The philosophy of life, and philosophy of language, in a course of lectures

by Friedrich von Schlegel

With regard, then, to the co-operation of the sophistical understanding in the formation of philosophical error, and its share and influence on the spirit and the matter of any system of untruth, it furnishes an opposition to the idealistic confusion which the absolute will produces by its predominant idea of the unconditional. Here we have rather a predominating tendency to a realistic view of the world, according to the principle it adopts of the universal insignificance of all things, not merely in reference to morals or practical life, and in the domain of history, but also in nature and the whole creation. And with this view is associated a skeptical contempt for all who dare to think otherwise—all ordinary minds who can not rise to the height where the consciousness of knowing and believing nothing sits enthroned. This tendency, therefore, and this error of the sophistical understanding, is most immediately related to, and associated with, the dialectical confusion of the reason with its endless disputations. But as the absolute volition and pursuit of the unconditional can not well be thought of entirely apart from a certain perversion of the intellectual powers, so the operation of the sophistical understanding is impossible, without a certain admixture of an evil will and an intentional determination to oppose the truth.

But notwithstanding this intrinsic connection between these two intellectual faults, yet in their outward manifestation, and in actual life, they often stand wide apart from each other. The true notion of a sophistical intellect will perhaps be best illustrated in a few words by recalling to your recollection the most celebrated writer of the eighteenth century, who exercised so great an influence not only on the minds of his countryman, but on the whole spirit of the age.[50] If, again, it were necessary to employ instances in order to give you a clear idea of the philosophical pursuit of the absolute, examples enough might be found among the German schools and philosophers of recent times. But to revert to the sophistical intellect: rarely has it been, and rarely will it be, found manifesting itself in such fullness as it did in this anti-Christian and worldly writer, who indeed worshiped the age which worshiped him, but mocked and scoffed at all besides.

Now as to these two opposite systems of error and unbelief—rationalism, viz., and a false idolatrous system of nature—in their inmost essence they are both equally false and pernicious. In this respect there is nothing to choose between them; they are alike utterly abominable. Even in the judgment of theology, pantheism, as the one extreme of error on the side of nature, can scarcely appear less false and abominable than atheism as the other idealistic extreme. Both must be placed on the same line; for the one no less than the other is a full and perfect refusal to recognize the one Eternal Truth and the Living God.

Looking, however, to their external manifestation and effects—a philosophy of nature which cloaks its thoroughly heathenish sentiments beneath the bright and seductive attraction of beautiful and highly-finished form—may perhaps appear more dangerous and more pernicious than rationalism, especially when in the comparison the latter appears under its more moderate, pliant, and skillfully modified phases.

But it is not so much in and by themselves, and generally, that we have here to consider these two kinds of error. In such a case the sentence we must pass upon them would be, that they are equally fatal and pernicious. At present we are rather concerned with them in their reference to our own age, and to that struggle which it has to undergo with them. In this respect I can not hesitate decidedly to pronounce rationalism the greater and the more dangerous error of the two. For not only has it struck its root more deeply in the spirit of the age, and is far more widely diffused, but it is far more supple. Parasitically it engrafts itself on the truth and its various systems, to prey upon them the more successfully. It is ever ready to make concessions to and to capitulate with its adversary, in order to triumph over it the more completely in the end. And when it seems driven altogether from the field, it still holds its ground beneath some new disguise. In short, it is scarcely possible to determine the point, if indeed it is ever reached, where it can be safely said that the evil is completely and forever eradicated. It is only life itself—the higher spiritual life, that is—and the true philosophy which traces and restores it in the mind’s triple faculties of knowledge, that can extricate us from this dilemma of conflicting errors, and provide the clew which shall guide us out of the dialectical mazes of the reason. On the other hand, a false philosophy of nature—and such is every system that stands in hostile opposition to religion, or attempts to usurp its place—which is conceived in a merely empirical spirit, will never prove dangerous. After a brief and limited influence, it will soon fall into neglect and oblivion. When, however, it is the result of a lofty and intellectual effort—when a truly great and comprehensive spirit moves within it—then will it soon become conscious of those limits, and feeling its own false position, it will, ere long, find the passage to the divine, which is beyond and above it. But it is not easy for a philosophy of nature to be or at least long to remain strictly and absolutely confined to its own limits of system, even because of the continual advance of this science of life. And as soon as it recognizes its true place as second and subordinate to a divine philosophy, then does it immediately cease to be a false faith. It is forthwith reconciled to the truth, or at least is already far on the road toward a complete reconciliation with it. This milder judgment, however, can not in justice be extended to that pantheistic science in which nature is as decidedly and absolutely deified as in any of the old systems of heathenism.

We have now completed our comparison of faith and infidelity, and sketched the picture both of man’s mind and of his science, to and from which they respectively belong or issue. We, therefore, leave it free to the judgment of every thoughtful mind that reflects upon itself and the nature of things, and loves and desires the truth, to choose and decide between them. This comparison is ever the proper problem of philosophy; and even if the sketch and delineation of these two states of the human consciousness be, from the limits to which we are confined, not perfectly complete, still we may regard this problem as satisfactorily solved. The struggle, however, between belief and unbelief is still to go on in the world and time, but the victory of truth is reserved to higher powers and forces than man’s.

As to the nature and conditions of that intellectual conflict, and its several moments, a few remarks must be added, on its relation to, and bearings on, philosophy. First of all, I think the previous remarks must have tended to throw light on a phenomenon which otherwise is remarkable and startling enough. The good cause, even when advocated by men of the best intentions and the purest zeal for truth, with the greatest acuteness and a thorough knowledge of the truth and its essential principles, nevertheless is but little successful. At the very best, it makes an extremely slow progress, while evil error advances with the fearful rapidity of contagion. To account for this singular fact it is not sufficient to appeal to the persuasive rhetoric which the latter has at its command, or to any superior power of intellect in its advocates. The cause lies rather in the miasmas of spiritual pestilence which are spread throughout, and are suspended in the moral atmosphere.

We should err greatly were we to suppose that the cause of truth, and of the refutation of error, could as easily be disposed of as any civil process before a judicial tribunal. Here, to carry the day, it is enough completely to refute the pretensions of one’s adversary, and to set forth one’s own claim in a clear and irrefragable chain of legal proof. But, in the matter of philosophy and the higher truth, how little is gained by the refutation, be it ever so complete, of one written system of error, when, in the mean while, two or three more spring up and call for refutation no less than the first. The straight road, therefore, of a calm, simple, and, at the same time, luminous and complete exposition of the highest system of knowledge seems, to my mind, a far more appropriate means for the establishment and diffusion of the truth than the indirect course of refuting any false or erroneous system that may reign in a particular age and throughout the whole world. For, in the latter course, if the controversy be at all searching and complete, it is necessary to enter into all its tortuous windings, at the risk of being lost and entangled in them. And even in the most favorable case, where the refutation is complete, nothing is ultimately gained by it but a mere negative—the establishing the untruth of the refuted system, together with the proofs of that negative.

It would be most erroneous to suppose that this controversy is either entirely or in the main directed against books and leaves, propositions and words. It looks rather to the soul and spirit, and seeks to drive away, to remove, and banish from them, and utterly to extirpate, all the deadly seeds of error and falsehood, replacing them by truth in all its fullness and energy, so as to win the minds and souls of men to its beneficent rule.

This, however, is only possible by an individual process and a personal interchange of ideas. For error and the restoration of truth assume a thousand different shapes, according to the different temperaments of individuals, or to the different periods of life in each. If, therefore, it be the wish or duty of philosophy to make this its principal aim, it is only in the form of dialogue that it can successfully accomplish the task, by suiting itself and closely conforming to the personal character of individuals. In this sense, and on this account, Plato, and the other disciples of Socrates, in their controversy with the Sophists, invariably employed the dialogical style, and chose this form for the exposition of their philosophical views. But even the written dialogue can not do more than exhibit, as it were, a vertical section of the whole infinite variety of individual views, convictions, and characters. And what thereupon is to be done in order to set them free and emancipate them from error, and to win them for, and to fill them with, the truth?