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

by Friedrich von Schlegel

But even irrespectively of this freedom of choice for actual life and its particular objects and motives—irrespectively, also, of the freedom which is conversant about external actions, and of the inward moving causes of the will which contain the first ground and hidden germ of the former, and of that state of uncertainty which follows therefrom, and which not unfrequently long vacillates between one side and another—there are, also, in pure thought, simply as such, a similar state of internal hesitation or doubt—i.e., of a thought hostilely attacking, undermining and destroying, denying, and annihilating even consciousness and cogitation itself. Left wholly to ourselves, when, closing our regards to the external world, and without any definite object, we calmly commit ourselves to the stream of purely internal thought, we soon become sensible of this fact. On the one hand, there crowd on the mind the impressions of the outward senses, and the manifold creations of the peculiar, never-resting faculty of cogitation, seeking to gain the mastery over and to carry it along with them. On the other side, the distinguishing and discerning reason comes in with its questions and doubts, and chemical analysis, to resolve every thing finally into naught, and to explain all the conceptions of the mind as groundless and unsubstantial, as so many pure illusions of the senses, conceits of caprice, prejudices of a limited understanding, and mere pictures or creations of fancy. Thus, then, the ever-swelling flood of thought in man’s inner being and cogitation is not any calmly-flowing stream, in which wave quietly follows and succeeds to wave, as through rich and fertile plains it pursues its course from some distant source to the wide and open sea. The fearful conflict of thought is rather some double current, where, amid the crags and rocks, the pent-in waters, confining one another, beat up into foaming breakers—or, still more dangerous, beneath their apparently calm and smooth surface, they form the tearing whirlpool with its bottomless abyss, which, at the least incautious approach, hurries, irresistibly, into its vortex the tossing little boat of man’s brief existence. For the most part it is only in natures originally, at least, highly endowed and noble, that doubt and this internal struggle of thought rise to the height of despair. These alone are finally driven, by the rejection of all belief in themselves, into utter ruin both of soul and spirit. The tendency, however, to a state of struggle and doubt is universal. It seems to be nothing less than a characteristic property of human nature, and to have its foundation in the dissension subsisting between reason and fancy, which has so firmly established itself in the mind of man. It may happen, no doubt, that in a mind whose opinions are settled both in theory and practice, no instability will be found to subsist in the plans which guide and regulate life, but that, on the contrary, they are, on the whole, followed out with fixed resolution and decided energy. And yet, even in such a case, particular doubts will occasionally arise affecting many matters (which, although subordinate to the fundamental laws of life, are, nevertheless, far from being unimportant), so as to force upon us the remark, or even to extort the confession that, in general, such a state of immovable determination does not belong to human nature, and that this internal conflict forms one element of that warfare of life to which man is called. The predisposition to this I have referred to the discord between reason and fancy, and, for brevity’s sake, I have employed, throughout, the latter designation for it. I must, however, avail myself of the present occasion to observe, that fancy is not limited merely to poetry and the fine arts, and their respective creations, but inasmuch as all productive thought belongs to the imagination in the same way that the negative does to the reason, it also co-operates more or less with science. It is, therefore, chiefly in this latter and larger sense that we here employ the term, since it is from the contradictions of the productive and negative thought that the struggle and state of doubt arise.

The first truth, then, that psychology arrives at, is the internal discord within our fourfold and divided consciousness. Having commenced with a slight characteristic sketch of this fact, I have attempted to give a further and deeper grounding, and to invest it with a higher and profounder significance. To this first perception we appended, as the second member in the series of our philosophical investigation, the idea of a triplicity of consciousness as restored to its perfect and living action. According to this view, the simple division of the mind is into spirit, soul, and sense. And this will, in all our subsequent Lectures, form the basis of our psychological reflections on the human mind. It will also serve as the transition from the ordinary state of the consciousness in discord with itself, and with its fourfold division, to the reunited triple consciousness. We shall make it the starting-point and first step in this philosophy, which, as it sets out from life, is also to lead to a higher life.

But now, even in the mind’s ordinary state there are many such beginnings of a higher order of things—many moments of a more concentrated energy, which bespeak a joint operation of the otherwise divided faculties and powers of soul and spirit, and have for their result a partial restoration, at least, of harmony to this otherwise dismembered whole. Among these I would mention, first of all, that inner fixity of character, where thought, will, and conduct are consistent throughout; secondly, a true artistic genius in the creations both of poetic and plastic fancy. Lastly, there is that ardent and disinterested love, with its magnanimous self-sacrifices, which, though it surpasses all the limits of reason, can not, nevertheless, be looked upon as a mere imagination or illusion of fancy, forming as it does a profound and natural energy of the human soul, and constituting in truth its true and proper essence. No doubt the external phenomenon and effect of this elevated principle of the soul is often tarnished and lessened by the dull admixture of earthly ardor, and the bewilderment of passion. A true and perfect manifestation of the feeling, consequently, is no less rare than the truly felicitous creations of real artistic genius. Still it is to it that we must look for the first principle of a higher living thought and the true science thereof. The truly loving soul needs only the excitement and guidance of a mind or spirit ripened and matured in divine experience. Accordingly, the consciousness thus restored to unity and completeness of perfection becomes actively operative in its triple energy. And in the same manner the spirit striving with most ardent aspiration after the divine, requires nothing but such an animating contact with the loving soul, in order to attain fully and effectually to its desired end.

In the series of combining elements or principles of union for the otherwise divided consciousness there is yet another phenomenon, both great and comprehensive in itself, and which also reveals itself as such in actual life and experience. And this phenomenon is furnished by language, with its wonderful variety and yet truly artistic uniformity. For it is the vital product of the whole inner man. All the faculties both of soul and spirit, however discordant generally, combine each, in their full share and measure, to perfect this their conjoint production. And yet, after all, many traces of inherent imperfection are visible therein. It is only in the highest creations of artistic genius, manifesting itself either in poetry or some other form of language, and then only in the brightest and happiest moments of inspiration, that we meet with the perfect harmony of a complete and united consciousness, in which all its faculties work together in combined and living action.

In language, all the four principal powers have a nearly equal part and share. The grammatical structure, the rules for the changes and declensions of words, and their syntax, are furnished by the reason. From the fancy, on the other hand, is derived whatever is figurative; and how very far does not this reach, extending as it does into the primary and natural signification of words, which often no longer exists, or at least is rarely traceable? Lastly, the clear and distinct arrangement of the parts, the nicely-finished and beautiful shape of the whole of any composition, whether poetical or rhetorical, civil or scientific, are the contributions of the understanding. And so, also, whatever is truly characteristic—whatever, in short, goes beyond the mere instinctive cry of animal nature, and the childlike, oft-times childish imitation of external sounds—in short, that deep and spiritual significance, that characteristic meaning which, in the original stem-syllable and radical words of some rich old language, invariably is regarded as a beauty, must be ascribed to the understanding, which so profoundly seizes and precisely designates whatever is peculiar, unless, perhaps, it is preferred to assign it to an immediate feeling, which wonderfully harmonizes with or responds to it. Moreover, the magic force of a commanding will, which carries all before it by its intrinsic energy, is at least noticeable in those few brilliant passages of highest inspiration or perfect poetic delineation, from whose clear and perspicuous language, the apparently ineffable, shining forth like an electric spark, kindles and influences every sensitive and kindred mind.

But before I go deeper into the question of the origin of language, and examine the correct idea of this all-embracing and wonderful faculty of speech, as man’s most remarkable and peculiar property, I would call your attention to the intimate connection subsisting between thought and speech, which is throughout reciprocal. For as speech must be regarded as a thinking, outwardly projected and manifested, so, too, thinking itself is but an inward speaking and a never-ending dialogue with one’s self.

Judging, from all appearances, the consciousness of animals, so far as we are justified in ascribing it to them, is perfectly simple, but sadly defective and limited. But even here, however, the several melodious courses of irrational and seemingly unconscious sounds appear like so many echoes of a better foretime—lost traces of ancient memory, and which, together with the moving and mournful cry of deep, painful longing, seem to make tolerably clear to us the notion of the creature waiting and groaning for its emancipation. Highly simple, too, but in quite a different respect, is the consciousness or thought of the free spirits in their pure activity, such as we may and ought to represent it to ourselves—like the ray of light which in its rapid descent penetrates all space. But marvelously intricate, on the other hand, and highly complicated, is the so manifoldly rich, and, at the same time, so versatile and changeable consciousness of man. Such, at least, is the impression which a serious and searching glance into the unfathomable depths of our inward man enforces upon us. And, indeed, just as in the triple operation of the consciousness, when restored to the full perfection of life, we may trace a certain faint signature of man’s pristine likeness to the Creator, so also a slight vestige of the same kind is, we might fancy, discoverable in its unfathomable depth, which, however, now reveals itself in quite a different form from its original nature, and appears to be converted into its opposite. How often does the thought that seeks to penetrate the mysteries of nature—the hidden thinker within man—believe that he has completely solved the riddle of existence, and is able to explain and rightly interpret the many-meaning but obscure words of the sphinx within us! And even then, when he most flatters himself with his own ingenuity, this miserable Œdipus of his own destiny is stricken with even more fatal and incurable blindness than the old Theban, and can not discern the abyss of error into which his whole life has been hurrying, and into which it is at last plunged headlong and precipitated. Ever laboring to seize the changing Proteus of its own self, our Ego may, perhaps, often arrive at a rare amazement at the enigma of existence, and also is even seized many a time with a light terror. Never, however, by itself, let it think and seek as it may, will it be able, without some other guide, to find the object of its longing, and, in its tragic blindness, to discover the clue of the labyrinthic mazes of its own thoughts, and at last to arrive at harmony with itself.

So profound, moreover, and lasting is this our intrinsic dualism and duplicity—(and I use the term here, not in its usual moral sense, but in a higher signification, which is purely psychological and metaphysical)—so deeply is this dualism rooted in our consciousness, that even when we are, or at least think ourselves alone, we still think as two, and are constrained, as it were, to recognize our inmost profoundest being as essentially dramatic. This colloquy with self, or generally, this internal dialogue, is so perfectly that natural form of human thinking, that even the saintly solitaries of bygone centuries, who, in the Egyptian deserts or the Alpine hermitages, devoted a half life to meditation on divine things and mysteries, were often not able otherwise to indicate the result of such meditations, to invest it in another dress, to bring it into any other form of exposition than that of a dialogue of the soul with God. And in all religions, what properly is true prayer but a kind of dialogue, a confidential opening of the heart to the universal Father, or a filial solicitation of His benevolence?

But to pass over at once to the directly opposite aspect of the matter: even in the classical works of cultivated antiquity, at a time when these depths of a loveful feeling were not yet so widely developed, nor so completely revealed and unveiled, we meet with this same phenomenon in another form, and one indeed of the highest intellectual clearness and brilliancy—in the graceful ornament, viz., of a truly exquisite diction. I am alluding to the characteristic distinction of the discourses and teaching of Socrates—that peculiar irony, such as it is found in the Platonic dialogues, and of which only a very slight trace is to be found in the works of some of the earliest poets. For what else is this scientific irony of the inquiring thought and of the highest cognition, than a consciousness which, while it clearly perceives the secret contradictions which beset the mind, even in its most earnest pursuit of the highest aim of life, has attained, nevertheless, to perfect harmony with itself.

I must not, however, omit to remind you that this term in modern phraseology has fallen very far below its primary meaning, and is often so taken as to designate nothing more than a mere playful mockery. In its original Socratic sense, however, such as it is found in the whole series of the thought and the internal structure of Plato’s dialogues, where it is developed to its fullest measure and proportion, irony signifies nothing else than this amazement of the thinking spirit at itself, which so often dissolves in a light, gentle laugh. And this light laugh again oftentimes beneath its cheerful surface conceals and involves a deeper and profounder sense, another and a higher significance, even the most exalted seriousness. In the thoroughly dramatic development and exposition of thought which we meet with in the works of Plato, the dialogical form is essentially predominant. Even if all the superscriptions of names and persons, all forms of address and reply, and, in short, the whole conversational garb, were taken away from it, and we were merely to follow the inner threads of the thought according to their connection and course, the whole would, nevertheless, remain a dialogue, where each answer calls forth a new question, and the eddying stream of speech and counter-speech, or, rather, of thought and counter-thought, moves livingly onward. And unquestionably this form of inner dialogue is, if not in every case equally applicable and absolutely necessary, still it is all but essential, and at least highly natural and very appropriate to every form of living thought and its vivid enunciation. And in this sense even the continuous unbroken speech of a single person may also assume the character of a dialogue. Yes, I must confess that as it is my first object to attain to the greatest possible perspicuity of a vivid development of ideas, I should then most confidently believe that I had gained my end, if the present Lectures should in any degree make the same impression on you as a dialogue would—if they should appear like a series of questions, to which some of you, if not throughout, yet here and there, should in your heart give a tacit answer and assent—or even (and in this case still more so, indeed) if, in the whole context of these Lectures, you should find and believe to discover for many questions which your own hearts, your own reflections and life itself suggested, if not a full, satisfactory answer, yet at least one directly meeting the difficulty, and full of suggestions for its solution.