Although Socrates did his very best to gain knowledge of human nature and to know himself—yes, even though he has been eulogized for centuries as the person who certainly knew man best—he nevertheless admitted that the reason he was disinclined to ponder the nature of such creatures as Pegasus and the Gorgons was that he still was not quite clear about himself, whether he (a connoisseur of human nature) was a more curious monster than Typhon or a friendlier and simpler being, by nature sharing something divine (see Phaedrus, 229 e).2 This seems to be a paradox. But one must not think ill of the paradox, for the paradox is the passion of thought, and the thinker without the paradox3 is like the lover without passion: a mediocre fellow. But the ultimate potentiation of every passion is always to will its own downfall, and so it is also the ultimate passion of the understanding [Forstand] to will the collision, although in one way or another the collision must become its downfall. This, then, is the ultimate paradox of thought: to want to discover something that thought itself cannot think. This passion of thought is fundamentally present everywhere in thought, also in the single individual’s thought insofar as he, thinking, is not merely himself. But because of habit we do not discover this. Similarly, the human act of walking, so the natural scientists inform us, is a continuous falling,4 but a good steady citizen who walks to his office mornings and home at midday [IV 205] probably considers this an exaggeration, because his progress, after all, is a matter of mediation5 —how could it occur to him that he is continually falling, he who unswervingly follows his nose.
But in order to get started, let us state a bold proposition: let us assume that we know what a human being is.* In this we do indeed have the criterion of truth,8 which all Greek philosophy sought, or doubted, or postulated, or brought to fruition. And is it not noteworthy that the Greeks were like this? Is this not, so to speak, a brief summary of the meaning of the Greek mentality, an epigram it has written about itself and by which it is better served than by the sometimes prolix works written about it? Thus the proposition is worth assuming, and for another reason as well, since we have already explained it in the two previous chapters, whereas anyone desiring to give an explanation of Socrates different from ours must see to it that he does not fall into the snares of the earlier or later Greek skepticism. If the Socratic theory of recollection and of every human being as universal man is not maintained, then Sextus Empiricus stands there ready to make the transition implied in “to learn” not merely difficult but impossible,9 and Protagoras begins where he left off, with everything as the measure of man,10 in the sense that he is the measure for others, but by no means in the Socratic sense [IV 206] that the single individual is for himself the measure, no more and no less.
We know, then, what man is, and this wisdom, the worth of which I, least of all, will denigrate, can continually become richer and more meaningful, and hence the truth also. But then the understanding stands still, as did Socrates,11 for now the understanding’s paradoxical passion that wills the collision awakens and, without really understanding itself, wills its own downfall. It is the same with the paradox of erotic love. A person lives undisturbed in himself, and then awakens the paradox of self-love as love for another, for one missing. (Self-love is the ground or goes to the ground12 in all love, which is why any religion of love [Kjærlighed] we might conceive would presuppose, just as epigrammatically as truly, one condition only and assume it as given: to love oneself in order to command loving the neighbor as oneself.)13 Just as the lover is changed by this paradox of love so that he almost does not recognize himself any more (the poets, the spokesmen of erotic love, testify to this, as do the lovers themselves, since they allow the poets to take only the words from them, not their state),14 so also that intimated paradox of the understanding reacts upon a person and upon his self-knowledge in such a way that he who believed that he knew himself now no longer is sure whether he perhaps is a more curiously complex animal than Typhon or whether he has in his being a gentler and diviner part (σϰοπω̃ οὐ ταυ̃τα, ἀλλ’ ἐμαυτόν, εἴτε τι θηϱίον ὄν τυγχάνω Τυφω̃νος πολυπλοϰώτεϱον ϰοὶ μα̃λλον ἐπιτεθυμμένον, εἴτε ἡμεϱώτεϱόν τε ϰαἱ ἁπλούστεϱον ξω̩̃ον, θείας τινὸς ϰαὶ ἀτύφου μοίϱας φύσει μετέχον. Phaedrus 230 a).15
But what is this unknown against which the understanding [IV 207] in its paradoxical passion collides and which even disturbs man and his self-knowledge? It is the unknown. But it is not a human being, insofar as he knows man, or anything else that he knows. Therefore, let us call this unknown the god. It is only a name we give to it. It hardly occurs to the understanding to want to demonstrate that this unknown (the god) exists. If, namely, the god does not exist, then of course it is impossible to demonstrate it. But if he does exist, then it is foolishness to want to demonstrate it, since I, in the very moment the demonstration commences, would presuppose it not as doubtful—which a presupposition cannot be, inasmuch as it is a presupposition—but as decided, because otherwise I would not begin, easily perceiving that the whole thing would be impossible if he did not exist. If, however, I interpret the expression “to demonstrate the existence [Tilværelse] of the god” to mean that I want to demonstrate that the unknown, which exists, is the god, then I do not express myself very felicitously, for then I demonstrate nothing, least of all an existence, but I develop the definition of a concept. It is generally a difficult matter to want to demonstrate that something exists—worse still, for the brave souls who venture to do it, the difficulty is of such a kind that fame by no means awaits those who are preoccupied with it. The whole process of demonstration continually becomes something entirely different, becomes an expanded concluding development of what I conclude from having presupposed that the object of investigation exists. 16Therefore, whether I am moving in the world of sensate palpability or in the world of thought, I never reason in conclusion to existence, but I reason in conclusion from existence. For example, I do not demonstrate that a stone exists but that something which exists is a stone. The court of law does not demonstrate that a criminal exists but that the accused, who does indeed exist, is a criminal. Whether one wants to call existence an accessorium [addition]17 or the eternal prius [presupposition], it can never be demonstrated. We shall take our time; after all, there is no reason for us to rush as there is for those who, out of concern for themselves, or for the god, or for something else, must rush to get proof that something exists. In that case, there is good reason to make haste, especially if the one involved has in all honesty made an accounting of the danger that he himself or the object being [IV 208] investigated does not exist until he proves it and does not dishonestly harbor the secret thought that essentially it exists whether he demonstrates it or not.
18If one wanted to demonstrate Napoleon’s existence from Napoleon’s works, would it not be most curious, since his existence certainly explains the works but the works do not demonstrate his existence unless I have already in advance interpreted the word “his” in such a way as to have assumed that he exists. But Napoleon is only an individual, and to that extent there is no absolute relation between him and his works—thus someone else could have done the same works. Perhaps that is why I cannot reason from the works to existence. If I call the works Napoleon’s works, then the demonstration is superfluous, since I have already mentioned his name. If I ignore this, I can never demonstrate from the works that they are Napoleon’s but demonstrate (purely ideally) that such works are the works of a great general etc. However, between the god and his works there is an absolute relation. God is not a name but a concept,19 and perhaps because of that his essentia involvit existentiam [essence involves existence].*20
[IV 209] 26God’s works, therefore, only the god can do. Quite correct. But, then, what are the god’s works? The works from which I want to demonstrate his existence do not immediately and directly exist, not at all. Or are the wisdom in nature and the goodness or wisdom in Governance right in front of our noses? Do we not encounter the most terrible spiritual trials here, and is it ever possible to be finished with all these trials? But I still do not demonstrate God’s existence from such an order of things, and even if I began, I would never finish and also would be obliged continually to live in suspenso lest something so terrible happen that my fragment of demonstration would be ruined. Therefore, from what [IV 210] works do I demonstrate it? From the works regarded ideally—that is, as they do not appear directly and immediately. But then I do not demonstrate it from the works, after all, but only develop the ideality I have presupposed; trusting in that,27 I even dare to defy all objections, even those that have not yet arisen. By beginning, then, I have presupposed the ideality, have presupposed that I will succeed in accomplishing it, but what else is that but presupposing that the god exists and actually beginning with trust in him.
And how does the existence of the god emerge from the demonstration? Does it happen straightway? Is it not here as it is with the Cartesian dolls?28 As soon as I let go of the doll, it stands on its head. As soon as I let go of it—consequently, I have to let go of it. So also with the demonstration—so long as I am holding on to the demonstration (that is, continue to be one who is demonstrating), the existence does not emerge, if for no other reason than that I am in the process of demonstrating it, but when I let go of the demonstration, the existence is there. Yet this letting go, even that is surely something; it is, after all, meine Zuthat [my contribution]. Does it not have to be taken into account, this diminutive moment, however brief it is—it does not have to be long, because it is a leap. However diminutive this moment, even if it is this very instant, this very instant must be taken into account. If someone wants to have it forgotten, I will take the occasion to tell a little anecdote in order to show that it does indeed exist. Chrysippus was trying to determine a qualitative limit in the progressive or retrogressive operation of a sorites. Carneades could not grasp the point at which the quality actually made its appearance.29 Chrysippus told him that one could pause for a moment in the reckoning, and then, then—then one could understand it better. But Carneades replied: Please, do not let me disturb you; you may not only pause but may even lie down and go to sleep—it [IV 211] will not make any difference. When you wake up, we shall begin again where you stopped. And that, of course, is how it really is; trying to get rid of something by sleeping is just as useless as trying to obtain something by sleeping.
Therefore, anyone who wants to demonstrate the existence of God (in any other sense than elucidating the God-concept and without the reservatio finalis [ultimate reservation] that we have pointed out—that the existence itself emerges from the demonstration by a leap) proves something else instead, at times something that perhaps did not even need demonstrating, and in any case never anything better. For the fool says in his heart that there is no God,30 but he who says in his heart or to others: Just wait a little and I shall demonstrate it—ah, what a rare wise man he is!* If, at the moment he is supposed to begin the demonstration, it is not totally undecided whether the god exists or not, then, of course, he does not demonstrate it, and if that is the situation in the beginning, then he never does make a beginning—partly for fear that he will not succeed because the god may not exist, and partly because he has nothing with which to begin. —In ancient times, such a thing would have been of hardly any concern. At least Socrates, who did indeed advance what is called the physico-teleological demonstration for the existence of God,32 did not conduct himself in this way. He constantly presupposes that the god exists, and on this presupposition he seeks to infuse nature with the idea of fitness and purposiveness. If he had been asked why he conducted himself in this manner, he presumably would have explained that he lacked the kind of courage needed to dare to embark on such a voyage of discovery without having behind him the assurance that the god exists. At the god’s request, he casts out his net, so to speak, to catch the idea of fitness and purposiveness, for nature itself comes up with many terrifying devices and many subterfuges in order to disturb.33
The paradoxical passion of the understanding is, then, continually colliding with this unknown, which certainly does exist but is also unknown and to that extent does not exist. The understanding does not go beyond this; yet in its paradoxicality the understanding cannot stop reaching it and being [IV 212] engaged with it, because wanting to express its relation to it by saying that this unknown does not exist will not do, since just saying that involves a relation. But what, then, is this unknown, for does not its being the god merely signify to us that it is the unknown? To declare that it is the unknown because we cannot know it, and that even if we could know it we could not express it,34 does not satisfy the passion, although it has correctly perceived the unknown as frontier. But a frontier is expressly the passion’s torment, even though it is also its incentive. And yet it can go no further, whether it risks a sortie through via negationis [the way of negation] or via eminentiae [the way of idealization].
What, then, is the unknown? It is the frontier that is continually arrived at, and therefore when the category of motion is replaced by the category of rest it is the different, the absolutely different.35 But it is the absolutely different in which there is no distinguishing mark. Defined as the absolutely different, it seems to be at the point of being disclosed, but not so, because the understanding cannot even think the absolutely different; it cannot absolutely negate itself but uses itself for that purpose and consequently thinks the difference in itself, which it thinks by itself. It cannot absolutely transcend itself and therefore thinks as above itself only the sublimity that it thinks by itself. If the unknown (the god) is not solely the frontier, then the one idea about the different is confused with the many ideas about the different. The unknown is then in διασποϱά [dispersion], and the understanding has an attractive selection from among what is available and what fantasy can think of (the prodigious, the ridiculous, etc.).
But this difference cannot be grasped securely. Every time this happens, it is basically an arbitrariness, and at the very bottom of devoutness there madly lurks the capricious arbitrariness that knows it itself has produced the god. If the difference cannot be grasped securely because there is no distinguishing [IV 213] mark, then, as with all such dialectical opposites, so it is with the difference and the likeness—they are identical. Adhering to the understanding, the difference has so confused the understanding that it does not know itself and quite consistently confuses itself with the difference. In the realm of fantastical fabrication, paganism has been adequately luxuriant. With respect to the assumption just advanced, which is the self-ironizing of the understanding, I shall merely trace it in a few lines without reference to whether it was historical or not. There exists [existere], then, a certain person who looks just like any other human being,36 grows up as do other human beings, marries, has a job, takes tomorrow’s livelihood into account as a man should. It may be very beautiful to want to live as the birds of the air live,37 but it is not permissible, and one can indeed end up in the saddest of plights, either dying of hunger—if one has the endurance for that—or living on the goods of others.38 This human being is also the god. How do I know that? Well, I cannot know it, for in that case I would have to know the god and the difference, 39and I do not know the difference, inasmuch as the understanding has made it like unto that from which it differs. Thus the god has become the most terrible deceiver through the understanding’s deception of itself. The understanding has the god as close as possible and yet just as far away.
40Someone may now be saying, “I know full well that you are a capricemonger, but you certainly do not believe that it would occur to me to be concerned about a caprice so curious or so ludicrous that it probably has never occurred to anyone and, above all, is so unreasonable that I would have to lock everything out of my consciousness in order to think of it.” That is exactly what you have to do, but then is it justifiable to want to keep all the presuppositions you have in your consciousness and still presume to think about your consciousness without any presuppositions? 41Most likely you do not deny the consistency of what has been developed—that in defining the unknown as the different the understanding ultimately goes astray and confuses the difference with likeness? But this seems to imply something [IV 214] different, namely, that if a human being is to come truly to know something about the unknown (the god), he must first come to know that it is different from him, absolutely different from him. The understanding cannot come to know this by itself (since, as we have seen, it is a contradiction); if it is going to come to know this, it must come to know this from the god, and if it does come to know this, it cannot understand this and consequently cannot come to know this, for how could it understand the absolutely different? If this is not immediately clear, then it will become more clear from the corollary, for if the god is absolutely different from a human being, then a human being is absolutely different from the god—but how is the understanding to grasp this? At this point we seem to stand at a paradox. Just to come to know that the god is the different, man needs the god and then comes to know that the god is absolutely different from him. But if the god is to be absolutely different from a human being, this can have its basis not in that which man owes to the god (for to that extent they are akin) but in that which he owes to himself or in that which he himself has committed. What, then, is the difference? Indeed, what else but sin, since the difference, the absolute difference, must have been caused by the individual himself. We stated this in the foregoing by saying that the individual is untruth and is this through his own fault, and we jestingly, yet earnestly, agreed that it is too much to ask him to find this out for himself. Now we have come to the same point again. The connoisseur of human nature42 became almost bewildered about himself when he came up against the different; he no longer knew whether he was a more curious monster than Typhon or whether there was something divine in him. What did he lack, then? The consciousness of sin, which he could no more teach to any other person than any other person could teach it to him. Only the god could teach it—if he wanted to be teacher. But this he did indeed want to be, as we have composed the story, and in order to be that he wanted to be on the basis of equality with the single individual so that he could completely understand him. Thus the paradox becomes even more terrible, or the same paradox has the duplexity by which it manifests itself as the absolute—negatively, by bringing into prominence the absolute difference of sin and, positively, by wanting to annul this absolute difference in the absolute equality.
43But is a paradox such as this conceivable? We shall not be in a hurry; whenever the contention is over a reply to a question and the contending is not like that on the race track, it is not speed that wins but correctness. The understanding certainly cannot think it, cannot hit upon it on its own, and if it is proclaimed, the understanding cannot understand it [IV 215] and merely detects that it will likely be its downfall. To that extent, the understanding has strong objections to it; and yet, on the other hand, in its paradoxical passion the understanding does indeed will its own downfall. But the paradox, too, wills this downfall of the understanding, and thus the two have a mutual understanding, but this understanding is present only in the moment of passion. Let us consider the condition of erotic love [Elskov], even though it is an imperfect metaphor. Self-love lies at the basis of love [Kjærlighed], but at its peak its paradoxical passion wills its own downfall. Erotic love also wills this, and therefore these two forces are in mutual understanding in the moment of passion, and this passion is precisely erotic love. Why, then, should the lover not be able to think this, even though the person who in self-love shrinks from erotic love can neither comprehend it nor dare to venture it, since it is indeed his downfall. So it is with the passion of erotic love. To be sure, self-love has foundered, but nevertheless it is not annihilated but is taken captive and is erotic love’s spolia opima [spoils of war]. But it can come to life again, and this becomes erotic love’s spiritual trial. So also with the paradox’s relation to the understanding, except that this passion has another name, or, rather, we must simply try to find a name for it.
* Perhaps it seems ludicrous to want to give this thesis the form of doubt by “assuming” it, for, after all, in our theocentric age6 everyone knows such things. Would that it were so! Democritus also knew it, for he defines man thus: “Man is what we all know,” and continues, “for we all know what a dog, a horse, a plant, etc. are, but a human being is none of these.”7 We shall not be as malicious as Sextus Empiricus, nor are we as witty, for he, [IV 206] as we know, quite correctly concluded from this that man is a dog, for man is what we all know, and we all know what a dog is, ergo—. We shall not be as malicious, but I still wonder if in our age the matter has been clarified in such a way that it does not need to feel a bit uneasy about itself at the thought of poor Socrates and his awkward position.
* For example, Spinoza, who, by immersing himself in the concept of God, aims to bring being [Væren] out of it by means of thought, but, please note, not as an accidental quality but as a qualification of essence. This is the profundity in Spinoza, but let us see how he does it. In Principia philosophiae Cartesianae, Pars I, Propositio VII, Lemma I, he says, “quo res sua natura perfectior est, eo majorem existentiam et magis necessariam involvit; et contra, quo magis necessarium existentiam res sua natura involvit, eo perfectior [in proportion as a thing is by its own nature more perfect, it entails a greater and more necessary existence; and, conversely, in proportion as a thing entails by its own nature a more necessary existence, the more perfect it is].”21 Consequently, the more perfect, the more being; the more being, the more perfect. This, however, is a tautology. This becomes even clearer in a note, nota II: “quod hîc non loquimur de pulchritudine et aliis perfectionibus, quas homines ex superstitione et ignorantia perfectiones vocare voluerunt. Sed per perfectionem intelligo tantum realitatem sive esse [we do not speak here of beauty and the other perfections which men have wanted, through superstition and ignorance, to call perfections. By perfection I mean precisely reality or being].”22 He explains perfectio by realitas, esse [perfection . . . reality, being]. Consequently, the more perfect the thing is, the more it is; but its perfection is that it has more esse in itself, which means that the more it is, the more it is. —So much for the tautology. But [IV 209] to go on, what is lacking here is a distinction between factual being and ideal being.23 The intrinsically unclear use of language—speaking of more or less being, consequently of degrees of being—becomes even more confusing when that distinction is not made, when, to put it another way, Spinoza does indeed speak profoundly but does not first ask about the difficulty. With regard to factual being, to speak of more or less being is meaningless. A fly, when it is, has just as much being as the god; with regard to factual being, the stupid comment I write here has just as much being as Spinoza’s profundity, for the Hamlet dialectic, to be or not to be,24 applies to factual being. Factual being is indifferent to the differentiation of all essence-determinants, and everything that exists participates without petty jealousy in being and participates just as much. It is quite true that ideally the situation is different. But as soon as I speak ideally about being, I am speaking no longer about being but about essence. The necessary has the highest ideality; therefore it is. But this being is its essence, whereby it expressly cannot become dialectical in the determinants of factual being, because it is; and neither can it be said to have more or less being in relation to something else. In the old days, this was expressed, even though somewhat imperfectly, as follows: If God is possible, he is eo ipso necessary (Leibniz).25 Then Spinoza’s thesis is quite correct and the tautology is in order, but it is also certain that he completely circumvents the difficulty, for the difficulty is to grasp factual being and to bring God’s ideality into factual being.