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PARERGA AND PARALIPOMENA: SHORT PHILOSOPHICAL ESSAYS |
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[b]CHAPTER 20: On Judgement, Criticism, Approbation and Fame[/b]
§ 235
Kant has stated his aesthetics in the Critique of Judgement; accordingly, in this chapter I shall also add to the aesthetic remarks, already given, a brief critique of judgement, but only of the empirically given faculty, mainly in order to say that for the most part there is no such thing, since it is almost as rare a bird as is the phoenix for whose appearance we have to wait five hundred years.
§ 236
With the expression taste which is not tastefully chosen, we mean that discovery or even mere recognition of what is aesthetically right, such as occurs without the guidance of any rule since either no rule extends so far, or it was not known to the man exercising it or to the mere critic as the case may be. Instead of taste, one could say aesthetic feeling, did this not contain a tautology.
The taste that interprets and judges is, so to speak, the female element to the male one of productive talent or genius. Not capable of producing or generating, taste consists in the ability to receive, in other words, to recognize, as such, what is right, beautiful, and appropriate, and also the opposite thereof and thus to distinguish the good from the bad, to discover and appreciate the former and to reject the latter.
§ 237
Authors can be divided into meteors, planets, and fixed stars. The meteors produce a loud momentary effect; we look up, shout 'see there!' and then they are gone for ever. The planets and comets last for a much longer time. They often shine more brightly than the fixed stars and are taken for these by the inexperienced, although this is only because they are near. However, they too must soon give up their place; in addition, they have only borrowed light and a sphere of influence that is limited to their own satellites (contemporaries). They wander and change; a circulation of a few years is all they have. The fixed stars alone are constant and unalterable; their position in the firmament is fixed; they have their own light and are at all times active, because they do not alter their appearance through a change in our standpoint, for they have no parallax. Unlike the others, they do not belong to one system (nation) alone, but to the world. But just because they are situated so high, their light usually requires many years before it becomes visible to the inhabitants of the earth.
§ 238
To estimate a genius, we should take not the faults and shortcomings in his productions or the poorer of his works in order then to rate him low, but only his best work. For even in what is intellectual, the weakness and perversity of human nature stick so firmly that indeed the most brilliant mind is not always entirely free from them. Hence the grave defects to be seen even in the works of the greatest men and so Horace says: quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus. [1] On the other hand, what distinguishes the genius and should, therefore, be the standard for judging him, is the height to which he was able to soar when time and the mood were favourable and which for ever remains beyond the reach of ordinary talents. In the same way, it is very hazardous to draw a parallel between great men in the same class, for instance, great poets, great musicians, philosophers, and artists, because here one is almost inevitably unjust, at any rate for the moment. We then have in view the characteristic excellence of the one and immediately find that this is wanting in another, whereby the latter is disparaged. If, however, we start again from this man and his characteristic yet quite different excellence, we shall seek in vain for this in the former and accordingly both will then suffer unmerited depreciation.
§ 238a
There are critics each of whom imagines that it rests with him to say what is supposed to be good and what bad, since he regards his penny trumpet as the trombone of fame.
Just as a medicine does not effect its purpose when the dose is too large, so is it the same with censure and criticism if these exceed the measure of justice.
§ 239
A misfortune for intellectual merit is that it has to wait until what is good is praised by those who themselves produce only what is bad. Indeed, speaking generally, it has to receive its crown at the hands of mankind's power ofjudgement, a quality with which the majority are as much endowed as is a castrated man with the power of procreation; I mean one that is only a feeble and fruitless analogue to the real thing, so that the actual quality itself is to be reckoned as one of the rare gifts of nature. Therefore what La Bruyere says is unfortunately as true as it is neat: Apres l' esprit de discernement, ce qu'il y a au monde de plus rare, ce sont les diamans et les perles. [2] Faculty of discernment, esprit de discernement, and accordingly power of judgement; it is these that are wanting. They do not know how to distinguish the genuine from the spurious, the oats from the chaff, gold from copper. They do not perceive the wide gulf between the ordinary and the rarest mind. No one is taken for what he is, but for what others make of him. This is the dodge for keeping down those with outstanding intellects; mediocrities use it to prevent for as long as possible distinguished minds from coming to the top. The result of this is the drawback that is expressed in the old-fashioned verse:
[quote]'Now here on earth 'tis the fate of the great, When they no longer live, we them appreciate.'[/quote]
If any genuine and excellent work appears, it first finds in its path and already in occupation of its place that which is bad and is considered good. Now when after a long and hard struggle, it actually succeeds in vindicating for itself a place and in corning into vogue, it will again not be long before men drag up some affected, brainless, and boorish imitator, in order quite coolly and calmly to put him on the altar next to genius. For they see no difference, but quite seriously imagine that their imitator is just such another great man. For this reason, Yriarte begins his twenty-eighth fable of literature with the words: [3]
[quote]Siempre acostumbra hacer el vulgo necio De lo bueno y lo malo igual aprecio. (At all times have the vulgar herd Equally relished the good and the bad.)[/quote]
Soon after Shakespeare's death, his dramas had to make way for those of Ben Jonson, Massinger, Beaumont and Fletcher, and for a hundred years had to yield the supremacy to these. In the same way, Kant's serious philosophy was supplanted by Fichte's humbug, Schelling's eclecticism, and Jacobi's mawkish and pious drivel, until in the end things went to such lengths that an utterly wretched charlatan like Hegel was put on a level with, and even rated much higher than, Kant. Even in a sphere that is accessible to all, we see the incomparable Sir Walter Scott soon pushed aside from public attention by unworthy imitators. For at bottom the public everywhere has no sense for what is excellent and thus no idea how infinitely rare are those capable of really achieving something in poetry, art, or philosophy; yet their works alone are worthy of our exclusive attention. Therefore Horace's verse
[quote]mediocribus esse poetis Non homines, non Di, non concessere columnae [4][/quote]
should daily be ruthlessly rubbed into the bunglers of poetry and likewise of all the other higher branches of knowledge.* These, indeed, are the weeds that do not allow the corn to come up so that they themselves may spread over everything. There then occurs what is finely and originally described by Feuchtersleben who died at so early an age:
[quote]'Nothing's being done!' they insolently exclaim, And yet the great work matures all the same. Unseen it appears and drowned by their cry, Quietly in modest grief it passes by.[/quote]
That deplorable want of judgement is seen just as much in the sciences, in the tenacious life of false and refuted theories. When once they are accepted, they defy truth for fifty or even a hundred years, just as does a stone pier the waves of the sea. Even after a hundred years, Copernicus had not replaced Ptolemy. Bacon, Descartes, and Locke were extremely slow and a long time in making their way. (We need only read d' Alembert's famous preface to the Encyclopedie.) It was the same with Newton; consider, for instance, the anger and contempt with which Leibniz attacked Newton's system of gravitation in his controversy with Clarke, especially §§ 35, 113, 118, 120, 122, 128. Although Newton lived almost forty years after the appearance of the Principia, his doctrine was at the time of his death partially acknowledged, but only in England, whereas outside his own country, he could hardly count on twenty followers, according to the preamble to Voltaire's account of his theory. It was precisely this account that contributed most to the recognition of Newton's system in France some twenty years after his death. Until then, people in that country had stuck firmly, steadfastly, and patriotically to the Cartesian vortices; whereas only forty years previously the same Cartesian philosophy had been forbidden in French schools. Again the Chancellor d'Aguesseau refused Voltaire the imprimatur for his account of the Newtonian doctrine. On the other hand, Newton's absurd colour theory is in our own day still in complete command of the field forty years after the appearance of Goethe's theory. Although Hume started very early and wrote in a thoroughly popular style, he escaped notice and was ignored until he was fifty. Kant had written and taught all his life and yet he became famous only after he was sixty. Artists and poets naturally have more scope than have thinkers because their public is at least a hundred times greater. Yet what did the public think of Mozart and Beethoven during their lifetime? What was thought of Dante and even of Shakespeare? If the latter's contemporaries had somehow recognized his worth, at least one good and reliable portrait of him would have come down to us from an age when the art of painting flourished; whereas there now exist only very doubtful paintings, a very bad copper engraving, and an even worse bust on his tomb. [5] In the same way, the manuscripts left by him would exist in hundreds instead of being restricted, as now, to a few signatures on legal documents. All Portuguese are still proud of Camoes, their only poet; yet he lived on alms that were collected for him every evening in the street by a Negro boy whom he had brought from the Indies. In time, no doubt, full justice will be done to everyone (tempo e galant-uomo), [6] but it is as slow and late in coming as it formerly was from the Imperial Chamber at Wetzlar, and the tacit condition is that he must no longer be alive. For the precept of Jesus ben Sirach is faithfully followed: ante mortem ne laudes hominem quemquam. [7] For whoever has created immortal works must, for his own consolation, apply to them the Indian myth that the minutes of the lives of the immortals seem to be like years on earth, and likewise the years on earth are only minutes of the immortals.
This deplorable want of a power of judgement is seen also in the fact that in every century the excellent work of earlier times is certainly respected, whereas that of its own is not appreciated, and the attention that is due to such work is devoted to inferior products. Every decade goes round with them for the purpose of being laughed at by the one that follows. And so when genuine merit makes its appearance in their own times, men are slow to recognize it; and this shows that they neither understand, nor enjoy, nor really appreciate even the long-acknowledged works of genius which they respect and admire on authority. The proof of this is that when anything bad, Fichte's philosophy for instance, is once established, it remains in vogue for a generation or two. Only when its public is very large does its fall more rapidly ensue.
§ 240
Now just as the sun needs an eye to see its light, and music an ear to hear its notes, so is the value of all masterpieces in art and science conditioned by the mind which is akin and equal to them and to which they speak. Only such a mind possesses the magic word whereby the spirits hidden in such works are stirred and reveal themselves. The ordinary man stands before them as before a sealed magic cabinet, or before an instrument which he does not know how to play and from which he can, therefore, draw only confused and irregular notes, however much he may like to deceive himself on this. Just as the effect of an oil painting differs according as it is seen in a dark corner or as the sun shines on it, so is the impression of the same masterpiece different according to the mental capacity of the man who is looking at it. Consequently, really to exist and live, a fine work requires a sensitive mind, and one well conceived needs a mind that can think. But afterwards the man who presents such a work to the world, may only too often feel like a maker of fireworks who has enthusiastically let off the fireworks that took him so much time and trouble to prepare, only to learn that he came to the wrong place and that all the spectators were inmates of an institution for the blind. And yet perhaps he is better off than he would be if his public had been none but makers of fireworks; for in that case it might have cost him his head if his display had been extraordinarily good.
§ 241
Homogeneity is the source of all pleasure. To our sense of beauty our own species and again our own race therein are unquestionably the most beautiful. In intercourse with others, everyone has a decided preference for those who resemble him, so that to one blockhead the society of another is incomparably preferable to that of all the great minds taken together. Accordingly, everyone is bound to take the greatest pleasure primarily in his own works simply because they mirror his own mind and echo his own thoughts. Then after these, the works of those like him will be to his taste; and so the dull, shallow, and eccentric man, the dealer in mere words, will express his sincere and hearty approbation only of what is dull, shallow, eccentric, and merely verbose. On the other hand, he will accept the works of great minds only on authority, because he is forced to through fear; in his heart of hearts he really dislikes them. 'They do not appeal to him'; indeed they are distasteful to him; yet this he will not admit even to himself. The works of genius can be really enjoyed only by favoured and gifted minds; their first recognition, however, calls for considerable intellectual superiority when they still exist without authority. Accordingly, if we consider all this, we ought not to be surprised that approbation and fame are so late in coming to them, but rather that they ever come to them at all. Indeed, only by a slow and complicated process does this happen, since every inferior mind is forced, and as it were tamed, into gradually acknowledging the superiority of the one placed immediately above it; and so this goes on upwards until by degrees a result is reached where the weight of the voices defeats their number; and this is the very condition of all genuine, i.e. merited fame. But till then the greatest genius, even after he has undergone his trials, must be in much the same position as would a king among a crowd of his own people who do not know him personally and will, therefore, not obey him when his chief ministers do not accompany him. For no subordinate official is capable of receiving his commands direct, since such a man knows only the signature of his immediate superior. This is repeated all the way up to the very top where the secretary of the cabinet attests the signature of the minister and the latter that of the king. With the masses, the reputation of a genius is conditioned by analogous stages. Therefore at the very beginning, its progress most readily comes to a standstill because the highest authorities, of whom there can be only a few, are very often missing. On the other hand, the further down one goes, the more there are to whom the command applies and so his fame is no longer brought to a standstill.
We must console ourselves over this state of affairs with the thought that it should be regarded as fortunate when the great majority form a judgement not on their own responsibility, but only on the authority of others. For what kind of judgements would we get on Plato and Kant, Homer, Shakespeare, and Goethe, if everyone judged according to what he actually had and enjoyed in them, and if it were not the compelling force of authority that made him say what was fit and proper, however little at heart he may feel inclined to do so? Without such a state of affairs, it would be impossible for true merit of a high order to gain a reputation at all. At the same time, it is also fortunate that everyone has enough judgement of his own, as is necessary for him to recognize the superiority and to submit to the authority of the man immediately above him. In this way, the many ultimately submit to the authority of the few and there results that hierarchy of judgements whereon is established the possibility of a firm and ultimately far-reaching fame. For the lowest class to whom the merits of a great mind are quite inaccessible, there is in the end only the monument which through the impression on their senses stirs in them a faint notion of those merits.
§ 242
The fame of merit of a higher order is as much opposed by envy as by a want of judgement. For even in the lowest kinds of work, envy is at the outset opposed to fame and stays with it to the very end; and so it greatly contributes to the depravity and wickedness of the world and its ways and Ariosto is right in describing it as
[quote] questa assai piu oseura, che serena Vita mortal, tutta d'invidia piena. [6][/quote]
Thus envy is the soul of that league of all the mediocrities which is formed secretly and informally, flourishes everywhere, and in every branch of knowledge is opposed to the distinguished and outstanding individual. Thus in his own sphere of activity no one will hear of or tolerate such eminence, but the universal watchword of mediocrity is everywhere: si quelqu'un excelle parmi nous, qu'il aille exceller ailleurs. [9] Therefore in addition to the rarity of an excellent work and to the difficulty it finds in being understood and acknowledged, there is that envy of thousands who all agree to suppress it and, where possible, to stifle it altogether.
There are two ways of behaving towards merit; either to have some of one's own, or to admit none in others. On account of its greater convenience, the latter is in most cases preferred.
Thus as soon as eminent talent in any branch of knowledge makes itself felt, all the mediocrities therein unanimously strive to cover it up, to deprive it of opportunity, and in every way to prevent it from being known, displayed, and brought to light, just as if it were high treason against their incapacity, shallowness, and amateurishness. In most cases, their system of suppression is for a long time successful, simply because the genius, who offers them his work with childlike trust and confidence so that they may enjoy it, is least able to hold his own against the tricks and dodges of mean fellows who are thoroughly at home only in what is common and vulgar. In fact, he never even suspects or understands them; and then, bewildered and dismayed by the reception he gets, he begins to have doubts about his own work and may then lose confidence in himself and abandon his attempts, unless his eyes are opened in time to those worthless fellows and their activities. Not to look for instances from the too recent past or from remote and legendary antiquity, let us see how the envy of German musicians for a whole generation steadfastly refused to acknowledge the great Rossini's merit. At a large choral society dinner I once witnessed how they sneeringly chanted through the menu to the melody of his immortal Di Tanti Palpiti. Impotent envy! The melody overpowered and engulfed the vulgar words. And so, in spite of all envy and jealousy, Rossini's wonderful melodies have spread over the whole globe and have refreshed and regaled every heart, as much then as they still do today and will do in secula seculorum.10 We see also how German medical men, especially the reviewers and critics, boil with rage when a man like Marshall Hall lets it be known that he realizes he has achieved something. Envy is a sure sign of a want of something; and so when it is directed against merit, it is a sign of a want thereof. The attitude of envy towards outstanding merit has been very well described by my admirable Balthasar Gracian in a lengthy fable; it is found in his Discreto under the title 'Hombre de ostentacion'. In the story all the birds are enraged and in league against the peacock with his magnificent feathers. 'If only we can manage', said the magpie, 'to prevent him from making his cursed parade with his tail, his beauty will soon be entirely eclipsed, for what no one seesis as good as non-existent', and soforth. Accordingly, the virtue of modesty was also invented merely as a weapon of defence against envy. In my chief work, volume ii, chapter 37, I have discussed at length how at all times there are bunglers who insist on modesty and are so heartily delighted at the modesty of a man of merit. Goethe's well-known statement which is distasteful to many, namely that 'only bunglers are modest', has already been expressed by Cervantes who in an appendix to his Viage al Parnaso gives as one of the instructions for poets: Que todo poeta, a quien sus versos hubieren dado a entender que lo es, se estime y tenga en mucho, ateniendose a aquel rifran: ruin sea el que por ruin se tiene. (Every poet whose verses have suggested to him that he is one, should have a high opinion of himself, relying on the proverb that a knave is one who regards himself as such.) In many of his sonnets, the only place where Shakespeare could speak of himself, he declares that what he writes is immortal and says so with a confidence equal to his ingenuousness. Collier, his modern critical editor, says in his introduction to the sonnets, pp. 473-4: 'In many there are to be found most remarkable indications of self-confidence, and of assurance in the immortality of his verses, and in this respect the author's opinion was constant and uniform. He never scrupled to express it-and perhaps there is no writer of ancient or of modern times who for the quantity of such writings left behind him, has so frequently or so strongly declared his firm belief that what he had written in this department of poetry, "the world would not willingly let die".'
A method which is frequently used by envy for underrating the good and is at bottom the mere reverse of this, is the dishonourable and unscrupulous praising of the bad; for as soon as the bad gains currency, the good is lost. This method may be effective for quite a long time, especially if it is carried out on a large scale; however, a day of reckoning ultimately comes and the temporary credit given to inferior productions is paid for by the lasting discredit of their infamous eulogists who for that reason prefer to remain anonymous.
As the same danger threatens the direct underrating and censuring of good work, although more remotely, many are too shrewd to run the risk of doing this. When, therefore, eminent merit makes its appearance, the first result is often only that all the rivals are thereby as deeply piqued as were the birds by the peacock's tail, and enter into a profound silence which is as unanimous as if it had been arranged by agreement; the tongues of all are paralysed; it is Seneca's silentium livoris. [11] This malicious and spiteful silence, technically known as ignoring, is where the matter may rest for a long time when the immediate public of such achievements, as is the case in the higher branches of learning, consists of none but competitors and rivals (professional men) and consequently the greater public exercises its franchise only indirectly through them and does not itself investigate the matter. If, however, that silentium livoris is finally interrupted by praise, then even this will only rarely be done without any interested motive on the part of those who here dispense justice:
[quote]'No recognition can ever come From the many or the one, If it does not help to show What the critic too might know.'
-- Goethe, Weslostlicher Diwan.[/quote]
Thus, at bottom, everyone must deprive himself of the fame he gives to someone else in his own or a kindred branch of knowledge; he can praise him only at the expense of his own acceptance and importance. Consequently, in and by themselves, men are certainly not disposed and inclined to praise and eulogize, but rather to blame and find fault, for they thereby indirectly praise themselves. If, however, praise does come from mankind, there must be other considerations and motives. Now as the infamous way of comrades cannot be meant here, the effective consideration then is that what is nearest to the merit of one's own achievements are the correct appreciation and recognition of those of others, in accordance with the threefold gradation of minds which is drawn up by Hesiod and Machiavelli. (See my Fourfold Root of the Principle of Sufficient Reason, § 20.) Now whoever abandons the hope of making good his claim to the first class, will gladly seize the opportunity of occupying a place in the second. Almost entirely on this does the certainty rest with which every merit can look forward to its ultimate recognition. From this also comes the fact that, after the high value of a work is once recognized and can no longer be concealed or denied, all then vie with one another in praising and honouring it because in this way they bring honour to themselves, in accordance with the observation of Xenophanes: [x]. [12] They therefore hasten to seize for themselves the next best thing to the prize of original merit that is beyond their reach, namely its correct appreciation. It is much the same here as with an army that has been forced to surrender; whereas previously in the fight everyone wanted to be in the forefront, in the rout he now wants to be the first to run away. Thus everyone now hastens to offer his approbation to that which is acknowledged as praiseworthy likewise by virtue of the recognition, often concealed from himself, of the law of homogeneity which I discussed in § 241, so that it may seem as though his way of thinking and looking at things is homogeneous with that of the famous man, and that at any rate he may save the honour of his taste which is the only thing left to him.
From this it is easy to see that fame is admittedly very difficult to attain, but when once attained is easy to keep; and also that a reputation that comes quickly soon disappears, for here also quod cito fit, cito perit. [13] It is obvious that achievements whose value could be so easily recognized by the ordinary average man and so willingly accepted by rivals, would not be very much above the productive ability of either. For tantum quisque laudat, quantum se posse sperat imitari. [14] Moreover, on account of the law of homogeneity, already frequently mentioned, a reputation that quickly appears is a suspicious sign, for it is the direct approbation of the masses. Phocion knew what this meant, for when he heard the loud popular applause over his speech, he asked friends who were standing near him whether he had unintentionally said something bad and worthless (Plutarch, Apophthegms). For opposite reasons, a reputation that is to endure for long, will be very late in maturing and the centuries of its duration must often be purchased at the price of the approbation of contemporaries. For whatever is to keep its position for so long, must have an excellence that is difficult to attain; and even merely to acknowledge this calls for men of intellect who do not always exist, at any rate in sufficient numbers to make themselves heard, whereas envy is always on the watch and will do everything to stifle their voice. Moderate merits, on the other hand, are soon recognized; but then there is the danger that their possessor outlives them and himself, so that fame in his youth may mean for him obscurity in his old age. On the other hand, with great merits, a man will remain long in obscurity, but in return for this will then attain to brilliant fame in his old age.* Should this, however, occur only after his death, he is to be reckoned among those of whom Jean Paul says that extreme unction is their baptism; and he has to console himself with the saints who are also canonized only after their death. Thus what Mahlmann has said so well in his Herodes vor Bethlehem proves to be true:
[quote]'What's truly great in the world, it seems, Is never that which delights at once. The idol whom the mob creates Its altar very soon vacates.'[/quote]
It is noteworthy that this rule has its most direct confirmation in paintings since, as connoisseurs know, the greatest masterpieces do not at once attract the eye or make a great impression on the first occasion, but do so only after repeated visits; and then the impression they make is ever greater.
Moreover, the possibility of an early and correct appreciation of any given works depends primarily on their description and nature, thus according as these are high or low and consequently difficult or easy to understand and to judge aright, and according as they have a large or small public. This latter condition depends, it is true, for the most part on the former, yet partly also on whether the given works are capable of being reproduced in large numbers as are books and musical compositions. By the combined action of these two conditions, achievements, which serve no useful purpose and are the only ones here considered, will therefore form the following series in regard to the possibility of an early recognition and appreciation of their value. In it first come those who have the best hope of an early appreciation of their worth: rope-dancers, circus-riders, ballet-dancers, conjurers, actors, singers, virtuosi, composers, poets (both on account of the reproduction of their works), architects, painters, sculptors, and philosophers. The last place of all is unquestionably taken by philosophers because their works promise not entertainment but only instruction, presuppose knowledge, and call for much exertion on the part of the reader. Thus their public is exceedingly small and their fame is more impressive in its length than in its breadth. Generally speaking, as regards the possibility of its duration, fame stands roughly in inverse ratio to the possibility of its early appearance, so that the above series would, therefore, apply in the reverse order. Poets and composers will then come next to the philosopher because of the possibility of preserving all written works for all time. Nevertheless, first place belongs by right to the philosopher because achievements in this branch of knowledge are very much rarer and of great importance, and an almost perfect translation of them can be made into all languages. Sometimes the fame of philosophers outlives even their own works. This happened to Thales, Empedocles, Heraclitus, Democritus, Parmenides, Epicurus, and many others.
On the other hand, works serving some useful purpose or contributing directly to the enjoyment of the senses, will find no difficulty in being properly appreciated; and in any town a distinguished pastry-cook will not be left for long in obscurity, to say nothing of having to appeal to posterity.
False fame is also to be classed with that which quickly appears. It is the artificial fame of a work which is set on foot by unfair praise, the help of friends, corrupt critics, hints from above and collusion from below, all of which correctly presupposes that the masses have no power of judgement. This kind of fame resembles ox-bladders whereby a heavy load is kept afloat. They bear it afloat for a longer or shorter period, according as they are well sewn up and inflated; but the air gradually escapes from them and the body sinks. This is the inevitable fate of works that do not have within themselves the source of their fame; the false praise dies away, the collusion comes to an end, and the critic finds that the reputation is not established; this vanishes and its place is taken by a disdain and contempt that are the greater. On the other hand, genuine works having the source of their fame within themselves and, therefore, being at all times capable of always kindling admiration, are like bodies of low specific gravity which keep themselves up of their own accord and thus float down the stream of time.
The whole history of literature, ancient and modern, cannot afford us any instance of false fame which could in any way be compared with that of the Hegelian philosophy. Never at any time has the thoroughly bad, the palpably false and absurd, indeed the obviously senseless, and, moreover, the extremely wearisome and repulsive, to judge by its spokesman-never, I say, has such stuff been lauded to the skies with such shocking audacity and brazen effrontery as the highest wisdom and as the grandest thing the world has ever seen, as has this utterly worthless pseudo-philosophy. There is no need for me to say that the sun shone down on all this. It should, however, be noted that with the German public all this was a complete success; and here is to be found the scandal. For over a quarter of a century, this shamelessly fabricated fame has been regarded as the genuine article and the bestia trionfante [15] has flourished and ruled to such an extent in the republic of German scholarship that even the few opponents of this folly did not dare to speak of its wretched author except in terms of the deepest respect as a rare genius and a great mind. But we shall not refrain from inferring what follows from all this; for in the history of literature, this period will always figure as a permanent blot of shame on the nation and the age and will be the laughing-stock of centuries; and rightly so! Indeed, it is certainly open to periods as well as to individuals to praise the bad and spurn the good, but Nemesis will overtake them both and the executioner's bell will not fail to toll. At the time when the chorus of hirelings was systematically spreading the fame of that mind-destroying philosophaster and his unholy and senseless scribblings, men must have at once seen, that is, if there were in Germany any with some measure of discernment, what that praise was like, and that it originated solely from intention and certainly not from insight. For it overflowed in profusion and to excess and spread to the four quarters of the globe; it gushed forth from the mouths of all, unreservedly, unconditionally, immoderately, and in full, till words failed them. Still not content with their own many-voiced paeans of praise, these hired applauders in the rank and file were for ever anxiously on the look-out for every grain of foreign uncorrupted praise in order to glean it and hold it aloft. Thus if some famous man had allowed himself to be tricked or forced into uttering one little word of praise or approbation, or even an opponent, either through fear or charitable feeling, had sugared his criticism, then they all sprang to their feet to pick it up and show it off in triumph. Only intention goes to work in this way; and thus do hopeful hirelings, paid applauders, and sworn literary conspirators praise for wages. On the other hand, the sincere praise that comes merely from insight, bears quite a different character. Feuchtersleben has finely expressed what precedes it:
[quote]'See how they wriggle and turn and screw, So as not to revere what's good and true!'[/quote]
Thus it is very slow and late in coming; it comes singly and sparingly measured out, dispensed in drams, and always tied up with restrictions, so that anyone receiving it may well say:
[quote] [x]. [16]
-- Iliad, XXII. 495.[/quote]
And yet the man dispensing it parts with it reluctantly. For it is a reward finally wrested and unwillingly wrung from dull, inflexible, tenacious, and envious mediocrity by the greatness of genuine merit which can no longer be concealed. As Klopstock sings, it is the laurel that was worthy of a nobleman's sweat; as Goethe says, it is the fruit
[quote]'Of that courage that sooner or later Defeats the resistance of a dull world.'*[/quote]
Accordingly, it is related to that shameless and fulsome flattery of schemers as the noble and sincere bride, who was hard to win, is to the paid prostitute whose thickly laid-on white and red must have been at once recognized in the Hegelian reputation if, as I said, there were in Germany any who were discerning. If there were, then Schiller's song would not have been realized in so flagrant a manner to the disgrace of the nation.
[quote] 'I saw fame's sacred garlands Desecrated on a common brow.'
-- Die Ideale.[/quote]
The Hegelian glory, here selected as an example of false fame, is certainly a unique fact even in Germany. And so I ask public libraries carefully to preserve like mummies all its documents, as well as the opera omnia of the philosophaster himself and those of his votaries, for the instruction, warning, and amusement of posterity and as a memorial to this age and country.
If, however, we take a wider view and have in mind the praise if contemporaries of all times, we shall find that this is really always a whore, prostituted and polluted by a thousand contemptible wretches to whose lot it has fallen. Who could still desire such a street-walker? Who would want to be proud of her favours? Who will not treat her with disdain? On the other hand, a man's reputation with posterity is a proud and demure beauty who yields only to him who is worthy of her, to the victor and rare hero. That is how the matter stands. Incidentally, we can infer from this how badly off this race of bipeds must be; for it requires generations and even centuries before there can come from the hundreds of millions a few minds who are capable of distinguishing the good from the bad, the genuine from the spurious, gold from copper, and accordingly who are called the tribunal of posterity. Moreover, another circumstance favourable to this tribunal is that the implacable envy of incapacity and the purposeful flattery of meanness and infamy are silenced, whereby insight obtains a hearing.
Do we not see, in keeping with that wretched state of the human race, men of great genius, whether in poetry, philosophy, or the arts, always stand out like isolated heroes, who alone keep up a desperate struggle against the onslaught of an army of opponents? For the dullness, coarseness, perversity, silliness, and brutality of the vast majority of the race are for ever opposed to their work in every form and thus constitute that hostile army to which the heroes ultimately succumb. Every hero is a Samson. The strong are overcome by the wiles and intrigues of the many and the weak. If the strong man loses patience, he crushes them and himself. Or he is merely a Gulliver among the Lilliputians whose immense number ultimately overwhelms him. Whatever such isolated heroes may achieve is hardly recognized; it is tardily appreciated and then only on the score of authority; and it is again easily set aside, at any rate for a while. It is for ever confronted with what is false, insipid, and absurd, all of which is better suited to the taste of the great majority and thus generally holds the field, even though the critic may stand before them and call out, as did Hamlet when he held up to his wretched mother the two portraits and said: 'Have you eyes? have you eyes?' Alas they have none! When I see people enjoying the works of great masters and how they applaud, I am often reminded of the so-called comedy of trained apes who behave something like human beings, but now and then reveal that they nevertheless lack the real inner principle of those gestures, in that they allow their irrational nature to peep through.
In consequence of all this, the expression, often used, that a man 'is superior to his century' is to be interpreted as meaning that he is superior to the human race generally. For this reason, he is immediately known only by those who in ability are themselves considerably above the average. But they are too rare to be capable of existing at any time in large numbers. If, therefore, such a man is not in this respect particularly favoured by fate, he is 'misunderstood and underrated by his own century'; in other words, he will remain unaccepted until time has gradually brought together the voices of those rare minds who are capable of judging a work of a high order. After this, posterity will then say: 'the man was superior to his century' instead of 'superior to mankind'. Thus mankind will be glad to put on to a single century the responsibility for its own faults. It follows from this that whoever has been superior to his own century would indeed have been so to any other, provided that, in any particular century, some fair and capable critics in his sphere of achievements had by a rare stroke of good fortune been born simultaneously with him; just as when Vishnu, according to a beautiful Indian myth, incarnates himself as a hero, Brahma at the same time comes into the world as the minstrel of his deeds; and so Valmiki, Vyasa, and Kalidasa are incarnations of Brahma. [17] In this sense, it can be said that every immortal work tests whether its age will be capable of recognizing it. In most cases the age does not pass the test any better than did the neighbours of Philemon and Baucis who showed the door to the unrecognized gods. Accordingly, the correct standard for assessing the intellectual worth of an age is given not by the great minds who appeared in it, for their abilities are the work of nature and the possibility of cultivating them was a matter of chance circumstances, but by the reception their works met with at the hands of their contemporaries. Therefore it is a question whether they met with prompt and warm approbation, or this was tardy and grudging, or left entirely to posterity. This, then, will be the case especially when there are works of a high order. For the above-menti0!1ed stroke of good fortune will the more certainly fail to appear, the fewer there are generally who have access to the particular sphere in which a great mind is working. Here is to be found the immense advantage poets enjoy in respect of their reputation, in that they are accessible to almost everyone. If only it had been possible for Sir Walter Scott to be read and criticized by about a hundred persons, then possibly any common scribbler would have been preferred to him; and when subsequently the matter had been cleared up, it would also have been said in his honour that he was 'superior to his century'. Now if envy, dishonesty, and the pursuit of personal aims are added to the incapacity of those hundred persons who, in the name of the age, have to judge a work, then such a work has the melancholy fate of one who pleads his case before a tribunal all of whose judges are corrupt.
Accordingly, the history of literature shows generally that those who made knowledge and insight their aim, remained unappreciated and forsaken, whereas those who paraded with the mere semblance of such things obtained the admiration of their contemporaries together with the emoluments.
For an author's effectiveness is conditioned primarily by his acquiring the reputation that he must be read. Now by tricks and intrigues, chance and a congenial nature, a hundred worthless fellows will quickly gain such a reputation, whereas a worthy writer attains it slowly and tardily. Thus the former have friends since the masses always exist in large numbers and stick closely together; the latter, however, has only enemies because intellectual superiority is everywhere and in all circumstances the most unpopular thing in the world, especially with ignorant bunglers in the same branch of knowledge, who would like themselves to be regarded as something.* If the professors of philosophy imagine that here I am hinting at them and at the tactics they have employed for over thirty years in reference to my works, then they have hit the mark.
Now since all this is the case, a principal condition for achieving something great, for producing something that will outlive its generation and century, is that a man shall not pay the least attention to contemporaries or to their opinions, views, and the praise or censure arising therefrom. Yet this condition occurs automatically, as soon as the rest are hand in glove with one another; and this is fortunate. For if, in producing such works, a man were to take into account the general opinion or views of professional colleagues, they would at every step lead him away from the correct path. And so whoever wants to go down to posterity must withdraw from the influence of his own times; but for this, of course, he must also in most cases renounce any influence on them and be ready to purchase the fame of centuries at the price of the approbation of his contemporaries.
Thus when some new, and therefore paradoxical, truth comes into the world, men generally will oppose it obstinately and as long as possible; in fact, they will go on denying it even when they waver and are almost convinced. Meanwhile, it continues to work quietly and, like an acid, eats into everything round it until all this is undermined. Now and again, a crash is heard; the old error comes tottering down and suddenly there stands out the new fabric of thought like a monument uncovered, acknowledged and admired by all. All this, of course, usually takes place very slowly. For, as a rule, everyone notes the man who is worth listening to only when he no longer exists, so that the cries of hear, hear! resound after the speaker has departed.
On the other hand, a better fate is in store for the works of ordinary individuals. They arise in the course of, and in connection with, the general culture of their times and are, therefore, in close alliance with the spirit of their age, that is, with just the prevailing views. They are calculated to meet the needs of the moment and so if they have any merit, this is soon recognized; and as they are closely associated with the cultural epoch of their contemporaries, they soon meet with interest. Justice, indeed frequently more than this, is done to them and they afford little scope for envy since, as I have said, tantum quisque laudat, quantum se posse sperat imitari. [18] But those eminent and remarkable works which are destined to belong to the whole of mankind and to live for centuries, are too advanced when they are -produced and are, on that account, foreign to the cultural epoch and spirit of their times. They do not belong to, and are in no way connected with, them; and so they do not gain the interest of those who live and work in such times. They belong to a different age, to a higher cultural stage, which is still a long way off. Their course is related to that of ordinary works, as is the orbit of Uranus to that of Mercury. And so for the time being, no justice is done to them; men do not know what to do with them and, therefore, leave them alone in order to proceed at their own snail's pace. Indeed, worms on the ground do not see the bird on the wing.
Of the books that are written in a language, only about one in a hundred thousand becomes a part of its real and permanent literature. And what a fate this one book often has to endure before it sails past those hundred thousand and arrives at its due place of honour! Such a book is the work of an unusual and decidedly superior mind and for that reason is specifically different from the others, a fact that sooner or later comes to light.
Do not let us suppose that this state of things will ever be any better. It is true that the miserable constitution of the human race assumes in every generation a somewhat different form, but it is always the same. Men with distinguished minds rarely attain their end during their lifetime because, at bottom, they are really understood only by those who are already akin to them.
Now as it is very rare for even only one out of many millions to tread the path of immortality, he must necessarily be very lonely and the journey to posterity runs through a terribly dreary and solitary region like the Libyan Desert; it is well known that only those who have seen it have any conception of its effect. Meanwhile, for this journey I recommend above all things light baggage, otherwise much will have to be discarded on the way. Thus we should always bear in mind the words of Balthasar Gracian: lo bueno, si breve, dos vezes buena (the good is doubly good, if it is short), which are specially recommended to the Germans.
Great minds are related to the short span of time wherein they live as are large buildings to the narrow plot of ground on which they stand. Thus large buildings are not seen to their full extent because we are too close to them; for an analogous reason, we do not notice great minds; but when a century has passed, they are acknowledged and wanted back.
Indeed, we see a great difference between the life of the perishable son of time and the imperishable work he has produced; analogous to that of the mortal mother, like Semele or Maya, who gave birth to an immortal god, or to the opposite relation between Thetis and Achilles. For there is a great contrast between the perishable and the imperishable. A man's brief span of time, his needy, hard, and unstable existence, will seldom allow him to see even the beginning of his immortal offspring's brilliant career or to be taken for what he is. On the contrary, a man of posthumous fame remains the very opposite of a nobleman whose fame precedes him.
For a famous man, however, the difference between the fame he enjoys from contemporaries, and that which he will receive from posterity, amounts in the end merely to his admirers being separated from him through space in the first case and time in the second. For even in the case of contemporary fame, a man does not, as a rule, actually see his admirers in front of him. Thus veneration cannot stand close proximity, but almost always dwells at a distance since, in the presence of the person admired, it melts like butter in the sun. Accordingly, even in the case of the man who is famous among his contemporaries, nine-tenths of the people living near him will esteem him only on the strength of his rank and fortune, and in any case the remaining tenth will become dimly aware of his excellent qualities in consequence of information that comes to them from a distance. On this incompatibility between veneration and the presence of the person and between fame and life we have a very fine letter in Latin by Petrarch. It is the second in the Venetian edition of 1492 of his Epistolae familiares and is addressed to Thomas Messanensis. He says, among other things, that all the learned men of his time held to the rule of treating with disdain all the writings of an author whom they had met in person even only once. Accordingly, if very famous men are, as regards being recognized and admired, always to be at a distance, then this can be one either of time or of space. Of course, they sometimes obtain information of their reputation from the latter, but never from the former. In return for this, however, great and genuine merit is able with certainty to anticipate its fame with posterity. In fact, whoever produces a really great thought is at the moment of its conception already aware of his connection with the generations to come. He thus feels the extension of his existence through centuries and so lives with posterity as well as jor it. On the other hand, if we are seized with admiration for a great mind whose works we have just studied and would like to have him back, to see him, speak to him, and possess him among us, then even this longing does not remain unrequited. For he too has longed for a posterity which would acknowledge him and pay him the honour, gratitude, and affection that were denied to him by envious contemporaries.
§ 243
Now if intellectual works of the highest order meet with recognition only before the tribunal of posterity, an opposite fate is in store for certain brilliant errors. Coming from men of talent, these appear to be so plausibly established, and to be defended with so much intelligence and knowledge, that they acquire fame and prestige with their contemporaries and maintain their position, at any rate for as long as their authors are alive. Of this nature there are the many false theories, false criticisms, and also poems and works of art in a false taste or style that are introduced by contemporary prejudice. The reputation and acceptance of all such things are due to the fact that men do not yet exist who know how to refute them or to demonstrate the false element in them. In most cases, however, the next generation produces such men and then the glory enjoyed by those errors comes to an end. Only in isolated cases does it last for any length of time; as has been and still is the case, for example, with Newton's theory of colour. Other instances of this nature are the Ptolemaic system of the universe, Stahl's chemistry, F.A. Wolff's dispute about the personality and identity of Homer, possibly also Niebuhr's destructive criticism of the history of the Roman Emperors, and so on. Thus the tribunal of posterity is the proper court of appeal against the judgements of contemporaries, whether or not the case be favourable. It is, therefore, so rare and difficult to satisfy contemporaries and posterity to the same extent.
Generally speaking, we should keep in view this unfailing effect of time on the rectification of knowledge and opinions in order to set our minds at rest whenever serious errors appear and are spread on all sides either in art and science or in practical life, or whenever a false and even thoroughly perverse proceeding is adopted and men give it their approval. Thus we should not be angry, still less despondent, but should bear in mind that they will come back from it and need only time and experience in order themselves to recognize of their own accord that which a man with keener vision saw at the first glance. If truth speaks from the facts of things, there is no need for us to come at once to its aid with words, for time will help it with a thousand tongues. Its length will naturally depend on the difficulty of the subject and on the plausibility of what is false; but it too will come to an end and in many cases it would be useless to attempt to forestall it. In the worst case, things will happen ultimately in the theoretical as in the practical, where sham and deception, emboldened by success, are driven to ever greater lengths until discovery almost inevitably occurs. Thus even in the theoretical, the absurd grows to greater heights through the blind assurance of blockheads until in the end it has become so great that even the dullest eye recognizes it. We should, therefore, say to such men: 'the crazier, the better!' We can also derive some encouragement by looking back at all the whims and crotchets that had their day and were then completely shelved. In style, grammar, and orthography, there are such whims that have a life of only three or four years. In the case of more egregious errors, we are, of course, bound to lament the shortness of human life, but shall always do well to lag behind our own times when we see these about to go backwards. For there are two different ways of not standing au niveau de son temps, [19] either below or above them.
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[b]Notes:[/b]
1 ['(I am mortified) whenever the great Homer nods.' (Ars poetica, 359.)]
2 ['Next to the power of judgement the rarest things in the world are diamonds and pearls.'] * In Jacques le Fataliste Diderot says that all the arts are pursued by bunglers-a very true statement indeed.
3 [Tomas de Yriarte (1750-91), a Spanish poet, and keeper of archives in the War Office at Madrid.]
4 ['Neither gods, nor men, nor even advertising pillars permit the poet to be a mediocrity.' (Ars poetica, 372-3.)]
5 A. Wivell, An Inquiry into the History, Authenticity, and Characteristics of Shakespeare's Portraits; with twenty-one engravings, London, 1836.
6 ['Time is a man of honour (though no one else is).' (Italian proverb.)]
7 ['Judge none blessed before his death.' (Ecclesiasticus II:28.)]
8 ['In this life of man which is more sombre and melancholy than bright and cheerful and is so full of envy.']
9 ['If anyone makes his mark among us, let him go and do so elsewhere.']
10 ['For centuries to come'.] 11 ['The silence of envy'.]
12 ['One must be a sage to recognize a sage.']
13 ['What rapidly originates rapidly perishes.']
14 ['Everyone praises only as much as he himself hopes to achieve.']
* Death entirely appeases envy; old age half does.
15 ['Triumphant beast'.]
* Fame is the admiration which is extorted from men against their will and is bound to assert itself.
16 ['Only the lips are moistened, not the palate.']
17 Polier, Mythologie des Indous, vol. i, pp. 172-90. * As a rule, the quantity and quality of the public who read a work will be in inverse ratio; thus, for example, the value of a work of poetry cannot be inferred at all from its numerous editions.
18 ['Everyone praises only as much as he himself hopes to achieve.']
19 [' On a level with our times'.] |