After fully considering reason as a special faculty of knowledge peculiar to man alone, and the achievements and phenomena brought about by it and peculiar to human nature, it now remains for me to speak of reason in so far as it guides man’s actions, and in this respect can be called practical. But what is here to be mentioned has for the most part found a place elsewhere, namely in the Appendix to this work, where I have had to dispute the existence of the so-called practical reason of Kant. This he represents (certainly very conveniently) as the immediate source of all virtue, and as the seat of an absolute (i.e., fallen from heaven) imperative. Later in the Grundprobleme der Ethik I have furnished the detailed and thorough refutation of this Kantian principle of morality. Here, therefore, I have but little to say about the actual influence of reason, in the true sense of the word, on conduct. At the beginning of our consideration of reason we remarked in general terms how the action and behaviour of man differ from those of the animal, and that this difference is to be regarded as solely the result of the presence of abstract concepts in consciousness. The influence of these on our whole existence is so decisive and significant that it places us to a certain extent in the same relation to the animals as that between animals that see and those without eyes (certain larvae, worms, and zoophytes). Animals without eyes know only by touch what is immediately present to them in space, what comes in contact with them. Animals that see, on the other hand, know a wide sphere of what is near and distant. In the same way, the absence of reason restricts the animals to representations of perception immediately present to them in time, in other words to real objects. We, on the other hand, by virtue of knowledge in the abstract, comprehend not only the narrow and actual present, but also the whole past and future together with the wide realm of possibility. We survey life freely in all directions, far beyond what is present and actual. Thus what the eye is in space and for sensuous knowledge, reason is, to a certain extent, in time and for inner knowledge. But just as the visibility of objects has value and meaning only by its informing us of their tangibility, so the whole value of abstract knowledge is always to be found in its reference to knowledge of perception. Therefore, the ordinary natural man always attaches far more value to what is known directly and through perception than to abstract concepts, to what is merely thought; he prefers empirical to logical knowledge. But those are of the opposite way of thinking who live more in words than in deeds, who have seen more on paper and in books than in the actual world, and who in their greatest degeneracy become pedants and lovers of the mere letter. Only from this is it conceivable how Leibniz, Wolff, and all their successors could go so far astray as to declare, after the example of Duns Scotus, knowledge of perception to be merely a confused abstract knowledge! To Spinoza’s honour I must mention that his more accurate sense, on the contrary, declared all common concepts to have arisen from the confusion of what was known through perception (Ethics II, prop. 40, schol. 1). It is also a result of that perverted way of thinking that in mathematics the evidence peculiar to it was rejected, in order to accept and admit only logical evidence; that generally all knowledge that was not abstract was included under the broad name of feeling, and disparaged; finally, that the Kantian ethics declared the pure, good will, asserting itself on knowledge of the circumstances and leading to right and benevolent action, as mere feeling and emotion, to be worthless and without merit. Such ethics would concede moral worth only to actions arising from abstract maxims.
The universal survey of life as a whole, an advantage which man has over the animal through his faculty of reason, is also comparable to a geometrical, colourless, abstract, reduced plan of his way of life. He is therefore related to the animal as the navigator, who by means of chart, compass, and quadrant knows accurately at any moment his course and position on the sea, is related to the uneducated crew who see only the waves and skies. It is therefore worth noting, and indeed wonderful to see, how man, besides his life in the concrete, always lives a second life in the abstract. In the former he is abandoned to all the storms of reality and to the influence of the present; he must struggle, suffer, and die like the animal. But his life in the abstract, as it stands before his rational consciousness, is the calm reflection of his life in the concrete, and of the world in which he lives; it is precisely that reduced chart or plan previously mentioned. Here in the sphere of calm deliberation, what previously possessed him completely and moved him intensely appears to him cold, colourless, and, for the moment, foreign and strange; he is a mere spectator and observer. In respect of this withdrawal into reflection, he is like an actor who has played his part in one scene, and takes his place in the audience until he must appear again. In the audience he quietly looks on at whatever may happen, even though it be the preparation of his own death (in the play); but then he again goes on the stage, and acts and suffers as he must. From this double life proceeds that composure in man, so very different from the thoughtlessness of the animal. According to previous reflection, to a mind made up, or to a recognized necessity, a man with such composure suffers or carries out in cold blood what is of the greatest, and often most terrible, importance to him, such as suicide, execution, duels, hazardous enterprises of every kind fraught with danger to life, and generally things against which his whole animal nature rebels. We then see to what extent reason is master of the animal nature, and we exclaim to the strong: σιδήρειoν νύ τoι ἦτoρ! (ferreum certe tibi cor!) [Iliad, xxiv, 521.] 44 Here it can really be said that the faculty of reason manifests itself practically, and thus practical reason shows itself, wherever action is guided by reason, where motives are abstract concepts, wherever the determining factors are not individual representations of perception, or the impression of the moment which guides the animal. But I have explained at length in the Appendix, and illustrated by examples, that this is entirely different from, and independent of, the ethical worth of conduct; that rational action and virtuous action are two quite different things; that reason is just as well found with great wickedness as with great kindness, and by its assistance gives great effectiveness to the one as to the other; that it is equally ready and of service for carrying out methodically and consistently the noble resolution as well as the bad, the wise maxim as well as the imprudent. All this inevitably follows from the nature of reason, which is feminine, receptive, retentive, and not self-creative. What is said in the Appendix would be in its proper place here, yet on account of the polemic against Kant’s so-called practical reason it had to be relegated to that Appendix, to which therefore I refer.
The most perfect development of practical reason in the true and genuine sense of the word, the highest point to which man can attain by the mere use of his faculty of reason, and in which his difference from the animal shows itself most clearly, is the ideal represented in the Stoic sage. For the Stoic ethics is originally and essentially not a doctrine of virtue, but merely a guide to the rational life, whose end and aim is happiness through peace of mind. Virtuous conduct appears in it, so to speak, only by accident, as means, not as end. Therefore the Stoic ethics is by its whole nature and point of view fundamentally different from the ethical systems that insist directly on virtue, such as the doctrines of the Vedas, of Plato, of Christianity, and of Kant. The aim of Stoic ethics is happiness: τέλoς τò εύδαιμoνεĩν (virtutes omnes finem habere beatitudinem) it says in the description of the Stoa by Stobaeus ( Eclogae, 1. II, c. 7, p. 114, and also p. 138). Yet the Stoic ethics teaches that happiness is to be found with certainty only in inward calm and in peace of mind (άταραξíα), and this again can be reached only through virtue. The expression that virtue is the highest good means just this. Now if of course the end is gradually lost sight of in the means, and virtue is commended in a way that betrays an interest entirely different from that of one’s own happiness, in that it too clearly contradicts this, then this is one of the inconsistencies by which in every system the directly known truth, or, as they say, the felt truth, leads us back on to the right path, violating all syllogistic argument. For instance, we clearly see this in the ethics of Spinoza, which deduces a pure doctrine of virtue from the egoistical suum utile quaerere through palpable sophisms. According to this, as I have understood the spirit of the Stoic ethics, its source lies in the thought whether reason, man’s great prerogative, which, through planned action and its result, indirectly lightens the burdens of life so much for him, might not also be capable of withdrawing him at once and directly, i.e., through mere knowledge, either completely or nearly so, from the sorrows and miseries of every kind that fill his life. They held it to be not in keeping with the prerogative of reason that a being endowed with it and comprehending and surveying by it an infinity of things and conditions, should yet be exposed to such intense pain, such great anxiety and suffering, as arise from the tempestuous strain of desiring and shunning, through the present moment and the events that can be contained in the few years of a life so short, fleeting, and uncertain. It was thought that the proper application of reason was bound to raise man above them, and enable him to become invulnerable. Therefore Antisthenes said: ∆ει̃ ϰτα̃σθϰι νου̃ν, η̏ βρóχoν (aut mentem parandam, aut laqueum. Plutarch, De Stoicorum Repugnantia, c. 14);45 in other words, life is so full of troubles and vexations that we must either rise above it by means of corrected ideas, or leave it. It was seen that want and suffering did not result directly and necessarily from not having, but only from desiring to have and yet not having; that this desiring to have is therefore the necessary condition under which alone not having becomes privation and engenders pain. Oὐ πενíα λύπην ἐργάζεται, ἀλλ’ ἐπιθυµíα (non paupertas dolorem efficit, sed cupiditas), Epictetus, fragm. 25.46 Moreover, it was recognized from experience that it is merely the hope, the claim, which begets and nourishes the wish. Therefore neither the many unavoidable evils common to all, nor the unattainable blessings, disquiet and trouble us, but only the insignificant more or less of what for man is avoidable and attainable. Indeed, not only the absolutely unavoidable or unattainable, but also what is relatively so, leaves us quite calm; hence the evils that are once attached to our individuality, or the good things that must of necessity remain denied to it, are treated with indifference, and in consequence of this human characteristic every wish soon dies and so can beget no more pain, if no hope nourishes it. It follows from all this that all happiness depends on the proportion between what we claim and what we receive. It is immaterial how great or small the two quantities of this proportion are, and the proportion can be established just as well by diminishing the first quantity as by increasing the second. In the same way, it follows that all suffering really results from the want of proportion between what we demand and expect and what comes to us. But this want of proportion is to be found only in knowledge,47 and through better insight it could be wholly abolished. Therefore Chrysippus said: δεĩ ζη̃ν ϰατ’ ἐµπειρíαν τω̃ν ϕύσει συµβαινóντων (Stobaeus, Eclogae, 1. II, c. 7; [Ed. Heeren], p. 134),48 in other words, we should live with due knowledge of the course of things in the world. For whenever a man in any way loses self-control, or is struck down by a misfortune, or grows angry, or loses heart, he shows in this way that he finds things different from what he expected, and consequently that he laboured under a mistake, did not know the world and life, did not know how at every step the will of the individual is crossed and thwarted by the chance of inanimate nature, by contrary aims and intentions, even by the malice inspired in others. Therefore either he has not used his reason to arrive at a general knowledge of this characteristic of life, or he lacks the power of judgement, when he does not again recognize in the particular what he knows in general, and when he is therefore surprised by it and loses his self-control.49 Thus every keen pleasure is an error, an illusion, since no attained wish can permanently satisfy, and also because every possession and every happiness is only lent by chance for an indefinite time, and can therefore be demanded back in the next hour. But every pain rests on the disappearance of such an illusion; thus both originate from defective knowledge. Therefore the wise man always holds himself aloof from jubilation and sorrow, and no event disturbs his ἀταραξíα.
In conformity with this spirit and aim of the Stoa, Epictetus begins with it and constantly returns to it as the kernel of his philosophy, that we should bear in mind and distinguish what depends on us and what does not, and thus should not count on the latter at all. In this way we shall certainly remain free from all pain, suffering, and anxiety. Now what depends on us is the will alone, and here there gradually takes place a transition to a doctrine of virtue, since it is noticed that, as the external world that is independent of us determines good and bad fortune, so inner satisfaction or dissatisfaction with ourselves proceeds from the will. But later it was asked whether we should attribute the names bonum et malum to the two former or to the two latter. This was really arbitrary and a matter of choice, and made no difference. But yet the Stoics argued incessantly about this with the Peripatetics and Epicureans, and amused themselves with the inadmissible comparison of two wholly incommensurable quantities and with the contrary and paradoxical judgements arising therefrom, which they cast at one another. An interesting collection of these is afforded us from the Stoic side by the Paradoxa of Cicero.
Zeno, the founder, seems originally to have taken a somewhat different course. With him the starting-point was that a man, in order to attain the highest good, that is to say, bliss through peace of mind, should live in harmony with himself. (όµολογουµένως ζη̃ν του̃το δ’ἔστι ϰαθ’ ἔνα λóγον ϰαì σύµϕωνον ζη̃ν.—Consonanter vivere: hoc est secundum unam rationem et concordem sibi vivere. Stobaeus, Ecl., 1. II, c. 7, p. 132. Also: ὰρετὴν διάθεσιν εỉναι ψυχη̃ς σύµϕωνον έαυτη̣̃ περì őλον τòν βíον. Virtutem esse animi affectionem secum per totam vitam consentientem, ibid., p. 104).50 Now this was possible only by a man determining himself entirely rationally according to concepts, not according to changing impressions and moods. But as only the maxims of our conduct, not the consequences or circumstances, are in our power, to be capable of always remaining consistent we must take as our object only the maxims, not the consequences and circumstances, and thus the doctrine of virtue is again introduced.
But the moral principle of Zeno—to live in harmony with oneself —seemed even to his immediate successors to be too formal and empty. They therefore gave it material content by the addition “to live in harmony with nature” (όµολογουµένως τη̣ ϕυσει̃ ζη̣̇̃ν), which, as Stobaeus mentions loc. cit., was first added by Cleanthes, and which greatly extended the matter through the wide sphere of the concept and the vagueness of the expression. For Cleanthes meant the whole of nature in general, but Chrysippus meant human nature in particular (Diogenes Laërtius, vii, 89). That which was alone adapted to the latter was then supposed to be virtue, just as the satisfaction of animal impulses was adapted to animal natures; and thus ethics was again forcibly united to a doctrine of virtue, and had to be established through physics by hook or by crook. For the Stoics everywhere aimed at unity of principle, as with them God and the world were not two different things.
Taken as a whole, Stoic ethics is in fact a very valuable and estimable attempt to use reason, man’s great prerogative, for an important and salutary purpose, namely to raise him by a precept above the sufferings and pains to which all life is exposed:
“Qua ratione queas traducere leniter aevum:
Ne te semper inops agitet vexetque cupido,
Ne pavor et rerum mediocriter utilium spes.” 51
(Horace, Epist. I, xviii, 97.)
and in this way to make him partake in the highest degree of the dignity belonging to him as a rational being as distinct from the animal. We can certainly speak of a dignity in this sense, but not in any other. It is a consequence of my view of Stoic ethics that it had to be mentioned here with the description of what the faculty of reason is, and what it can achieve. But, however much this end is to a certain extent attainable through the application of reason and through a merely rational ethic, and although experience shows that the happiest are indeed those purely rational characters commonly called practical philosophers—and rightly so, because just as the real, i.e., theoretical, philosopher translates life into the concept, so they translate the concept into life—nevertheless we are still very far from being able to arrive at something perfect in this way, from being actually removed from all the burdens and sorrows of life, and led to the blissful state by the correct use of our reason. On the contrary, we find a complete contradiction in our wishing to live without suffering, a contradiction that is therefore implied by the frequently used phrase “blessed life.” This will certainly be clear to the person who has fully grasped my discussion that follows. This contradiction is revealed in this ethic of pure reason itself by the fact that the Stoic is compelled to insert a recommendation of suicide in his guide to the blissful life (for this is what his ethics always remains). This is like the costly phial of poison to be found among the magnificent ornaments and apparel of oriental despots, and is for the case where the sufferings of the body, incapable of being philosophized away by any principles and syllogisms, are paramount and incurable. Thus its sole purpose, namely blessedness, is frustrated, and nothing remains as a means of escape from pain except death. But then death must be taken with unconcern, just as is any other medicine. Here a marked contrast is evident between the Stoic ethics and all those other ethical systems mentioned above. These ethical systems make virtue directly and in itself the aim and object, even with the most grievous sufferings, and will not allow a man to end his life in order to escape from suffering. But not one of them knew how to express the true reason for rejecting suicide, but they laboriously collected fictitious arguments of every kind. This true reason will appear in the fourth book in connexion with our discussion. But the above-mentioned contrast reveals and confirms just that essential difference to be found in the fundamental principle between the Stoa, really only a special form of eudaemonism, and the doctrines just mentioned, although both often agree in their results, and are apparently related. But the above-mentioned inner contradiction, with which the Stoic ethics is affected even in its fundamental idea, further shows itself in the fact that its ideal, the Stoic sage as represented by this ethical system, could never obtain life or inner poetical truth, but remains a wooden, stiff lay-figure with whom one can do nothing. He himself does not know where to go with his wisdom, and his perfect peace, contentment, and blessedness directly contradict the nature of mankind, and do not enable us to arrive at any perceptive representation thereof. Compared with him, how entirely different appear the overcomers of the world and voluntary penitents, who are revealed to us, and are actually produced, by the wisdom of India; how different even the Saviour of Christianity, that excellent form full of the depth of life, of the greatest poetical truth and highest significance, who stands before us with perfect virtue, holiness, and sublimity, yet in a state of supreme suffering.52