falle kann ich angeben, was geschieht, auch wenn die Möglichkeit der Beobachtung aufhört. Ein bloß beobachteter Vorgang oder Gegenstand ergibt aus sich selbst nichts über seinen Zusammenhang mit anderen Vorgängen oder Gegenständen. Dieser Zusammenhang wird erst ersichtlich, wenn sich die Beobachtung mit dem Denken verbindet.

Beobachtung und Denken sind die beiden Ausgangspunkte für alles geistige Streben des Menschen, insoferne er sich eines solchen bewußt ist. Die Verrichtungen des gemeinen Menschenverstandes und die verwickeltesten wissenschaftlichen Forschungen ruhen auf diesen beiden Grundsäulen unseres Geistes. Die Philosophen sind von verschiedenen Urgegensätzen ausgegangen: Idee und Wirklichkeit, Subjekt und Objekt, Erscheinung und Ding an sich, Ich und Nicht-Ich, Idee und Wille, Begriff und Materie, Kraft und Stoff, Bewußtes und Unbewußtes. Es läßt sich aber leicht zeigen, daß allen diesen Gegensätzen der von Beobachtung und Denken, als der für den Menschen wichtigste, vorangehen muß.

Was für ein Prinzip wir auch aufstellen mögen: wir müssen es irgendwo als von uns beobachtet nachweisen, oder in Form eines klaren Gedankens, der von jedem anderen nachgedacht werden kann, aussprechen. Jeder Philosoph, der anfängt über seine Urprinzipien zu sprechen, muß sich der begrifflichen Form, und damit des Denkens bedienen. Er gibt damit indirekt zu, daß er zu seiner Betätigung das Denken bereits voraussetzt. Ob das Denken oder irgend etwas anderes Hauptelement der Weltentwickelung ist, darüber werde hier noch nichts ausgemacht. Daß aber der Philosoph ohne das Denken kein Wissen darüber gewinnen kann, das ist von vornherein klar. Beim Zustandekommen der Welterscheinungen mag das Denken eine Nebenrolle spielen, beim Zustandekommen einer Ansicht darüber kommt ihm aber sicher eine Hauptrolle zu.

Was nun die Beobachtung betrifft, so liegt es in unserer Organisation, daß wir derselben bedürfen, Unser Denken über ein Pferd und der Gegenstand Pferd sind zwei Dinge, die für uns getrennt auftreten. Und dieser Gegenstand ist uns nur durch Beobachtung zugänglich. So wenig wir durch das bloße Anstarren eines Pferdes uns einen Begriff von demselben machen können, ebensowenig sind wir imstande, durch bloßes Denken einen entsprechenden Gegenstand hervorzubringen.

Zeitlich geht die Beobachtung sogar dem Denken voraus. Denn auch das Denken müssen wir erst durch Beobachtung kennenlernen. Es war wesentlich die Beschreibung einer Beobachtung, als wir am Eingange dieses Kapitels darstellten, wie sich das Denken an einem Vorgange entzündet und über das ohne sein Zutun Gegebene hinausgeht. Alles was in den Kreis unserer Erlebnisse eintritt, werden wir durch die Beobachtung erst gewahr. Der Inhalt von Empfindungen, Wahrnehmungen, Anschauungen, die Gefühle, Willensakte, Traum- und Phantasiegebilde, Vorstellungen, Begriffe und Ideen, sämtliche Illusionen und Halluzinationen werden uns durch die Beobachtung gegeben. Nur unterscheidet sich das Denken als Beobachtungsobjekt doch wesentlich von allen andern Dingen. Die Beobachtung eines Tisches, eines Baumes tritt bei mir ein, sobald diese Gegenstände auf dem Horizonte meiner Erlebnisse auftauchen. Das Denken aber über diese Gegenstände beobachte ich nicht gleichzeitig. Den Tisch beobachte ich, das Denken über den Tisch führe ich aus, aber ich beobachte es nicht in demselben Augenblicke. Ich muß mich erst auf einen Standpunkt außerhalb meiner eigenen Tätigkeit versetzen, wenn ich neben dem Tische auch mein Denken über den Tisch beobachten will. Während das Beobachten der Gegenstände und Vorgänge und das Denken darüber ganz alltägliche, mein fortlaufendes Leben ausfüllende Zustände sind, ist die Beobachtung des Denkens eine Art Ausnahmezustand. Diese Tatsache muß in entsprechender Weise berücksichtigt werden, wenn es sich darum handelt, das Verhältnis des Denkens zu allen anderen Beobachtungsinhalten zu bestimmen. Man muß sich klar darüber sein, daß man bei der Beobachtung des Denkens auf dieses ein Verfahren anwendet, das für die Betrachtung des ganzen übrigen Weltinhaltes den normalen Zustand bildet, das aber im Verfolge dieses normalen Zustandes für das Denken selbst nicht eintritt.

Es könnte jemand den Einwand machen, daß das gleiche, was ich hier von dem Denken bemerkt habe, auch von dem Fühlen und den übrigen geistigen Tätigkeiten gelte. Wenn wir zum Beispiel das Gefühl der Lust haben, so entzünde sich das auch an einem Gegenstande, und ich beobachte zwar diesen Gegenstand, nicht aber das Gefühl der Lust. Dieser Einwand beruht aber auf einem Irrtum. Die Lust steht durchaus nicht in demselben Verhältnisse zu ihrem Gegenstande wie der Begriff, den das Denken bildet. Ich bin mir auf das bestimmteste bewußt, daß der Begriff einer Sache durch meine Tätigkeit gebildet wird, während die Lust in mir auf ähnliche Art durch einen Gegenstand erzeugt wird, wie zum Beispiel die Veränderung, die ein fallender Stein in einem Gegenstande bewirkt, auf den er auffällt. Für die Beobachtung ist die Lust in genau derselben Weise gegeben, wie der sie veranlassende Vorgang. Ein gleiches gilt nicht vom Begriffe. Ich kann fragen: warum erzeugt ein bestimmter Vorgang bei mir das Gefühl der Lust? Aber ich kann durchaus nicht fragen: warum erzeugt ein Vorgang bei mir eine bestimmte Summe von Begriffen? Das hätte einfach keinen Sinn. Bei dem Nachdenken über einen Vorgang handelt es sich gar nicht um eine Wirkung auf mich. Ich kann dadurch nichts über mich erfahren, daß ich für die beobachtete Veränderung, die ein gegen eine Fensterscheibe geworfener Stein in dieser bewirkt, die entsprechenden Begriffe kenne. Aber ich erfahre sehr wohl etwas über meine Persönlichkeit, wenn ich das Gefühl kenne, das ein bestimmter Vorgang in mir erweckt. Wenn ich einem beobachteten Gegenstand gegenüber sage: dies ist eine Rose, so sage ich über mich selbst nicht das geringste aus; wenn ich aber von demselben Dinge sage: es bereitet mir das Gefühl der Lust, so habe ich nicht nur die Rose, sondern auch mich selbst in meinem Verhältnis zur Rose charakterisiert.

Von einer Gleichstellung des Denkens mit dem Fühlen der Beobachtung gegenüber kann also nicht die Rede sein. Dasselbe ließe sich leicht auch für die andern Tätigkeiten des menschlichen Geistes ableiten. Sie gehören dem Denken gegenüber in eine Reihe mit anderen beobachteten Gegenständen und Vorgängen. Es gehört eben zu der eigentümlichen Natur des Denkens, daß es eine Tätigkeit ist, die bloß auf den beobachteten Gegenstand gelenkt ist und nicht auf die denkende Persönlichkeit. Das spricht sich schon in der Art aus, wie wir unsere Gedanken über eine Sache zum Ausdruck bringen im Gegensatz zu unseren Gefühlen oder Willensakten. Wenn ich einen Gegenstand sehe und diesen als einen Tisch erkenne, werde ich im allgemeinen nicht sagen: ich denke über einen Tisch, sondern: dies ist ein Tisch. Wohl aber werde ich sagen: ich freue mich über den Tisch. Im ersteren Falle kommt es mir eben gar nicht darauf an, auszusprechen, daß ich zu dem Tisch in ein Verhältnis trete; in dem zweiten Falle handelt es sich aber gerade um dieses Verhältnis. Mit dem Ausspruch: ich denke über einen Tisch, trete ich bereits in den oben charakterisierten Ausnahmezustand ein, wo etwas zum Gegenstand der Beobachtung gemacht wird, was in unserer geistigen Tätigkeit immer mitenthalten ist, aber nicht als beobachtetes Objekt.

Das ist die eigentümliche Natur des Denkens, daß der Denkende das Denken vergißt, während er es ausübt. Nicht das Denken beschäftigt ihn, sondern der Gegenstand des Denkens, den er beobachtet.

Die erste Beobachtung, die wir über das Denken machen, ist also die, daß es das unbeobachtete Element unseres gewöhnlichen Geisteslebens ist.

Der Grund, warum wir das Denken im alltäglichen Geistesleben nicht beobachten, ist kein anderer als der, daß es auf unserer eigenen Tätigkeit beruht. Was ich nicht selbst hervorbringe, tritt als ein Gegenständliches in mein Beobachtungsfeld ein. Ich sehe mich ihm als einem ohne mich zustande Gekommenen gegenüber; es tritt an mich heran; ich muß es als die Voraussetzung meines Denkprozesses hinnehmen. Während ich über den Gegenstand nachdenke, bin ich mit diesem beschäftigt, mein Blick ist ihm zugewandt. Diese Beschäftigung ist eben die denkende Betrachtung. Nicht auf meine Tätigkeit, sondern auf das Objekt dieser Tätigkeit ist meine Aufmerksamkeit gerichtet. Mit anderen Worten: während ich denke, sehe ich nicht auf mein Denken, das ich selbst hervorbringe, sondern auf das Objekt des Denkens, das ich nicht hervorbringe.

Ich bin sogar in demselben Fall, wenn ich den Ausnahmezustand eintreten lasse, und über mein Denken selbst nachdenke. Ich kann mein gegenwärtiges Denken nie beobachten; sondern nur die Erfahrungen, die ich über meinen Denkprozeß gemacht habe, kann ich nachher zum Objekt des Denkens machen. Ich müßte mich in zwei Persönlichkeiten spalten: in eine, die denkt, und in die andere, welche sich bei diesem Denken selbst zusieht, wenn ich mein gegenwärtiges Denken beobachten wollte. Das kann ich nicht. Ich kann das nur in zwei getrennten Akten ausführen. Das Denken, das beobachtet werden soll, ist nie das dabei in Tätigkeit befindliche, sondern ein anderes. Ob ich zu diesem Zwecke meine Beobachtungen an meinem eigenen früheren Denken mache, oder ob ich den Gedankenprozeß einer anderen Person verfolge, oder endlich, ob ich, wie im obigen Falle mit der Bewegung der Billardkugeln, einen fingierten Gedankenprozeß voraussetze, darauf kommt es nicht an.

II. Der Grundtrieb zur Wissenschaft

Zwei Seelen wohnen, ach! in meiner Brust,
Die eine will sich von der andern trennen;
Die eine hält, in derber Liebeslust,
Sich an die Welt mit klammernden Organen;
Die andere hebt gewaltsam sich vom Dust
Zu den Gefilden hoher Ahnen.
(Faust I, 1112-1117)

Mit diesen Worten spricht Goethe einen tief in der menschlichen Natur begründeten Charakterzug aus. Nicht ein einheitlich organisiertes Wesen ist der Mensch. Er verlangt stets mehr, als die Welt ihm freiwillig gibt. Bedürfnisse hat die Natur uns gegeben; unter diesen sind solche, deren Befriedigung sie unserer eigenen Tätigkeit überläßt. Reichlich sind die Gaben, die uns zugeteilt, aber noch reichlicher ist unser Begehren. Wir scheinen zur Unzufriedenheit geboren. Nur ein besonderer Fall dieser Unzufriedenheit ist unser Erkenntnisdrang. Wir blicken einen Baum zweimal an. Wir sehen das eine Mal seine Aste in Ruhe, das andere Mal in Bewegung. Wir geben uns mit dieser Beobachtung nicht zufrieden. Warum stellt sich uns der Baum das eine Mal ruhend, das andere Mal in Bewegung dar? So fragen wir. Jeder Blick in die Natur erzeugt in uns eine Summe von Fragen. Mit jeder Erscheinung, die uns entgegentritt, ist uns eine Aufgabe mitgegeben. Jedes Erlebnis wird uns zum Rätsel. Wir sehen aus dem Ei ein dem Muttertiere ähnliches Wesen hervorgehen; wir fragen nach dem Grunde dieser Ähnlichkeit. Wir beobachten an einem Lebewesen Wachstum und Entwickelung bis zu einem bestimmten Grade der Vollkommenheit: wir suchen nach den Bedingungen dieser Erfahrung. Nirgends sind wir mit dem zufrieden, was die Natur vor unseren Sinnen ausbreitet. Wir suchen überall nach dem, was wir Erklärung der Tatsachen nennen.

Der Überschuß dessen, was wir in den Dingen suchen, über das, was uns in ihnen unmittelbar gegeben ist, spaltet unser ganzes Wesen in zwei Teile; wir werden uns unseres Gegensatzes zur Welt bewußt. Wir stellen uns als ein selbständiges Wesen der Welt gegenüber. Das Universum erscheint uns in den zwei Gegensätzen: Ich und Welt. Diese Scheidewand zwischen uns und der Welt errichten wir, sobald das Bewußtsein in uns aufleuchtet. Aber niemals verlieren wir das Gefühl, daß wir doch zur Welt gehören, daß ein Band besteht, das uns mit ihr verbindet, daß wir nicht ein Wesen außerhalb, sondern innerhalb des Universums sind.

Dieses Gefühl erzeugt das Streben, den Gegensatz zu überbrücken. Und in der Überbrückung dieses Gegensatzes besteht im letzten Grunde das ganze geistige Streben der Menschheit. Die Geschichte des geistigen Lebens ist ein fortwährendes Suchen der Einheit zwischen uns und der Welt. Religion, Kunst und Wissenschaft verfolgen gleichermaßen dieses Ziel. Der Religiös-Gläubige sucht in der Offenbarung, die ihm Gott zuteil werden läßt, die Lösung der Welträtsel, die ihm sein mit der bloßen Erscheinungswelt unzufriedenes Ich aufgibt. Der Künstler sucht dem Stoffe die Ideen seines Ich einzubilden, um das in seinem Innern Lebende mit der Außenwelt zu versöhnen. Auch er fühlt sich unbefriedigt von der bloßen Erscheinungswelt und sucht ihr jenes Mehr einzuformen, das sein Ich, über sie hinausgehend, birgt. Der Denker sucht nach den Gesetzen der Erscheinungen, er strebt [29] denkend zu durchdringen, was er beobachtend erfährt. Erst wenn wir den Weltinhalt zu unserem Gedankeninhalt gemacht haben, erst dann finden wir den Zusammenhang wieder, aus dem wir uns selbst gelöst haben. Wir werden später sehen, daß dieses Ziel nur erreicht wird, wenn die Aufgabe des wissenschaftlichen Forschers allerdings viel tiefer aufgefaßt wird, als dies oft geschieht. Das ganze Verhältnis, das ich hier dargelegt habe, tritt uns in einer weltgeschichtlichen Erscheinung entgegen: in dem Gegensatz der einheitlichen Weltauffassung oder des Monismus und der Zweiweltentheorie oder des Dualismus. Der Dualismus richtet den Blick nur auf die von dem Bewußtsein des Menschen vollzogene Trennung zwischen Ich und Welt. Sein ganzes Streben ist ein ohnmächtiges Ringen nach der Versöhnung dieser Gegensätze, die er bald Geist und Materie, bald Subjekt und Objekt, bald Denken und Erscheinung nennt. Er hat ein Gefühl, daß es eine Brücke geben muß zwischen den beiden Welten, aber er ist nicht imstande, sie zu finden. Indem der Mensch sich als «Ich» erlebt, kann er nicht anders als dieses «Ich» auf der Seite des Geistes denken; und indem er diesem Ich die Welt entgegensetzt, muß er zu dieser die den Sinnen gegebene Wahrnehmungswelt rechnen, die materielle Welt Dadurch stellt sich der Mensch selbst in den Gegensatz Geist und Materie hinein. Er muß dies um so mehr tun, als zur materiellen Welt sein eigener Leib gehört. Das «Ich gehört so dem Geistigen als ein Teil an; die materiellen Dinge und Vorgänge, die von den Sinnen wahrgenommen werden, der «Welt». Alle Rätsel, die sich auf Geist und Materie beziehen, muß der Mensch in dem Grundrätsel seines eigenen Wesens wiederfinden. Der Monismus richtet den Blick allein auf die Einheit und sucht die einmal vorhandenen Gegensätze zu leugnen oder zu verwischen. Keine von den beiden Anschauungen kann befriedigen, denn sie werden den Tatsachen nicht gerecht. Der Dualismus sieht Geist (Ich) und Materie (Welt) als zwei grundverschiedene Wesenheiten an, und kann deshalb nicht begreifen, wie beide aufeinander wirken können. Wie soll der Geist wissen, was in der Materie vorgeht, wenn ihm deren eigentümliche Natur ganz fremd ist? Oder wie soll er unter diesen Umständen auf sie wirken, so daß sich seine Absichten in Taten umsetzen? Die scharfsinnigsten und die widersinnigsten Hypothesen wurden aufgestellt, um diese Fragen zu lösen. Aber auch mit dem Monismus steht es bis heute nicht viel besser. Er hat sich bis jetzt in einer dreifachen Art zu helfen gesucht: Entweder er leugnet den Geist und wird zum Materialismus; oder er leugnet die Materie, um im Spiritualismus sein Heil zu suchen; oder aber er behauptet, daß auch schon in dem einfachsten Weltwesen Materie und Geist untrennbar verbunden seien, weswegen man gar nicht erstaunt zu sein brauchte, wenn in dem Menschen diese zwei Daseinsweisen auftreten, die ja nirgends getrennt sind.

Der Materialismus kann niemals eine befriedigende Welterklärung liefern. Denn jeder Versuch einer Erklärung muß damit beginnen, daß man sich Gedanken über die Welterscheinungen bildet. Der Materialismus macht deshalb den Anfang mit dem Gedanken der Materie oder der materiellen Vorgänge. Damit hat er bereits zwei verschiedene Tatsachengebiete vor sich: die materielle Welt und die Gedanken über sie. Er sucht die letzteren dadurch zu begreifen, daß er sie als einen rein materiellen Prozeß auffaßt. Er glaubt, daß das Denken im Gehirne etwa so zustande komme, wie die Verdauung in den animalischen Organen. So wie er [31] der Materie mechanische und organische Wirkungen zuschreibt, so legt er ihr auch die Fähigkeit bei, unter bestimmten Bedingungen zu denken. Er vergißt, daß er nun das Problem nur an einen andern Ort verlegt hat. Statt sich selbst, schreibt er die Fähigkeit des Denkens der Materie zu. Und damit ist er wieder an seinem Ausgangspunkte. Wie kommt die Materie dazu, über ihr eigenes Wesen nachzudenken? Warum ist sie nicht einfach mit sich zufrieden und nimmt ihr Dasein hin? Von dem bestimmten Subjekt, von unserem eigenen Ich hat der Materialist den Blick abgewandt und auf ein unbestimmtes, nebelhaftes Gebilde ist er gekommen. Und hier tritt ihm dasselbe Rätsel entgegen. Die materialistische Anschauung vermag das Problem nicht zu lösen, sondern nur zu verschieben.

Wie steht es mit der spiritualistischen? Der reine Spiritualist leugnet die Materie in ihrem selbständigen Dasein und faßt sie nur als Produkt des Geistes auf. Wendet er diese Weltanschauung auf die Enträtselung der eigenen menschlichen Wesenheit an, so wird er in die Enge getrieben. Dem Ich, das auf die Seite des Geistes gestellt werden kann, steht unvermittelt gegenüber die sinnliche Welt. Zu dieser scheint ein geistiger Zugang sich nicht zu eröffnen, sie muß durch materielle Prozesse von dem Ich wahrgenommen und erlebt werden. Solche materielle Prozesse findet das «Ich» in sich nicht, wenn es sich nur als geistige Wesenheit gelten lassen will. Was es geistig sich erarbeitet, in dem ist nie die SinnesweIt drinnen. Es scheint das «Ich» zugeben zu müssen, daß ihm die Welt verschlossen bliebe, wenn es nicht sich auf ungeistige Art zu ihr in ein Verhältnis setzte. Ebenso müssen wir, wenn wir ans Handeln gehen, unsere Absichten mit Hilfe der materiellen Stoffe und Kräfte in Wirklichkeit umsetzen. [32] Wir sind also auf die Außenwelt angewiesen. Der extremste Spiritualist, oder wenn man will, der durch den absoluten Idealismus sich als extremer Spiritualist darstellende Denker ist Johann Gottlieb Fichte. Er versuchte das ganze Weltgebäude aus dem «Ich» abzuleiten. Was ihm dabei wirklich gelungen ist, ist ein großartiges Gedankenbild der Welt, ohne allen Erfahrungsinhalt. So wenig es dem Materialisten möglich ist, den Geist, ebensowenig ist es dem Spiritualisten möglich, die materielle Außenwelt wegzudekretieren.

Weil der Mensch, wenn er die Erkenntnis auf das «Ich» lenkt, zunächst das Wirken dieses «Ich» in der gedanklichen Ausgestaltung der Ideenwelt wahrnimmt, kann sich die spiritualistisch gerichtete Weltanschauung beim Hinblicke auf die eigene menschliche Wesenheit versucht fühlen, von dem Geiste nur diese Ideenwelt anzuerkennen. Der Spiritualismus wird auf diese Art zum einseitigen Idealismus. Er kommt nicht dazu, durch die Ideenwelt eine geistige Welt zu suchen; er sieht in der Ideenwelt selbst die geistige Welt. Dadurch wird er dazu getrieben, innerhalb der Wirksamkeit des «Ich» selbst, wie festgebannt, mit seiner Weltanschauung stehen bleiben zu müssen.

Eine merkwürdige Abart des Idealismus ist die Anschauung Friedrich Albert Langes, wie er sie in seiner vielgelesenen «Geschichte des Materialismus» vertreten hat, er nimmt an, daß der Materialismus ganz recht habe, wenn er alle Welterscheinungen, einschließlich unseres Denkens, für das Produkt rein stofflicher Vorgänge erklärt; nur sei umgekehrt die Materie und ihre Vorgänge selbst wieder ein Produkt unseres Denkens. «Die Sinne geben uns … Wirkungen der Dinge, nicht getreue Bilder, oder gar die Dinge selbst. Zu diesen bloßen Wirkungen gehören aber auch die Sinne selbst samt dem Hirn und den in ihm gedachten Molekularbewegungen.» Das heißt, unser Denken wird von den materiellen Prozessen erzeugt und diese von dem Denken des «Ich». Langes Philosophie ist somit nichts anderes, als die in Begriffe umgesetzte Geschichte des wackeren Münchhausen, der sich an seinem eigenen Haarschopf frei in der Luft festhält.

Die dritte Form des Monismus ist die, welche in dem einfachsten Wesen (Atom) bereits die beiden Wesenheiten, Materie und Geist, vereinigt sieht. Damit ist aber auch nichts erreicht, als daß die Frage, die eigentlich in unserem Bewußtsein entsteht, auf einen anderen Schauplatz versetzt wird. Wie kommt das einfache Wesen dazu, sich in einer zweifachen Weise zu äußern, wenn es eine ungetrennte Einheit ist?

Allen diesen Standpunkten gegenüber muß geltend gemacht werden, daß uns der Grund- und Urgegensatz zuerst in unserem eigenen Bewußtsein entgegentritt. Wir sind es selbst, die wir uns von dem Mutterboden der Natur loslösen, und uns als «Ich» der «Welt» gegenüberstellen. Klassisch spricht das Goethe in seinem Aufsatz «Die Natur» aus, wenn auch seine Art zunächst als ganz unwissenschaftlich gelten mag: «Wir leben mitten in ihr (der Natur) und sind ihr fremde. Sie spricht unaufhörlich mit uns und verrät uns ihr Geheimnis nicht.» Aber auch die Kehrseite kennt Goethe: «Die Menschen sind alle in ihr und sie in allen.»

So wahr es ist, daß wir uns der Natur entfremdet haben, so wahr ist es, daß wir fühlen: wir sind in ihr und gehören zu ihr. Es kann nur ihr eigenes Wirken sein, das auch in uns lebt. Wir müssen den Weg zu ihr zurück wieder finden. Eine einfache Überlegung kann uns diesen Weg weisen. Wir haben uns zwar losgerissen von der Natur; aber wir müssen doch etwas mit herübergenommen haben in unser eigenes Wesen. Dieses Naturwesen in uns müssen wir aufsuchen, dann werden wir den Zusammenhang auch wieder finden. Das versäumt der Dualismus. Er hält das menschliche Innere für ein der Natur ganz fremdes Geistwesen und sucht dieses an die Natur anzukoppeln. Kein Wunder, daß er das Bindeglied nicht finden kann. Wir können die Natur außer uns nur finden, wenn wir sie in uns erst kennen. Das ihr Gleiche in unserem eigenen Innern wird uns der Führer sein. Damit ist uns unsere Bahn vorgezeichnet. Wir wollen keine Spekulationen anstellen über die Wechselwirkung von Natur und Geist. Wir wollen aber hinuntersteigen in die Tiefen unseres eigenen Wesens, um da jene Elemente zu finden, die wir herübergerettet haben bei unserer Flucht aus der Natur.

Die Erforschung unseres Wesens muß uns die Lösung des Rätsels bringen. Wir müssen an einen Punkt kommen, wo wir uns sagen können: Hier sind wir nicht mehr bloß «Ich», hier liegt etwas, was mehr als «Ich» ist.

Ich bin darauf gefaßt, daß mancher, der bis hierher gelesen hat, meine Ausführungen nicht «dem gegenwärtigen Stande der Wissenschaft, gemäß findet. Ich kann dem gegenüber nur erwidern, daß ich es bisher mit keinerlei wissenschaftlichen Resultaten zu tun haben wollte, sondern mit der einfachen Beschreibung dessen, was jedermann in seinem eigenen Bewußtsein erlebt. Daß dabei auch einzelne Sätze über Versöhnungsversuche des Bewußtseins mit der Welt eingeflossen sind, hat nur den Zweck, die eigentlichen Tatsachen zu verdeutlichen. Ich habe deshalb auch keinen Wert [35] darauf gelegt, die einzelnen Ausdrücke, wie «Ich», «Geist», «Welt», «Natur» und so weiter in der präzisen Weise zu gebrauchen, wie es in der Psychologie und Philosophie üblich ist. Das alltägliche Bewußtsein kennt die scharfen Unterschiede der Wissenschaft nicht, und um eine Aufnahme des alltäglichen Tatbestandes handelte es sich bisher bloß. Nicht wie die Wissenschaft bisher das Bewußtsein interpretiert hat, geht mich an, sondern wie sich dasselbe stündlich darlebt.

I. Das bewusste menschliche Handeln

Ist der Mensch in seinem Denken und Handeln ein geistig freies Wesen oder steht er unter dem Zwange einer rein naturgesetzlichen ehernen Notwendigkeit? Auf wenige Fragen ist so viel Scharfsinn gewendet worden als auf diese. Die Idee der Freiheit des menschlichen Willens hat warme Anhänger wie hartnäckige Gegner in reicher Zahl gefunden. Es gibt Menschen, die in ihrem sittlichen Pathos jeden für einen beschränkten Geist erklären, der eine so offenkundige Tatsache wie die Freiheit zu leugnen vermag. Ihnen stehen andere gegenüber, die darin den Gipfel der Unwissenschaftlichkeit erblicken, wenn jemand die Gesetzmäßigkeit der Natur auf dem Gebiete des menschlichen Handelns und Denkens unterbrochen glaubt. Ein und dasselbe Ding wird hier gleich oft für das kostbarste Gut der Menschheit wie für die ärgste Illusion erklärt. Unendliche Spitzfindigkeit wurde aufgewendet, um zu erklären, wie sich die menschliche Freiheit mit dem Wirken in der Natur, der doch auch der Mensch angehört, verträgt. Nicht geringer ist die Mühe, mit der von anderer Seite begreiflich zu machen gesucht wurde, wie eine solche Wahnidee hat entstehen können. Daß man es hier mit einer der wichtigsten Fragen des Lebens, der Religion, der Praxis und der Wissenschaft zu tun hat, das fühlt jeder, bei dem nicht das Gegenteil von Gründlichkeit der hervorstechendste Zug seines Charakters ist. Und es gehört zu den traurigen Zeichen der Oberflächlichkeit gegenwärtigen Denkens, daß ein Buch, das aus den Ergebnissen neuerer Naturforschung einen «neuen Glauben» prägen will (David Friedrich Strauß, Der alte und der neue Glaube), über diese Frage [16] nichts enthält als die Worte: «Auf die Frage nach der Freiheit des menschlichen Willens haben wir uns hiebei nicht einzulassen. Die vermeintlich indifferente Wahlfreiheit ist von jeder Philosophie, die des Namens wert war, immer als ein leeres Phantom erkannt worden; die sittliche Wertbestimmung der menschlichen Handlungen und Gesinnungen aber bleibt von jener Frage unberührt.» Nicht weil ich glaube, daß das Buch, in dem sie steht, eine besondere Bedeutung hat, führe ich diese Stelle hier an, sondern weil sie mir die Meinung auszusprechen scheint, bis zu der sich in der fraglichen Angelegenheit die Mehrzahl unserer denkenden Zeitgenossen aufzuschwingen vermag. Daß die Freiheit darin nicht bestehen könne, von zwei möglichen Handlungen ganz nach Belieben die eine oder die andere zu wählen, scheint heute jeder zu wissen, der darauf Anspruch macht, den wissenschaftlichen Kinderschuhen entwachsen zu sein. Es ist immer, so behauptet man, ein ganz bestimmter Grund vorhanden, warum man von mehreren möglichen Handlungen gerade eine bestimmte zur Ausführung bringt.

Das scheint einleuchtend. Trotzdem richten sich bis zum heutigen Tage die Hauptangriffe der Freiheitsgegner nur gegen die Wahlfreiheit. Sagt doch Herbert Spencer, der in Ansichten lebt, die mit jedem Tage an Verbreitung gewinnen (Die Prinzipien der Psychologie, von Herbert Spencer, deutsche Ausgabe von Dr. B. Vetter, Stuttgart 1882): «Daß aber Jedermann auch nach Belieben begehren oder nicht begehren könne, was der eigentliche im Dogma vom freien Willen liegende Satz ist, das wird freilich ebensosehr durch die Analyse des Bewußtseins, als durch den Inhalt der vorhergehenden Kapitel (der Psychologie) verneint.» Von demselben Gesichtspunkte gehen auch andere aus, wenn sie den Begriff des freien Willens bekämpfen. Im Keime finden sich alle diesbezüglichen Ausführungen schon bei Spinoza. Was dieser klar und einfach gegen die Idee der Freiheit vorbrachte, das wurde seitdem unzählige Male wiederholt, nur eingehüllt zumeist in die spitzfindigsten theoretischen Lehren, so daß es schwer wird, den schlichten Gedankengang, auf den es allein ankommt, zu erkennen. Spinoza schreibt in einem Briefe vom Oktober oder November 1674: «Ich nenne nämlich die Sache frei, die aus der bloßen Notwendigkeit ihrer Natur besteht und handelt, und gezwungen nenne ich die, welche von etwas anderem zum Dasein und Wirken in genauer und fester Weise bestimmt wird. So besteht zum Beispiel Gott, obgleich notwendig, doch frei, weil er nur aus der Notwendigkeit seiner Natur allein besteht. Ebenso erkennt Gott sich selbst und alles andere frei, weil es aus der Notwendigkeit seiner Natur allein folgt, daß er alles erkennt. Sie sehen also, daß ich die Freiheit nicht in ein freies Beschließen, sondern in eine freie Notwendigkeit setze.

Doch wir wollen zu den erschaffenen Dingen herabsteigen, welche sämtlich von äußern Ursachen bestimmt werden, in fester und genauer Weise zu bestehen und zu wirken. Um dies deutlicher einzusehen, wollen wir uns eine ganz einfache Sache vorstellen. So erhält zum Beispiel ein Stein von einer äußeren, ihn stoßenden Ursache eine gewisse Menge von Bewegung, mit der er nachher, wenn der Stoß der äußern Ursache aufgehört hat, notwendig fortfährt, sich zu bewegen. Dieses Beharren des Steines in seiner Bewegung ist deshalb ein erzwungenes und kein notwendiges, weil es durch den Stoß einer äußern Ursache definiert werden muß. Was hier von dem Stein gilt, gilt von jeder andern einzelnen Sache, und mag sie noch so zusammengesetzt und zu vielem geeignet sein, nämlich, daß jede Sache notwendig von einer äußern Ursache bestimmt wird, in fester und genauer Weise zu bestehen und zu wirken.

Nehmen Sie nun, ich bitte, an, daß der Stein, während er sich bewegt, denkt und weiß, er bestrebe sich, soviel er kann, in dem Bewegen fortzufahren. Dieser Stein, der nur seines Strebens sich bewußt ist und keineswegs gleichgültig sich verhält, wird glauben, daß er ganz frei sei und daß er aus keinem andern Grunde in seiner Bewegung fort fahre , als weil er es wolle. Dies ist aber jene menschliche Freiheit, die alle zu besitzen behaupten und die nur darin besteht, daß die Menschen ihres Begehrens sich bewußt sind, aber die Ursachen, von denen sie bestimmt werden, nicht kennen. So glaubt das Kind, daß es die Milch frei begehre und der zornige Knabe, daß er frei die Rache verlange, und der Furchtsame die Flucht. Ferner glaubt der Betrunkene, daß er nach freiem Entschluß dies spreche, was er, wenn er nüchtern geworden, gern nicht gesprochen hätte; und da dieses Vorurteil allen Menschen angeboren ist, so kann man sich nicht leicht davon befreien. Denn wenn auch die Erfahrung genügend lehrt, daß die Menschen am wenigsten ihr Begehren mäßigen können und daß sie, von entgegengesetzten Leidenschaften bewegt, das Bessere einsehen und das Schlechtere tun, so halten sie sich doch für frei und zwar, weil sie manches weniger stark begehren und manches Begehren leicht durch die Erinnerung an anderes, dessen man sich oft entsinnt, gehemmt werden kann.»

Weil hier eine klar und bestimmt ausgesprochene Ansicht vorliegt, wird es auch leicht, den Grundirrtum, der darin steckt, aufzudecken. So notwendig, wie der Stein auf einen Anstoß hin eine bestimmte Bewegung ausführt, ebenso notwendig soll der Mensch eine Handlung ausführen, wenn er durch irgendeinen Grund dazu getrieben wird. Nur weil der Mensch ein Bewußtsein von seiner Handlung hat, halte er sich für den freien Veranlasser derselben. Er übersehe dabei aber, daß eine Ursache ihn treibt, der er unbedingt folgen muß. Der Irrtum in diesem Gedankengange ist bald gefunden. Spinoza und alle, die denken wie er, übersehen, daß der Mensch nicht nur ein Bewußtsein von seiner Handlung hat, sondern es auch von den Ursachen haben kann, von denen er geleitet wird. Niemand wird es bestreiten, daß das Kind unfrei ist, wenn es die Milch begehrt, daß der Betrunkene es ist, wenn er Dinge spricht, die er später bereut. Beide wissen nichts von den Ursachen, die in den Tiefen ihres Organismus tätig sind, und unter deren unwiderstehlichem Zwange sie stehen. Aber ist es berechtigt, Handlungen dieser Art in einen Topf zu werfen mit solchen, bei denen sich der Mensch nicht nur seines Handelns bewußt ist, sondern auch der Gründe, die ihn veranlassen? Sind die Handlungen der Menschen denn von einerlei Art? Darf die Tat des Kriegers auf dem Schlachtfelde, die des wissenschaftlichen Forschers im Laboratorium, des Staatsmannes in verwickelten diplomatischen Angelegenheiten wissenschaftlich auf gleiche Stufe gestellt werden mit der des Kindes, wenn es nach Milch begehrt? Wohl ist es wahr, daß man die Lösung einer Aufgabe da am besten versucht, wo die Sache am einfachsten ist. Aber oft schon hat der Mangel an Unterscheidungsvermögen endlose Verwirrung gebracht. Und ein tiefgreifender Unterschied ist es doch, ob ich weiß, warum ich etwas tue, oder ob das nicht der Fall ist. Zunächst scheint das eine ganz selbstverständliche Wahrheit zu sein. Und doch wird von den Gegnern der Freiheit nie danach gefragt, ob denn ein Beweggrund meines Handelns, den ich erkenne und durchschaue, für mich in gleichem Sinne einen Zwang bedeutet, wie der organische Prozeß, der das Kind veranlaßt, nach Milch zu schreien.

Eduard von Hartmann behauptet in seiner «Phänomenologie des sittlichen Bewußtseins» (S. 451), das menschliche Wollen hänge von zwei Hauptfaktoren ab: von den Beweggründen und von dem Charakter. Betrachtet man die Menschen alle als gleich oder doch ihre Verschiedenheiten als unerheblich, so erscheint ihr Wollen als von außen bestimmt, nämlich durch die Umstände, die an sie herantreten. Erwägt man aber, daß verschiedene Menschen eine Vorstellung erst dann zum Beweggrund ihres Handelns machen, wenn ihr Charakter ein solcher ist, der durch die entsprechende Vorstellung zu einer Begehrung veranlaßt wird, so erscheint der Mensch von innen bestimmt und nicht von außen. Der Mensch glaubt nun, weil er, gemäß seinem Charakter, eine ihm von außen aufgedrängte Vorstellung erst zum Beweggrund machen muß: er sei frei, das heißt unabhängig von äußeren Beweggründen. Die Wahrheit aber ist, nach Eduard von Hartmann, daß: «Wenn aber auch wir selbst die Vorstellungen erst zu Motiven erheben, so tun wir dies doch nicht willkürlich, sondern nach der Notwendigkeit unserer charakterologischen Veranlagung, also nichts weniger als frei,. Auch hier bleibt der Unterschied ohne alle Berücksichtigung, der besteht zwischen Beweggründen, die ich erst auf mich wirken lasse, nachdem ich sie mit meinem Bewußtsein durchdrungen habe, und solchen, denen ich folge, ohne daß ich ein klares Wissen von ihnen besitze.

Und dies führt unmittelbar auf den Standpunkt, von dem aus hier die Sache angesehen werden soll. Darf die Frage nach der Freiheit unseres Willens überhaupt einseitig für sich gestellt werden? Und wenn nicht: mit welcher andern muß sie notwendig verknüpft werden?

Ist ein Unterschied zwischen einem bewußten Beweggrund meines Handelns und einem unbewußten Antrieb, dann wird der erstere auch eine Handlung nach sich ziehen, die anders beurteilt werden muß als eine solche aus blindem Drange. Die Frage nach diesem Unterschied wird also die erste sein. Und was sie ergibt, davon wird es erst abhängen, wie wir uns zu der eigentlichen Freiheitsfrage zu stellen haben.

Was heißt es, ein Wissen von den Gründen seines Handelns haben? Man hat diese Frage zu wenig berücksichtigt, weil man leider immer in zwei Teile zerrissen hat, was ein untrennbares Ganzes ist: den Menschen. Den Handelnden und den Erkennenden unterschied man, und leer ausgegangen ist dabei nur der, auf den es vor allen andern Dingen ankommt: der aus Erkenntnis Handelnde.

Man sagt frei sei der Mensch, wenn er nur unter der Herrschaft seiner Vernunft stehe und nicht unter der der animalischen Begierden. Oder auch: Freiheit bedeute, sein Leben und Handeln nach Zwecken und Entschlüssen bestimmen zu können.

Mit Behauptungen solcher Art ist aber gar nichts gewonnen. Denn das ist ja eben die Frage, ob die Vernunft, ob Zwecke und Entschlüsse in gleicher Weise auf den Menschen einen Zwang ausüben wie animalische Begierden. Wenn ohne mein Zutun ein vernünftiger Entschluß in mir auftaucht, gerade mit derselben Notwendigkeit wie Hunger und Durst, dann kann ich ihm nur notgedrungen folgen, und meine Freiheit ist eine Illusion. Eine andere Redewendung lautet: Freisein heißt nicht wollen können, was man will, sondern tun können, was man will. Diesen Gedanken hat der Dichterphilosoph Robert Hamerling in seiner «Atomistik des Willens» in scharf- umrissenen Worten gekennzeichnet: «Der Mensch kann allerdings tun, was er will – aber er kann nicht wollen, was er will, weil sein Wille durch Motive bestimmt ist! – Er kann nicht wollen, was er will? Sehe man sich diese Worte doch einmal näher an. Ist ein vernünftiger Sinn darin? Freiheit des Willens müßte also darin bestehen, daß man ohne Grund, ohne Motiv etwas wollen könnte? Aber was heißt denn Wollen anders, als einen Grund haben, dies lieber zu tun oder anzustreben als jenes? Ohne Grund, ohne Motiv etwas wollen, hieße etwas wollen, ohne es zu wollen. Mit dem Begriffe des Wollens ist der des Motivs unzertrennlich verknüpft. Ohne ein bestimmendes Motiv ist der Wille ein leeres Vermögen: erst durch das Motiv wird er tätig und reell. Es ist also ganz richtig, daß der menschliche Wille insofern nicht «frei» ist, als seine Richtung immer durch das stärkste der Motive bestimmt ist. Aber es muß andererseits zugegeben werden, daß es absurd ist, dieser «Unfreiheit» gegenüber von einer denkbaren «Freiheit» des Willens zu reden, welche dahin ginge, wollen zu können, was man nicht will.» (Atomistik des Willens, 2. Band S. 213 f.)

Auch hier wird nur von Motiven im allgemeinen gesprochen, ohne auf den Unterschied zwischen unbewußten und bewußten Rücksicht zu nehmen. Wenn ein Motiv auf mich wirkt und ich gezwungen bin, ihm zu folgen, weil es sich als das «stärkste» unter seinesgleichen erweist, dann hört der Gedanke an Freiheit auf, einen Sinn zu haben. Wie soll es für mich eine Bedeutung haben, ob ich etwas tun kann oder nicht, wenn ich von dem Motive gezwungen werde, es zu tun? Nicht darauf kommt es zunächst an: ob ich dann, wenn das Motiv auf mich gewirkt hat, etwas tun kann oder nicht, sondern ob es nur solche Motive gibt, die mit zwingender Notwendigkeit wirken. Wenn ich etwas wollen muß, dann ist es mir unter Umständen höchst gleichgültig, ob ich es auch tun kann. Wenn mir wegen meines Charakters und wegen der in meiner Umgebung herrschenden Umstände ein Motiv aufgedrängt wird, das sich meinem Denken gegenüber als unvernünftig erweist, dann müßte ich sogar froh sein, wenn ich nicht könnte, was ich will.

Nicht darauf kommt es an, ob ich einen gefaßten Entschluß zur Ausführung bringen kann, sondern wie der Entschluß in mir entsteht.

Was den Menschen von allen andern organischen Wesen unterscheidet, ruht auf seinem vernünftigen Denken. Tätig zu sein, hat er mit anderen Organismen gemein. Nichts ist damit gewonnen, wenn man zur Aufhellung des Freiheitsbegriffes für das Handeln des Menschen nach Analogien im Tierreiche sucht. Die moderne Naturwissenschaft liebt solche Analogien. Und wenn es ihr gelungen ist, bei den Tieren etwas dem menschlichen Verhalten Ähnliches gefunden zu haben, glaubt sie, die wichtigste Frage der Wissenschaft vom Menschen berührt zu haben. Zu welchen Mißverständnissen diese Meinung führt, zeigt sich zum Beispiel in dem Buche: «Die Illusion der Willensfreiheit» von P. Rée, 1885, der (S. 5) über die Freiheit folgendes sagt: «Daß es uns so scheint, als ob die Bewegung des Steines notwendig, des Esels Wollen nicht notwendig wäre, ist leicht erklärlich.

Die Ursachen, welche den Stein bewegen, sind ja draußen und sichtbar, Die Ursachen aber, vermöge deren der Esel will, sind drinnen und unsichtbar: zwischen uns und der Stätte ihrer Wirksamkeit befindet sich die Hirnschale des Man sieht die kausale Bedingtheit nicht, und meint daher, sie sei nicht vorhanden. Das Wollen, erklärt man, sei zwar die Ursache der Umdrehung (des Esels), selbst aber sei es unbedingt; es sei ein absoluter Anfang., Also auch hier wieder wird über Handlungen des Menschen, bei denen er ein Bewußtsein von den Gründen seines Handelns hat, einfach hinweggegangen, denn Rée erklärt: «Zwischen uns und der Stätte ihrer Wirksamkeit befindet sich die Hirnschale des Esels.» Daß es, zwar nicht Handlungen des Esels, wohl aber solche der Menschen gibt, bei denen zwischen uns und der Handlung das bewußt gewordene Motiv liegt, davon hat, schon nach diesen Worten zu schließen, Rée keine Ahnung. Er beweist das einige Seiten später auch noch durch die Worte: «Wir nehmen die Ursachen nicht wahr, durch welche unser Wollen bedingt wird, daher meinen wir, es sei überhaupt nicht ursächlich bedingt.»

Doch genug der Beispiele, welche beweisen, daß viele gegen die Freiheit kämpfen, ohne zu wissen, was Freiheit überhaupt ist.

Daß eine Handlung nicht frei sein kann, von der der Täter nicht weiß, warum er sie vollbringt, ist ganz selbstverständlich. Wie verhält es sich aber mit einer solchen, von deren Gründen gewußt wird? Das führt uns auf die Frage: welches ist der Ursprung und die Bedeutung des Denkens? Denn ohne die Erkenntnis der denkenden Betätigung der Seele ist ein Begriff des Wissens von etwas, also auch von einer Handlung nicht möglich. Wenn wir erkennen, was Denken im allgemeinen bedeutet, dann wird es auch leicht sein, klar darüber zu werden, was für eine Rolle das Denken beim menschlichen Handeln spielt. «Das Denken macht die Seele, womit auch das Tier begabt ist, erst zum Geiste», sagt Hegel mit Recht, und deshalb wird das Denken auch dem menschlichen Handeln sein eigentümliches Gepräge geben.

Keineswegs soll behauptet werden, daß all unser Handeln nur aus der nüchternen Überlegung unseres Verstandes fließe. Nur diejenigen Handlungen als im höchsten Sinne menschlichen hinzustellen, die aus dem abstrakten Urteil hervorgehen, liegt mir ganz fern. Aber sobald sich unser Handeln herauferhebt aus dem Gebiete der Befriedigung rein animalischer Begierden, sind unsere Beweggründe immer von Gedanken durchsetzt. Liebe, Mitleid, Patriotismus sind Triebfedern des Handelns, die sich nicht in kalte Verstandesbegriffe auflösen lassen. Man sagt das Herz, das Gemüt treten da in ihre Rechte. Ohne Zweifel. Aber das Herz und das Gemüt schaffen nicht die Beweggründe des Handelns. Sie setzen dieselben voraus und nehmen sie in ihren Bereich auf. In meinem Herzen stellt sich das Mitleid ein, wenn in meinem Bewußtsein die Vorstellung einer mitleiderregenden Person aufgetreten ist. Der Weg zum Herzen geht durch den Kopf. Davon macht auch die Liebe keine Ausnahme. Wenn sie nicht die bloße Äußerung des Geschlechtstriebes ist, dann beruht sie auf den Vorstellungen, die wir uns von dem geliebten Wesen machen. Und je idealistischer diese Vorstellungen sind, desto beseligender ist die Liebe. Auch hier ist der Gedanke der Vater des Gefühles. Man sagt: die Liebe mache blind für die Schwächen des geliebten Wesens. Die Sache kann auch umgekehrt angefaßt werden und behauptet: die Liebe öffne gerade für dessen Vorzüge das Auge. Viele gehen ahnungslos an diesen Vorzügen vorbei, ohne sie zu bemerken. Der eine sieht sie, und eben deswegen erwacht die Liebe in seiner Seele. Was hat er anderes getan: als von dem sich eine Vorstellung gemacht, wovon hundert andere keine haben. Sie haben die Liebe nicht, weil ihnen die Vorstellung mangelt.

Wir mögen die Sache anfassen wie wir wollen: immer klarer muß es werden, daß die Frage nach dem Wesen des menschlichen Handelns die andere voraussetzt nach dem Ursprünge des Denkens. Ich wende mich daher zunächst dieser Frage zu.

Translation
The content was initially based on a translation from the original German edited by Michael Wilson which adopted from the German the gendered term ‘man’, and the respective pronouns ‘him, his’ as these were used in the original text. To address the expectation of a modern reader I have revised the translation to use ‘human being’ in the place of ‘man’ with the associated pronouns ‘they’, ‘their’ and ‘themself’. While stylistically this does not always read so well it makes clear that the issue of gender plays no role in the question of human freedom.

I have also amended the English translation in various places with the aim of making the meaning clearer for a modern reader. As with any translation however there are risks. Words that are easily understood in the original language evoke connotations that can be stumbling blocks in another. I will only point to a few particular terms.

The German word ‘Geist‘ is part of the term ‘Geisteswissenschaft’ which in an academic context means ‘Humanities’ or ‘Liberal Arts’ as opposed to ‘Natural Sciences’. It also translates as ‘Spiritual Science’ and was used in this way by Rudolf Steiner whose life work was to describe the results of what he termed a ‘Science of the Spirit’ (Anthroposophy) as a counterpart to the familiar science of the natural world.

The term ‘spirit’ or ‘spiritual’ may denote the inner aspect of human nature, that unique identity we refer to as ‘I’ or one’s innermost being.

The German word ‘Mensch‘ applies without gender distinction to all human beings. In English ‘Man’ can also be understood to be gender neutral although this is not universally accepted. In the translation ‘Mensch’ is variously translated as ‘human being’, ‘person’ or ‘individual’, depending somewhat on context and familiar usage.

‘Soul‘ is another word that can arouse misunderstanding. The term ‘mind’ can usually be used as a substitute.

The Original German is available for those able to read from that text.

Click here to download the full English version edited by Michael Wilson.

Click here to download a more modern English version translated by Michael Lipson.

Bernard Thomson, February 2025.

Die hiermit gekennzeichnete Richtung, die Philosophie des Gefühls, wird oft als Mystik bezeichnet. Der Irrtum einer bloß auf das Gefühl gebauten mystischen Anschauungsweise besteht darinnen, daß sie erleben will, was sie wissen soll, daß sie ein Individuelles, das Gefühl, zu einem Universellen erziehen will.

Ich werde die unmittelbaren Empfindungsobjekte, die ich oben genannt habe, insoferne das bewußte Subjekt von ihnen durch Beobachtung Kenntnis nimmt, Wahrnehmungen nennen. Also nicht den Vorgang der Beobachtung, sondern das Objekt dieser Beobachtung bezeichne ich mit diesem Namen.

Als Archimedes den Hebel erfunden hatte, da glaubte er mit seiner Hilfe den ganzen Kosmos aus den Angeln heben zu können, wenn er nur einen Punkt fände, wo er sein Instrument aufstützen könnte. Er brauchte etwas, was durch sich selbst, nicht durch anderes getragen wird.

Er weiß, wie das zustande kommt, was er beobachtet. Er durchschaut die Verhältnisse und Beziehungen. Es ist ein fester Punkt gewonnen, von dem aus man mit begründeter Hoffnung nach der Erklärung der übrigen Welterscheinungen suchen kann.

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Die hier geltend gemachte Erfahrung findet im Bewußtsein das intuitive Denken, das nicht bloß im Bewußtsein Wirklichkeit hat. Und sie findet damit die Freiheit als Kennzeichen der aus den Intuitionen des Bewußtseins fließenden Handlungen.

Diese Wesenheit des Denkens erlebend verstehen, kommt aber der Erkenntnis von der Freiheit des intuitiven Denkens gleich. Und weiß man, daß dieses Denken frei ist, dann sieht man auch den Umkreis des Wollens, dem die Freiheit zuzusprechen ist.

Aber der zweite Teil dieses Buches findet seine naturgemäße Stütze in dem ersten. Dieser stellt das intuitive Denken als erlebte innere Geistbetätigung des Menschen hin.

Zusatz zur Neuausgabe (1918)
Im zweiten Teile dieses Buches wurde versucht, eine Begründung dafür zu geben, daß die Freiheit in der Wirklichkeit des menschlichen Handelns zu finden ist. Dazu war notwendig, aus dem Gesamtgebiete des menschlichen Handelns diejenigen Teile auszusondern, denen gegenüber bei unbefangener Selbstbeobachtung von Freiheit gesprochen werden kann. Es sind diejenigen Handlungen, die sich als Verwirklichungen ideeller Intuitionen darstellen. Andere Handlungen wird kein unbefangenes Betrachten als freie ansprechen.

Daß eine Idee zur Handlung werde, muß der Mensch erst wollen, bevor es geschehen kann. Ein solches Wollen hat seinen Grund also nur in dem Menschen selbst. Der Mensch ist dann das letzte Bestimmende seiner Handlung. Er ist frei.

Für die aktuelle Umsetzung einer Idee in Wirklichkeit durch den Menschen kann der Monismus nur in dem Menschen selbst den Grund finden.

Er wird, wenn er über sein sinnliches Triebleben und über die Ausführung der Befehle anderer Menschen hinauskommt, durch nichts, als durch sich selbst bestimmt. Er muß aus einem von ihm selbst gesetzten, durch nichts anderes bestimmten Antrieb handeln. Ideell ist dieser Antrieb allerdings in der einigen Ideenwelt bestimmt; aber faktisch kann er nur durch den Menschen aus dieser abgeleitet und in Wirklichkeit umgesetzt werden.

Er ist auf sich selbst zurückgewiesen. Er selbst muß seinem Handeln einen Inhalt geben.

Der Mensch macht nicht die Zwecke eines objektiven (jenseitigen) Urwesens zu seinen individuellen Zwecken, sondern er verfolgt seine eigenen, ihm von seiner moralischen Phantasie gegebenen. Die in einer Handlung sich verwirklichende Idee löst der Mensch aus der einigen Ideenwelt los und legt sie seinem Wollen zugrunde.

Er kennt daher keine Ideen, die auf ein jenseits unserer Erfahrung liegendes Objektives hindeuten, und die den Inhalt einer bloß hypothetischen Metaphysik bilden sollen. Alles, was die Menschheit an solchen Ideen erzeugt hat, sind ihm Abstraktionen aus der Erfahrung, deren Entlehnung aus derselben von ihren Urhebern nur übersehen wird.

Der Monismus sieht in einer Wissenschaft, die sich darauf beschränkt, die Wahrnehmungen zu beschreiben, ohne zu den ideellen Ergänzungen derselben vorzudringen, eine Halbheit. Aber er betrachtet ebenso als Halbheiten alle abstrakten Begriffe, die ihre Ergänzung nicht in der Wahrnehmung finden und sich nirgends in das die beobachtbare Welt umspannende Begriffsnetz einfügen.

Der Monismus leugnet nicht das Ideelle, er sieht sogar einen Wahrnehmungsinhalt, zu dem das ideelle Gegenstück fehlt, nicht für volle Wirklichkeit an; aber er findet im ganzen Gebiet des Denkens nichts, das nötigen könnte, aus dem Erlebnisbereich des Denkens durch Verleugnung der objektiv geistigen Wirklichkeit des Denkens herauszutreten.

Ein Urwesen der Welt, für das ein Inhalt erdacht wird, ist für ein sich selbst verstehendes Denken eine unmögliche Annahme.

Ersinnen können wir nur die Begriffe der Wirklichkeit; um diese selbst zu finden, bedarf es auch noch des Wahrnehmens.

Auch die Objekte der Phantasie sind nur Inhalte, die ihre Berechtigung erst haben, wenn sie zu Vorstellungen werden, die auf einen Wahrnehmungsinhalt hinweisen. Durch diesen Wahrnehmungsinhalt gliedern sie sich der Wirklichkeit ein.

Alles Hinausgehen über die Welt ist nur ein scheinbares, und die aus der Welt hinausversetzten Prinzipien erklären die Welt nicht besser, als die in derselben liegenden. Das sich selbst verstehende Denken fordert aber auch gar nicht zu einem solchen Hinausgehen auf, da ein Gedankeninhalt nur innerhalb der Welt, nicht außerhalb derselben einen Wahrnehmungsinhalt suchen muß, mit dem zusammen er ein Wirkliches bildet.

Der menschliche Geist kommt in Wahrheit nie über die Wirklichkeit hinaus, in der wir leben, und er hat es auch nicht nötig, da alles in dieser Welt liegt, was er zu ihrer Erklärung braucht.

Das mit dem Gedankeninhalt erfüllte Leben in der Wirklichkeit ist zugleich das Leben in Gott.

Jeder Mensch umspannt mit seinem Denken nur einen Teil der gesamten Ideenwelt, und insofern unterscheiden sich die Individuen auch durch den tatsächlichen Inhalt ihres Denkens. Aber diese Inhalte sind in einem in sich geschlossenen Ganzen, das die Denkinhalte aller Menschen umfaßt.

Das gemeinsame Urwesen, das alle Menschen durchdringt, ergreift somit der Mensch in seinem Denken.

Der ideelle Inhalt eines andern Menschen ist auch der meinige, und ich sehe ihn nur so lange als einen andern an, als ich wahrnehme, nicht mehr aber, sobald ich denke.

Solange sich der Mensch bloß durch Selbstwahrnehmung erfaßt, sieht er sich als diesen besonderen Menschen an; sobald er auf die in ihm aufleuchtende, alles Besondere umspannende Ideenwelt blickt, sieht er in sich das absolut Wirkliche lebendig aufleuchten.

Das Denken führt alle Wahrnehmungssubjekte auf die gemeinsame ideelle Einheit aller Mannigfaltigkeit. Die einige Ideenwelt lebt sich in ihnen als in einer Vielheit von Individuen aus.

Es gibt in der einigen Begriffswelt nicht etwa so viele Begriffe des Löwen, wie es Individuen gibt, die einen Löwen denken, sondern nur einen. Und der Begriff, den A zu der Wahrnehmung des Löwen hinzufügt, ist derselbe, wie der des B, nur durch ein anderes Wahrnehmungssubjekt aufgefaßt.

Nach monistischen Prinzipien betrachtet ein menschliches Individuum ein anderes als seinesgleichen, weil es derselbe Weltinhalt ist, der sich in ihm auslebt.

Der Monismus zeigt, daß wir mit unserem Erkennen die Wirklichkeit in ihrer wahren Gestalt ergreifen, nicht in einem subjektiven Bilde, das sich zwischen den Menschen und die Wirklichkeit einschöbe.

Wir können durch abstrakte, begriffliche Hypothesen (durch rein begriffliches Nachdenken) das Wesen des Wirklichen nicht erklügeln, aber wir leben, indem wir zu den Wahrnehmungen die Ideen finden, in dem Wirklichen.

Wenn wir denkend beobachten, vollziehen wir einen Prozeß, der selbst in die Reihe des wirklichen Geschehens gehört. Wir überwinden durch das Denken innerhalb der Erfahrung selbst die Einseitigkeit des bloßen Wahrnehmens.

Unsere geistige Organisation reißt die Wirklichkeit in diese beiden Faktoren auseinander. Der eine Faktor erscheint dem Wahrnehmen, der andere der Intuition. Erst der Zusammenhang der beiden, die gesetzmäßig sich in das Universum eingliedernde Wahrnehmung, ist volle Wirklichkeit.

Ein abstrakter Begriff hat für sich keine Wirklichkeit, ebensowenig wie eine Wahrnehmung für sich. Die Wahrnehmung ist der Teil der Wirklichkeit, der objektiv, der Begriff derjenige, der subjektiv (durch Intuition) gegeben wird.

Auch der Baum, den man wahrnimmt, hat abgesondert für sich keine Existenz. Er ist nur innerhalb des großen Räderwerkes der Natur ein Glied, und nur in realem Zusammenhang mit ihr möglich.

Wer sich nicht vorstellen kann, daß der Begriff ein Wirkliches ist, der denkt nur an die abstrakte Form, wie er denselben in seinem Geiste festhält. Aber in solcher Absonderung ist er ebenso nur durch unsere Organisation vorhanden, wie die Wahrnehmung es ist.

Doch erkannte man nicht, daß das Denken Subjektives und Objektives zugleich umspannt, und daß in dem Zusammenschluß der Wahrnehmung mit dem Begriff die totale Wirklichkeit vermittelt wird.

Die Erkenntnis des Wirklichen gegenüber dem Schein des Wahrnehmens bildete zu allen Zeiten das Ziel des menschlichen Denkens.

Das Denken gibt uns von der Wirklichkeit die wahre Gestalt, als einer in sich geschlossenen Einheit, während die Mannigfaltigkeit der Wahrnehmungen nur ein durch unsere Organisation bedingter Schein ist.

Seine in sich geschlossene Totalexistenz im Universum kann der Mensch nur finden durch intuitives Denkerlebnis. Das Denken zerstört den Schein des Wahrnehmens und gliedert unsere individuelle Existenz in das Leben des Kosmos ein.

Der hier gemeinte Monismus zeigt, daß die Selbständigkeit nur so lange geglaubt werden kann, als das Wahrgenommene nicht durch das Denken in das Netz der Begriffswelt eingespannt wird. Geschieht dies, so entpuppt sich die Teilexistenz als ein bloßer Schein des Wahrnehmens.

Das einzelne menschliche Individuum ist von der Welt nicht tatsächlich abgesondert. Es ist ein Teil der Welt, und es besteht ein Zusammenhang mit dem Ganzen des Kosmos der Wirklichkeit nach, der nur für unsere Wahrnehmung unterbrochen ist.

Man kann auch sagen: das sittliche Leben der Menschheit ist die Gesamtsumme der moralischen Phantasieerzeugnisse der freien menschlichen Individuen. Dies ist das Ergebnis des Monismus.

Aus individuellen ethischen Intuitionen und deren Aufnahme in Menschengemeinschaften entspringt alle sittliche Betätigung der Menschheit.

Einen im wahren Sinne ethischen Wert hat nur der Teil seines Handelns, der aus seinen Intuitionen entspringt. Und was er an moralischen Instinkten durch Vererbung sozialer Instinkte an sich hat, wird ein Ethisches dadurch, daß er es in seine Intuitionen aufnimmt.

Kein Mensch ist vollständig Gattung, keiner ganz Individualität. Aber eine größere oder geringere Sphäre seines Wesens löst jeder Mensch allmählich ab, ebenso von dem Gattungsmäßigen des animalischen Lebens, wie von den ihn beherrschenden Geboten menschlicher Autoritäten.

Nur in dem Grade, in dem der Mensch sich in der gekennzeichneten Weise frei gemacht hat vom Gattungsmäßigen, kommt er als freier Geist innerhalb eines menschlichen Gemeinwesens in Betracht.

So wie die freie Individualität sich frei macht von den Eigentümlichkeiten der Gattung, so muß das Erkennen sich frei machen von der Art, wie das Gattungsmäßige verstanden wird.

Menschen, die in jede Beurteilung eines anderen sofort ihre eigenen Begriffe einmischen, können nie zu dem Verständnisse einer Individualität gelangen.

Das Erkennen besteht in der Verbindung des Begriffes mit der Wahrnehmung durch das Denken. Bei allen anderen Objekten muß der Beobachter die Begriffe durch seine Intuition gewinnen; beim Verstehen einer freien Individualität handelt es sich nur darum, deren Begriffe, nach denen sie sich ja selbst bestimmt, rein (ohne Vermischung mit eigenem Begriffsinhalt) herüberzunehmen in unseren Geist.

Wo wir die Empfindung haben: hier haben wir es mit demjenigen an einem Menschen zu tun, das frei ist von typischer Denkungsart und gattungsmäßigem Wollen, da müssen wir aufhören, irgendwelche Begriffe aus unserem Geiste zu Hilfe zu nehmen, wenn wir sein Wesen verstehen wollen.

Und alle Wissenschaft, die sich mit abstrakten Gedanken und Gattungsbegriffen befaßt, ist nur eine Vorbereitung zu jener Erkenntnis, die uns zuteil wird, wenn uns eine menschliche Individualität ihre Art, die Welt anzuschauen, mitteilt, und zu der anderen, die wir aus dem Inhalt ihres Wollens gewinnen.

Wer das einzelne Individuum verstehen will, muß bis in dessen besondere Wesenheit dringen, und nicht bei typischen Eigentümlichkeiten stehen bleiben. In diesem Sinne ist jeder einzelne Mensch ein Problem.

Ebensowenig ist aus allgemeinen Menschencharakteren zu bestimmen, welche konkrete Ziele das Individuum seinem Wollen vorsetzen will.

Das Individuum muß seine Begriffe durch eigene Intuition gewinnen. Wie der einzelne zu denken hat, läßt sich nicht aus irgendeinem Gattungsbegriffe ableiten. Dafür ist einzig und allein das Individuum maßgebend.

Aber alle diese Wissenschaften können nicht vordringen bis zu dem besonderen Inhalt des einzelnen Individuums. Da, wo das Gebiet der Freiheit (des Denkens und Handelns) beginnt, hört das Bestimmen des Individuums nach Gesetzen der Gattung auf.

Wer die Menschen nach Gattungscharakteren beurteilt, der kommt eben gerade bis zu der Grenze, über welcher sie anfangen, Wesen zu sein, deren Betätigung auf freier Selbstbestimmung beruht.

Was die Frau ihrer Natur nach wollen kann, das überlasse man der Frau zu beurteilen. (…) Wer eine Erschütterung unserer sozialen Zustände davon befürchtet, daß die Frauen nicht als Gattungsmenschen, sondern als Individuen genommen werden, dem muß entgegnet werden, daß soziale Zustände, innerhalb welcher die Hälfte der Menschheit ein menschenunwürdiges Dasein hat, eben der Verbesserung gar sehr bedürftig sind.

Im praktischen Leben schadet das den Männern weniger als den Frauen. Die soziale Stellung der Frau ist zumeist deshalb eine so unwürdige, weil sie in vielen Punkten, wo sie es sein sollte, nicht bedingt ist durch die individuellen Eigentümlichkeiten der einzelnen Frau, sondern durch die allgemeinen Vorstellungen, die man sich von der natürlichen Aufgabe und den Bedürfnissen des Weibes macht.

Am hartnäckigsten im Beurteilen nach der Gattung ist man da, wo es sich um das Geschlecht des Menschen handelt. Der Mann sieht im Weibe, das Weib in dem Manne fast immer zuviel von dem allgemeinen Charakter des anderen Geschlechtes und zu wenig von dem Individuellen.

Es ist unmöglich, einen Menschen ganz zu verstehen, wenn man seiner Beurteilung einen Gattungsbegriff zugrunde legt.

Wir suchen nun vergebens den Grund für eine Äußerung dieses Wesens in den Gesetzen der Gattung. Wir haben es mit einem Individuum zu tun, das nur durch sich selbst erklärt werden kann.

Der Mensch entwickelt Eigenschaften und Funktionen an sich, deren Bestimmungsgrund wir nur in ihm selbst suchen können. Das Gattungsmäßige dient ihm dabei nur als Mittel, um seine besondere Wesenheit in ihm auszudrücken. Er gebraucht die ihm von der Natur mitgegebenen Eigentümlichkeiten als Grundlage und gibt ihm die seinem eigenen Wesen gemäße Form.

Von diesem Gattungsmäßigen macht sich aber der Mensch frei.

Das Glied eines Ganzen wird seinen Eigenschaften und Funktionen nach durch das Ganze bestimmt. (…) Dadurch erhält die Physiognomie und das Tun des einzelnen etwas Gattungsmäßiges.

Ist dabei überhaupt noch Individualität möglich? Kann man den Menschen selbst als ein Ganzes für sich ansehen, wenn er aus einem Ganzen herauswächst, und in ein Ganzes sich eingliedert?

Der ethische Individualismus ist geeignet, die Sittlichkeit in ihrer vollen Würde darzustellen, denn er ist nicht der Ansicht, daß wahrhaft sittlich ist, was in äußerer Art Zusammenstimmung eines Wollens mit einer Norm herbeiführt, sondern was aus dem Menschen dann ersteht, wenn er das sittliche Wollen als ein Glied seines vollen Wesens in sich entfaltet, so daß das Unsittliche zu tun ihm als Verstümmelung, Verkrüppelung seines Wesens erscheint.

Die hier entwickelte Ansicht weist den Menschen auf sich selbst zurück. Sie erkennt nur das als den wahren Wert des Lebens an, was der einzelne nach Maßgabe seines Wollens als solchen ansieht. Sie weiß ebensowenig von einem nicht vom Individuum anerkannten Wert des Lebens wie von einem nicht aus diesem entsprungenen Zweck des Lebens. Sie sieht in dem allseitig durchschauten wesenhaften Individuum seinen eigenen Herrn und seinen eigenen Schätzer.

Die Ethik, welche an die Stelle des Wollens das bloße Sollen, an die Stelle der Neigung die bloße Pflicht setzt, bestimmt folgerichtig den Wert des Menschen an dem Verhältnis dessen, was die Pflicht fordert, zu dem, was er erfüllt. Sie mißt den Menschen an einem außerhalb seines Wesens gelegenen Maßstab.

Er handelt, wie er will, das ist nach Maßgabe seiner ethischen Intuitionen; und er empfindet die Erreichung dessen, was er will, als seinen wahren Lebensgenuß. Den Wert des Lebens bestimmt er an dem Verhältnis des Erreichten zu dem Erstrebten.

Denn es sollte die Möglichkeit der Freiheit nachgewiesen werden; diese erscheint aber nicht an Handlungen aus sinnlicher oder seelischer Nötigung, sondern an solchen, die von geistigen Intuitionen getragen sind.

Wer durch Erziehung erst noch dahin gebracht werden soll, daß seine sittliche Natur die Eischalen der niederen Leidenschaften durchbricht: von dem darf nicht in Anspruch genommen werden, was für den reifen Menschen gilt.

Für den harmonisch entwickelten Menschen sind die sogenannten Ideen des Guten nicht außerhalb, sondern innerhalb des Kreises seines Wesens. Nicht in der Austilgung eines einseitigen Eigenwillens liegt das sittliche Handeln, sondern in der vollen Entwickelung der Menschennatur.

Jede Ethik, die von dem Menschen fordert, daß er sein Wollen zurückdränge, um Aufgaben zu erfüllen, die er nicht will, rechnet nicht mit dem ganzen Menschen, sondern mit einem solchen, dem das geistige Begehrungsvermögen fehlt.

Der phantasielose Mensch schafft keine sittlichen Ideen. Sie müssen ihm gegeben werden. Daß er nach Befriedigung seiner niederen Begierden strebt: dafür aber sorgt die physische Natur. Zur Entfaltung des ganzen Menschen gehören aber auch die aus dem Geiste stammenden Begierden.

Der Mensch verleiht der Erfüllung einer Begierde einen Wert, weil sie aus seinem Wesen entspringt. Das Erreichte hat seinen Wert, weil es gewollt ist.

Was man das Gute nennt, ist nicht das, was der Mensch soll, sondern das, was er will, wenn er die volle wahre Menschennatur zur Entfaltung bringt.

Wer die Lust an der Befriedigung des menschlichen Begehrens ausrotten will, muß den Menschen erst zum Sklaven machen, der nicht handelt, weil er will, sondern nur, weil er soll. Denn die Erreichung des Gewollten macht Lust.

Er hat es nicht nötig, sich von der Ethik erst verbieten zu lassen, daß er nach Lust strebe, um sich dann gebieten zu lassen, wonach er streben soll. Er wird nach sittlichen Idealen streben, wenn seine moralische Phantasie tätig genug ist, um ihm Intuitionen einzugeben, die seinem Wollen die Stärke verleihen, sich gegen die in seiner Organisation liegenden Widerstände, wozu auch notwendige Unlust gehört, durchzusetzen.

Die Ethik beruht nicht auf der Ausrottung alles Strebens nach Lust, damit bleichsüchtige abstrakte Ideen ihre Herrschaft da aufschlagen können, wo ihnen keine starke Sehnsucht nach Lebensgenuß entgegensteht, sondern auf dem starken, von ideeller Intuition getragenen Wollen, das sein Ziel erreicht, auch wenn der Weg dazu ein dornenvoller ist.

Sittlichkeit liegt in dem Streben nach einem als berechtigt erkannten Ziel; ihm zu folgen, liegt im Menschenwesen, solange eine damit verknüpfte Unlust die Begierde danach nicht lähmt. Und dieses ist das Wesen alles wirklichen Wollens.

Die Jagd nach dem Glücke, die der Pessimismus ausrotten will, ist also gar nicht vorhanden. Die Aufgaben aber, die der Mensch zu vollbringen hat, vollbringt er, weil er sie kraft seines Wesens, wenn er ihr Wesen wirklich erkannt hat, vollbringen will.

Die pessimistische Ethik glaubt dem Menschen die Jagd nach dem Glücke als eine unmögliche hinstellen zu müssen, damit er sich seinen eigentlichen sittlichen Aufgaben widme. Aber diese sittlichen Aufgaben sind nichts anderes als die konkreten natürlichen und geistigen Triebe; und die Befriedigung derselben wird angestrebt trotz der Unlust, die dabei abfällt.

Die Fälle, wo wir den Wert unserer Betätigung wirklich davon abhängig machen, ob die Lust oder die Unlust einen Überschuß zeigt, sind die, in denen uns die Gegenstände, auf die unser Tun sich richtet, gleichgültig sind.

Der ursprüngliche Maßstab des Wollens ist die Begierde, und diese setzt sich durch, solange sie kann.

Wenn Leiden und Qualen unsere Begierde herabgestimmt haben, und dann das Ziel doch noch erreicht wird, dann ist eben die Lust im Verhältnis zu dem noch übriggebliebenen Quantum der Begierde um so größer. Dieses Verhältnis stellt aber, wie ich gezeigt habe, den Wert der Lust dar.

Nur mittelbar durch die Größe der Begierde können Lust und Unlust zusammen ein Ergebnis liefern. Es fragt sich also gar nicht, ob Lust oder Unlust im Übermaße vorhanden ist, sondern ob das Wollen der Lust stark genug ist, die Unlust zu überwinden.

Nicht darum handelt es sich, ob die zu erreichende Lust oder Unlust größer ist, sondern darum, ob die Begierde nach dem erstrebten Ziele oder der Widerstand der entgegentretenden Unlust größer ist.

Wir erstreben niemals eine abstrakte Lust von bestimmter Größe, sondern die konkrete Befriedigung in einer ganz bestimmten Weise.

Wir vergleichen die Menge der Unlust nicht mit der der Lust, sondern mit der Größe unserer Begierde.

Die sittlichen Ideale sind, nach der Meinung der Pessimisten, nicht stark genug, den Egoismus zu überwinden; aber sie errichten ihre Herrschaft auf dem Boden, den ihnen vorher die Erkenntnis von der Aussichtslosigkeit der Selbstsucht frei gemacht hat.

Nicht in dem Begriff allein, sondern in dem durch das Denken vermittelten Ineinandergreifen von Begriff und Wahrnehmung (und Gefühl ist Wahrnehmung) ist dem Menschen das Wirkliche erreichbar.

Wer einer auf Illusion beruhenden Lust einen geringeren Wert für das Leben zuschreibt, als einer solchen, die sich vor der Vernunft rechtfertigen läßt, der macht eben den Wert des Lebens noch von anderen Faktoren abhängig als von der Lust.

Hieraus folgt, daß es für die Lust keinen andern Maßstab gibt als den subjektiven des Gefühles. Ich muß empfinden, ob die Summe meiner Unlustgefühle zusammengestellt mit meinen Lustgefühlen in mir einen Überschuß von Freude oder Schmerz ergibt.

Nun entsteht die Frage: welches ist das rechte Mittel, um aus diesem Soll und Haben die Bilanz zu erhalten?

Zu der letzteren Gattung gehört auch die Unlust, die uns aufgedrängte, nicht selbst gewählte Arbeit verursacht.

Krankheit ist Unlust, der kein Begehren vorausgeht. Wer behaupten wollte: Krankheit sei unbefriedigtes Begehren nach Gesundheit, der beginge den Fehler, daß er den selbstverständlichen und nicht zum Bewußtsein gebrachten Wunsch, nicht krank zu werden, für ein positives Begehren hielte. Wenn jemand von einem reichen Verwandten; von dessen Existenz er nicht die geringste Ahnung hatte, eine Erbschaft macht, so erfüllt ihn diese Tatsache ohne vorangegangenes Begehren mit Lust.

Das beseligende Gefühl, nach Kräften das Beste gewollt zu haben, übersehen diejenigen, welche an jedes nichterfüllte Begehren die Behauptung knüpfen, daß nicht nur allein die Freude an der Erfüllung ausgeblieben, sondern auch der Genuß des Begehrens selbst zerstört ist.

Schopenhauer hat also unter allen Umständen unrecht, wenn er das Begehren oder Streben (den Willen) an sich für den Quell des Schmerzes hält.

Wenn Streben als solches Unlust hervorriefe, so müßte jede Beseitigung des Strebens von Lust begleitet sein. Es ist aber das Gegenteil der Fall. Der Mangel an Streben in unserem Lebensinhalte erzeugt Langeweile, und diese ist mit Unlust verbunden.

Zwei entgegengesetzten Ansichten begegnen wir in dieser Beziehung, und dazwischen allen denkbaren Vermittlungsversuchen. Eine Ansicht sagt Die Welt ist die denkbar beste, die es geben kann, und das Leben und Handeln in derselben ein Gut von unschätzbarem Werte. (…) Die andere Ansicht ist die, welche behauptet: das Leben ist voll Qual und Elend, die Unlust überwiegt überall die Lust, der Schmerz die Freude.

Er kann die natürliche Entwickelungsweise beim Affen nicht abschließen und dem Menschen einen «übernatürlichen» Ursprung zugestehen; er muß, auch indem er die natürlichen Vorfahren des Menschen sucht, in der Natur schon den Geist suchen; er kann auch bei den organischen Verrichtungen des Menschen nicht stehen bleiben und nur diese natürlich finden, sondern er muß auch das sittlich-freie Leben als geistige Fortsetzung des organischen ansehen.

Ein Gegenstück zu der Frage nach dem Zwecke oder der Bestimmung des Lebens ist die nach dessen Wert.

Frei ist der Mensch in dem Maße, als er in seinem Wollen dieselbe Seelenstimmung verwirklichen kann, die in ihm lebt, wenn er sich der Ausgestaltung rein ideeller (geistiger) Intuitionen bewußt ist.

Wer sie machen kann, ringt sich zu der Einsicht durch, daß der Mensch, insofern er den Zurückdämmungsvorgang der organischen Tätigkeit nicht zu Ende führen kann, unfrei ist; daß aber diese Unfreiheit der Freiheit zustrebt, und diese Freiheit keineswegs ein abstraktes Ideal ist, sondern eine in der menschlichen Wesenheit liegende Richtkraft.

Diese Freiheit des Wollens wird der nicht beobachten können, der nicht zu schauen vermag, wie das freie Wollen darin besteht, daß erst durch das intuitive Element das notwendige Wirken des menschlichen Organismus abgelähmt, zurückgedrängt, und an seine stelle die geistige Tätigkeit des idee-erfüllten Willens gesetzt wird. Nur wer diese Beobachtung der Zweigliedrigkeit eines freien Wollens nicht machen kann, glaubt an die Unfreiheit jedes Wollens.

Sie kann erreicht werden, weil in der ideellen Intuition nichts als deren eigene auf sich gebaute Wesenheit wirkt. Ist eine solche Intuition im menschlichen Bewußtsein anwesend, dann ist sie nicht aus den Vorgängen des Organismus heraus entwickelt, sondern die organische Tätigkeit hat sich zurückgezogen, um der ideellen Platz zu machen. (…) Das Wollen ist frei.

Von besonderer Bedeutung ist, daß die Berechtigung, ein Wollen als frei zu bezeichnen, durch das Erlebnis erreicht wird: in dem Wollen verwirklicht sich eine ideelle Intuition. Dies kann nur Beobachtungsresultat sein, ist es aber in dem Sinne, in dem das menschliche Wollen sich in einer Entwickelungsströmung beobachtet, deren Ziel darin liegt, solche von rein ideeller Intuition getragene Möglichkeit des Wollens zu erreichen.

Die Kirche wendet sich daher nicht bloß gegen das Tun, sondern namentlich gegen die unreinen Gedanken, das ist: die Beweggründe meines Handelns. Unfrei macht sie mich, wenn ihr alle Beweggründe, die sie nicht angibt, als unrein erscheinen.

Von der Ausführung dessen abzusehen, was er will, dazu läßt sich der Mensch unter Umständen bewegen. Sich vorschreiben zu lassen, was er tun soll, das ist, zu wollen, was ein andrer und nicht er für richtig hält, dazu ist er nur zu haben, insofern er sich nicht frei fühlt.

Ein freies Wesen ist dasjenige, welches wollen kann, was es selbst für richtig hält. Wer etwas anderes tut, als er will, der muß zu diesem anderen durch Motive getrieben werden, die nicht in ihm liegen. Ein solcher handelt unfrei.

Ich bin also nur dann frei, wenn ich selbst diese Vorstellungen produziere, nicht, wenn ich die Beweggründe, die ein anderes Wesen in mich gesetzt hat, ausführen kann.

Freiheit ist unmöglich, wenn etwas außer mir (mechanischer Prozeß oder nur erschlossener außerweltlicher Gott) meine moralischen Vorstellungen bestimmt.

Findet der Mensch, daß eine Handlung das Abbild einer solchen ideellen Intuition ist, so empfindet er sie als eine freie. In diesem Kennzeichen einer Handlung liegt die Freiheit.

Diese Freiheit muß dem menschlichen Wollen zugesprochen werden, insoferne dieses rein ideelle Intuitionen verwirklicht. Denn diese sind nicht Ergebnisse einer von außen auf sie wirkenden Notwendigkeit, sondern ein auf sich selbst Stehendes.

Er behauptet ja auch nur, daß Menschen aus noch nicht menschlichen Vorfahren sich entwickelt haben. Wie die Menschen beschaffen sind, das muß durch Beobachtung dieser selbst festgestellt werden.

Die sittlichen Prozesse sind dem Monismus Weltprodukte wie alles andere Bestehende, und ihre Ursachen müssen in der Welt, das heißt, weil der Mensch der Träger der Sittlichkeit ist, im Menschen gesucht werden.

Was durch alles dieses geschieht an und in dem Menschen, wird erst zum Sittlichen, wenn es im menschlichen Erlebnis zu einem individuellen Eigenen wird.

So wie der Monismus zur Erklärung des Lebewesens keinen übernatürlichen Schöpfungsgedanken brauchen kann, so ist es ihm auch unmöglich, die sittliche Weltordnung von Ursachen abzuleiten, die nicht innerhalb der erlebbaren Welt liegen. Er kann das Wesen eines Wollens als eines sittlichen nicht damit erschöpft finden, daß er es auf einen fortdauernden übernatürlichen Einfluß auf das sittliche Leben (göttliche Weltregierung von außen) zurückführt, oder auf eine zeitliche besondere Offenbarung (Erteilung der zehn Gebote) oder auf die Erscheinung Gottes auf der Erde (Christi).

So wahr es aber ist, daß die sittlichen Ideen des Individuums wahrnehmbar aus denen seiner Vorfahren hervorgegangen sind, [199] so wahr ist es auch, daß dasselbe sittlich unfruchtbar ist, wenn es nicht selbst moralische Ideen hat.

Der Haeckelsche Stammbaum von den Urtieren bis hinauf zum Menschen als organischem Wesen müßte sich ohne Unterbrechung der natürlichen Gesetzlichkeit und ohne eine Durchbrechung der einheitlichen Entwicklung heraufverfolgen lassen bis zu dem Individuum als einem im bestimmten Sinne sittlichen Wesen. Nirgends aber würde aus dem Wesen einer Vorfahrenart das Wesen einer nachfolgenden Art sich ableiten lassen.

Beim Entwicklungsprozeß der sittlichen Weltordnung verrichten wir das, was die Natur auf niedrigerer Stufe verrichtet: wir verändern ein Wahrnehmbares. Die ethische Norm kann also zunächst nicht wie ein Naturgesetz erkannt, sondern sie muß geschaffen werden.

Die Reptilien sind aus den Uramnioten hervorgegangen; aber der Naturforscher kann aus dem Begriff der Uramnioten den der Reptilien nicht herausholen. Spätere moralische Ideen entwickeln sich aus früheren; der Ethiker kann aber aus den sittlichen Begriffen einer früheren Kulturperiode die der späteren nicht herausholen.

Als moralisches Wesen produziert das Individuum seinen Inhalt. Dieser produzierte Inhalt ist für den Ethiker gerade so ein Gegebenes, wie für den Naturforscher die Reptilien ein Gegebenes sind.

Daraus folgt für den Ethiker, daß er zwar den Zusammenhang späterer moralischer Begriffe mit früheren einsehen kann; aber nicht, daß auch nur eine einzige neue moralische Idee aus früheren geholt werden kann.

Das heißt mit anderen Worten: der Entwicklungstheoretiker muß, wenn er konsequent denkt, behaupten, daß aus früheren Entwicklungsphasen spätere sich real ergeben, daß wir, wenn wir den Begriff des Unvollkommenen und den des Vollkommenen gegeben haben, den Zusammenhang einsehen können; keineswegs aber sollte er zugeben, daß der an dem Früheren erlangte Begriff hinreicht, um das Spätere daraus zu entwickeln.

Unter Entwicklung wird verstanden das reale Hervorgehen des Späteren aus dem Früheren auf naturgesetzlichem Wege. Unter Entwicklung in der organischen Welt versteht man den Umstand, daß die späteren (vollkommeneren) organischen Formen reale Abkömmlinge der früheren (unvollkommenen) sind und auf naturgesetzliche Weise aus ihnen hervorgegangen sind.

Die hier vertretene Ansicht scheint in Widerspruch zustehen mit jener Grundlehre der modernen Naturwissenschaft, die man als Entwicklungstheorie bezeichnet. Aber sie scheint es nur.

Als Organismus bin ich ein solches Gattungsexemplar, und ich werde naturgemäß leben, wenn ich die Naturgesetze der Gattung in meinem besonderen Falle anwende; als sittliches Wesen bin ich Individuum und habe meine ganz eigenen Gesetze.

Denn sie gehen auf das Individuum und nicht wie das Naturgesetz auf das Exemplar einer Gattung.

Die Wirksamkeit des Organismus ist ohne unser Zutun da; wir finden dessen Gesetze in der Welt fertig vor, können sie also suchen, und dann die gefundenen anwenden. Die moralischen Gesetze werden aber von uns erst geschaffen. Wir können sie nicht anwenden, bevor sie geschaffen sind.

Deshalb ist es sehr wohl möglich, daß Menschen ohne moralische Phantasie die moralischen Vorstellungen von andern empfangen und diese geschickt der Wirklichkeit einprägen. Auch der umgekehrte Fall kann vorkommen, daß Menschen mit moralischer Phantasie ohne die technische Geschicklichkeit sind und sich dann anderer Menschen zur Verwirklichung ihrer Vorstellungen bedienen müssen.

Das moralische Handeln setzt also voraus neben dem moralischen Ideenvermögen und der moralischen Phantasie die Fähigkeit, die Welt der Wahrnehmungen umzuformen, ohne ihren naturgesetzlichen Zusammenhang zu durchbrechen. Diese Fähigkeit ist moralische Technik.

Bei dem freien Geiste, den kein Vorbild und keine Furcht vor Strafe usw. treibt, ist diese Umsetzung des Begriffes in die Vorstellung immer notwendig.

Diese Gesetze wirken auf den unfreien Geist aber auch nur durch den Hinweis auf eine konkrete Vorstellung, zum Beispiel die der entsprechenden zeitlichen Strafen, oder der Gewissensqual, oder der ewigen Verdammnis, und so weiter.

Gesetze über das, was er tun soll, müssen dem unfreien Geiste in ganz konkreter Form gegeben werden: (…) Begriffsform haben die Gesetze zur Verhinderung von Handlungen: (…)

Regeln haben für das positive Handeln weniger Wert als für das Unterlassen bestimmter Handlungen. Gesetze treten nur dann in die allgemeine Begriffsform, wenn sie Handlungen verbieten, nicht aber wenn sie sie zu tun gebieten.

Die Autorität wirkt daher am besten durch Beispiele, das heißt durch Überlieferung ganz bestimmter Einzelhandlungen an das Bewußtsein des unfreien Geistes.

Dem unfreien Geist ist dieses Mittelglied von vornherein gegeben. Die Motive sind von vornherein als Vorstellungen in seinem Bewußtsein vorhanden. Wenn er etwas ausführen will, so macht er das so, wie er es gesehen hat, oder wie es ihm für den einzelnen Fall befohlen wird.

Das Mittelglied zwischen Begriff und Wahrnehmung ist die Vorstellung.

Der Begriff wird sich in einem konkreten Einzelgeschehnis zu verwirklichen haben. Er wird als Begriff diesen Einzelfall nicht enthalten können. Er wird sich darauf nur in der Art beziehen können, wie überhaupt ein Begriff sich auf eine Wahrnehmung bezieht, zum Beispiel wie der Begriff des Löwen auf einen einzelnen Löwen.

Dem freien Geist sind diese Vorbedingungen nicht einzige Antriebe des Handelns. Er faßt einen schlechthin ersten Entschluß. Es kümmert ihn dabei ebensowenig, was andere in diesem Falle getan, noch was sie dafür befohlen haben. Er hat rein ideelle Gründe, die ihn bewegen, aus der Summe seiner Begriffe gerade einen bestimmten herauszuheben und ihn in Handlung umzusetzen.

Für den unfreien Geist liegt der Grund, warum er aus seiner Ideenwelt eine bestimmte Intuition aussondert, um sie einer Handlung zugrunde zu legen, in der ihm gegebenen Wahrnehmungswelt, das heißt in seinen bisherigen Erlebnissen. Er erinnert sich, bevor er zu einem Entschluß kommt, daran, was jemand in einem dem seinigen analogen Falle getan oder zu tun für gut geheißen hat, oder was Gott für diesen Fall befohlen hat und so weiter, und danach handelt er.

Der freie Geist handelt nach seinen Impulsen, das sind Intuitionen, die aus dem Ganzen seiner Ideenwelt durch das Denken ausgewählt sind.

Und wenn von einer nach dem Muster der menschlichen Zweckmäßigkeit gedachten zweckmäßigen Bestimmung des Menschengeschlechtes als von einem irrigen Gedanken gesprochen ist, so ist gemeint, daß der Einzelmensch sich Zwecke setzt, aus diesen setzt sich das Ergebnis der Gesamtwirksamkeit der Menschheit zusammen. Dieses Ergebnis ist dann ein höheres als seine Glieder, die Menschenzwecke.

Wenn hier auch für die geistige, außerhalb des menschlichen Handelns liegende Welt der Zweckgedanke abgelehnt wird, so geschieht es, weil in dieser Welt ein höheres als der Zweck, der sich im Menschentum verwirklicht, zur Offenbarung kommt.

In der Natur sind aber nirgends Begriffe als Ursachen nachzuweisen; der Begriff erweist sich stets nur als der ideelle Zusammenhang von Ursache und Wirkung. Ursachen sind in der Natur nur in Form von Wahrnehmungen vorhanden.

Zum Zweck ist eben durchaus notwendig, daß die wirkende Ursache ein Begriff ist, und zwar der der Wirkung.

Wer ein Ding deshalb zweckmäßig nennt, weil es gesetzmäßig gebildet ist, der mag die Naturwesen eben auch mit dieser Bezeichnung belegen. Nur darf diese Gesetzmäßigkeit nicht mit jener des subjektiven menschlichen Handelns verwechselt werden.

Eine Maschine gestalte ich dann zweckmäßig, wenn ich die Teile in einen Zusammenhang bringe, den sie von Natur aus nicht haben. Das Zweckmäßige der Einrichtung besteht dann darin, daß ich die Wirkungsweise der Maschine als deren Idee ihr zugrunde gelegt habe. Die Maschine ist dadurch ein Wahrnehmungsobjekt mit entsprechender Idee geworden. Solche Wesen sind auch die Naturwesen.

Das Tier ist allerdings nicht durch eine in der Luft schwebende Idee, wohl aber durch eine ihm eingeborene und seine gesetzmäßige Wesenheit ausmachende Idee bestimmt. Gerade weil die Idee nicht außer dem Dinge ist, sondern in demselben als dessen Wesen wirkt, kann nicht von Zweckmäßigkeit gesprochen werden.

Da aber allen Wahrnehmungen Gesetze (Ideen) zugrunde liegen, die wir durch unser Denken finden, so ist das planmäßige Zusammenstimmen der Glieder eines Wahrnehmungsganzen eben das ideelle Zusammenstimmen der in diesem Wahrnehmungsganzen enthaltenen Glieder eines Ideenganzen.

Ideen werden zweckmäßig nur durch Menschen verwirklicht. Es ist also unstatthaft, von der Verkörperung von Ideen durch die Geschichte zu sprechen. Alle solche Wendungen wie: ‘die Geschichte ist die Entwicklung der Menschen zur Freiheit’, oder die Verwirklichung der sittlichen Weltordnung und so weiter sind von monistischen Gesichtspunkten aus unhaltbar.

Auf die Frage: was hat der Mensch für eine Aufgabe im Leben? kann der Monismus nur antworten: die, die er sich selbst setzt. Meine Sendung in der Welt ist keine vorherbestimmte, sondern sie ist jeweilig die, die ich mir erwähle. Ich trete nicht mit gebundener Marschroute meinen Lebensweg an.

Deshalb hat das Menschenleben nur den Zweck und die Bestimmung, die der Mensch ihm gibt.

Zweckvoll ist nur dasjenige, was der Mensch erst dazu gemacht hat, denn nur durch Verwirklichung einer Idee entsteht Zweckmäßiges. Wirksam im realistischen Sinne wird die Idee aber nur im Menschen.

Aber auch Lebenszwecke, die der Mensch sich nicht selbst setzt, sind vom Standpunkte des Monismus unberechtigte Annahmen.

Der Mensch macht seine Werkzeuge zweckmäßig; nach demselben Rezept läßt der naive Realist den Schöpfer die Organismen bauen.

Der naive Mensch weiß, wie er ein Geschehen zustandebringt und folgert daraus, daß es die Natur ebenso machen wird. In den rein ideellen Naturzusammenhängen sieht er nicht nur unsichtbare Kräfte, sondern auch unwahrnehmbare reale Zwecke.

Zum zweckmäßigen Zusammenhange ist aber nicht bloß der ideelle, gesetzmäßige Zusammenhang des Späteren mit dem Früheren notwendig, sondern der Begriff (das Gesetz) der Wirkung muß real, durch einen wahrnehmbaren Prozeß die Ursache beeinflussen. Einen wahrnehmbaren Einfluß von einem Begriff auf etwas anderes können wir aber nur bei den menschlichen Handlungen beobachten.

Die Wahrnehmung der Wirkung kann stets nur auf die Wahrnehmung der Ursache folgen. Wenn die Wirkung einen realen Einfluß auf die Ursache haben soll, so kann dies nur durch den begrifflichen Faktor sein. Denn der Wahrnehmungsfaktor der Wirkung ist vor dem der Ursache einfach gar nicht vorhanden.

In dem Prozesse, der in Ursache und Wirkung zerfällt, ist zu unterscheiden die Wahrnehmung von dem Begriff.

Der Mensch vollbringt eine Handlung, die er sich vorher vorstellt, und läßt sich von dieser Vorstellung zur Handlung bestimmen. Das Spätere, die Handlung, wirkt mit Hilfe der Vorstellung auf das Frühere, den handelnden Menschen. Dieser Umweg durch das Vorstellen ist aber zum zweckmäßigen Zusammenhange durchaus notwendig.

Die Zweckmäßigkeit ist eine bestimmte Art in der Abfolge von Erscheinungen. Wahrhaft wirklich ist die Zweckmäßigkeit nur dann, wenn im Gegensatz zu dem Verhältnis von Ursache und Wirkung, wo das vorhergehende Ereignis ein späteres bestimmt, umgekehrt das folgende Ereignis bestimmend auf das frühere einwirkt.

Darin liegt ein Kennzeichen der menschlichen Wesenheit, daß das intuitiv zu Erfassende im Menschen wie im lebendigen Pendelschlag sich hin- und herbewegt zwischen der allgemein geltenden Erkenntnis und dem individuellen Erleben dieses Allgemeinen.

Was als logischer Widerspruch erscheint, die allgemeine Artung der Erkenntnis-Ideen und die individuelle der SittenIdeen: das wird, indem es in seiner Wirklichkeit angeschaut wird, gerade zum lebendigen Begriff.

Für eine Einsicht, die durchschaut, wie Ideen intuitiv erlebt werden als ein auf sich selbst beruhendes Wesenhaftes, wird klar, daß der Mensch im Umkreis der Ideenwelt beim Erkennen sich in ein für alle Menschen Einheitliches hineinlebt, daß er aber, wenn er aus dieser Ideenwelt die Intuitionen für seine Willensakte entlehnt, ein Glied dieser Ideenwelt durch dieselbe Tätigkeit individualisiert, die er im geistig-ideellen Vorgang beim Erkennen als eine allgemein-menschliche entfaltet.

Sittlichkeit ist dem Anhänger des Monismus eine spezifisch menschliche Eigenschaft, und Freiheit die menschliche Form, sittlich zu sein.

Weil er den Menschen nicht als abgeschlossenes Produkt, das in jedem Augenblicke seines Lebens sein volles Wesen entfaltet, betrachtet, so scheint ihm der Streit, ob der Mensch als solcher frei ist oder nicht, wichtig. Er sieht in dem Menschen ein sich entwickelndes Wesen und fragt, ob auf dieser Entwickelungsbahn auch die Stufe des freien Geistes erreicht werden kann.

Jeder von uns ist berufen zum freien Geiste, wie jeder Rosenkeim berufen ist, Rose zu werden.

Und zwar verfolgt jedes Individuum seine besonderen Zwecke. Denn die Ideenwelt lebt sich nicht in einer Gemeinschaft von Menschen, sondern nur in menschlichen Individuen aus.

Hinter den handelnden Menschen sieht der Monismus nicht die Zwecke einer ihm fremden Weltenlenkung, die die Menschen nach ihrem Willen bestimmt, sondern die Menschen verfolgen, insofern sie intuitive Ideen verwirklichen, nur ihre eigenen, menschlichen Zwecke.

Nach monistischer Auffassung handelt der Mensch teils, unfrei, teils frei. Er findet sich als unfrei in der Welt der Wahrnehmungen vor und verwirklicht in sich den freien Geist.

Wenn jemand von einer Handlung seines Mitmenschen behauptet: sie sei unfrei vollbracht, so muß er innerhalb der wahrnehmbaren Welt das Ding, oder den Menschen, oder die Einrichtung nachweisen, die jemand zu seiner Handlung veranlaßt haben; wenn der Behauptende sich auf Ursachen des Handelns außerhalb der sinnlich und geistig wirklichen Welt beruft, dann kann sich der Monismus auf eine solche Behauptung nicht einlassen.

Der Mensch kann nach monistischer Auffassung unfrei handeln, wenn er einem wahrnehmbaren äußeren Zwange folgt; er kann frei handeln, wenn er nur sich selbst gehorcht. Einen unbewußten, hinter Wahrnehmung und Begriff steckenden Zwang kann der Monismus nicht anerkennen.

Wer unfähig ist, die sittlichen Ideen durch Intuition hervorzubringen, der muß sie von andern empfangen.

Der Monismus wird die teilweise Berechtigung des naiven Realismus anerkennen müssen, weil er die Berechtigung der Wahrnehmungswelt anerkennt.

Der naive Realismus tötet die Freiheit durch Unterwerfung unter die Autorität eines wahrnehmbaren oder nach Analogie der Wahrnehmungen gedachten Wesens oder endlich unter die abstrakte innere Stimme, die er als ‘Gewissen’ deutet; der bloß das Außermenschliche erschließende Metaphysiker kann die Freiheit nicht anerkennen, weil er den Menschen von einem ‘Wesen an sich’ mechanisch oder moralisch bestimmt sein läßt.

Freiheit ist innerhalb des Materialismus sowie des einseitigen Spiritualismus, überhaupt innerhalb des auf Außermenschliches als wahre Wirklichkeit schließenden, diese nicht erlebenden metaphysischen Realismus, ausgeschlossen.

Wie der materialistische Dualist den Menschen zum Automaten macht, dessen Handeln nur das Ergebnis rein mechanischer Gesetzmäßigkeit ist, so macht ihn der spiritualistische Dualist (das ist derjenige, der das Absolute, das Wesen an sich, in einem Geistigen sieht, an dem der Mensch mit seinem bewußten Erleben keinen Anteil hat) zum Sklaven des Willens jenes Absoluten.

Ist das vorausgesetzte Wesen als ein an sich gedankenloses, nach rein mechanischen Gesetzen wirkendes gedacht, wie es das des Materialismus sein soll, dann wird es auch das menschliche Individuum durch rein mechanische Notwendigkeit aus sich hervorbringen samt allem, was an diesem ist. Das Bewußtsein der Freiheit kann dann nur eine Illusion sein. Denn während ich mich für den Schöpfer meiner Handlung halte, wirkt in mir die mich zusammensetzende Materie und ihre Bewegungsvorgänge.

Die außermenschlichen Sittennormen treten auch immer als Begleiterscheinung dieses metaphysischen Realismus auf. Dieser metaphysische Realismus muß auch den Ursprung der Sittlichkeit im Felde des außermenschlichen Wirklichen suchen.

Das menschliche Individuum ist Quell aller Sittlichkeit und Mittelpunkt des Erdenlebens. Der Staat, die Gesellschaft sind nur da, weil sie sich als notwendige Folge des Individuallebens ergeben.

Es darf nicht die Formel geprägt werden, der Mensch sei dazu da, um eine von ihm abgesonderte sittliche Weltordnung zu verwirklichen. (…) so ist der Mensch nicht wegen der Sittlichkeit da, sondern die Sittlichkeit durch den Menschen. Der freie Mensch handelt sittlich, weil er eine sittliche Idee hat; aber er handelt nicht, damit Sittlichkeit entstehe.

‘Freiheit! du freundlicher, menschlicher Name, der du alles sittlich Beliebte, was mein Menschentum am meisten würdigt, in dir fassest, und mich zu niemandes Diener machst, der du nicht bloß ein Gesetz aufstellst, sondern abwartest, was meine sittliche Liebe selbst als Gesetz erkennen wird, weil sie jedem nur auferzwungenen Gesetze gegenüber sich unfrei fühlt.’

Wenn Kant von der Pflicht sagt: ‘Pflicht! du erhabener, großer Name, der du nichts Beliebtes, was Einschmeichelung bei sich führt, in dir fassest, sondern Unterwerfung verlangst’ der du ‘ein Gesetz aufstellst…, vor dem alle Neigungen Verstummen, wenn sie gleich in Geheim ihm entgegenwirken’ so erwidert der Mensch aus dem Bewußtsein des freien Geistes:

Der freie Geist aber überwindet die Normen in dem Sinne, daß er nicht nur Gebote als Motive empfindet, sondern sein Handeln nach seinen Impulsen (Intuitionen) einrichtet.

Die Natur macht aus dem Menschen bloß ein Naturwesen; die Gesellschaft ein gesetzmäßig handelndes; ein freies Wesen kann er nur selbst aus sich machen.

Es ist in dem Wahrnehmungsobjekt Mensch die Möglichkeit gegeben, sich umzubilden, wie im Pflanzenkeim die Möglichkeit liegt, zur ganzen Pflanze zu werden. Die Pflanze wird sich umbilden wegen der objektiven, in ihr liegenden Gesetzmäßigkeit; der Mensch bleibt in seinem unvollendeten Zustande, wenn er nicht den Umbildungsstoff in sich selbst aufgreift, und sich durch eigene Kraft umbildet.

Beim Menschen selbst ist Begriff und Wahrnehmung zunächst tatsächlich getrennt, um von ihm ebenso tatsächlich vereinigt zu werden.

Das intellektuelle Leben überwindet die Doppelnatur durch die Erkenntnis, das sittliche durch die tatsächliche Verwirklichung des freien Geistes.

In der objektiven Welt ist uns durch unsere Organisation ein Grenzstrich gezogen zwischen Wahrnehmung und Begriff; das Erkennen überwindet diese Grenze. In der subjektiven Natur ist diese Grenze nicht minder vorhanden; der Mensch überwindet sie im Laufe seiner Entwicklung, indem er in seiner Erscheinung seinen Begriff zur Ausgestaltung bringt.

Der Mensch muß selbsttätig seinen Begriff mit der Wahrnehmung Mensch vereinigen. Begriff und Wahrnehmung decken sich hier nur, wenn sie der Mensch selbst zur Deckung bringt. Er kann es aber nur, wenn er den Begriff des freien Geistes, das ist seinen eigenen Begriff gefunden hat.

Beim Menschen ist das nicht so. Die Summe seines Daseins ist nicht ohne ihn selbst bestimmt; sein wahrer Begriff als sittlicher Mensch (freier Geist) ist mit dem Wahrnehmungsbilde ‘Mensch’ nicht im voraus objektiv vereinigt, um bloß nachher durch die Erkenntnis festgestellt zu werden.

An dem Dinge der Außenwelt ist die Idee durch die Wahrnehmung bestimmt; wir haben das unserige getan. wenn wir den Zusammenhang von Idee und Wahrnehmung erkannt haben.

Aus Handlungen der Freiheit und der Unfreiheit setzt sich unser Leben zusammen. Wir können aber den Begriff des Menschen nicht zuende denken, ohne auf den freien Geist als die reinste Ausprägung der menschlichen Natur zu kommen. Wahrhaft Menschen sind wir doch nur, insofern wir frei sind.

Wer von uns kann sagen, daß er in allen seinen Handlungen wirklich frei ist? Aber in jedem von uns wohnt eine tiefere Wesenheit, in der sich der freie Mensch ausspricht.

Der Freie lebt in dem Vertrauen darauf, daß der andere Freie mit ihm einer geistigen Welt angehört und sich in seinen Intentionen mit ihm begegnen wird. Der Freie verlangt von seinen Mitmenschen keine Übereinstimmung, aber er erwartet sie, weil sie in der menschlichen Natur liegt.

Leben in der Liebe zum Handeln und Lebenlassen im Verständnisse des fremden Wollens ist die Grundmaxime der freien Menschen. Sie kennen kein anderes Sollen als dasjenige, mit dem sich ihr Wollen in intuitiven Einklang versetzt; wie sie in einem besonderen Falle wollen werden, das wird ihnen ihr Ideenvermögen sagen.

Ein sittliches Mißverstehen, ein Aufeinanderprallen ist bei sittlich freien Menschen ausgeschlossen. Nur der sittlich Unfreie, der dem Naturtrieb oder einem angenommenen Pflichtgebot folgt, stößt den Nebenmenschen zurück, wenn er nicht dem gleichen Instinkt und dem gleichen Gebot folgt.

Wie ist aber ein Zusammenleben der Menschen möglich, wenn jeder nur bestrebt ist, seine Individualität zur Geltung zu bringen? (…) Dieser Moralismus versteht eben die Einigkeit der Ideenwelt nicht Er begreift nicht, daß die Ideenwelt, die in mir tätig ist, keine andere ist, als die in meinem Mitmenschen. Diese Einheit ist allerdings bloß ein Ergebnis der Welterfahrung.

Der bloße Pflichtbegriff schließt die Freiheit aus, weil er das Individuelle nicht anerkennen will, sondern Unterwerfung des letztem unter eine allgemeine Norm fordert. Die Freiheit des Handelns ist nur denkbar vom Standpunkte des ethischen Individualismus aus.

Nach der Verschiedenheit meiner tierischen Natur könnte mich nur ein mir fremdes Wesen von andern unterscheiden; durch mein Denken, das heißt durch das tätige Erfassen dessen, was sich als Ideelles in meinem Organismus auslebt, unterscheide ich mich selbst von andern.

Durch meine Instinkte, Triebe bin ich ein Mensch, von denen zwölf ein Dutzend machen; durch die besondere Form der Idee, durch die ich mich innerhalb des Dutzend als Ich bezeichne, bin ich Individuum.

Meine Triebe, Instinkte, Leidenschaften begründen nichts weiter in mir, als daß ich zur allgemeinen Gattung Mensch gehöre; der Umstand, daß sich ein Ideelles in diesen Trieben, Leidenschaften und Gefühlen auf eine besondere Art auslebt, begründet meine Individualität.

Aber der blinde Trieb, der zum Verbrechen treibt, stammt nicht aus Intuitivem, und gehört nicht zum Individuellen des Menschen, sondern zum Allgemeinsten in ihm, zu dem, was bei allen Individuen in gleichem Maße geltend ist und aus dem sich der Mensch durch sein Individuelles heraus arbeitet.

Was man soll, das tut man; man gibt den Schauplatz ab, auf dem das Sollen zum Tun wird; eigene Handlung ist, was man als solche aus sich entspringen läßt. Der Antrieb kann da nur ein ganz individueller sein. Und in Wahrheit kann nur eine aus der Intuition entspringende Willenshandlung eine individuelle sein.

Im einzelnen Wollen wird zumeist anderes als Triebfeder oder Motiv solchen Zielen beigemischt sein. Aber Intuitives kann im menschlichen Wollen doch bestimmend oder mitbestimmend sein.

Auf dem Wege zu diesem Ziele spielen Normen ihre berechtigte Rolle. Das Ziel besteht in der Verwirklichung rein intuitiv erfaßter Sittlichkeitsziele. Der Mensch erreicht solche Ziele in dem Maße, in dem er die Fähigkeit besitzt, sich überhaupt zum intuitiven Ideengehalte der Welt zu erheben.

Nicht das allgemein Übliche, die allgemeine Sitte, eine allgemein-menschliche Maxime, eine sittliche Norm leitet mich in unmittelbarer Art, sondern meine Liebe zur Tat. Ich fühle keinen Zwang, nicht den Zwang der Natur, die mich bei meinen Trieben leitet, nicht den Zwang der sittlichen Gebote, sondern ich will einfach ausführen, was in mir liegt.

Ich frage mich auch nicht: wie würde ein anderer Mensch in meinem Falle handeln? – sondern ich handle, wie ich, diese besondere Individualität, zu wollen mich veranlaßt sehe.

Ich prüfe nicht verstandesmäßig, ob meine Handlung gut oder böse ist; ich vollziehe sie, weil ich sie liebe. Sie wird ‘gut’, wenn meine in Liebe getauchte Intuition in der rechten Art in dem intuitiv zu erlebenden Weltzusammenhang drinnensteht; ‘böse’, wenn das nicht der Fall ist.

Ich handle auf dieser Stufe der Sittlichkeit nicht, weil ich einen Herrn über mich anerkenne, nicht die äußere Autorität, nicht eine sogenannte innere Stimme. Ich erkenne kein äußeres Prinzip meines Handelns an, weil ich in mir selbst den Grund des Handelns, die Liebe zur Handlung gefunden habe.

Nur wenn ich meiner Liebe zu dem Objekte folge, dann bin ich es selbst, der handelt.

Wer nur handelt, weil er bestimmte sittliche Normen anerkennt, dessen Handlung ist das Ergebnis der in seinem Moralkodex stehenden Prinzipien. Er ist bloß der Vollstrecker. Er ist ein höherer Automat. Werfet einen Anlaß zum Handeln in sein Bewußtsein, und alsbald setzt sich das Räderwerk seiner Moralprinzipien in Bewegung und läuft in gesetzmäßiger Weise ab, um eine christliche, humane, ihm selbstlos geltende, oder eine Handlung des kulturgeschichtlichen Fortschrittes zu vollbringen.

Ich frage keinen Menschen und auch keine Regel: soll ich diese Handlung ausführen? – sondern ich führe sie aus, sobald ich die Idee davon gefaßt habe. Nur dadurch ist sie meine Handlung.

Während ich handle, bewegt mich die Sittlichkeitsmaxime, insoferne sie intuitiv in mir leben kann; sie ist verbunden mit der Liebe zu dem Objekt, das ich durch meine Handlung verwirklichen will.

Allgemeine Normen setzen immer konkrete Tatsachen voraus, aus denen sie abgeleitet werden können. Durch das menschliche Handeln werden aber Tatsachen erst geschaffen.

Das Auslebenlassen dieses Gehalts ist die höchste moralische Triebfeder und zugleich das höchste Motiv dessen, der einsieht, daß alle andern Moralprinzipien sich letzten Endes in diesem Gehalte vereinigen. Man kann diesen Standpunkt den ethischen Individualismus nennen.

Die Summe der in uns wirksamen Ideen, den realen Inhalt unserer Intuitionen, macht das aus, was bei aller Allgemeinheit der Ideenwelt in jedem Menschen individuell geartet ist. Insofern dieser intuitive Inhalt auf das Handeln geht, ist er der Sittlichkeitsgehalt des Individuums.

Die Handlung ist also keine schablonenmäßige, die nach irgendwelchen Regeln ausgeführt wird, und auch keine solche, die der Mensch auf äußeren Anstoß hin automatenhaft vollzieht. sondern eine schlechthin durch ihren idealen Gehalt bestimmte.

Wenn aber alle andern Bestimmungsgründe erst an zweite Stelle treten, dann kommt in erster Linie die begriffliche Intuition selbst in Betracht. Damit treten die andern Motive von der leitenden Stelle ab, und nur der Ideengehalt der Handlung wirkt als Motiv derselben.

Es gibt aber ein höheres, das in dem einzelnen Falle nicht von einem bestimmten einzelnen Sittlichkeitsziel ausgeht, sondern welches allen Sittlichkeitsmaximen einen gewissen Wert beilegt, und im gegebenen Falle immer fragt, ob denn hier das eine oder das andere Moralprinzip das wichtigere ist.

Der Mensch wird auf dieser Stufe der Sittlichkeit die Bedürfnisse des sittlichen Lebens aufsuchen und sich von der Erkenntnis derselben zu seinen Handlungen bestimmen lassen. Solche Bedürfnisse sind: 1. das größtmögliche Wohl der Gesamtmenschheit rein um dieses Wohles willen; 2. der Kulturfortschritt oder die sittliche Entwicklung der Menschheit zu immer größerer Vollkommenheit; 3. die Verwirklichung rein intuitiv erfaßter individueller Sittlichkeitsziele.

Eine besondere Art dieser Sittlichkeitsprinzipien ist die, wo das Gebot sich nicht durch eine äußere Autorität für uns kundgibt, sondern durch unser eigenes Innere (sittliche Autonomie). Wir vernehmen dann die Stimme in unserem eigenen Innern, der wir uns zu unterwerfen haben. Der Ausdruck dieser Stimme ist das Gewissen.

Wir empfinden dann einfach die Unterwerfung unter den sittlichen Begriff, der als Gebot über unserem Handeln schwebt, als sittliche Notwendigkeit. Die Begründung dieser Notwendigkeit überlassen wir dem, der die sittliche Unterwerfung fordert, das ist der sittlichen Autorität, die wir anerkennen (Familienoberhaupt, Staat, gesellschaftliche Sitte, kirchliche Autorität, göttliche Offenbarung).

Der besondere Inhalt der egoistischen Sittlichkeitsprinzipien wird davon abhängen, welche Vorstellung sich der Mensch von seiner eigenen oder der fremden Glückseligkeit macht.

Wer über einen erweichten Boden geht, dessen Fußspuren graben sich in dem Boden ein. Man wird nicht versucht sein, zu sagen, die Fußspurenformen seien von Kräften des Bodens, von unten herauf, getrieben worden. Man wird diesen Kräften keinen Anteil an dem Zustandekommen der Spurenformen zuschreiben.

Die Vorstellung eines künftigen Gefühles, nicht aber das Gefühl selbst kann auf meine charakterologische Anlage einwirken. Denn das Gefühl selbst ist im Augenblicke der Handlung noch nicht da, soll vielmehr erst durch die Handlung hervorgebracht werden.

Die Motive der Sittlichkeit sind Vorstellungen und Begriffe.

Wenn wir unter dem Einflusse von Intuitionen handeln, so ist die Triebfeder unseres Handelns das reine Denken. Da man gewohnt ist, das reine Denkvermögen in der Philosophie als Vernunft zu bezeichnen, so ist es wohl auch berechtigt, die auf dieser Stufe gekennzeichnete moralische Triebfeder die praktische Vernunft zu nennen.

Die dritte Stufe des Lebens endlich ist das Denken und Vorstellen. Durch bloße Überlegung kann eine Vorstellung oder ein Begriff zum Motiv einer Handlung werden. (…) Wir können die damit bezeichnete Triebfeder des Wollens die praktische Erfahrung nennen. Die praktische Erfahrung geht allmählich in das rein taktvolle Handeln über.

Die zweite Sphäre des menschlichen Lebens ist das Fühlen. An die Wahrnehmungen der Außenwelt knüpfen sich bestimmte Gefühle. Diese Gefühle können zu Triebfedern des Handelns werden. (…) Solche Gefühle sind etwa: das Schamgefühl, der Stolz, das Ehrgefühl, die Demut, die Reue, das Mitgefühl, das Rache- und Dankbarkeitsgefühl, die Pietät, die Treue, das Liebes- und Pflichtgefühl.

Diese Art der Bestimmung des Wollens, die ursprünglich nur dem niedrigeren Sinnenleben eigen ist, kann auch auf die Wahrnehmungen der höheren Sinne ausgedehnt werden. (…) Die Triebfeder dieses Handelns bezeichnet man als Takt oder sittlichen Geschmack.

Das Charakteristische des Trieblebens besteht in der Unmittelbarkeit, mit der die Einzelwahrnehmung das Wollen auslöst.

Wir haben somit zu unterscheiden: 1. Die möglichen subjektiven Anlagen, die geeignet sind, bestimmte Vorstellungen und Begriffe zu Motiven zu machen; und 2. die möglichen Vorstellungen und Begriffe, die imstande sind, meine charakterologische Anlage so zu beeinflussen, daß sich ein Wollen ergibt. Jene stellen die Triebfedern, diese die Ziele der Sittlichkeit dar.

Die unmittelbar gegenwärtige Vorstellung oder der Begriff, die zum Motiv werden, bestimmen das Ziel, den Zweck meines Wollens; meine charakterologische Anlage bestimmt mich, auf dieses Ziel meine Tätigkeit zu richten.

Die charakterologische Anlage wird gebildet durch den mehr oder weniger bleibenden Lebensgehalt unseres Subjektes, das ist durch unseren Vorstellungs- und Gefühlsinhalt.

Die Art, wie Begriff und Vorstellung auf die charakterologische Anlage des Menschen wirken, gibt seinem Leben ein bestimmtes moralisches oder ethisches Gepräge.

Der begriffliche Faktor oder das Motiv ist der augenblickliche Bestimmungsgrund des Wollens; die Triebfeder der bleibende Bestimmungsgrund des Individuums.

Das ‘Ich-Bewußtsein’ ist auf die menschliche Organisation gebaut. Aus dieser erfließen die Willenshandlungen. In der Richtung der vorangegangenen Darlegungen wird ein Einblick in den Zusammenhang zwischen Denken, bewußtem Ich und Willenshandlung nur zu gewinnen sein, wenn erst beobachtet wird, wie die Willenshandlung aus der menschlichen Organisation hervorgeht.

Das ‘Ich’ ist innerhalb des Denkens zu finden; das ‘Ich-Bewußtsein’ tritt dadurch auf, daß im allgemeinen Bewußtsein sich die Spuren der Denktätigkeit in dem oben gekennzeichneten Sinne eingraben. (Durch die Leibesorganisation entsteht also das Ich-Bewußtsein…)

Innerhalb des Eigenwesens des Denkens liegt wohl das wirkliche ‘Ich’, nicht aber das Ich-Bewußtsein.

Ebensowenig wird, wer die Wesenheit des Denkens unbefangen beobachtet, den Spuren im Leibesorganismus an dieser Wesenheit einen Anteil zuschreiben, die dadurch entstehen, daß das Denken sein Erscheinen durch den Leib vorbereitet.

Man ersieht aus diesem, in welchem Sinne das Denken in der Leibesorganisation sein Gegenbild findet. Und wenn man dieses ersieht, wird man nicht mehr die Bedeutung dieses Gegenbildes für das Denken selbst verkennen können.

Dem Wesenhaften, das im Denken wirkt, obliegt ein Doppeltes: Erstens drängt es die menschliche Organisation in deren eigener Tätigkeit zurück, und zweitens setzt es sich selbst an deren Stelle. Denn auch das erste, die Zurückdrängung der Leibesorganisation, ist Folge der Denktätigkeit. Und zwar desjenigen Teiles derselben, der das Erscheinen des Denkens vorbereitet.

Intuition ist das im rein Geistigen verlaufende bewußte Erleben eines rein geistigen Inhaltes. Nur durch eine Intuition kann die Wesenheit des Denkens erfaßt werden.

Er wird in demjenigen, das als Denken im Bewußtsein auftritt, nicht ein schattenhaftes Nachbild einer Wirklichkeit sehen, sondern eine auf sich ruhende geistige Wesenhaftigkeit. Und von dieser kann er sagen, daß sie ihm durch Intuition im Bewußtsein gegenwärtig wird.

Wer aber durchschaut, was bezüglich des Denkens vorliegt, der wird erkennen, daß in der Wahrnehmung nur ein Teil der Wirklichkeit vorliegt und daß der andere zu ihr gehörige Teil, der sie erst als volle Wirklichkeit erscheinen läßt, in der denkenden Durchsetzung der Wahrnehmung erlebt wird.

Er wird auch eine metaphysische Welt nach dem Muster der wahrgenommenen Welt sich auferbauen; er wird diese Welt Atomenwelt, Willenswelt, unbewußte Geistwelt und so weiter nennen, je nach seiner Vorstellungsart. Und es wird ihm entgehen, daß er sich mit alledem nur eine metaphysische Welt hypothetisch nach dem Muster seiner Wahrnehmungswelt auferbaut hat.

Wer dies nicht durchschaut, der wird in an Wahrnehmungen erarbeiteten Begriffen nur schattenhafte Nachbildungen dieser Wahrnehmungen sehen können, und die Wahrnehmungen werden ihm die wahre Wirklichkeit vergegenwärtigen.

Im Betrachten des Denkens selbst fallen in eines zusammen, was sonst immer getrennt auftreten muß: Begriff und Wahrnehmung.

Wer das Denken beobachtet, lebt während der Beobachtung unmittelbar in einem geistigen, sich selbst tragenden Wesensweben darinnen. Ja, man kann sagen, wer die Wesenheit des Geistigen in der Gestalt, in der sie sich dem Menschen zunächst darbietet, erfassen will, kann dies in dem auf sich selbst beruhenden Denken.

Wer nötig findet, zur Erklärung des Denkens als solchem etwas anderes herbeizuziehen, wie etwa physische Gehirnvorgänge, oder hinter dem beobachteten bewußten Denken liegende unbewußte geistige Vorgänge, der verkennt, was ihm die unbefangene Beobachtung des Denkens gibt.

Wer nämlich zum wesenhaften Denken sich hinwendet der findet in demselben sowohl Gefühl wie Willen, die letztern auch in den Tiefen ihrer Wirklichkeit; wer von dem Denken sich ab- und nur dem ‘bloßen’ Fühlen und Wollen zuwendet, der verliert aus diesen die wahre Wirklichkeit.

Dieses Untertauchen geschieht mit einer in der Denkbetätigung selbst dahinfließenden Kraft, welche Kraft der Liebe in geistiger Art ist.

Das Wollen, das Fühlen, sie erwärmen die Menschenseele auch noch im Nacherleben ihres Ursprungszustandes. Das Denken läßt nur allzuleicht in diesem Nacherleben kalt; es scheint das Seelenleben auszutrocknen. Doch dies ist eben nur der stark sich geltend machende Schatten seiner lichtdurchwobenen, warm in die Welterscheinungen untertauchenden Wirklichkeit.

Keine andere menschliche Seelenbetätigung wird so leicht zu verkennen sein wie das Denken.

Aber wer sich dazu bringt, das Leben im Denken wahrhaft zu haben, der gelangt zur Einsicht, daß dem inneren Reichtum und der in sich ruhenden, aber zugleich in sich bewegten Erfahrung innerhalb dieses Lebens das Weben in bloßen Gefühlen oder das Anschauen des Willenselementes nicht einmal verglichen werden kann, geschweige denn, daß diese über jenes gesetzt werden dürften.

Die Schwierigkeit, das Denken in seinem Wesen beobachtend zu erfassen, liegt darin, daß dieses Wesen der betrachtenden Seele nur allzu leicht schon entschlüpft ist, wenn diese es in die Richtung ihrer Aufmerksamkeit bringen will. Dann bleibt ihr nur das tote Abstrakte, die Leichname des lebendigen Denkens.

Was am Wollen nicht rein ideeller Faktor ist, das ist ebenso bloß Gegenstand des Wahrnehmens wie das bei irgendeinem Dinge der Außenwelt der Fall ist.

Das Ich lebt durch sein Denken das allgemeine Weltleben mit; es bezieht durch dasselbe rein ideell (begrifflich) die Wahrnehmungen auf sich, sich auf die Wahrnehmungen. Im Gefühl erlebt es einen Bezug der Objekte auf sein Subjekt; im Willen ist das Umgekehrte der Fall. Im Wollen haben wir ebenfalls eine Wahrnehmung vor uns, nämlich die des individuellen Bezugs unseres Selbstes auf das Objektive.

Das Fühlen ist ein rein individueller Akt, die Beziehung der Außenwelt auf unser Subjekt, insofern diese Beziehung ihren Ausdruck findet in einem bloß subjektiven Erleben.

Da das Gefühl etwas ganz Individuelles ist, etwas der Wahrnehmung Gleichkommendes, so macht der Gefühlsphilosoph ein Prinzip, das nur innerhalb seiner Persönlichkeit eine Bedeutung hat, zum Weltprinzipe. Er sucht die ganze Welt mit seinem eigenen Selbst zu durchdringen. Was der hier gemeinte Monismus im Begriffe zu erfassen strebt, das sucht der Gefühlsphilosoph mit dem Gefühle zu erreichen, und sieht dieses sein Zusammensein mit den Objekten als das unmittelbarere an.

Wir fühlen uns zuerst als Daseiende; und im Laufe der allmählichen Entwicklung ringen wir uns erst zu dem Punkte durch, wo uns in dem dumpf gefühlten eigenen Dasein der Begriff unseres Selbst aufgeht. Was für uns erst später hervortritt, ist aber ursprünglich mit dem Gefühle unzertrennlich verbunden.

Deshalb tritt im Leben auch überall das Fühlen gleichwie das Wahrnehmen vor dem Erkennen auf.

Der hier gemeinte Monismus muß aber dem Gefühle die gleiche Ergänzung angedeihen lassen, die er für die Wahrnehmung notwendig erachtet, wenn sie als vollkommene Wirklichkeit sich darstellen soll. Für diesen Monismus ist das Gefühl ein unvollständiges Wirkliches, das in der ersten Form, in der es uns gegeben ist, seinen zweiten Faktor, den Begriff oder die Idee, noch nicht mitenthält.

Das Gefühl ist auf subjektiver Seite zunächst genau dasselbe, was die Wahrnehmung auf objektiver Seite ist. Nach dem Grundsatz des naiven Realismus: Alles ist wirklich, was wahrgenommen werden kann, ist daher das Gefühl die Bürgschaft der Realität der eigenen Persönlichkeit.

Wir beziehen die Wahrnehmungen nicht bloß ideell auf uns, durch den Begriff, sondern auch noch durch das Gefühl, wie wir gesehen haben. Wir sind also nicht Wesen mit bloß begrifflichem Lebensinhalt.

Diese gedankliche Beziehung auf sich selbst ist eine Lebensbestimmung unserer Persönlichkeit. Durch sie führen wir ein rein ideelles Dasein. Wir fühlen uns durch sie als denkende Wesen.

Das Denken äußert sich daher zunächst an der Wahrnehmung des Selbst; ist aber nicht bloß subjektiv; denn das Selbst bezeichnet sich erst mit Hilfe des Denkens als Subjekt.

Dieses Etwas ist das Denken, und die ideellen Bestimmtheiten sind die Begriffe und Ideen.

Es fügt den einzelnen Wahrnehmungen ideelle Bestimmtheiten bei, die sich aber aufeinander beziehen, die in einem Ganzen gegründet sind. Das durch Selbstwahrnehmung Gewonnene bestimmt es auf gleiche Weise ideell wie alle andern Wahrnehmungen und stellt es als Subjekt oder ‘Ich’ den Objekten gegenüber.

Dieses auftauchende Etwas ist nicht mehr bloße Wahrnehmung; es wird auch nicht gleich den Wahrnehmungen einfach vorgefunden. Es wird durch Tätigkeit hervorgebracht. Es erscheint zunächst an das gebunden, was wir als unser Selbst wahrnehmen. Seiner inneren Bedeutung nach greift es aber über das Selbst hinaus.

Diese Selbstwahrnehmung bliebe einfach als eine unter den vielen anderen Wahrnehmungen stehen, wenn nicht aus der Mitte dieser Selbstwahrnehmung etwas auftauchte, das sich geeignet erweist, die Wahrnehmungen überhaupt, also auch die Summe aller anderen Wahrnehmungen mit der unseres Selbst zu verbinden.

Innerhalb der Welt der Wahrnehmungen nehmen wir uns selbst wahr.

Diese Gestalt der Welt bezeichnen wir schlechthin als gegeben, und insofern wir sie nicht durch bewußte Tätigkeit entwickeln, sondern vorfinden, als Wahrnehmung.

Was wir zum Beispiel als Wärme empfinden, ist innerhalb des Raumes, den der wärmeverursachende Körper einnimmt, Bewegung seiner Teile. Auch hier wird wieder ein Unwahrnehmbares in Analogie mit dem Wahrnehmbaren gedacht.

Allein niemals sollte das Tauchen in die Tiefe, als das Erreichen der Wirklichkeit, verwechselt werden mit dem Gegenüberstehen von weiterem oder engerem Wahrnehmungsbild, in dem stets nur eine halbe Wirklichkeit, wie sie von der erkennenden Organisation bedingt wird, vorliegt.

Die Vertiefung der Erkenntnis hängt von den im Denken sich auslebenden Kräften der Intuition ab. Diese Intuition kann in demjenigen Erleben, das im Denken sich ausgestaltet, in tiefere oder weniger tiefe Untergründe der Wirklichkeit tauchen.

Die Welt tritt dem Menschen als eine Vielheit gegenüber, als eine Summe von Einzelheiten. Eine von diesen Einzelheiten, ein Wesen unter Wesen, ist er selbst.

Für den Monismus ist die Wahrnehmung durch das Subjekt bestimmt. Dieses hat aber in dem Denken zugleich das Mittel, die durch es selbst hervorgerufene Bestimmtheit wieder aufzuheben.

Man muß eben einsehen, daß jedes Wahrnehmungsbild seine Gestalt erhält von der Organisation des wahrnehmenden Wesens, daß aber das von der erlebten denkenden Betrachtung durchsetzte Wahrnehmungsbild den Menschen in die Wirklichkeit führt.

Welche Sinne immer der Mensch noch haben könnte: keiner gäbe ihm eine Wirklichkeit, wenn er nicht das durch ihn vermittelte Wahrgenommene denkend mit Begriffen durchsetzte; und jeder wie immer geartete Sinn gibt, so durchsetzt, dem Menschen die Möglichkeit, in der Wirklichkeit drinnen zu leben.

Das Erleben der Wesenheit des Denkens, also die tätige Erarbeitung der Begriffswelt ist etwas durchaus anderes als das Erleben eines Wahrnehmbaren durch die Sinne.

Für sie ist nämlich das außerhalb des Subjektes Befindliche ein Absolutes, ein in sich Beruhendes, und der Inhalt des Subjektes ein Bild desselben, das schlechthin außerhalb dieses Absoluten steht. Die Vollkommenheit der Erkenntnis beruht auf der größeren oder geringeren Ähnlichkeit des Bildes mit dem absoluten Objekte.

Nur für den naiven und den metaphysischen Realismus, die beide in dem Inhalte der Seele nur eine ideelle Repräsentation der Welt sehen, besteht die Frage nach der Grenze des Erkennens.

Ich bin durch mein Wahrnehmen, und zwar durch dieses spezifische menschliche Wahrnehmen als Subjekt dem Objekt gegenübergestellt. Der Zusammenhang der Dinge ist damit unterbrochen. Das Subjekt stellt durch das Denken diesen Zusammenhang wieder her. Damit hat es sich dem Weltganzen wieder eingefügt.

So läuft der metaphysische Realismus in eine Weltanschauung ein, welche für die Wahrnehmung das Prinzip der Wahrnehmbarkeit, für die Beziehungen unter den Wahrnehmungen die Denkbarkeit fordert.

Als die Summe von Wahrnehmungen und ihrer begrifflichen (ideellen) Bezüge stellt sich die Welt dar, wenn man aus dem metaphysischen Realismus den unberechtigten Bestandteil hinauswirft.

Will man den Widerspruch der unwahrnehmbaren Wahrnehmung vermeiden, so muß man zugestehen, daß es für die durch das Denken vermittelten Beziehungen zwischen den Wahrnehmungen für uns keine andere Existenzform als die des Begriffes gibt.

Der metaphysische Realismus ist eine widerspruchsvolle Mischung des naiven Realismus mit dem Idealismus. Seine hypothetischen Kräfte sind unwahrnehmbare Wesenheiten mit Wahrnehmungsqualitäten.

Es ist aber klar, daß der naive Realismus nur durch eine Inkonsequenz zu dieser Annahme kommen kann. (…) Und weil er keine anderen Realitäten kennt, so stattet er seine hypothetischen Kräfte mit Wahrnehmungsinhalt aus. Er wendet also eine Seinsform (das Wahrnehmungsdasein) auf ein Gebiet an, wo ihm das Mittel fehlt, das allein über diese Seinsform eine Aussage zu machen hat: das sinnliche Wahrnehmen.

Ein solches Ding ist das den organischen Leib durchdringende Lebensprinzip, die Seele, für die man im naiven Bewußtsein stets einen nach Analogie mit Sinnesrealitäten gebildeten Begriff findet, und ist endlich das göttliche Wesen des naiven Menschen. Dieses göttliche Wesen wird in einer Weise wirksam gedacht, die ganz dem entspricht, was als Wirkungsart des Menschen selbst wahrgenommen werden kann: anthropomorphisch.

Solche hypothetisch angenommenen Realitäten sind die unsichtbaren Kräfte, durch die die sinnlich wahrzunehmenden Dinge aufeinander wirken. Ein solches Ding ist die Vererbung, die über das Individuum hinaus fortwirkt, und die der Grund ist, daß sich aus dem Individuum ein neues entwickelt, das ihm ähnlich ist, wodurch sich die Gattung erhält.

So sieht sich denn diese Weltanschauung in der Lage, ihre Wirklichkeiten kommen und verschwinden zu sehen, während sich das nach ihrer Meinung Unwirkliche dem Wirklichen gegenüber behauptet. Der naive Realismus muß also neben den Wahrnehmungen auch noch etwas Ideelles gelten lassen. Er muß Wesenheiten in sich aufnehmen, die er nicht mit den Sinnen wahrnehmen kann.

Den naiven Realismus mit seinem Grundsatz von der Wirklichkeit alles Wahrgenommenen widerlegt die Erfahrung, welche lehrt, daß der Inhalt der Wahrnehmungen vergänglicher Natur ist. (…) Was sich behauptet hat, ist die Gattung Tulpe. Diese Gattung ist aber für den naiven Realismus ‘nur’ eine Idee, keine Wirklichkeit.

Als real gelten dem naiven Realisten nur die Tulpenindividuen, die gesehen werden, oder gesehen werden können; die eine Idee der Tulpe gilt ihm als Abstraktum, als das unreale Gedankenbild, das sich die Seele aus den allen Tulpen gemeinsamen Merkmalen zusammengefügt hat.

Auch das Erkennen selbst stellt sich der naive Mensch als einen den Sinnesprozessen analogen Vorgang vor. Die Dinge machen einen Eindruck in der Seele, oder sie senden Bilder aus, die durch die Sinne eindringen und so weiter.

In diesem Bedürfnisse des naiven Menschen liegt der Grund zur Entstehung der primitiven Formen des Offenbarungsglaubens. (…) Der Gott muß leibhaftig erscheinen, und man will auf das Zeugnis des Denkens wenig geben, nur etwa darauf, daß die Göttlichkeit durch sinnenfällig konstatierbares Verwandeln von Wasser in Wein erwiesen wird.

Dieser seiner realen Welt gegenüber ist für den naiven Realisten alles andere, namentlich die Welt der Ideen, unreal, ‘bloß ideell’. Was wir zu den Gegenständen hinzudenken, das ist bloßer Gedanke über die Dinge. Der Gedanke fügt nichts Reales zu der Wahrnehmung hinzu.

Der naive Mensch (naive Realist) betrachtet die Gegenstände der äußeren Erfahrung als Realitäten.

Mit andern Worten: dem Dualisten erscheinen die durch das Denken auffindbaren Idealprinzipien zu luftig, und er sucht noch Realprinzipien, von denen sie gestützt werden können.

Der objektiv-reale Vorgang im Subjekte, durch den die Wahrnehmung zustande kommt, und um so mehr die objektiven Beziehungen der ‘Dinge an sich’ bleiben für einen solchen Dualisten direkt unerkennbar; seiner Meinung nach kann sich der Mensch nur begriffliche Repräsentanten für das objektiv Reale verschaffen.

Der Dualismus spaltet somit den Erkenntnisprozeß in zwei Teile. Den einen, Erzeugung des Wahrnehmungsobjektes aus dem ‘Ding an sich’, läßt er außerhalb, den andern, Verbindung der Wahrnehmung mit dem Begriff und Beziehung desselben auf das Objekt, innerhalb des Bewußtseins sich abspielen.

Da aber die innerhalb des Wahrnehmungshorizontes gesonderten Dinge nur solange gesondert sind, als der Wahrnehmende sich des Denkens enthält, das alle Sonderung aufhebt und als eine bloß subjektiv bedingte erkennen läßt, so überträgt der Dualist Bestimmungen auf Wesenheiten hinter den Wahrnehmungen, die selbst für diese keine absolute, sondern nur eine relative Geltung haben.

Die Vorbedingungen zum Entstehen des Erkennens sind also durch und für das Ich. Das letztere gibt sich selbst die Fragen des Erkennens auf. Und zwar entnimmt es sie aus dem in sich vollständig klaren und durchsichtigen Elemente des Denkens.

Erst wenn die Ichheit die beiden Elemente der Wirklichkeit, die in der Welt unzertrennlich verbunden sind, auch für sich vereinigt hat, dann ist die Erkenntnisbefriedigung eingetreten: das Ich ist wieder bei der Wirklichkeit angelangt.

Die Dinge verlangen keine Erklärung. Sie existieren und wirken aufeinander nach den Gesetzen, die durch das Denken auffindbar sind. Sie existieren in unzertrennlicher Einheit mit diesen Gesetzen. Da tritt ihnen unsere Ichheit gegenüber und erfaßt von ihnen zunächst nur das, was wir als Wahrnehmung bezeichnet haben. Aber in dem Innern dieser Ichheit findet sich die Kraft, um auch den andern Teil der Wirklichkeit zu finden.

Der Anhänger einer monistischen Weltanschauung weiß, daß alles, was er zur Erklärung einer ihm gegebenen Erscheinung der Welt braucht, im Bereiche der letztern liegen müsse. Was ihn hindert, dazu zu gelangen, können nur zufällige zeitliche oder räumliche Schranken oder Mängel seiner Organisation sein. Und zwar nicht der menschlichen Organisation im allgemeinen, sondern nur seiner besonderen individuellen.

Diese Schlußfolgerung ist charakteristisch für die ganze Denkrichtung. Aus der reichen Welt der Wahrnehmungen wird abgesondert: Lage und Bewegung. Diese werden auf die erdachte Welt der Atome übertragen. Dann tritt die Verwunderung darüber ein, daß man aus diesem selbstgemachten und aus der Wahrnehmungswelt entlehnten Prinzip das konkrete Leben nicht herauswickeln kann.

Bringt man ein paar abstrakte Elemente der Erfahrungswelt in den Begriff des Dinges an sich hinein, dann bleibt es doch unmöglich, das reiche konkrete Leben der Erfahrung auf ein paar Eigenschaften zurückzuführen, die selbst nur aus dieser Wahrnehmung entnommen sind.

Der dualistische Denker behauptet dann gewöhnlich: der Inhalt dieses Begriffes sei unserer Erkenntnis unzugänglich; wir könnten nur wissen, daß ein solcher Inhalt vorhanden ist, nicht was vorhanden ist. In beiden Fällen ist die Überwindung des Dualismus unmöglich.

Für das hypothetische Weltprinzip läßt sich nur ein Inhalt gewinnen, wenn man ihn aus der Erfahrungswelt entlehnt und sich über diese Tatsache hinwegtäuscht. Sonst bleibt es ein inhaltsleerer Begriff, ein Unbegriff, der nur die Form des Begriffes hat.

Betrachten wir aber die Summe aller Wahrnehmungen als den einen Teil und stellen diesem dann einen zweiten in den «Dingen an sich» gegenüber, so philosophieren wir ins Blaue hinein. Wir haben es dann mit einem bloßen Begriffsspiel zu tun. Wir konstruieren einen künstlichen Gegensatz, können aber für das zweite Glied desselben keinen Inhalt gewinnen, denn ein solcher kann für ein besonderes Ding nur aus der Wahrnehmung geschöpft werden.

Unseren Ausführungen gemäß liegt es in der Natur unserer geistigen Organisation, daß ein besonderes Ding nur als Wahrnehmung gegeben sein kann. Das Denken überwindet dann die Besonderung, indem es jeder Wahrnehmung ihre gesetzmäßige Stelle im Weltganzen anweist.

Einem solchen Dualismus entspringt die durch Kant in die Wissenschaft eingeführte und bis heute nicht wieder herausgebrachte Unterscheidung von Wahrnehmungsobjekt und ‘Ding an sich’.

Eine Philosophie, welche von diesem Grundprinzip ausgeht, kann als monistische Philosophie oder Monismus bezeichnet werden. Ihr steht gegenüber die Zweiweltentheorie oder der Dualismus. Der letztere nimmt nicht etwa zwei bloß durch unsere Organisation auseinandergehaltene Seiten der einheitlichen Wirklichkeit an, sondern zwei voneinander absolut verschiedene Welten. Er sucht dann Erklärungsprinzipien für die eine Welt in der andern.

Nennen wir die Weise, in der uns die Welt entgegentritt, bevor sie durch das Erkennen ihre rechte Gestalt gewonnen hat, die Welt der Erscheinung im Gegensatz zu der aus Wahrnehmung und Begriff einheitlich zusammengesetzten Wesenheit. Dann können wir sagen: Die Welt ist uns als Zweiheit (dualistisch) gegeben, und das Erkennen verarbeitet sie zur Einheit (monistisch).

Unsere Organisation bedingt es, wie wir gesehen haben, daß uns die volle, totale Wirklichkeit, einschließlich unseres eigenen Subjektes, zunächst als Zweiheit erscheint. Das Erkennen überwindet diese Zweiheit, indem es aus den beiden Elementen der Wirklichkeit: der Wahrnehmung und dem durch das Denken erarbeiteten Begriff das ganze Ding zusammenfügt.

Wir haben festgestellt, daß die Elemente zur Erklärung der Wirklichkeit den beiden Sphären: dem Wahrnehmen und dem Denken zu entnehmen sind.

Das Gefühl ist das Mittel, wodurch die Begriffe zunächst konkretes Leben gewinnen.

Die Erkenntnis der Dinge wird bei dem auf Totalität angelegten Menschen Hand in Hand gehen mit der Ausbildung und Entwickelung des Gefühlslebens.

Das Vorstellen gibt unserem Begriffsleben bereits ein individuelles Gepräge. (…) Diese besondere Bestimmtheit ist ein Ergebnis unseres Standortes in der Welt, der an unseren Lebensplatz sich anschließenden Wahrnehmungssphäre.

Es gibt Menschen, bei denen auch die allgemeinsten Ideen, die in ihrem Kopfe sich festsetzen, noch jene besondere Färbung tragen, die sie unverkennbar als mit ihrem Träger im Zusammenhange zeigt.

Eine wahrhafte Individualität wird derjenige sein, der am weitesten hinaufreicht mit seinen Gefühlen in die Region des Ideellen.

Für das Weltganze kann mein Gefühlsleben nur einen Wert erhalten, wenn das Gefühl, als Wahrnehmung an meinem Selbst, mit einem Begriffe in Verbindung tritt und sich auf diesem Umwege dem Kosmos eingliedert.

Erst dadurch, daß wir mit der Selbsterkenntnis das Selbstgefühl, mit der Wahrnehmung der Dinge Lust und Schmerz empfinden, leben wir als individuelle Wesen, deren Dasein nicht mit dem Begriffsverhältnis erschöpft ist, in dem sie zu der übrigen Welt stehen, sondern die noch einen besonderen Wert für sich haben.

Unser Denken verbindet uns mit der Welt; unser Fühlen führt uns in uns selbst zurück, macht uns erst zum Individuum.

Wir begnügen uns aber nicht damit, die Wahrnehmung mit Hilfe des Denkens auf den Begriff zu beziehen, sondern wir beziehen sie auch auf unsere besondere Subjektivität, auf unser individuelles Ich. Der Ausdruck dieses individuellen Bezuges ist das Gefühl, das sich als Lust oder Unlust auslebt.

Als Wahrnehmung und Begriff stellt sich uns die Wirklichkeit, als Vorstellung die subjektive Repräsentation dieser Wirklichkeit dar.

Der gedankenlose Reisende und der in abstrakten Begriffssystemen lebende Gelehrte sind gleich unfähig, sich eine reiche Erfahrung zu erwerben.

Derjenige Mensch wird die reichere Erfahrung haben, der eine größere Zahl individualisierter Begriffe hat.

Die Summe desjenigen, worüber ich Vorstellungen bilden kann, darf ich meine Erfahrung nennen.

Die Vorstellung steht also zwischen Wahrnehmung und Begriff. Sie ist der bestimmte, auf die Wahrnehmung deutende Begriff.

Die volle Wirklichkeit eines Dinges ergibt sich uns im Augenblicke der Beobachtung aus dem Zusammengehen von Begriff und Wahrnehmung. Der Begriff erhält durch eine Wahrnehmung eine individuelle Gestalt, einen Bezug zu dieser bestimmten Wahrnehmung. In dieser individuellen Gestalt, die den Bezug auf die Wahrnehmung als eine Eigentümlichkeit in sich trägt, lebt er in uns fort und bildet die Vorstellung des betreffenden Dinges.

Wer von dem Umstande, daß ein elektrischer Vorgang im Auge Licht hervorruft, zurückschließt also ist das, was wir als Licht empfinden, außer unserem Organismus nur ein mechanischer Bewegungsvorgang, der vergißt, daß er nur von einer Wahrnehmung auf die andere übergeht und durchaus nicht auf etwas außerhalb der Wahrnehmung.

Am schwierigsten aus dem Felde zu schlagen werden die sogenannten physiologischen Beweise für die Subjektivität unserer Wahrnehmungen sein.

Die Wahrnehmung des Baumes liegt mit meinem Ich in demselben Ganzen. Dieses allgemeine Weltgeschehen ruft in gleichem Maße dort die Wahrnehmung des Baumes hervor, wie hier die Wahrnehmung meines Ich.

Die Kräfte, welche innerhalb meiner Leibeshaut wirken, sind die gleichen wie die außerhalb bestehenden. Ich bin also wirklich die Dinge; allerdings nicht Ich, insoferne ich Wahrnehmungssubjekt bin, aber Ich, insofern ich ein Teil innerhalb des allgemeinen Weltgeschehens bin.

Der Ausschnitt aus der Welt, den ich als mein Subjekt wahrnehme, wird von dem Strome des allgemeinen Weltgeschehens durchzogen. Für mein Wahrnehmen bin ich zunächst innerhalb der Grenzen meiner Leibeshaut eingeschlossen. Aber was da drinnen steckt in dieser Leibeshaut, gehört zu dem Kosmos als einem Ganzen.

Doch der Verfasser dieser Ausführungen glaubt eben in ihnen erwiesen zu haben, daß die Geltung dieses «naiven Realismus» für das Denken sich aus einer unbefangenen Beobachtung desselben notwendig ergibt; und daß der für anderes nicht geltende naive Realismus durch die Erkenntnis der wahren Wesenheit des Denkens überwunden wird.

Wird er dies gewahr, dann eröffnet er sich den Zugang zu der anderen Einsicht, daß im Denken und durch das Denken dasjenige erkannt werden muß, wofür sich der Mensch blind zu machen scheint, indem er zwischen der Welt und sich das Vorstellungsleben einschieben muß.

Dem Denken gegenüber kann der Mensch auf dem naiven Wirklichkeitsstandpunkt verbleiben.

Man entgeht der Verwirrung, in die man durch die kritische Besonnenheit in bezug auf diesen Standpunkt gerät, nur, wenn man bemerkt, daß es innerhalb dessen, was man innen in sich und außen in der Welt wahrnehmend erleben kann, etwas gibt, das dem Verhängnis gar nicht verfallen kann, daß sich zwischen Vorgang und betrachtenden Menschen die Vorstellung einschiebt. Und dieses ist das Denken.

Aber man kommt nun nicht zu etwas anderem, das man als Wahrheit ansehen könnte, wenn man bloß den naiven Standpunkt verläßt, aber – ohne es zu bemerken – die Gedankenart beibehält, die er aufnötigt.

Diese Gedankengestaltung ist eine solche, mit deren bloßer theoretischer Widerlegung nicht alles für sie Notwendige getan ist. Man muß sie durchleben, um aus der Einsicht in die Verirrung, in die sie führt, den Ausweg zu finden. (…) Man muß die Einsicht gewinnen, wie man sich selbst in bezug auf dieses erste Nachdenken widerlegt.

Das Zusammenwerfen jener subjektiven mit dieser objektiven Wahrnehmung führt zu dem Mißverständnisse des Idealismus: die Welt ist meine Vorstellung.

Die Vorstellung ist also eine subjektive Wahrnehmung im Gegensatz zur objektiven Wahrnehmung bei Anwesenheit des Gegenstandes im Wahrnehmungshorizonte.

Es ist also für uns objektiv, was sich für die Wahrnehmung als außerhalb des Wahrnehmungssubjektes gelegen darstellt.

Das Band zu bilden zwischen Subjektivem und Objektivem kommt keinem im naiven Sinn realen Prozeß, das heißt einem wahrnehmbaren Geschehen zu, sondern allein dem Denken.

Die Frage nach dem ‘Was’ einer Wahrnehmung kann also nur auf die begriffliche Intuition gehen, die ihr entspricht.

Auf jedem dieser Gebiete mache ich neue Wahrnehmungen; aber was als bindendes Mittel sich durch alle diese räumlich und zeitlich auseinanderlegenden Wahrnehmungen hindurchgeht, das ist das Denken.

Außer durch Denken und Wahrnehmen ist uns direkt nichts gegeben.

Die Rätselhaftigkeit eines Gegenstandes liegt in seinem Sonderdasein. Diese ist aber von uns hervorgerufen und kann, innerhalb der Begriffswelt, auch wieder aufgehoben werden.

Was uns in der Beobachtung an Einzelheiten gegenübertritt, das verbindet sich durch die zusammenhängende, einheitliche Welt unserer Intuitionen Glied für Glied; und wir fügen durch das Denken alles wieder in eins zusammen, was wir durch das Wahrnehmen getrennt haben.

Ein von dem Weltganzen abgetrenntes Ding gibt es nicht. Alle Sonderung hat bloß subjektive Geltung für unsere Organisation.

Wir stehen einem beobachteten Dinge der Welt so lange fremd gegenüber, so lange wir in unserem Innern nicht die entsprechende Intuition haben, die uns das in der Wahrnehmung fehlende Stück der Wirklichkeit ergänzt. Wer nicht die Fähigkeit hat, die den Dingen entsprechenden Intuitionen zu finden, dem bleibt die volle Wirklichkeit verschlossen.

Intuition und Beobachtung sind die Quellen unserer Erkenntnis.

Im Gegensatz zum Wahrnehmungsinhalte, der uns von außen gegeben ist, erscheint der Gedankeninhalt im Innern. Die Form, in der er zunächst auftritt, wollen wir als Intuition bezeichnen. Sie ist für das Denken, was die Beobachtung für die Wahrnehmung ist.

Soll uns klar werden, daß diese oder jene Tatsache größere Bedeutung hat als die andere, so müssen wir unser Denken befragen. (…) Diese Tätigkeit des Denkens ist eine inhaltvolle.

Sehen wir uns nur diese Welt der Wahrnehmung an: als ein bloßes Nebeneinander im Raum und Nacheinander in der Zeit, ein Aggregat zusammenhangloser Einzelheiten erscheint sie. Keines der Dinge, die da auftreten und abgehen auf der Wahrnehmungsbühne, hat mit dem andern unmittelbar etwas zu tun, was sich wahrnehmen läßt. Die Welt ist da eine Mannigfaltigkeit von gleichwertigen Gegenständen. Keiner spielt eine größere Rolle als der andere im Getriebe der Welt.

Alle Versuche müssen scheitern, die nach einer anderen Welteinheit streben als nach diesem in sich zusammenhängenden ideellen Inhalt, welchen wir uns durch denkende Betrachtung unserer Wahrnehmungen erwerben.

Die vorangehenden Ausführungen liefern den Beweis, daß es ein Unding ist, etwas anderes Gemeinsames in den Einzelwesen der Welt zu suchen, als den ideellen Inhalt, den uns das Denken darbietet.

Da wir aber in einem Punkte der Peripherie stehen und unser eigenes Dasein in bestimmte Grenzen eingeschlossen finden, müssen wir das außerhalb unseres eigenen Wesens gelegene Gebiet mit Hilfe des aus dem allgemeinen Weltensein in uns hereinragenden Denkens kennen lernen.

Dies ist der tiefere Grund unserer Doppelnatur: Wir sehen in uns eine schlechthin absolute Kraft zum Dasein kommen, eine Kraft, die universell ist, aber wir lernen sie nicht bei ihrem Ausströmen aus dem Zentrum der Welt kennen, sondern in einem Punkte der Peripherie.

Der eine, einheitliche Begriff des Dreiecks wird nicht dadurch zu einer Vielheit, dass er von vielen gedacht wird. Denn das Denken der Vielen ist eine Einheit.

Durch diese besonderen Färbungen des universellen Denkens unterscheiden sich die einzelnen Menschen voneinander.

Unser Denken ist nicht individuell wie unser Empfinden und Fühlen. Es ist universell. Es erhält ein individuelles Gepräge in jedem einzelnen Menschen nur dadurch, daß es auf sein individuelles Fühlen und Empfinden bezogen ist.

In diesem Sinne bin ich ein Doppelwesen: Ich bin eingeschlossen in das Gebiet, das ich als meine Persönlichkeit wahrnehme, aber ich bin Träger einer Tätigkeit, die von einer höheren Sphäre aus mein begrenztes Dasein bestimmt.

Mein Selbstwahrnehmen schließt mich innerhalb bestimmter Grenzen ein; mein Denken hat nichts zu tun mit diesen Grenzen.

Wie ich eine einzelne Wahrnehmung der Außenwelt durch das Denken eingliedere in den Zusammenhang der Welt, so gliedere ich die an mir selbst gemachten Wahrnehmungen in den Weltprozeß durch das Denken ein.

Die Selbstwahrnehmung führt mich nicht aus dem Bereich dessen hinaus, was zu mir gehört. Dieses Selbstwahrnehmen ist zu unterscheiden von dem denkenden Selbstbestimmen.

Diese Bestimmung muss unterschieden werden von dem bloßen Bewusstwerden unseres Selbst. Das Letztere beruht auf dem Wahrnehmen wie das Bewusstwerden jedes anderen Dinges. Die Selbstwahrnehmung zeigt mir eine Summe von Eigenschaften, die ich ebenso zu dem Ganzen meiner Persönlichkeit zusammenfasse, wie ich die Eigenschaften: gelb, metallglänzend, hart usw. zu der Einheit ‘Gold’ zusammenfasse.

Es kommt nun alles darauf an, die Stellung des Wesens, das wir selbst sind, zu den anderen Wesen zu bestimmen.

Unser Auge kann nur einzelne Farben nacheinander aus einem vielgliedrigen Farbenganzen, unser Verstand nur einzelne Begriffe aus einem zusammenhängenden Begriffssystem erfassen. Diese Absonderung ist ein subjektiver Akt, bedingt durch den Umstand, dass wir nicht identisch sind mit dem Weltprozess, sondern ein Wesen unter anderen Wesen.

Wegen unserer Beschränkung erscheint uns als Einzelheit, was in Wahrheit nicht Einzelheit ist. Nirgends ist zum Beispiel die Einzelqualität des Rot abgesondert für sich vorhanden. Sie ist allseitig von anderen Qualitäten umgeben, zu denen sie gehört, und ohne die sie nicht bestehen könnte. Für uns aber ist es eine Notwendigkeit, gewisse Ausschnitte aus der Welt herauszuheben und sie für sich zu betrachten.

Wäre unser Dasein so mit den Dingen verknüpft, dass jedes Weltgeschehen zugleich unser Geschehen wäre, dann gäbe es den Unterschied zwischen uns und den Dingen nicht. Dann aber gäbe es für uns auch keine Einzeldinge. Da ginge alles Geschehen kontinuierlich ineinander über. Der Kosmos wäre eine Einheit und eine in sich beschlossene Ganzheit. Der Strom des Geschehens hätte nirgends eine Unterbrechung.

Dadurch kann ihm auch immer nur ein beschränkter Teil des gesamten Universums gegeben sein. Dieser beschränkte Teil schließt sich aber ringsherum sowohl zeitlich wie räumlich an anderes an.

Der Mensch ist ein eingeschränktes Wesen. Zunächst ist er ein Wesen unter anderen Wesen. Sein Dasein gehört dem Raum und der Zeit an.

Unsere totale Wesenheit funktioniert in der Weise, dass ihr bei jedem Ding der Wirklichkeit von zwei Seiten her die Elemente zufließen, die für die Sache in Betracht kommen: von Seiten des Wahrnehmens und des Denkens.

Nicht an den Gegenständen liegt es, dass sie uns zunächst ohne die entsprechenden Begriffe gegeben werden, sondern an unserer geistigen Organisation.

Ebenso wenig ist es statthaft, die Summe der Wahrnehmungsmerkmale für die Sache zu erklären.

Es ist eine ganz unsachliche, an Zufälligkeiten sich heftende Meinung, die von dem in einer gewissen Zeit sich darbietenden Bilde erklärte: Das ist die Sache.

Es ist ganz willkürlich, die Summe dessen, was wir von einem Ding durch die bloße Wahrnehmung erfahren, für eine Totalität, für ein Ganzes zu halten, und dasjenige, was sich durch die denkende Betrachtung ergibt, als ein solches Hinzugekommenes, das mit der Sache selbst nichts zu tun habe.

Ihr sagt: Die Blätter und Blüten sind ohne ein wahrnehmendes Subjekt da; der Begriff erscheint erst, wenn sich der Mensch der Pflanze gegenüberstellt. Ganz wohl. Aber auch Blüten und Blätter entstehen an der Pflanze nur, wenn Erde da ist, in die der Keim gelegt werden kann, wenn Licht und Luft da sind, in denen sich Blätter und Blüten entfalten können. Gerade so entsteht der Begriff der Pflanze, wenn ein denkendes Bewusstsein an die Pflanze herantritt.

Pflanzt ein Samenkorn in den Boden. Es treibt Wurzel und Stängel. Es entfaltet sich zu Blättern und Blüten. Stellt die Pflanze euch selbst gegenüber. Sie verbindet sich in eurer Seele mit einem bestimmten Begriff. Warum gehört dieser Begriff weniger zur ganzen Pflanze als Blatt und Blüte?

Die so denken, muss man nur fragen: Mit welchem Recht erklärt ihr die Welt für fertig, ohne das Denken? Bringt nicht mit der gleichen Notwendigkeit die Welt das Denken im Kopf des Menschen hervor, wie die Blüte an der Pflanze?

Wenn ich sage: “Die Welt ist meine Vorstellung”, so habe ich das Ergebnis eines Denkprozesses ausgesprochen, und wenn mein Denken auf die Welt nicht anwendbar ist, so ist dieses Ergebnis ein Irrtum. Zwischen die Wahrnehmung und jede Art von Aussage über dieselbe schiebt sich das Denken ein.

Wer zu dieser Ansicht sich bekennt, dem geht die Einsicht ab, dass es etwas gibt, das sich in der Tat zum bloßen Wahrnehmen verhält wie das Erfahren im wachen Zustand zum Träumen. Dieses Etwas ist das Denken.

Diese beiden Ansichten haben mit dem naiven Realismus das gemein, dass sie Fuß in der Welt zu fassen suchen durch eine Untersuchung der Wahrnehmungen. Sie können aber innerhalb dieses Gebietes nirgends einen festen Punkt finden.

Jedenfalls ist es unstatthaft, die Voraussetzungen zu verwerfen und die Folgerungen gelten zu lassen, wie es der kritische Idealist tut, der seiner Behauptung: “Die Welt ist meine Vorstellung” den obigen Beweisgang zugrunde legt.

Aus den vorhergehenden Betrachtungen folgt die Unmöglichkeit, durch Untersuchung unseres Beobachtungsinhalts den Beweis zu erbringen, dass unsere Wahrnehmungen Vorstellungen sind.

Noch weniger aber darf der Satz: ‘Die wahrgenommene Welt ist meine Vorstellung’ als durch sich selbst einleuchtend und keines Beweises bedürftig hingestellt werden.

Der sogenannte kritische Idealismus kann nicht bewiesen werden, ohne eine Anleihe beim naiven Realismus zu machen. Der letztere wird nur dadurch widerlegt, daß man dessen eigene Voraussetzungen auf einem anderen Gebiete ungeprüft gelten läßt.

Sie will den Vorstellungscharakter der Wahrnehmungen beweisen, indem sie in naiver Weise die Wahrnehmungen am eigenen Organismus als objektiv gültige Tatsachen hinnimmt und zu alledem noch übersieht, daß sie zwei Beobachtungsgebiete durcheinander wirft, zwischen denen sie keine Vermittlung finden kann.

Beim Übergang von dem Hirnprozeß zur Empfindung ist der Beobachtungsweg unterbrochen.

Der Weg der äußeren Beobachtung hört mit dem Vorgange in meinem Gehirne auf, und zwar mit jenem, den ich wahrnehmen würde, wenn ich mit physikalischen, chemischen usw. Hilfsmitteln und Methoden das Gehirn behandeln könnte. Der Weg der inneren Beobachtung fängt mit der Empfindung an und reicht bis zum Aufbau der Dinge aus dem Empfindungsmaterial.

Ich kann meine Farbenwahrnehmung nicht dadurch vernichten, daß ich den Prozeß im Auge aufzeige, der sich während dieser Wahrnehmung darin abspielt. Ebensowenig finde ich in den Nerven, und Gehirnprozessen die Farbe wieder; ich verbinde nur neue Wahrnehmungen innerhalb meines Organismus mit der ersten, die der naive Mensch außerhalb seines Organismus verlegt. Ich gehe nur von einer Wahrnehmung zur andern über.

Es ist richtig: für mich ist keine Wahrnehmung ohne das entsprechende Sinnesorgan gegeben. Aber ebensowenig ein Sinnesorgan ohne Wahrnehmung. Ich kann von meiner Wahrnehmung des Tisches auf das Auge übergehen, das ihn sieht, auf die Hautnerven, die ihn tasten; aber was in diesen vorgeht, kann ich wieder nur aus der Wahrnehmung erfahren. Und da bemerke ich denn bald, daß in dem Prozeß, der sich im Auge vollzieht, nicht eine Spur von Ähnlichkeit ist mit dem, was ich als Farbe wahrnehme.

Denn sobald mir klar ist, daß mir meine Sinnesorgane und deren Tätigkeiten, mein Nerven, und Seelenprozeß auch nur durch die Wahrnehmung gegeben werden können, zeigt sich der geschilderte Gedankengang in seiner vollen Unmöglichkeit.

Durchlaufe ich unter Voraussetzung der Richtigkeit des ersten Gedankenkreisganges die Glieder meines Erkenntnisaktes nochmals, so zeigt sich der letztere als ein Gespinst von Vorstellungen, die doch als solche nicht aufeinander wirken können.

Konsequenterweise sind dann aber auch meine Sinnesorgane und die Vorgänge in ihnen bloß subjektiv. Ich habe kein Recht, von einem wirklichen Auge zu sprechen, sondern nur von meiner Vorstellung des Auges. Ebenso ist es mit der Nervenleitung und dem Gehirnprozeß und nicht weniger mit dem Vorgange in der Seele selbst, durch den aus dem Chaos der mannigfaltigen Empfindungen Dinge aufgebaut werden sollen.

Deshalb sagt Hartmann (Grundproblem der Erkenntnistheorie, S. 37): “Was das Subjekt wahrnimmt, sind also immer nur Modifikationen seiner eigenen psychischen Zustände und nichts anderes.” (…) Der äußere Gegenstand ist auf dem Wege zum Gehirn und durch das Gehirn zur Seele vollständig verlorengegangen.

Aber auch die letzteren nimmt die Seele noch nicht unmittelbar wahr. Was wir im Bewußtsein zuletzt haben, sind gar keine Gehirnvorgänge, sondern Empfindungen. Meine Empfindung des Rot hat gar keine Ähnlichkeit mit dem Vorgange, der sich im Gehirn abspielt, wenn ich das Rot empfinde. Das letztere tritt erst wieder als Wirkung in der Seele auf und wird nur verursacht durch den Hirnvorgang.

Daraus wird geschlossen, daß der äußere Vorgang eine Reihe von Umwandlungen erfahren hat, ehe er zum Bewußtsein kommt. Was da im Gehirne sich abspielt, ist durch so viele Zwischenvorgänge mit dem äußeren Vorgang verbunden, daß an eine Ähnlichkeit mit demselben nicht mehr gedacht werden kann. Was das Gehirn der Seele zuletzt vermittelt, sind weder äußere Vorgänge, noch Vorgänge in den Sinnesorganen, sondern nur solche innerhalb des Gehirnes.

Weil wir außerhalb unseres Organismus Schwingungen der Körper und der Luft finden, die sich uns als Schall darstellen, so wird gefolgert, daß das, was wir Schall nennen, nichts weiter sei als eine subjektive Reaktion unseres Organismus auf jene Bewegungen in der Außenwelt.

Unsere Wahrnehmungen sind somit Modifikationen unserer Organisation, nicht Dinge an sich. Den hier angedeuteten Gedankengang hat Eduard von Hartmann in der Tat als denjenigen charakterisiert, der zur Überzeugung von dem Satze führen muß, daß wir ein direktes Wissen nur von unseren Vorstellungen haben können

Was hiermit so hingestellt wird, als ob es eine unmittelbare und selbstverständliche Wahrheit sei, ist aber in Wirklichkeit das Resultat einer Gedankenoperation, die folgendermaßen verläuft: Der naive Mensch glaubt, daß die Gegenstände, so wie er sie wahrnimmt, auch außerhalb seines Bewußtseins vorhanden sind. Die Physik, Physiologie und Psychologie scheinen aber zu lehren, daß zu unseren Wahrnehmungen unsere Organisation notwendig ist, daß wir folglich von nichts wissen können, als von dem, was unsere Organisation uns von den Dingen überliefert.

“Der erste Fundamentalsatz, den sich der Philosoph zu deutlichem Bewußtsein zu bringen hat, besteht in der Erkenntnis, daß unser Wissen sich zunächst auf nichts weiter als auf unsere Vorstellungen erstreckt. (…) Daher muß zu Beginn des Philosophierens alles über die Vorstellungen hinausgehende Wissen ausdrücklich als bezweifelbar hingestellt werden”, so beginnt Volkelt sein Buch über ‘Immanuel Kants Erkenntnistheorie’.

Man hat gesagt: wir nehmen nicht die Gegenstände wahr, sondern nur unsere Vorstellungen. Ich soll nichts wissen von dem Tische an sich, der Gegenstand meiner Beobachtung ist, sondern nur von der Veränderung, die mit mir selbst vorgeht, während ich den Tisch wahrnehme.

Die Wahrnehmung einer Veränderung in uns, die Modifikation, die mein Selbst erfährt, wurde in den Vordergrund gedrängt und das diese Modifikation veranlassende Objekt ganz aus dem Auge verloren.

Die Verkennung des Verhältnisses von Vorstellung und Gegenstand hat die größten Mißverständnisse in der neueren Philosophie herbeigeführt.

Ich kann jetzt auch den Unterschied machen, daß ich diese andern Gegenstände, die sich mir gegenüberstellen, Außenwelt nenne, während ich den Inhalt meiner Selbstwahrnehmung als Innenwelt bezeichne.

Die Vorstellung nehme ich an meinem Selbst wahr, in dem Sinne, wie Farbe, Ton usw. an andern Gegenständen.

Nur dadurch, daß ich mein Selbst wahrnehme und merke, daß mit jeder Wahrnehmung sich auch dessen Inhalt ändert, sehe ich mich gezwungen, die Beobachtung des Gegenstandes mit meiner eigenen Zustandsveränderung in Zusammenhang zu bringen und von meiner Vorstellung zu sprechen.

Ich käme nie in die Lage, von Vorstellungen zu sprechen, wenn ich diese nicht in der Wahrnehmung meines Selbst erlebte. Wahrnehmungen würden kommen und gehen; ich ließe sie vorüberziehen.

Wenn der Baum aus meinem Gesichtskreise verschwindet, bleibt für mein Bewußtsein ein Rückstand von diesem Vorgange: ein Bild des Baumes. Dieses Bild hat sich während meiner Beobachtung mit meinem Selbst verbunden. Mein Selbst hat sich bereichert; sein Inhalt hat ein neues Element in sich aufgenommen. Dieses Element nenne ich meine Vorstellung von dem Baume.

Ich bin mir nunmehr nicht bloß des Gegenstandes bewußt, sondern auch meiner Persönlichkeit, die dem Gegenstand gegenüber steht und ihn beobachtet. Ich sehe nicht bloß einen Baum, sondern ich weiß auch, daß ich es bin, der ihn sieht. Ich erkenne auch, daß in mir etwas vorgeht, während ich den Baum beobachte.

Die Wahrnehmung des Ich kann in meinem Bewußtsein stets auftreten, während ich andere Wahrnehmungen habe. Wenn ich in die Wahrnehmung eines gegebenen Gegenstandes vertieft bin, so habe ich vorläufig nur von diesem ein Bewußtsein. Dazu kann dann die Wahrnehmung meines Selbst treten.

Die Wahrnehmung meiner selbst hat zunächst den Inhalt, daß ich das Bleibende bin gegenüber den immer kommenden und gehenden Wahrnehmungsbildern.

Damit wird unsere Betrachtung von dem Objekt der Wahrnehmung auf das Subjekt derselben abgeleitet. Ich nehme nicht nur andere Dinge wahr, sondern ich nehme mich selbst wahr.

Wesentlich anders stellte sich die Sache aber, wenn wir imstande wären, anzugeben, welches die Funktion unseres Wahrnehmens beim Zustandekommen einer Wahrnehmung ist. Wir wüßten dann, was an der Wahrnehmung während des Wahrnehmens geschieht, und könnten auch bestimmen, was an ihr schon sein muß, bevor sie wahrgenommen wird.

Daß ich eine rote Fläche rot sehe — diese qualitative Bestimmung — hängt von der Organisation meines Auges ab.

Ich möchte die Abhängigkeit meines Wahrnehmungsbildes von meinem Beobachtungsorte eine mathematische, die von meiner Organisation eine qualitative nennen. Durch jene werden die Größenverhältnisse und gegenseitigen Entfernungen meiner Wahrnehmungen bestimmt, durch diese die Qualität derselben.

Diese Abhängigkeit des Wahrnehmungsbildes von unserem Beobachtungsorte ist diejenige, die am leichtesten zu durchschauen ist. Schwieriger wird die Sache schon, wenn wir die Abhängigkeit unserer Wahrnehmungswelt von unserer leiblichen und geistigen Organisation kennen lernen.

Mein Wahrnehmungsbild wird ein anderes, wenn ich den Ort ändere, von dem aus ich meine Beobachtungen mache. Es ist also in der Gestalt, in der es an mich herantritt, abhängig von einer Bestimmung, die nicht an dem Objekte hängt, sondern die mir, dem Wahrnehmenden, zukommt.

Jede Erweiterung des Kreises meiner Wahrnehmungen nötigt mich, mein Bild der Welt zu berichtigen. Das zeigt sich im täglichen Leben ebenso wie in der Geistes-entwickelung der Menschheit.

Ein Gefühl in mir selbst kann ich wohl als Wahrnehmung, nicht aber als Empfindung im physiologischen Sinne bezeichnen. Auch von meinem Gefühle erhalte ich dadurch Kenntnis, daß es Wahrnehmung für mich wird. Und die Art, wie wir durch Beobachtung Kenntnis von unserem Denken erhalten, ist eine solche, daß wir auch das Denken in seinem ersten Auftreten für unser Bewußtsein Wahrnehmung nennen können.

Es wird sich jetzt darum handeln, durch denkende Überlegung die Beziehung zu suchen, die der oben angegebene unmittelbar gegebene Beobachtungsinhalt zu unserem bewußten Subjekt hat.

Das Denken ist imstande, Fäden zu ziehen von einem Beobachtungselement zum andern. Es verknüpft mit diesen Elementen bestimmte Begriffe und bringt sie dadurch in ein Verhältnis.

Dieses Aggregat ist der Inhalt der reinen, gedankenlosen Beobachtung. Ihm gegenüber steht das Denken, das bereit ist, seine Tätigkeit zu entfalten, wenn sich ein Angriffspunkt dazu findet. Die Erfahrung lehrt bald, daß er sich findet.

Das Denken ist somit ein Element, das mich über mein Selbst hinausführt und mit den Objekten verbindet. Aber es trennt mich zugleich von ihnen, indem es mich ihnen als Subjekt gegenüberstellt.

Ich darf niemals sagen, daß mein individuelles Subjekt denkt; dieses lebt vielmehr selbst von des Denkens Gnaden.

Die Tätigkeit, die der Mensch als denkendes Wesen ausübt, ist also keine bloß subjektive, sondern eine solche, die weder subjektiv noch objektiv ist, eine über diese beiden Begriffe hinausgehende.

Das Subjekt denkt nicht deshalb, weil es Subjekt ist; sondern es erscheint sich als ein Subjekt, weil es zu denken vermag.

Wenn wir als denkendes Subjekt also den Begriff auf ein Objekt beziehen, so dürfen wir diese Beziehung nicht als etwas bloß Subjektives auffassen. Nicht das Subjekt ist es, welches die Beziehung herbeiführt, sondern das Denken.

Das Denken ist jenseits von Subjekt und Objekt. Es bildet diese beiden Begriffe ebenso wie alle anderen.

Das menschliche Bewußtsein muß notwendig zugleich Selbstbewußtsein sein, weil es denkendes Bewußtsein ist. Denn wenn das Denken den Blick auf seine eigene Tätigkeit richtet, dann hat es seine ureigene Wesenheit, also sein Subjekt, als Objekt zum Gegenstande.

Insoferne der Mensch einen Gegenstand beobachtet, erscheint ihm dieser als gegeben, insoferne er denkt, erscheint er sich selbst als tätig. Er betrachtet den Gegenstand als Objekt, sich selbst als das denkende Subjekt. Weil er sein Denken auf die Beobachtung richtet, hat er Bewußtsein von den Objekten; weil er sein Denken auf sich richtet, hat er Bewußtsein seiner selbst oder Selbstbewußtsein.

Das menschliche Bewußtsein ist der Schauplatz, wo Begriff und Beobachtung einander begegnen und wo sie miteinander verknüpft werden. Dadurch ist aber dieses (menschliche) Bewußtsein zugleich charakterisiert. Es ist der Vermittler zwischen Denken und Beobachtung.

Nun ist es am Platze, von dem Denken auf das denkende Wesen überzugehen. Denn durch dieses wird das Denken mit der Beobachtung verbunden.

Diese Begriffe, Ursache und Wirkung, kann ich aber niemals durch bloße Beobachtung, und erstrecke sie sich auf noch so viele Fälle, gewinnen. Die Beobachtung fordert das Denken heraus, und erst dieses ist es, das mir den Weg weist, das einzelne Erlebnis an ein anderes anzuschließen.

Ich muß einen besonderen Wert darauf legen, daß hier an dieser Stelle beachtet werde, daß ich als meinen Ausgangspunkt das Denken bezeichnet habe und nicht Begriffe und Ideen, die erst durch das Denken gewonnen werden. Diese setzen das Denken bereits voraus.

Auf diese Weise verbinden sich die einzelnen Begriffe zu einem geschlossenen Begriffssystem, in dem jeder seine besondere Stelle hat. Ideen sind qualitativ von Begriffen nicht verschieden. Sie sind nur inhaltsvollere, gesättigtere und umfangreichere Begriffe.

Je mehr sich unsere Erfahrung erweitert, desto größer wird die Summe unserer Begriffe. Die Begriffe stehen aber durchaus nicht vereinzelt da. Sie schließen sich zu einem gesetzmäßigen Ganzen zusammen.

Wenn jemand einen Baum sieht, so reagiert sein Denken auf seine Beobachtung; zu dem Gegenstande tritt ein ideelles Gegenstück hinzu, und er betrachtet den Gegenstand und das ideelle Gegenstück als zusammengehörig. Wenn der Gegenstand aus seinem Beobachtungsfelde verschwindet, so bleibt nur das ideelle Gegenstück davon zurück. Das letztere ist der Begriff des Gegenstandes.

Durch das Denken entstehen Begriffe und Ideen. Was ein Begriff ist, kann nicht mit Worten gesagt werden. Worte können nur den Menschen darauf aufmerksam machen, daß er Begriffe habe.

Die unbefangene Beobachtung ergibt, daß nichts zum Wesen des Denkens gerechnet werden kann, was nicht im Denken selbst gefunden wird. Man kann nicht zu etwas kommen, was das Denken bewirkt, wenn man den Bereich des Denkens verläßt.

Mag es das Wesen des Denkens immerhin notwendig machen, daß dieses gewollt wird: es kommt darauf an, daß nichts gewollt wird, was, indem es sich vollzieht, vor dem «Ich» nicht restlos als seine eigene, von ihm überschaubare Tätigkeit erscheint.

Man sollte nur nicht verwechseln: «Gedankenbilder haben» und Gedanken durch das Denken verarbeiten. Gedankenbilder können traumhaft, wie vage Eingebungen in der Seele auftreten. Ein Denken ist dieses nicht.

Erst wenn der Philosoph das absolut Letzte als sein Erstes ansehen wird, kann er zum Ziele kommen. Dieses absolut Letzte, zu dem es die Weltentwickelung gebracht hat, ist aber das Denken.

Es ist nicht zu leugnen: Ehe anderes begriffen werden kann, muß es das Denken werden.

Ich muß dem gegenüber erwidern: Wenn ich darüber Aufklärung haben will, welches Verhältnis zwischen Denken und Bewußtsein besteht, so muß ich darüber nachdenken. Ich setze das Denken damit voraus.

Im Denken haben wir ein Prinzip, das durch sich selbst besteht. Von hier aus sei es versucht, die Welt zu begreifen. Das Denken können wir durch es selbst erfassen. Die Frage ist nur, ob wir durch dasselbe auch noch etwas anderes ergreifen können.

Das ist gerade der Grund, warum mir die Dinge so rätselhaft gegenüberstehen: daß ich an ihrem Zustandekommen so unbeteiligt bin. Ich finde sie einfach vor; beim Denken aber weiß ich, wie es gemacht wird. Daher gibt es keinen ursprünglicheren Ausgangspunkt für das Betrachten alles Weltgeschehens als das Denken.

Es ist also zweifellos: in dem Denken halten wir das Weltgeschehen an einem Zipfel, wo wir dabei sein müssen, wenn etwas zustandekommen soll. Und das ist doch gerade das, worauf es ankommt.

Der Beobachtung des Denkens schaffen wir selbst erst ein Objekt. Für das Vorhandensein aller anderen Objekte ist ohne unser Zutun gesorgt worden.

Was bei der Natur unmöglich ist: das Schaffen vor dem Erkennen; beim Denken vollbringen wir es. Wollten wir mit dem Denken warten, bis wir es erkannt haben, dann kämen wir nie dazu.

Und das ist wieder eine charakteristische Eigentümlichkeit des Denkens. Wenn wir es zum Betrachtungsobjekt machen, sehen wir uns nicht gezwungen, dies mit Hilfe eines Qualitativ-Verschiedenen zu tun, sondern wir können in demselben Element verbleiben.

Wenn ich aber mein Denken betrachte, so ist kein solches unberücksichtigtes Element vorhanden. Denn was jetzt im Hintergrunde schwebt, ist selbst wieder nur das Denken. Der beobachtete Gegenstand ist qualitativ derselbe wie die Tätigkeit, die sich auf ihn richtet.

Für jeden aber, der die Fähigkeit hat, das Denken zu beobachten — und bei gutem Willen hat sie jeder normal organisierte Mensch — ist diese Beobachtung die allerwichtigste, die er machen kann. Denn er beobachtet etwas, dessen Hervorbringer er selbst ist; (…)

Wer den Materialismus nicht überwinden kann, dem fehlt die Fähigkeit, bei sich den geschilderten Ausnahmezustand herbeizuführen, der ihm zum Bewußtsein bringt, was bei aller andern Geistestätigkeit unbewußt bleibt.

Wer der Vorstellung, die ich hier vom Denken entwickelt habe, sogleich den Satz des Cabanis entgegensetzt: «Das Gehirn sondert Gedanken ab wie die Leber Galle, die Speicheldrüse Speichel usw.», der weiß einfach nicht, wovon ich rede. Er sucht das Denken durch einen bloßen Beobachtungsprozeß zu finden in derselben Art, wie wir bei anderen Gegenständen des Weltinhaltes verfahren. Er kann es aber auf diesem Wege nicht finden, weil es sich, wie ich nachgewiesen habe, gerade da der normalen Beobachtung entzieht.

Meine Beobachtung ergibt, daß mir für meine Gedankenverbindungen nichts vorliegt, nach dem ich mich richte, als der Inhalt meiner Gedanken; nicht nach den materiellen Vorgängen in meinem Gehirn richte ich mich.

Diese durchsichtige Klarheit in bezug auf den Denkprozeß ist ganz unabhängig von unserer Kenntnis der physiologischen Grundlagen des Denkens.

Warum für meine Beobachtung der Donner auf den Blitz folgt, weiß ich nicht ohne weiteres; warum mein Denken den Begriff Donner mit dem des Blitzes verbindet, weiß ich unmittelbar aus den Inhalten der beiden Begriffe. Es kommt natürlich gar nicht darauf an, ob ich die richtigen Begriffe von Blitz und Donner habe. Der Zusammenhang derer, die ich habe, ist mir klar, und zwar durch sie selbst.

Was in den übrigen Beobachtungssphären nur auf mittelbare Weise gefunden werden kann: der sachlich-entsprechende Zusammenhang und das Verhältnis der einzelnen Gegenstände, das wissen wir beim Denken auf ganz unmittelbare Weise.

Zwei Dinge vertragen sich nicht: tätiges Hervorbringen und beschauliches Gegenüberstellen.

Ob ich zu diesem Zwecke meine Beobachtungen an meinem eigenen früheren Denken mache, oder ob ich den Gedankenprozeß einer anderen Person verfolge, oder endlich, ob ich, wie im obigen Falle mit der Bewegung der Billardkugeln, einen fingierten Gedankenprozeß voraussetze, darauf kommt es nicht an.

Mit anderen Worten: während ich denke, sehe ich nicht auf mein Denken, das ich selbst hervorbringe, sondern auf das Objekt des Denkens, das ich nicht hervorbringe.

Der Grund, warum wir das Denken im alltäglichen Geistesleben nicht beobachten, ist kein anderer als der, daß es auf unserer eigenen Tätigkeit beruht.

Die erste Beobachtung, die wir über das Denken machen, ist also die, daß es das unbeobachtete Element unseres gewöhnlichen Geisteslebens ist.

Das ist die eigentümliche Natur des Denkens, daß der Denkende das Denken vergißt, während er es ausübt. Nicht das Denken beschäftigt ihn, sondern der Gegenstand des Denkens, den er beobachtet.

Es gehört eben zu der eigentümlichen Natur des Denkens, daß es eine Tätigkeit ist, die bloß auf den beobachteten Gegenstand gelenkt ist und nicht auf die denkende Persönlichkeit.

Bei dem Nachdenken über einen Vorgang handelt es sich gar nicht um eine Wirkung auf mich. Ich kann dadurch nichts über mich erfahren, daß ich für die beobachtete Veränderung, die ein gegen eine Fensterscheibe geworfener Stein in dieser bewirkt, die entsprechenden Begriffe kenne. Aber ich erfahre sehr wohl etwas über meine Persönlichkeit, wenn ich das Gefühl kenne, das ein bestimmter Vorgang in mir erweckt.

Man muß sich klar darüber sein, daß man bei der Beobachtung des Denkens auf dieses ein Verfahren anwendet, das für die Betrachtung des ganzen übrigen Weltinhaltes den normalen Zustand bildet, das aber im Verfolge dieses normalen Zustandes für das Denken selbst nicht eintritt.

Während das Beobachten der Gegenstände und Vorgänge und das Denken darüber ganz alltägliche, mein fortlaufendes Leben ausfüllende Zustände sind, ist die Beobachtung des Denkens eine Art Ausnahmezustand.

Den Tisch beobachte ich, das Denken über den Tisch führe ich aus, aber ich beobachte es nicht in demselben Augenblicke. Ich muß mich erst auf einen Standpunkt außerhalb meiner eigenen Tätigkeit versetzen, wenn ich neben dem Tische auch mein Denken über den Tisch beobachten will.

Alles was in den Kreis unserer Erlebnisse eintritt, werden wir durch die Beobachtung erst gewahr. Der Inhalt von Empfindungen, Wahrnehmungen, Anschauungen, die Gefühle, Willensakte, Traum, und Phantasiegebilde, Vorstellungen, Begriffe und Ideen, sämtliche Illusionen und Halluzinationen werden uns durch die Beobachtung gegeben.

Zeitlich geht die Beobachtung sogar dem Denken voraus. Denn auch das Denken müssen wir erst durch Beobachtung kennenlernen.

Was nun die Beobachtung betrifft, so liegt es in unserer Organisation, daß wir derselben bedürfen. Unser Denken über ein Pferd und der Gegenstand Pferd sind zwei Dinge, die für uns getrennt auftreten. Und dieser Gegenstand ist uns nur durch Beobachtung zugänglich. So wenig wir durch das bloße Anstarren eines Pferdes uns einen Begriff von demselben machen können, ebensowenig sind wir imstande, durch bloßes Denken einen entsprechenden Gegenstand hervorzubringen.

Beim Zustandekommen der Welterscheinungen mag das Denken eine Nebenrolle spielen, beim Zustandekommen einer Ansicht darüber kommt ihm aber sicher eine Hauptrolle zu.

Die Philosophen sind von verschiedenen Urgegensätzen ausgegangen: Idee und Wirklichkeit, Subjekt und Objekt, Erscheinung und Ding an sich, Ich und Nicht-Ich, Idee und Wille, Begriff und Materie, Kraft und Stoff, Bewußtes und Unbewußtes. Es läßt sich aber leicht zeigen, daß allen diesen Gegensätzen der von Beobachtung und Denken, als der für den Menschen wichtigste, vorangehen muß.

Beobachtung und Denken sind die beiden Ausgangspunkte für alles geistige Streben des Menschen, insoferne er sich eines solchen bewußt ist. Die Verrichtungen des gemeinen Menschenverstandes und die verwickeltesten wissenschaftlichen Forschungen ruhen auf diesen beiden Grundsäulen unseres Geistes.

So gewiß es nun ist, daß sich der Vorgang unabhängig von mir vollzieht, so gewiß ist es, daß sich der begriffliche Prozeß ohne mein Zutun nicht abspielen kann.

Mein Nachdenken hat den Zweck, von dem Vorgange Begriffe zu bilden. (…) Ich suche also zu dem Vorgange, der sich ohne mein Zutun abspielt, einen zweiten hinzuzufügen, der sich in der begrifflichen Sphäre vollzieht. Der letztere ist von mir abhängig.

Solange ich mich bloß als Beobachter verhalte, weiß ich über die Bewegung der zweiten Kugel erst dann etwas zu sagen, wenn dieselbe eingetreten ist. Anders ist die Sache, wenn ich über den Inhalt meiner Beobachtung nachzudenken beginne.

Wir können die Natur außer uns nur finden, wenn wir sie in uns erst kennen. Das ihr Gleiche in unserem eigenen Innern wird uns der Führer sein. Damit ist uns unsere Bahn vorgezeichnet. Wir wollen keine Spekulationen anstellen über die Wechselwirkung von Natur und Geist. Wir wollen aber hinuntersteigen in die Tiefen unseres eigenen Wesens, um da jene Elemente zu finden, die wir herübergerettet haben bei unserer Flucht aus der Natur.

So wahr es ist, daß wir uns der Natur entfremdet haben, so wahr ist es, daß wir fühlen: wir sind in ihr und gehören zu ihr. Es kann nur ihr eigenes Wirken sein, das auch in uns lebt.

Allen diesen Standpunkten gegenüber muß geltend gemacht werden, daß uns der Grund, und Urgegensatz zuerst in unserem eigenen Bewußtsein entgegentritt. Wir sind es selbst, die wir uns von dem Mutterboden der Natur loslösen, und uns als «Ich» der «Welt» gegenüberstellen.

Der Monismus richtet den Blick allein auf die Einheit und sucht die einmal vorhandenen Gegensätze zu leugnen oder zu verwischen. (…) Der Dualismus sieht Geist (Ich) und Materie (Welt) als zwei grundverschiedene Wesenheiten an, und kann deshalb nicht begreifen, wie beide aufeinander wirken können.

Das ‘Ich’ gehört so dem Geistigen als ein Teil an; die materiellen Dinge und Vorgänge, die von den Sinnen wahrgenommen werden, der ‘Welt’. Alle Rätsel, die sich auf Geist und Materie beziehen, muß der Mensch in dem Grundrätsel seines eigenen Wesens wiederfinden.

Indem der Mensch sich als ‘Ich’ erlebt, kann er nicht anders als dieses ‘Ich’ auf der Seite des Geistes denken; und indem er diesem Ich die Welt entgegensetzt, muß er zu dieser die den Sinnen gegebene Wahrnehmungswelt rechnen, die materielle Welt. Dadurch stellt sich der Mensch selbst in den Gegensatz Geist und Materie hinein. Er muß dies um so mehr tun, als zur materiellen Welt sein eigener Leib gehört.

Der Dualismus richtet den Blick nur auf die von dem Bewußtsein des Menschen vollzogene Trennung zwischen Ich und Welt. Sein ganzes Streben ist ein ohnmächtiges Ringen nach der Versöhnung dieser Gegensätze, die er bald Geist und Materie, bald Subjekt und Objekt, bald Denken und Erscheinung nennt. Er hat ein Gefühl, daß es eine Brücke geben muß zwischen den beiden Welten, aber er ist nicht imstande, sie zu finden.

Das ganze Verhältnis, das ich hier dargelegt habe, tritt uns in einer weltgeschichtlichen Erscheinung entgegen: in dem Gegensatz der einheitlichen Weltauffassung oder des Monismus und der Zweiweltentheorie oder des Dualismus.

Erst wenn wir den Weltinhalt zu unserem Gedankeninhalt gemacht haben, erst dann finden wir den Zusammenhang wieder, aus dem wir uns selbst gelöst haben.

Diese Scheidewand zwischen uns und der Welt errichten wir, sobald das Bewußtsein in uns aufleuchtet. Aber niemals verlieren wir das Gefühl, daß wir doch zur Welt gehören, daß ein Band besteht, das uns mit ihr verbindet, daß wir nicht ein Wesen außerhalb, sondern innerhalb des Universums sind.

Jeder Blick in die Natur erzeugt in uns eine Summe von Fragen. Mit jeder Erscheinung, die uns entgegentritt, ist uns eine Aufgabe mitgegeben. Jedes Erlebnis wird uns zum Rätsel.

Nicht ein einheitlich organisiertes Wesen ist der Mensch. Er verlangt stets mehr, als die Welt ihm freiwillig gibt.

Wir mögen die Sache anfassen wie wir wollen: immer klarer muß es werden, daß die Frage nach dem Wesen des menschlichen Handelns die andere voraussetzt nach dem Ursprunge des Denkens. Ich wende mich daher zunächst dieser Frage zu.

Was hat er anderes getan: als von dem sich eine Vorstellung gemacht, wovon hundert andere keine haben. Sie haben die Liebe nicht, weil ihnen die Vorstellung mangelt.

Man sagt: die Liebe mache blind für die Schwächen des geliebten Wesens. Die Sache kann auch umgekehrt angefaßt werden und behauptet: die Liebe öffne gerade für dessen Vorzüge das Auge. Viele gehen ahnungslos an diesen Vorzügen vorbei, ohne sie zu bemerken. Der eine sieht sie, und eben deswegen erwacht die Liebe in seiner Seele.

In meinem Herzen stellt sich das Mitleid ein, wenn in meinem Bewußtsein die Vorstellung einer mitleiderregenden Person aufgetreten ist. Der Weg zum Herzen geht durch den Kopf. Davon macht auch die Liebe keine Ausnahme.

Liebe, Mitleid, Patriotismus sind Triebfedern des Handelns, die sich nicht in kalte Verstandesbegriffe auflösen lassen. Man sagt: das Herz, das Gemüt treten da in ihre Rechte. Ohne Zweifel. Aber das Herz und das Gemüt schaffen nicht die Beweggründe des Handelns. Sie setzen dieselben voraus und nehmen sie in ihren Bereich auf.

“Das Denken macht die Seele, womit auch das Tier begabt ist, erst zum Geiste”, sagt Hegel mit Recht, und deshalb wird das Denken auch dem menschlichen Handeln sein eigentümliches Gepräge geben.

Wenn wir erkennen, was Denken im allgemeinen bedeutet, dann wird es auch leicht sein, klar darüber zu werden, was für eine Rolle das Denken beim menschlichen Handeln spielt.

Das führt uns auf die Frage: welches ist der Ursprung und die Bedeutung des Denkens? Denn ohne die Erkenntnis der denkenden Betätigung der Seele ist ein Begriff des Wissens von etwas, also auch von einer Handlung nicht möglich.

Daß eine Handlung nicht frei sein kann, von der der Täter nicht weiß, warum er sie vollbringt, ist ganz selbstverständlich. Wie verhält es sich aber mit einer solchen, von deren Gründen gewußt wird?

Was den Menschen von allen andern organischen Wesen unterscheidet, ruht auf seinem vernünftigen Denken. Tätig zu sein, hat er mit anderen Organismen gemein.

Nicht darauf kommt es an, ob ich einen gefaßten Entschluß zur Ausführung bringen kann, sondern wie der Entschluß in mir entsteht.

Denn das ist ja eben die Frage, ob die Vernunft, ob Zwecke und Entschlüsse in gleicher Weise auf den Menschen einen Zwang ausüben wie animalische Begierden.

Ist ein Unterschied zwischen einem bewußten Beweggrund meines Handelns und einem unbewußten Antrieb, dann wird der erstere auch eine Handlung nach sich ziehen, die anders beurteilt werden muß als eine solche aus Drange. Die Frage nach diesem Unterschied wird also die erste sein. Und was sie ergibt, davon wird es erst abhängen, wie wir uns zu der eigentlichen Freiheitsfrage zu stellen haben.

So notwendig, wie der Stein auf einen Anstoß hin eine bestimmte Bewegung ausführt, ebenso notwendig soll der Mensch eine Handlung ausführen, wenn er durch irgendeinen Grund dazu getrieben wird.

Darf die Frage nach der Freiheit unseres Willens überhaupt einseitig für sich gestellt werden? Und wenn nicht: mit welcher andern muß sie notwendig verknüpft werden?

Der Irrtum in diesem Gedankengange ist bald gefunden. Spinoza und alle, die denken wie er, übersehen, daß der Mensch nicht nur ein Bewußtsein von seiner Handlung hat, sondern es auch von den Ursachen haben kann, von denen er geleitet wird.

15 – Ultimate Questions – The Consequences of Monism

8 – The Factors of Life
9 – The Idea of Freedom
10 – Philosophy and Monism
11 – World Purpose and Life Purpose (Human Destiny)
12 – Moral Imagination (Darwinism and Morality)
13 – The Value of Life (Optimism and Pessimism)
14 – Individuality and Genus

1 – Conscious Human Action
2 – The Fundamental Desire for Knowledge
3 – Thinking in the Service of Knowledge
4 – The World as Percept
5 – The Act of Knowing
6 – Human Individuality
7 – Are there Limits to Knowledge?